While working for the largest and most prestigious law firm in Chicago, Kyle's eloquent legal career is well on the high road. That is, until a fight with one of the firm's senior and well-respected partners causes his immaculate existence to quickly vanish. Kyle is arrested, fired, and while in jail he is stripped of everything that was purchased and lavished upon him by the firm. Cole Adams, a friend and fellow law schoolmate comes and rescues him from getting more jail time or even disbarred. Kyle is sentenced to pay a hefty court fine, is given six months of curfew restriction and must wear an ANKLE COLLAR, an electronic device to monitor the restriction.
Hysterical complications abound as Kyle's life turns completely upside down. He becomes homeless, the firm spitefully freezes all of his monetary assets, and he becomes blacklisted by every law firm in Chicago. Kyle gets a job as a waiter and as he begins to settle into his new life, he attempts dating again but soon learns that women and ankle collars don't mix! Feeling the prejudicial impact that the ankle collar exudes, he creates an online dating website for the plight of those also with ankle collars. When the law firm returns to wreak more havoc, Kyle becomes hard pressed and he aggressively sets out on a course to get back to the plush life he once had!
|Product dimensions:||6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.37(d)|
Read an Excerpt
By Ankle Collar
AuthorHouseCopyright © 2011 Hayden Lane
All right reserved.
Chapter OneSo There I Was ...
Lying wide awake on a filthy paper-thin mattress that reeked of urine.
"This really sucks!" I sighed.
And I began to wonder how all this mess was going to pan out. It's been total misery here. The food's nasty, the showers only have cold water, and the water fountain in your cell is connected to the toilet. So if you get thirsty and desire a drink of water, you might just be drinking your own toilet water. Doing time is somewhat similar to how it is portrayed in the movies and on television. Everybody's fighting for their own space, but mostly, it's about who can dominate whom. Fights and mayhem break out just about every minute around this place, and according to the jailer, it's best that I stay in my cell as much as possible.
"Fancy-pants lawyers as inmates are not taken too kindly here in lockup."
Those were his exact words.
I've been in here for about a week waiting on my useless court-appointed public defender to get me a solid court date. Public defenders are lousy, and they don't know jack about winning a case, so if I don't get an attorney that knows what the hell they're doing and soon, I'm literally screwed. I've been trying to reach an old law school buddy who works for another law firm across town because at this very moment, I'm fresh out of friends, colleagues, or anyone else that can help. As I lie here, I can't help but ponder and reflect back to how all this transpired. Most people would say that I was living the good life ... and I was.
Hi! My name is Kyle Walsh, and I was an attorney with the largest and most prestigious law firm in Chicago: Curtis, Cummings, and Wade.
From the very moment I was hired, it was like a dream come true. I was fresh out of Yale law, and to have landed a position as a securities and commodities attorney with a top-notch law firm spoke volumes. I didn't start out at the bottom with some small, irrelevant law firm or become some senior attorney's personal fetcher and toter like most inexperienced law graduates. I was an active player on the ball field. I had the perfect office with a skyline view of the city, a wonderful secretary, and my own personal fitness trainer. I was set up nicely in a high-rise condominium that came with a full-time housekeeper, chef, and masseuse. I was given a selection of company cars to choose from for my personal and everyday use. My selections were the S550 Mercedes Benz, Cadillac Escalade, 460 Lexus LS sedan, or the 750 BMW sedan. I chose the 750 BMW, a hands-down poon magnet. The firm thrived on their attorneys upholding a perfect, unblemished look, so they purchased all our clothes and suits, even right down to our underwear and socks. I was a thirty-year-old quintessential bachelor who dated his share of beautiful women night after night, and it seemed as if I was on the path to finding my one true paramour. That is, until the bottom fell out of my immaculate existence.
It all started on a Wednesday morning in early May when my secretary, Diane, stepped in to inform me that Mr. Wade, who was one of the founding fathers of the law firm, needed to see me.
"Mr. Wade needs to see me?" I nervously asked.
"Yes, right away!"
Of course, something of this magnitude meant one of two things: (1) I was getting demoted, or (2) I was getting fired. I began fearing that maybe it was the latter. I quickly put on my suit jacket and ran to the mirror to look myself over. As I rushed out of my office into the elevator, Dan Hobbs, a senior partner also with the firm, rushed into the elevator behind me.
