From the Desk of Evander Marshall

Marshall / Todd and Associates, LLP

May 13, 2014

Almost a year ago, I left my job at the District Attorney's office to join the private sector. I partnered with Henry Todd, a seasoned criminal defense attorney, to form Marshall / Todd and Associates, LLP.

Generally, defense attorneys make more money than prosecutors. But that's not a rule and it's not always the case; it just depends on who it is you're defending, and how much money your client has.

At any rate, I didn't leave my job at the DA's office because of the money. I formed Marshall / Todd and Associates because the firm presented a unique opportunity for me: it was a chance to practice law in places that understood little about ethics and justice, a chance for me to introduce the concept of fair democratic law to lands far beyond our borders…

But for Henry, my partner, it was always about the money. From the very beginning, he was upset that we were only collecting a modest monthly retainer from our primary client, the High Council of the Interplanetary Territories of Slatt.

"Forty-eight planets!" Henry said during a Scotch-fueled tantrum, back before the holidays. "The High Council oversees a total of forty-eight entire planets! Can you even imagine the capital they must have at their disposal? The economies of entire planets – and yet, all we get is this."

Henry threw a shred of paper onto my desk so hard that it made a noise. It was our monthly retainer check from the High Council, the red signature in the lower corner read Lord Farkvold.

"Jumping into wormhole portals, messages blasted into my skull from an involuntary dental implant," Henry continued, counting off on his fingers. "Last-minute travel to interdimensional territories, bailing aliens out of jail in the middle of the night, constantly answering to every whim of that maniac Lord High Councilman – all of our hard work, Marsh, and this! This pathetic retainer is all we have to show for it!"

I picked up the check, which was issued from the Chase Bank in Beverly Hills under an account named Slatt Territory of Planets, Inc. It wasn't a small amount, certainly not pathetic, but Henry had a point. A well-funded conglomerate like the Planets of Slatt should be able to pay a premium for our services.

We are, after all, a specialty firm.

Henry continued to rant, rave and insist that we were being underpaid. "This is exploitation," he said as he threw the remains of his lunch, a fig-and-Roquefort salad, out of the office window. He nearly followed it with a bottle of Dijon dressing, but I was able to intercept him. Once Henry had calmed down, we decided that the best way to handle the situation was to speak frankly and directly with the High Council about our fees.

Henry called the High Council on his cell. I could tell he was itching to give them a piece of his mind, but after speaking with a few operators it became clear that Lord Farkvold was not the person we needed to talk to. Apparently, the Lord High Councilman does not deal directly with financial matters.

We were transferred, switched and patched across several planetary systems, before finally being connected to something called the Department of Interplanetary Coinage, where we spoke to a Terrestrial Wealth Agent named Weeki about our request for renegotiation.

"You see, Weeki," Henry said loudly into the speakerphone, above a layer of static and feedback. "Compared to other industry-specific law firms on Earth, our rates are way below fair-market value."

Weeki listened patiently as Henry outlined the various tasks and duties required of us under our current agreement. Henry explained point-by-point how the hours added up, how extensive our workload was, and the enormous toll it took. I mostly listened and let Henry do the talking; he's an excellent negotiator, when he's not acting like a spoiled child in need of a time-out.

Weeki asked us to wait while he discussed the case with his superiors. At the end of an hour, after a few more transfer and approvals, we had a new agreement in place with the High Council of the Interplanetary Territories of Slatt. It included a substantial increase to our monthly retainer, a new scale for billable hours, and back-pay in the form of a one-time bonus. It was more than acceptable, and far beyond pathetic. Henry and I were pleased.

Then, as they say, the money started rolling in.

We banked our profits at first, using the extra money to pay down startup costs and overhead for the company. Our monthly expenses were significant: the office suite in Culver City charges a premium, with parking, cleaning and electricity all extra costs outside of the lease. We furnished our overpriced offices with overpriced desk sets from Herman Miller, all very modern and high-end. And then there was the temp agency we hired to supply us with a rotating roster of front-desk receptionists, well-dressed twenty-somethings who took the occasional phone message, but mostly texted, Tweeted, and took selfies.

Arguably, our expenses were too high. But Henry and I agreed that a successful law firm should look like one. Plus, no one except Henry and I knew that the firm's breadwinning client was an alien empire. Even my wife, Denise, is still in the dark. So little things like a well-furnished office, seemingly functional and lucrative, helped us keep up appearances.

Last month, we paid off the balance of our bank loan, and had enough saved to cover expenses for the rest of the year. So, Henry and I decided it was time for us to take some profits.

We met at the office last Monday morning and wrote out two large personal checks; Henry signed mine, I signed his.

And that's when all of the problems started.