Ken Rosenberg

A large, wooden desk in the humble confines of a law office, cluttered with various paperwork, spoke more about it's owner than it should. The late morning sun filtered through the only window, casting a warm glow on the dusty surfaces of the bookshelf across from it. Plumes of cigarette smoke wafted lazily upwards, dancing in the soft light, as Ken leaned back in his executive chair, the worn leather creaking in accompaniment to his frame. A half-filled mug of coffee rested on the edge of his desk, long forgotten and gone cold. Ken's stubby, yet well-manicured fingers gripped his pen with odd intensity. His eyes, slightly bloodshot from last night's revelries, squinted as he regarded the door, wondering when his latest client would to arrive. If arrive at all.