Passionate Assistant Attorney

Why did I choose law school in the first place?

Before death, my father said I should become a hero in the world of law. Fight crime, uphold justice. That's why I was named Ameena Justicia. How, very good for sure? Even if you're honest, the law doesn't need to be enforced because cassava stems can only stand upright. The law should be bought.

Hey, it's true. Listen to me. 80% of the world's problems can be solved with money. I think you got the name wrong. I want to change to Ameena Cuania, Always Go to Party when I was Young, Happy when Getting Old, and Go to Heaven after Die.

It's not just guys who want heaven to meet a girl as beautiful as Bae Suzy; I want to meet a guy like Kim Soo-Hyun. The name is a prayer. If you want your child to be rich, give him a name containing money elements.

But my father is a good person. It is impossible to give a frankly materialistic name. My father is a romantic man. When he sold meatballs, he never mixed rat meat. So honest. Unlike me, who justifies any means? The 2.8 GPA on the grade transcript is the result of cheating. If I didn't cheat, my GPA would only be one comma. Luckily my friends at law school used to be good; each exam gave me the cheat sheet I requested.

Why are my friends all good? I was also confused. I'm not pretty, just cute. My body is not tall, even so, attractive that many say I resemble a junior high school student. The brain is also like a processor, Pentium 2. Loading sometimes takes a long time, significantly when it's short. I do not have any advantages other than excess sin.

Besides, do I want to go to law school myself? I wish not to eradicate crime and uphold justice. That's Spiderman's job.

Before his death, my father advised me not to steal other people's rice pots. He encouraged me to go to and graduate from law school so I could become a lawyer. My goals are high, right? Of course. I want to be like a lawyer who likes to show off a ring the size of a potato.

Unfortunately, becoming a lawyer is not as easy as you hope. I sent fifty applications, but all were rejected. Starting today, even a year, I'm officially unemployed after graduating.

Mother said I was told to continue Father's business, to be a rat meatball seller—uh, sorry, beef meatballs. Even if I'm the one selling it, there's no guarantee that the meat used is natural beef or rat meat that can be found on the side of the gutter. If I were a meatball seller, the rats around your house would suddenly rarely walk around the channels, instead moving into bowls in adorable round shapes.

I said earlier that I don't have any advantages besides sins, right? I'm wrong. I have the benefit of not knowing myself. Despite being rejected 50 times, I was determined to apply to the 51st law firm.

The law firm I applied to the other time had no vacancies. I'm the only one who dared to use it. Unexpectedly, a week after I sent my application e-mail, there was an interview call from Candra, Utomo, Andika, Narendra and Partners Law Firm or CUAN Law Firm for short.

See, it's also a business. So don't be pessimistic. It's like saying, if someone's house doesn't receive guests, break down the door. It's open.

On the appointed day, I was ready with a white shirt top and red pant skirt. Why are you wearing a red dress? Grandpa Google said red is a colour that is sure to invite attention. All eyes will be on you. I hope the lawyer there will look down at my skirt, not my face or head because my head is empty. My head is filled with brains. My brain has nothing in it except cash.

"Mom, I m going now," I said goodbye to Mom.

Mother's job is to sell vegetable salad. Before dawn, I bought vegetables, peanuts and other spices at the traditional market. Now Mother is boiling a large pot of vegetables. The peanuts are ground.

"Yes, be careful. Pray a lot so that you will be successful in every endeavour," my mother advised.

"Of course. Asalamualaikum."

"Waalaikumsalam," said Mother, still busy stirring the pot.

After kissing the back of Mother's hand, I went out to warm up the old motorbike from my college days. My father used to buy used ones; he said riding a motorbike is more economical than taking a bus. But you're mistaken. This motorbike even made him bankrupt because he was diligent in and out of the workshop. Because it's old, I call this motorbike The Grandpa.

Brum, Brum...

Incredibly this morning, Grandpa doesn't cough, doesn't cranky. Well, I am done. I warm up the engine for about five minutes.

