The CEO Hit My Car And Mocked Me, Now My Injury Attorney Owns His Mansion

Policy. The word echoed in my head as the doctor outlined the damage. Severe spinal whiplash. A hairline fracture in my right wrist—my carrying arm. The very tools of my trade were broken.

"You can't lift anything heavier than a cup of coffee for six weeks," the doctor said, handing me a prescription for painkillers I couldn't afford. "And you need spinal injury treatment immediately to prevent permanent nerve damage."

Six weeks. I didn't have six minutes. I borrowed the nurse's phone, my fingers trembling as I dialed the diner. It was the middle of the breakfast rush.

"Where the hell are you?" my boss, Al, screamed before I could even say hello. The clatter of plates in the background sounded like a war zone.

"Al, I was in an accident," I stammered, holding the phone with my good hand. "My car is totaled. My wrist is broken. I'm at St. Jude's."

"Broken?" Al’s voice dropped, losing the heat but gaining a terrifying coldness. "So you can't carry trays."

"I just need a few weeks to heal. I can work the register, I can—"

"I need a waitress, Sarah. Not a charity case. You missed your shift. Customers walked out."

"Al, please. I have medical bills. I'll file a disability insurance claim, I just need the job security."

"Don't bother coming back," he interrupted. "You're done. I'll mail your last check."

The line went dead. Wrongful termination laws existed, but they required lawyers, and lawyers required money. I sat in the hospital bed, the phone sliding from my grip, realizing the crash hadn't killed me, but the fallout might.