"What floor, Dan?" I asked.
"Mr. Wade's office?"
"Uh, me, too."
As we both stepped out of the elevator racing to Mr. Wade's office, I was abruptly stopped by Mr. Wade's secretary. She told me to have a seat. That Mr. Wade would be with me shortly. Dan Hobbs, on the other hand, just walked right in.
"What is going on?" I murmured nervously.
Shortly thereafter, I was summoned into Mr. Wade's office. I quickly noticed Mr. Curtis and Mr. Cummings, who were the other founding fathers of the firm, along with all the junior and senior partners gathered around with Cuban cigars and glasses of champagne.
Mr. Wade walked up, handed me a Cuban cigar, and said, "Welcome to the club, my boy! We've decided to make you a partner!"
After I had been with the firm for only four years, they wanted to make me a partner. I was so ecstatic I could've done back flips all over Chicago. Mr. Cummings stated that it was a last-minute decision on the firm's part and that they were happy of my acceptance. The promotion would take place that Friday at the firm's quarterly awards banquet. Mr. Wade even had his secretary schedule me a fitting with his personal tailor so that I could have a tailored suit made just for the occasion.
After a few glasses of some much-needed champagne, Dan Hobbs approached me and asked if I had someone in mind to bring to my promotion. But before I could answer, Dan stated that he had the perfect dates for me.
"Dates?" I asked.
"Oohh yeah, twins!" he replied.
"You would do that for me? "
"Of course, as a congratulatory gesture on making partner."
"They're not prostitutes or female escorts by any chance, are they?"
"Noooo ... they're supermodels!"
"Cool. Can you tell me more about the twins?" I asked with heightened interest.
"They're Swedish with long flowing blonde hair and shapely legs that go on for days. They're extremely identical, so make sure you don't do the same one twice!" Dan stated laughingly as he nudged me with his elbow. "You just look sharp and have plenty of sexual stamina, because it will be an all-nighter you'll never forget."
I was getting promoted to partner, but I felt like man of the year. One of the most respected senior partners just handed me every man's dream on a silver platter: to be laid by twins. Beautiful Swedish twins, no doubt.
I began to wonder why Dan would go all out for me in such a manner. I mean, I really didn't know the guy personally. All I knew was that he was highly regarded and considered somewhat a "made guy" when you put it in mafioso terms. But mainly he was the go-to guy for just about anything and everything. He could get box seats to any sports game or opera you had in mind on a moment's notice. He even got one of the senior partners that needed a kidney transplant a kidney donor match in two days! He was definitely one of those "wheeler and dealer" types, and the founding fathers loved him for that. In the past, I was never really in need of Dan's services, but after my date with the twins, I'd get Dan to hook me up with triplets.
That Friday rolled around, and boy, was I stoked. Dan informed me that everything was set with the twins and that they would arrive at 7:00 p.m. to pick me up in a Hummer limousine. I left work early so that I could stop by the firm's barber to get a haircut and shave. I also had to go by the tailor to pick up my suit. At seven o'clock sharp, the doorman buzzed my apartment and informed me that the limo was here. When I arrived on the lobby floor, I noticed the driver standing outside the limo holding two sheep on leather leashes.
Yes, that's right. Two fucking sheep!
As I rushed and opened the lobby door, I asked the driver, "What the hell is going on?"
The limo driver informed me that the sheep were courtesy of Mr. Dan Hobbs and that they were my blonde Swedish dates for the night. The limo driver then handed me a brown paper bag. Inside the bag was a handwritten note that read, "They're horny and ready; are you?"
Along with a box of condoms and a tube of K-Y jelly.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me! Is this some sort of joke?" I shouted.
At that moment, I rushed back to my condo, grabbed my car keys, and sped down to the Drake Hotel to the awards banquet. When I reached the hotel, I roared up curbside, jumped out, threw the valet my keys, and dashed inside the hotel to the Gold Coast Room. When I entered the room, those from the firm who noticed me started applauding and rejoicing. But there was no reason for me to be dignified. I was madder than hell, and someone had some explaining to do. As I walked around scanning the room, many of the partners tried to congratulate me, but I ignored them.
