The Commute

Marcus Delgado merged onto the 405 at 7:47 AM, his black Tesla Model S purring between lanes of traffic that hadn’t moved in twelve minutes. Above him, his own face smiled down from a forty-foot billboard: “MARCUS GETS RESULTS - 1-800-JUSTICE.” The photographer had airbrushed away the stress lines, but the confident smile was real enough.

Two exits north, Sweet James dominated a digital display, his perfectly white teeth rotating between English and Spanish taglines. Marcus had tried to buy that spot for three years running. James outbid him every time.

The radio crackled through his Bluetooth: “This is dispatch. We’ve got a three-car pile-up on the 110. Possible injuries.”

Marcus glanced at the clock. 7:49 AM. If he left now, he could be first on scene in twenty minutes. But he had the Morrison deposition at nine—a slip-and-fall worth six figures if he could prove the grocery store knew about the wet floor.

“Send Rodriguez,” he told his assistant through the headset. “And make sure he gets photos before the ambulance leaves.”

Traffic crept forward. To his left, Jacob Emrani’s upside-down billboard caught his peripheral vision: “WHEN YOUR WORLD GETS TURNED UPSIDE DOWN, CALL JACOB.” Marcus had to admit, the gimmick worked. Everyone remembered it.

His phone buzzed. Text from his daughter Sofia: “Dad, my friend saw your billboard and said you look like a game show host. Is that good or bad?”

He typed back one-handed: “Depends on the ratings.”

The Morrison case would settle. They always did. Six months from now, Mrs. Morrison would have her payout, the grocery chain would update their floor maintenance protocols, and Marcus would have earned enough to buy another month of billboard space. Maybe two.

At 7:52, traffic opened up. Marcus accelerated past his own billboard, catching a glimpse of his younger, more optimistic face in the rearview mirror. The real Marcus was graying at the temples now, twenty-three years into a career that started with idealism and evolved into efficiency.

His phone rang. “Marcus Delgado.”

“Mr. Delgado? My husband was hit by a truck this morning. Someone gave me your number. They said you fight for people like us.”

Marcus took the next exit, already calculating: medical bills, lost wages, pain and suffering. The multiplier method. The settlement range. The billboard space it would buy.

“Ma’am,” he said, “I’ll fight for you.”

Above the freeway, his billboard smiled down at the endless stream of potential clients, each stuck in traffic, each carrying their own small catastrophes, each needing someone who knew how to turn misfortune into justice.

The mean streets of LA. Gritty. Trendy. Down on its luck.

Marcus wouldn’t practice anywhere else.