The phone rings on the other side of the cubicle.

“This is Johnson,” the voice answering it sings, like he’s on a Broadway stage. No. Probably off-Broadway, because it’s Johnson. He’s my suitemate with a penchant for various types of musicals, but opera singers like Pavarotti? That’s where his passion lives. That, and anything musical theatre-related. Let’s face it, it stands to reason, considering we advocate for mistreated and misrepresented artists, including opera singers. Our company connects musical theatre performers to attorneys best suited to represent them. And occasionally, we will represent them. More often than not, we refer clients to prospective firms.

Johnson excels at his job, as long as the person on the other end of the phone isn’t a right-wing nutjob who thinks Bud Light is a real beer, rifles hanging from the inside of your house belong in Better Homes and Gardens, and mudding, hunting, camping, tractor pulls, and country music represent the pinnacle of redneck culture. If they call? That’s when he ultimately hangs up on them, which forces a conversation between Johnson and me. Not something I particularly like. But, supervisor or not, he advocates for our clients. One of the good ones who actually fights for them.

“Hey, Joey.” He peeks over our cubicle. That wall alone separates us from being in the same room at the same time. He laces his fingers together, laying his chin on his hands, which rest atop the wall. “What do you think about the new Italian place at the end of the block?”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. I rarely take time for lunch, much less look up and down the block to see what’s changed. We’ve worked together for a few years, and he knows that about me. And the fact that I hate that name: Joey.

“Personally, I think it’s overrated. The breadsticks, for one, are soggy. Not exactly something you want to see, you know what I mean?”

“Oh yeah?” I click through several emails searching for a reply. A settlement from our newest case, one that settled quickly and without a fight. Odd, but not unheard of. Our client, a young woman living outside North Hollywood, claims to have been harassed by the stage manager of a show that closed in a matter of weeks. The show’s name doesn’t matter to me. But her name. Katherine. Katherine Croix. I remember that name. How did she discover it was available as a stage name? That still doesn’t make sense to me. Not that it matters, but she swears it’s true. She says she found it in an obscure graphic novel. And altered it. Slightly. Just enough. “Soggy breadsticks. Uh-huh. Certainly don’t want that.” I go back to digging through the emails.

“Um, no, Joey. You most certainly do not.” He fiddles with a ring on his pinky finger. He got it from someone a few months back. I don’t know if it’s his current boyfriend or a girl that he hangs out with. I don’t worry about it. His last boyfriend abused him, a muscle-headed buckethead. The kind I met living in Northern Alaska. Fishing boat workers. Construction jerks. All jacked up on steroids or some other substance, thinking they’re God’s gift to the world. Even in the circles in which Johnson runs. “I don’t know if I should keep it.”

He comes around the wall, holding out his hand as far as he can. I know he’s not trying to hit on me because we protect people from that kind of behavior, like Katherine. Everyone who works here, including Johnson, stays conscientious not to cross boundaries. Flirting remains a no-no, but it doesn’t stop anyone from doing it, including Johnson. But even he knows the lines not to cross. “What do you think, Joey? Should I keep it?”

I stop searching through the hundreds of emails I received this morning, long enough to glance at the ring. He showed it to me a week or so ago, and my response stays the same. “I guess it depends. Are you going to let Michael move back in with you, or not?”

Michael is his abusive ex-boyfriend. Abusive enough that Johnson asked me to get involved. Not that I wanted to. Rednecks don’t exactly strike me as a good time, if you know what I mean.

“Wouldn’t he just take it from you and hock it?” Michael steals a lot from Johnson. Mostly because Johnson lets him; he won’t stand up to him. Priceless works of art. Jewelry. Stocks. Several valuable coins. If it’s not nailed down, Michael steals and sells it.

“No!” Johnson jerks his hand away from me, like he stuck it in a fire. Then, like a dog who’s been hit one too many times, he sideeyes me, still admiring the ring. “I think it’s gorgeous.”

“Yep. He obviously likes you enough to gift it to you.”

He storms over to my computer, slamming the screen shut on the laptop. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean, Joe?” Only when Johnson gets mad does he use my given nickname. “That he wasn’t good enough for me?”

I sigh, “Johnson? We’ve got work to do. I’m expecting an email from the attorneys in the Croix case. They should’ve signed and sent it over ten days ago. I still haven’t seen anything.”

Johnson looks at me, puzzled. “That is weird. Have you heard from Katherine? She would’ve received notification too, right?”

“Not until we do. That’s part of the arrangement. The judge ordered no communication from their attorneys to her, as Judge Berinder ruled. We communicate with her about the settlement. I got the summary judgment from the court, but nothing from the venue’s attorneys.” Opening up the laptop, I start searching through the hundreds of emails. Again. “Wait. What the hell is this?”

The subject line reads, “DISMISS THE CROIX CASE” in all caps. The body of the email threatens me, Johnson, and the rest of our partners. Not an idle threat. I’ve seen enough of those. This specifically targets me, Johnson, and anyone else our firm pays, featuring several pictures of each of our partners at various locations. Some relax at home on the couch with a glass of wine and two kids at their feet. Others sit at a local restaurant, not the Italian one Johnson complains about at the end of the block. Some get ready for bed, the pictures showing imperfections in the women’s skin, and the two days’ worth of facial hair growth in mine. Johnson’s picture shocks him so much that he screams, putting his hand over his mouth. Various skin care products, cleansers, and makeup clutter an already crowded sink. The picture clearly shows the tube in his hand: Preparation-H hemorrhoid cream. He’s putting it under his eyes. “You have to destroy that email!” Johnson shrieks.

The last part of the body of the email, which runs short, reads, “Any attempt to contact the local or state authorities will result in the deaths of several staff members.”

I print the email immediately, making four copies. “What are you doing?” Johnson asks me. “Getting law enforcement involved? You can’t do that, Joe. I won’t let you.”

“Oh? Really, Johnson? Are you going to stop me?”

His eyes find the floor. “No.”

“I didn’t think so. Look. I’m going to get help.”

He grabs my shoulders. “You told me you’d never ask him for help, Joe. Please don’t tell me you’re serious. You know what that means.”

“I am not losing a harassment case, especially not hers, for this.” I shake the papers, which include the embarrassing photos of Johnson. “I’m getting to the bottom of this. If he’ll help me.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about. It’s her.”

“Yeah. I know.” I sigh. “Me too, Johnson. But, hey. We’ll survive this, too.”

“Cockroaches! Unite!”

I roll my eyes, smiling. “Yeah. Please work on that. It’s not good for business.”