The Observer

My client was fifty-two-year-old Jacob Sanderson, and he was divorcing his twenty-seven year old wife of five years. He came home early from a business trip to find her decked out in leather, flogging a man in a ball gag with a cat-o-nine tails. Sanderson was understandably shocked; his wife had never shown the slightest interest in BDSM in their bedroom. After sending the unfortunate and gagged subservient out into the night, an intrigued Sanderson suggested they explore the world of submissives together. She declined. Turned out, she was paying a wide variety of men to come in and submit to her somewhat painful fantasies. I found it funny that Sanderson was willing to forgive the tryst, as long as he could play, but he couldn’t forgive her for using his own money to cheat on him.

I entered his office and sat down across from the suited man, putting five burgundy folders on his desk. Each was emblazoned with my name on the back and labeled with another name, each different, across the top front. I slid them towards Sanderson but stopped short of the center of the desk, making him reach for the folders.

He pulled the folders to him but didn’t open them.

“What do you think?”

I gestured to the folders. “My opinions are all in there. I can recap if you want.”

Sanderson shook his head and picked up a folder, holding it up. I could see the name I had carefully labeled on the top.

“What about him? He was my favorite of the lot.”

I shrugged. “He doesn’t think highly of his clientele’s intelligence, and he doesn’t represent a lot of men. The only magazines in the waiting room were “People” and “Cosmo”. The address labels were all to the firm, so it isn’t a secretary bringing them in. There were no guy magazines and nothing with any substance. He talks down to his clients when he actually talks to them. I had a hard time getting him on the line. I had to go through secretaries and assistants and they all lied, telling me he was in court. He wasn’t.”

Sanderson put down the folder and sorted through the rest. “How about him?” He pointed at the bottom folder. I leaned forward to see the name.

“He likes to intimidate. The whole office is set up to be intimidating. You get off the elevator and the secretary’s desk is right there. His office is covered with framed newspaper articles about him and his run for State Senate. I had an appointment and he knew I was coming, but he didn’t bother to clean off his desk. It was covered with client’s personal business; names, checks, correspondences. He doesn’t listen to his own voicemail. Someone listens to it and types it out for him. The stack was on his desk.”

Sanderson listened intently. “I can live with that, I think. What do you think?”

“He’ll be more worried about his upcoming campaign than about your upcoming divorce hearing.”

Sanderson set the folder aside and looked at me with frustration. “Would you hire any of them?”

I shook my head no. “Not if you want to get out of the marriage clean, owing her nothing.” I pulled another folder from my bag and slid it over. “This is the one I would hire.”

He gingerly took the folder from me and opened it up. His eyebrows rose. “A woman?”

I nodded. He kept reading.

“She’s only been bar approved for a year.” He looked over the top of the folder at me.

This guy was pissing me off. I was hired to do a job and I had done it, and then some.

“I suggest reading my opinion before discounting her,” I said, grabbing my bag and standing up. “You hired me to check out five divorce lawyers and tell you which one will be vicious enough to pull no punches. I checked them all out, diligently. I made appointments, made up a marriage I wanted out of. I went to court and watched them. In my opinion, none of them will do what you want them to do.” I hiked the strap of my bag further up on my shoulder and pointed to the last folder, the one still in his hands. “I saw this woman in action. She’s hungry. So far, everyone is underestimating her and lobbing softballs at her. Despite all this, she’s going in prepared with far more background than can be obtained through public records. She’s working hard, Mr. Sanderson, and she’d work hard for you. I know this because you are a big name. If she gets your name on her list of clients, it will put her up there playing with the big boys. She’s not going to lose. She won’t let herself lose.” I turned to leave. “I would hire Audrey Spirely. That’s my opinion.”

I walked out of his office, stopping by his secretary’s desk to collect my check, and tucked it into my bag before leaving.

My name is Samantha Alexandra Holm. I am thirty-five years old but I look like I’m twenty, thanks to my great Swedish genes. My friends call me Sam, but in the business world I go by Alexandra. I’m single because I want to be, and I live in the big, bad city of Chicago. When people ask me what I do for a living, I tell them I work in research.

In actuality, I’m an observer and I sell my opinions to those who want them. I tend to notice what others don’t, and I draw conclusions. I’m more accurate than the Psychic Hotline and I’m probably quite a bit cheaper. People hire me to observe things, draw conclusions and to report back to them. I am often asked if I can make a living doing it. The answer is yes. I own my home, I own my car and I own several bottles of top shelf scotch. I do well enough.