James Brogan: Missing Lawyer

James Brogan: Missing Lawyer

James Brogan sat in his cramped office above the laundromat, the smell of fabric softener and regret drifting up through the floorboards. The neon sign outside buzzed like a dying insect. He was nursing a lukewarm coffee and a fresh bruise from last night's collection job when the door opened.

She was tall, mid-forties, sharp suit, sharper eyes. The kind of woman who billed by the hour and never lost in court.

"Mr. Brogan, my name is Elaine Hargrove. My husband, Richard, is missing."

Brogan leaned back, the chair creaking like an old witness. "Lawyer, right? The Richard Hargrove? Hotshot defense attorney?"

She nodded. "He was supposed to meet me for dinner at The Oak Room two nights ago. Never showed. His phone goes straight to voicemail. His paralegal says he left the office at 6:15 PM carrying only his briefcase. No one’s heard from him since."

Brogan scribbled a note. "Enemies? He’s a defense lawyer. That list must be longer than my rap sheet."

Elaine smiled thinly. "Plenty. But the timing is strange. He was finalizing a major case—representing Victor 'The Hook' Moretti against federal racketeering charges. The trial starts in three days. Richard told me he had a 'game-changing' angle. Then he vanished."

Brogan raised an eyebrow. "Moretti? The mob guy with the smile and the body count?"

"The same."

He took the case. Half upfront, half when (if) the lawyer turned up breathing.

---

First stop: Hargrove’s office. The paralegal, a nervous kid named Tim, kept glancing at the door like he expected federal agents or hitmen.

"He was excited, Mr. Brogan. Said he’d found something that would blow the case wide open. Wouldn’t tell me what. Just grabbed an old evidence box from storage and left."

"What was in the box?" Brogan asked.

Tim shrugged. "Old files. From a case fifteen years ago. Something about a warehouse fire."

Brogan found the storage log. One box missing: Case #98-472, City of Bayport v. Moretti Construction.

He spent the night in a dive bar near the courthouse, buying rounds for old court clerks and retired cops. By midnight he had a lead: a retired detective who’d worked the original warehouse case. The man was half-drunk and fully bitter.

"Hargrove came sniffing around yesterday morning," the old cop slurred. "Asked about the fire. Asked if I remembered seeing Moretti’s brother at the scene. I told him the truth—yeah, I saw him. But the DA buried it back then. Politics."

Brogan found the brother’s last known address at 3 AM. The place was empty except for a fresh bloodstain on the carpet and a note pinned to the wall with a switchblade:

Tell Hargrove to drop the case or the next blood is his.

Too late for that.

---

Dawn found Brogan at the Hargroves’ summer cabin upstate, the one Elaine said Richard sometimes used when he needed to “think.” The front door was unlocked. Inside, the place was trashed. Bookshelves overturned, drawers emptied.

In the basement, Brogan found Richard Hargrove tied to a chair, bruised but alive, with a gag in his mouth and a black eye that was turning impressive shades of purple.

Brogan pulled the gag out.

"Took you long enough," the lawyer croaked.

"You’re welcome. Who did this?"

"Moretti’s people. They knew I found the original arson evidence. The brother started the fire on Victor’s orders. The feds never got the full file. I was going to use it for reasonable doubt in reverse—force them to deal."

Brogan cut the ropes. "Cute plan. Almost got you killed."

Hargrove managed a weak laugh. "Worth it. I recorded everything they said while they were working me over. It’s on a thumb drive in my sock."

Brogan shook his head. "You lawyers are all crazy."

---

Two days later, Richard Hargrove walked into court looking like he’d been hit by a truck and won anyway. He played the recording. Victor Moretti’s face went pale. The judge declared a mistrial. Federal agents swarmed the courtroom.

Elaine Hargrove met Brogan outside later, handing him the second half of his fee in an envelope.

"You saved his life," she said.

Brogan lit a cigarette. "I just found him. He saved himself. Stupid bastard."

She smiled. "That’s Richard."

As she walked away, Brogan watched the city swallow her up. Another case closed. Another set of bruises. Same old story.

He headed back to the office above the laundromat, already wondering who would walk through his door next.