Mr. Curtis then approached and I sharply asked him, "Where is Dan Hobbs?"
Mr. Curtis pointed across the room, and low and behold, Dan was standing in the corner with two tall, beautiful blonde women on his arms.
As I raced across the room toward Dan, he turned around, saw me approaching, and started laughing hysterically.
"You bastard, you made this out to be some pathetic joke! I'm getting promoted tonight!" I shouted.
"C'mon, Kyle! Did you really think that I was going to set you up with two gorgeous girls like these?"
"Yeah, Dan, I did!"
"Well, that's too fucking bad! The fact of the matter here, Kyle, is that I don't like you, and I've never liked you. You've been nothing but a cocky, arrogant little shit ever since you arrived at the firm, and it was time that someone knocked your cocky ass off your high horse!"
In that instant, my temper got the best of me. I reared back and punched Dan in the face. When he fell to the floor, I began kicking him in the face, and then I ferociously began kicking in his chest until some of the guys grabbed and stopped me. The hotel's security, which were actual city police, were called in, and needless to say, I was arrested. Mr. Wade also fired me right then and there. Dan was whisked away to the hospital with a broken nose, a busted eardrum, a broken jaw, and three fractured ribs. Everyone knew that it was Dan's fault for playing me like Guitar Hero, but since he was a senior partner with way more tenure and status and a groupie in Mr. Wade's clique, there was no doubt that I'd be paying the price.
Chapter TwoInmate Number Twelve
When I arrived at city lockup, I was shuffled into a room that was enclosed in what looked to be bulletproof glass. The sign overhead noted that it was the inmate reception area. An officer began yelling for me to stand on the blue line to have my picture taken. My handcuffs were removed, and I handed over my wallet, watch, and Yale law alumni ring. I was then ordered to sit in a holding cell with about forty or fifty other guys. Forty or fifty guys who were the toughest and meanest creatures within society. I overheard an officer say that most of them were waiting to be shipped out to prison to do long-term sentences like ten to fifteen years. With that being said, I made it a point to kept my head down and my mouth shut. The last thing I wanted was to be bitched or raped. My world was indeed helter skelter, and that was putting it mildly.
Then after waiting for what seemed like eternity in the holding cell, my name was called. I entered a room where I was told to take off all my clothes, spread my ass cheeks, and lift up my nut sack. Talk about a ball buster ... and a mandatory one, according to the jailhouse rules. I was then issued an orange jumpsuit, flip-flops, toiletry kit, and given a wristband like the ones they give you when you're admitted to the hospital that listed my inmate number.
As some of the other jailbirds and I were being escorted to our cells, the jailer began yelling, "Dicks with even numbers to the left, dicks with odd numbers to the right!"
I looked down at the front of my jumpsuit and saw that my number was twelve. As we stood in front of our assigned cells waiting for the doors to simultaneously open, a jailer walked up to me, and as the door opened, he shoved me into my cell.
"In you go, ass clown," he stated curtly.
And so ... there I was.
Three days later, Mr. Wade came down to city lockup to visit me. He stated that I had shamed the firm's reputation by behaving the way I did and that I wouldn't be receiving any legal representation from the firm's attorneys. I was totally stripped of everything that was purchased and paid for by the firm: my condo, my BMW, my clothes, my standard of living, and my prestige. He went on to say that Dan Hobbs was a great guy. The best attorney that he had ever worked with and that the rest of my salary paycheck would go toward his medical expenses.
"Go fuck yourself!" I shouted at him through the plexiglas partition, slammed down the visitor phone, and stormed off.
As I was walking back to my cell, the jailer yelled my name and told me that I had another visitor. He told me I'd better make it quick because visiting hours were almost over. When I walked back into the visitors' room, I noticed a very familiar face. It was Cole Adams, my old law school buddy that I had been trying to reach from the Smith Law Group across town, and boy, was I happy to see him. He told me that he had heard about what happened and figured that I could use his help. He couldn't believe the trouble I had gotten myself in, though. Beating the crap out of a senior law partner was not the norm, but anyway, he was my best chance of getting out of there. I asked him to be my attorney and get me a court date ASAP! I couldn't take another minute more of that treacherous jail. The next morning, my public defender showed up, and I fired him.
