Chapter 2: The Wall of Law

Chapter 2: The Wall of Law

The fury that had solidified on the highway shoulder carried Alina Vance through the indignity of a bus ride and into a generic coffee shop that smelled of burnt beans and apathy. Nursing a single black coffee she couldn’t really afford, she transformed a small corner table into a war room. Her tablet, its battery dwindling, became her weapon. The target: a lawyer. Any lawyer who would listen.

She started with the glossy firms whose websites featured smiling partners in front of sweeping cityscapes. The first rejection was polite, a receptionist smoothly explaining they didn’t handle “consumer contract disputes.” The second was quicker, a paralegal cutting her off mid-sentence with a firm, “We wouldn’t be the right fit for this matter.” By the fourth call, she didn’t even get past the automated phone tree.

Her optimism began to fray. Each “no” was a small, sharp jab, reinforcing the feeling of powerlessness that had washed over her when the tow truck drove away. These were the guardians of justice, the people who were supposed to help. But their doors were locked, their services reserved for a class of problem she clearly didn't belong to.

On her seventh attempt, a weary-sounding paralegal named Gary listened to her entire spiel. She laid it all out: the on-time payment, the remote deactivation, “Clause 14B,” the predatory speed of the repossession.

“Hold on a second,” Gary said. There was a shuffling of papers. “You said Thorne Motors?”

“Yes,” Alina said, a flicker of hope igniting. “That’s right.”

A heavy sigh came through the phone. “Look, I’m probably not supposed to be telling you this, but you’re wasting your time calling firms like ours. Marcus Thorne… the man uses lawsuits like other people use Post-it notes. He’ll bury any small-time lawyer in motions and discovery requests until they and their client are bankrupt. It’s a scorched-earth policy. No one will touch a case against him unless it’s a guaranteed multi-million-dollar class action. It’s professional suicide.”

The words hit Alina like a physical blow. It wasn’t just about the money. It was fear. Thorne had insulated himself with a reputation so fearsome that the legal system itself bent around him.

“So what am I supposed to do?” Alina asked, her voice quiet.

Gary hesitated. “You could try the Downtown Legal Aid Clinic. It’s a long shot, but… it’s something.”

The address he gave her wasn’t in a high-rise with a view. It was a ground-floor office wedged between a bail bondsman and a pawn shop. The letters on the glass door were peeling, and the air inside was thick with the scent of old paper, stale coffee, and quiet desperation. Piles of manila folders threatened to avalanche from every surface.

A harried-looking woman pointed her toward a small, cluttered office in the back. “Leo Grant will see you.”

Leo Grant looked like he was losing a war on multiple fronts. His dark hair was an unruly mess, his suit jacket was slung over the back of his chair, and a 5 o’clock shadow was already well past its deadline. He sat hunched over his desk, glaring at a stack of files as if he could set them ablaze with pure cynicism. A stained coffee mug, its contents likely cold for hours, stood sentinel beside his elbow. He looked up as she entered, and his eyes, though sharp and intelligent, were clouded with exhaustion.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, his tone flat. He gestured to the rickety chair opposite his desk without looking at her.

Alina sat, her back ramrod straight. “My car was illegally repossessed this morning by Thorne Motors.”

Leo let out a short, mirthless huff. “Repo dispute. You need to talk to the financing company, work out a payment plan. We don’t really handle…”

“It wasn’t a payment issue,” Alina cut in, her voice firm and level. She refused to be dismissed. Not again. She leaned forward, placing her tablet on the one clear corner of his desk. “I have the email confirmation showing my payment was processed three days before the due date. I have the call log showing I contacted the dealership at 9:45 AM. I have the time the tow truck arrived—9:52 AM. Seven minutes. They remotely disabled my car while I was driving.”

Leo’s bored gaze flickered to her tablet. He was used to clients who came in with tears and shouted accusations. He was not used to clients who came in with a timeline.

“They cited Clause 14B of the financing agreement,” Alina continued, her focus absolute. “They claimed a ‘payment discrepancy,’ which is intentionally vague. The speed of the repossession suggests it wasn't triggered by a missed payment, but was pre-planned. They were waiting for an opportunity.”

She wasn’t just complaining; she was presenting a case. The graphic designer who obsessed over alignment and hierarchy was now applying those same principles to the facts. She laid out the information with a cold, clear logic that cut through the office’s fug of despair.

Leo straightened up slightly. He picked up his coffee mug, seemed to remember it was cold, and put it back down. “Clause 14B,” he repeated, tasting the words. “You remember the specific clause number?”

“It’s hard to forget,” Alina said, a hint of steel in her voice. “The woman on the phone, Brenda, was very clear about that.”

He leaned forward, his tired eyes now focused, the cynicism momentarily eclipsed by a flicker of professional interest. He saw it now. The pattern. The efficiency of the repossession was too clean, the legal justification too flimsy. This wasn't just a simple, unfortunate event. It was a system. A predatory, well-oiled machine designed to exploit loopholes and crush people who couldn’t fight back. It was exactly the kind of institutional rot he had left his high-powered corporate firm to fight, the kind of fight he had all but given up on winning.

He looked at Alina, really looked at her for the first time. He didn't see a hysterical victim. He saw a fighter. A woman whose precision and obsessive attention to detail made her uniquely equipped for this particular battle. A woman whose righteous fury was as meticulously organized as her digital files.

“They took my portfolio, too. It was in the car,” she added, the first crack in her composure showing. “I missed a meeting with Innovatech. It was… important.”

Leo tapped a pen on his desk, a slow, rhythmic beat. The sound was different from the frantic keyboard clatter of the morning. It was thoughtful. Calculated. For the first time all day, Alina felt like someone was actually listening.

“This contract,” Leo said, his voice now devoid of its earlier weariness. “The one with Clause 14B. Do you have a copy?”

“A digital one, yes.”

“Print it out. Bring it to me tomorrow morning,” he said. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't making any promises. But he had stopped looking at his mountain of files and was looking only at her. “I’ll read it.”

It wasn’t a declaration of war, but it was an agreement to look at the battlefield. After a day of slamming doors, that single, narrow opening felt like a victory. Alina nodded, a wave of profound relief washing over her. She had found her lawyer. And in her, Leo Grant had just found a reason to care again.