The distance between the house and the CUAN office is about thirty minutes if there are no traffic jams. Quite far. If there are traffic jams, my trip needs forty-five minutes to an hour. I left at seven to arrive at the office by eight o'clock.

The blue sky is slightly overcast. The sun shines bashfully like me when offered ten million. The main road is crowded with people going to work—jammed, solid creeping. I stopped when the red light came on. Suddenly, a drop of water was on my hand, still holding Grandpa's handlebars. Gosh, why wear all the rain events?

I slid down the sidewalk, grabbed a raincoat from the trunk and put it on. As soon as I got on Grandpa and I started, Grandpa didn't want to go.

"Grandpa, ouch... Your granddaughter needs this job. Please turn it on today. There is an interview." I begged with a pitiful face. I clasped my hands to worship Grandpa. But in vain. The grandpa sulked, not knowing the place and time. Even though I adored, pounded on the dashboard, and kicked the tires, Grandpa remained silent.

"Just take a motorcycle taxi, Sister. I will take you by motorcycle," said a voice beside me, a man in a black jacket with his face covered by a full-face helmet with the windows opened. From his appearance, it looks like he's a motorcycle taxi driver.

"Sister, huh? You're not my brother," I said curtly.

"Hei, don't be fierce. I want to take you, little girl. Where is your school?"

I clucked. Who also wants to go to school? Smart ass. I took a screwdriver pretending to check the engine, knowing nothing.

"Be careful, Little Girl. Please don't open it carelessly. Later you can't install it again; you don’t know anything," said the motorcycle driver, who didn't want to give up.

I don't know why Grandpa suddenly relapsed. I don't see the world of mechanics. I threw the screwdriver onto the asphalt and stood before the motorcycle driver.

"Graha Nusa Kencana Building. How much?" I asked.

"What are you going to do there? You can't skip school. I will report it to your parents," the motorcycle driver threatened me.

What? I rolled my eyes. Ho, did he know my parents? The basis is not clear. I don't want to wait; I could run out of time.

"How much, Sir? Hurry up."

"one hundred dollars."

"Huh, why so expensive?" I asked, glaring.

"Okay, I'll give you eighty dollars. It's a traffic jam, Sister. It’s also raining. I must buy herbal medicine since I don't want to get sick."

I sighed in annoyance. What do you want? There is no better choice than using a motorcycle service.

"Grandpa, wait here. I have a job interview first. Pray for it to go smoothly," I said goodbye to Grandpa. I rubbed his body before getting on the motorcycle driver.

Graha Nusa Kencana is far away. Plus, the rain is getting heavier and heavier like this, and the trip is getting longer. The motorcycle driver did not dare to step on the gas. The road is slow, just like a snail.

"This is the building," said the motorcycle driver, stopping before the outer portal.

"Come in, Sir. Why are you stopping here?"

The entrance is still quite far. I can sweat profusely if I walk.

"You just got here by that payment. If you want me to come in, you must pay ten dollar extra," The motorcycle driver answered.

Is it okay if I splash Ojek Abang's head with sewage water? Stingy is not approx.

Resentfully I took money from my wallet to pay for it. I ignored the thanks for giving Abang Ojek but immediately ran through the portal.

The building is Callan and d bona fide, according to my dream of working in an elite office. I ran, but why so far not up to? I'm already out of breath. The rain didn't; it just got heavier. Thank goodness I was wearing a raincoat. Otherwise, you can get soaked.

As I ran, a bright red sports car passed beside me. Even though it was wet, the car still looked shiny and smooth. The driver honked. I pulled over to let the car pass. Instead of being grateful, the vehicle stepped on a puddle of water which automatically splashed down my skirt.

"Hey, bastard! Stop!" I cursed while raising my hand. I would have thrown the glass car if there was a stone.

The car kept going, without noticing that there were beautiful people, eh familiar people, who shouted at him.

Shit, my skirt is soaked. Rich people have no morals. Who the heck is he? Opening the glass to apologise is not willing. Watch out for my revenge when I become a famous Lawyer.