Statue of Limitations Read Online Free

all the dogwood in spring, and—”
    There was no time to argue about geography. “Don’t worry. The court will appoint an attorney.” What was I saying? Wynnell was my dearest friend in the world—outside of my husband, ofcourse. And if you don’t count Mama. Besides, while I wasn’t exactly rolling in dough, I did have more than enough to meet my needs. “Tell you what,” I heard myself say, “I’m going to get you the best lawyer in Charleston.”
    â€œReally? You mean that?”
    â€œAbsolutely.” If Greg objected—and I knew he wouldn’t—I’d have to remind him that it was my shop that brought in most of our money, and not his shrimp boat in Mount Pleasant.
    â€œI knew you’d come through. So you’ll take care of it, then? You’ll call Elias Hammerhead?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe best lawyer in Charleston. Abby, don’t you watch television?”
    â€œIt’s no secret that I’m addicted to All My Children .”
    â€œI mean the commercials. ‘So you’re in jail? What the hell! Call Hammerhead, White, and Sand.’”
    â€œNo, I seem to have missed that little jingle.”
    â€œWell, they’re the best. Everyone says so.”
    â€œWynnell, are you sure they don’t handle just car accidents? Personal injury, that sort of thing.”
    â€œPositive. Will you call them?”
    I sighed. “If that’s what you really want.”
    â€œAbby, I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”
    â€œThink nothing of it.”
    â€œI mean it—oh, oh, I have to go, Abby.” She hung up.
    I stared at the phone in my hand. If I hadn’t answered the dang thing, if only I’d left for work five minutes earlier, I wouldn’t have to hire one of Charleston’s finest and, no doubt, most expensive lawyers. Unable to reach me with her first call, my friend would have settled for a court appointed attorney. And since she wasn’t guilty, a public defender would do just fine with the case.
    Shame on me for thinking that. I’d made the offer, and I’d given my word. It was as simple as that.
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    Finding the offices of Hammerhead, White, and Sand was anything but simple. The phone book listed them as being located on King Street, and I assumed that meant somewhere south of Calhoun. Au contraire. The address I jotted down was halfway between Calhoun and the Crosstown, and there wasn’t even a number on the building. I had to stop and ask for help three times. The first two times, the folks queried had less of a clue then I did. I got lucky the third time, but only because the woman I accosted for directions lived in an apartment directly beneath the law firm.
    The white frame building sagged, bulging outward toward the sidewalk. The stairwell was the perfect temperature for roasting a turkey, although it smelled of urine and bacon. Had it notbeen for the tarnished brass plate on the upstairs door, I would have assumed that I’d been tricked.
    â€œCome in,” someone called when I rang the buzzer.
    I opened the door to a room that looked like the remains of an exploded library. Books, papers, and folders were scattered everywhere. One document appeared to be tacked to the ceiling. It took me a few seconds to realize that in the center of this mess, behind a small desk, sat a heavyset woman with a round, pleasant face. It took me a couple more seconds to stop staring at her hair. Or rather, her lack of it. The receptionist had obviously been shorn with an electric razor and was sporting what I’ve sometimes heard referred to as the Parris Island cut.
    â€œHow may we help you?” she asked, in a voice as soothing as that of a kindergarten teacher.
    â€œMy name is Abigail Washburn. I’m here to see Mr. Hammerhead. I have a ten o’clock appointment.”
    She whispered something into a small box on her desk and smiled. “He’ll