"Mr. Matthew Wedner?" Dean looked tentatively toward the middle-aged man who was smiling at the door.
"If there's not another Matthew Wedner around here, then yes, it must be me. If you're referring to the lawyer Matthew Wedner, then it's definitely me."
Wedner approached Dean with an enthusiastic advance and offered him a rather formal handshake, as if he were gazing upon a deity.
"Mr. Wedner, I'm Dean Price. I'm the son of Peter Price, who was arrested for suspected DUI a week ago," Dean cut straight to the point without any small talk.
"Ah, the case commissioned by the Truckers' Union." Upon Dean introducing himself, the enthusiasm in Wedner's eyes visibly diminished.
He had thought it was a new client approaching, and for a law firm that had only had one business in a month, they desperately needed new business, but clearly, Dean was not the god he had imagined.
Even though the enthusiasm had waned, Wedner didn't make it too obvious. If Peter's case was successfully concluded, Dean's review would also reflect back on the firm from the Truckers' Union.
A long-term and stable collaboration with the union was still very important for Wedner's law firm. Hence, after a greeting, he gestured for Dean to discuss further in his office.
"Honestly, I thought a prestigious law firm should be in an office tower downtown, or at the very least, have a respectable office," said Dean.
Following Wedner, Dean stepped into the firm. A cluttered crescent desk took up most of the usable space on the floor, which was nothing like the law firms he had imagined.
Seemingly oblivious to Dean's sarcasm, Wedner shrugged nonchalantly. "If you can persuade the Truckers' Union to pay a bit more in legal fees, I'll move to the Kafaro Building downtown next week."
"Alright, if you handle my father's case well, I wouldn't mind singing your praises at the union myself," Dean skillfully wrote a blank check.
"Let's talk business, kid," Wedner said with a smile and a curse, "this is Youngstown, a local branch of the Truckers' Union. Where's the money to hire those big-shot lawyers with 'power ties,' huh?"
The "big-shot lawyers with 'power ties'" Wedner referred to are those elite politicians from Washington, D.C., and Wall Street, often dressed in pinstripe suits wearing red ties.
This signature attire gave rise to the nickname "power tie" used by outsiders to jest about them.
However, Wedner was completely unaware that he himself wore a pinstriped suit, albeit without a red tie.
And the various business signs outside the window also unmistakenly resembled those of the big-shot lawyers.
But Dean didn't dwell on these details; with free legal aid and consultation at hand, what more could he ask for?
"Mr. Wedner," Dean took a seat in the only other chair in the office besides Wedner's spot.
"Let's start with my father's situation. Does the police station have substantial evidence of his DUI, and will they bring a lawsuit to court?"
"First," Wedner positioned himself behind the desk and immediately got down to business. "Let's understand some basic legal knowledge."
He opened his arms wide, his gaze fixed on Dean. Behind him on the wall, a law degree from Florida State University and a variety of framed medals were displayed.
All of this seemed to suggest that what he was about to say was of great authority and beyond dispute.
"First, it might not be the police station that brings charges against your father, but the prosecutor's office— the District Attorney's office.
Second, in Ohio, second-time DUI is a felony punishable by up to two years in prison, a license suspension for 1 to 2 years, and a fine of 1800 US dollars.
Unfortunately for your father, Peter, he is strongly suspected of second-time DUI."
Dean was not panicked by Wedner's authoritative remarks. He knew that the other party was not there to play the role of a sentencing judge and that simply listing Peter's crimes wouldn't suffice.
He was a lawyer; he had his own ways to survive.
Sure enough, seeing that Dean was not as terrified as expected, Wedner felt somewhat uninterested, but also a bit more appreciative.
"Okay, what I've mentioned are just suspicions. But if we do nothing, suspicions will turn into evidence, and will be officially recorded in the case files."
"So, what do I need to do to ensure that suspicions remain suspicions and don't turn into evidence, Mr. Wedner?" Dean caught on to the topic timely.
Unexpectedly, Wedner didn't answer his question right away but instead picked up an hourglass from his desk and turned it over.
"Mr. Wedner?" Dean watched, perplexed.
"Timing," Wedner responded succinctly to his question.
"Wait!" Dean quickly rose from his seat, "Isn't the Truckers' Union supposed to cover these expenses?"
"Of course," Wedner spread his hands openly, "but they only cover the first half-hour of consultation fees. You know, law is a profession that requires an immense amount of energy and time, and every day countless people need legal aid.
Therefore, to serve as many people as possible, we have thoughtfully introduced the timed billing mechanism."
"But there are no other clients here," said Dean, looking around the empty room, his forehead veins popping.