By the end of the week, Cole and I were in court standing in front of the judge. I was extremely nervous because of the fact that I could get sentenced to do more jail time in city lockup or even prison. You see, I was a lawyer that had gotten into trouble, and judges who are lawyers themselves aren't easy when it comes to handing down punishment on other lawyers. The judge ended up convicting me of assault, which wasn't too bad, and it somewhat put my fears to rest about receiving a much harsher sentence. I was ordered to pay a three-thousand-dollar fine, I was given six months of curfew restriction within the city limits of Chicago, and I was to be fitted with an electronic tracking devise better known as an ankle collar that had a global positioning satellite (GPS) to monitor my curfew. The condition of the curfew was that I had to be in my residence or dwelling by 9:00 p.m. every night.
"I'm a thirty-year-old cock-strong male that's getting shafted by having a curfew!" I vexed.
I leaned over and mumbled to Cole, "This is not going to work. Ask her if I can just pay the fine and not have the collar and the curfew!"
"You know I can't do that. The ruling's been made," Cole replied.
Cole then informed the judge that I no longer had a suitable residence and that I was considered indigent as well as unemployed. The judge stated that she took that into consideration and that the court would have social services supply me with a list of homeless shelters within the greater Chicago area, unless I had any friends or family that would allow me to reside with them for six months.
"No way I'm living in a homeless shelter!" I gruffly whispered to Cole.
Cole shrugged and then nodded to the judge that he would let me reside with him for the six-month time period.
An hour later, I was being issued my clothes and other personal effects by the jail's out-processing clerk. I was then escorted over to a chair and fitted with a black ankle collar that had "Chicago Police Department" spelled out on the collar strap in big white bold letters.
"How effing subtle." I winced about the bold lettering.
The jailer then barked, "Don't get it wet, and don't get slick and try to take it off! If you do, your butt's back in jail!"
I was now a free man but with an attached stipulation, and my first taste of freedom was not so sweet. Pangs of reality began to set in like the first day of a cold Chicago winter, and it hit me hard that I no longer had a car, a job, or a home to go to.
"What are we gonna do now?" Cole asked.
"Well, could you take me to the bank so that I can withdraw some money from my checking account? Then I'll need to find a decent apartment, buy a car, go job hunting, and somewhat start my life over."
"Good. You at least have a plan. And as far as job-hunting goes, I'll see about trying to get you a position at my law firm. You're damn lucky the judge didn't have you disbarred!"
Cole and I jumped into his car and headed to the Greater Bank of Chicago.
Once there, we were walking in through the bank's front entrance when all of a sudden, the metal detectors started going off.
"What the — ?" Stunned, I looked over at Cole.
Just then, several bank cops sprinted up and body slammed us both down on the floor. Cole was yelling to the cops that we weren't trying to rob the bank and that we didn't have any weapons. But the cops weren't hearing it. Their rough apprehension continued. Cole remembered my ankle collar and pointed down to my pant leg. I pulled my pant leg up and showed the cop that I was wearing an ankle collar. The cop then yanked me up on my feet, scanned me with his metal wand, and confirmed that it was indeed the collar. As Cole and I walked toward the teller counter, we were shrouded with horrid looks and stares by patrons and employees regarding what just occurred with the bank cops. But I didn't give a rat's ass. All I wanted was my money.
Excerpted from Hayden Lane by Ankle Collar Copyright © 2011 by Hayden Lane. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
ContentsChapter 1. So There I Was ....................1
Chapter 2. Inmate Number Twelve....................7
Chapter 3. Starting Over....................15
Chapter 4. Newbie Waiter....................21
Chapter 5. Communication Is Key....................29
Chapter 6. Let the Shenanigans Begin....................35
Chapter 7. The Girls....................43
Chapter 8. Dottie Barrister-Blake....................63
Chapter 9. The Mayor of FOV (Fucked-Over Village)....................79
Chapter 10. Swimming Upstream....................89
Chapter 11. The Tiger Woods of Pool....................97
Chapter 12. Ankle Collar Dating....................103
Chapter 13. The Subscribers....................115
Chapter 14. Retribution....................133
Chapter 15. The Trial....................141
Chapter 16. Back on Top....................145