"So?" Wedner looked at him innocently. What does that have to do with anything?
"Alright," Dean, having been thoroughly schooled in capitalism, reluctantly sat back down, "so I have half an hour left?"
"The questions before we started the timer were a gift of friendship," Wedner responded, dodging the question at hand.
As Dean watched the sands in the hourglass diminish, he knew he had to clarify his thoughts quickly.
Although he didn't know how Wedner charged for his services, the profession of law itself dictated its "nobility."
"So Mr. Wedner, what do you think I should do to clear my father's name and make that damn prosecutor's office drop the charges against him?"
"Impossible!" Wedner responded without a moment's hesitation.
"???" Dean's face was a picture of confusion. "Wait, you just said..."
"Come to terms with reality, Dean. When Peter was arrested, you could smell the alcohol on him from a mile away.
What we can do now is find loopholes in the police enforcement, put pressure on them, and force them to make concessions. To get the felony downgraded to a misdemeanor would already be an ideal outcome."
Even attorneys aren't omnipotent; they can only operate within the framework of the law and seek the best solution.
Certainly, a few months of short-term detention is far better than two years in prison.
After digesting Wedner's words for a dozen seconds, Dean had to abandon his initial illusions.
A misdemeanor record might remain, but it would hardly affect Dean's subsequent plans.
Moreover, it would not be too much of a hindrance to Peter's future life, considering that in America's poorer classes, many have misdemeanor records—society has long become accustomed to it.
"All right, aiming for a misdemeanor, then; what do I need to do?" Dean quickly adjusted his state of mind.
Wedner nodded with satisfaction; he liked dealing with smart people. "The crucial steps I've already discussed with Peter; he denies ever consenting to cooperate with the police for an alcohol test—it all happened without his knowledge.
The police can't prove that Peter's actions were voluntary. Currently, both sides are at a standoff. Usually, if you hold out, the police might even offer a lighter misdemeanor charge to tempt the suspect into pleading guilty, just to improve judicial efficiency.
But obviously, we need to negotiate for better terms. After all, misdemeanors are divided into Class A, B, and C. So, just this won't be enough to secure the lightest, Class C punishment."
Now in his element, Wedner got up and paced around the small office. "Besides Peter's case, make good use of your mother's death as well."
Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks and looked at Dean. "I apologize if I'm being too direct."
Dean gestured for him to continue; this was no time for niceties.
"Peter can excuse himself by saying he was drowning his sorrows in alcohol because of the grief of losing his wife. He is a family man; her sudden departure hit him hard.
While this has no direct correlation with the law, the jury eats up this kind of story. Their sympathy can help bring us a bit closer to Class C at the crucial moment."
"And then there's you," Wedner turned to face Dean, who sat in the chair. "A gifted college student with a significant reputation in the community. Undoubtedly, such a genius couldn't emerge from anything but a happy, supportive household.
This further confirms that Peter is a responsible and excellent husband and father. Plus, our genius college student needs his father's support to complete his education.
Would they simply watch a genius who could contribute to America struggle to survive on welfare because he no longer had his family's support? Eh?"
Faced with Wedner's earnest gaze, Dean was dumbfounded. Indeed, an attorney worthy of the name...
"Mr. Wedner, you truly are a virtuous lawyer. Washington and this country need more people like you."
In the midst of enjoying Wedner's gratified expression, Dean offered his sincere compliment.
"Of course, to be on the safe side, we can add another layer of precaution."
More? This time, Dean was genuinely surprised. Was this the strength of an American attorney...
As Dean looked on in astonishment, Wedner handed him a business card with pride.
"Sean Murphy, psychiatrist."
"Psychiatrist?" Dean's expression turned curious. Could America also have a "psychiatric buff," so to speak?
"The American Medical Association considers alcoholism a physiological disease. Alcoholics have a certain defect in their genes that prevents them from controlling their urge to drink.
Since alcoholism is a physiological disease beyond personal control, based on the basic legal principle that 'liability arises from fault,' an alcoholic should not be held accountable for the damages caused by their drinking."
Especially the psychiatrists of the Association firmly believe this point. So..." Wedner winked at Dean, "you know what to do, don't you?"
With his eyes opened to new possibilities, Dean stood up gratefully. "Mr. Wedner, I think it's only a matter of time before your law firm moves into the city center's Caffaro Building."
Then, without waiting for Wedner's reaction, Dean bid farewell and left the office.
It was only after the last grain of sand had fallen in the hourglass on the desk that Wedner couldn't help but curse.
"That kid is stingier than Glan Tai!"