by Sarah Monzon
He balled his hands into fists and kneaded them into the top of his thighs.
Don’t do anything rash, son. His father’s words came back to him for the hundredth time. They were the only thing that had stopped him from storming over to Hudson’s house after he’d dropped Olivia off last night.
What was the man thinking? How could he possibly represent—defend—a rapist like Dan Munchouse? Hadn’t Burke learned anything from Adam’s mistake?
The fury that he’d managed to stuff just under the surface began to steam again, and he kneaded his quad harder.
Someone had to talk some sense into Hudson before it was too late. Before he became shackled with the guilt of letting someone like Munchouse back on the streets and the stricken face of Stephanie Singh became an unrelenting personal accusation.
His hand hovered over the car door handle, his dad’s warning passing through his mind once more. He wouldn’t do anything rash, he promised himself. Just talk sense into Hudson.
Pulling the handle toward him, he opened the door and stepped out of the car. Vehicles stopped at an intersection in the heart of downtown, and Adam crossed the street with a rush of other bodies. Two blocks down he entered a historic building of quaint offices, memories slamming into him with more force than the cold air of the AC.
Stepping onto the travertine floors was bittersweet. Success had been his within these walls, and he’d helped a lot of people. But he’d also embraced his lowest moment here, and he couldn’t help but feel that the eyes of the portraits of Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and Abraham Lincoln that hung in the lobby had turned from ones of understanding to denunciation.
“Mr. Carrington!” A female’s surprised greeting bounced off the tiled floors. “It’s so good to see you again, sir.”
Lori came around her desk and folded her hands in front of her. He felt her appraisal and didn’t miss the pity in her eyes when they rose to meet his.
He glanced down and saw what she saw. Keen sandals, cargo shorts, and a wrinkled shirt. If he’d had a mirror, he wouldn’t be surprised to find bloodshot eyes and unruly hair that could use a taming with a comb and some gel. Their receptionist had never seen him in anything other than Italian loafers and tailored suits. How far he must have fallen in her estimation.
Adam was only disappointed that he didn’t have more useless things to sell. His donation to the Survivors Trust had been sizable after the sale of his condo and Porsche, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough to expunge his conscience.
“Is Hudson in?”
Lori turned to look through glass doors that led to Hudson Burke’s sizable office. She faced him with a forced smile. “Mr. Burke is on an important business call and can’t be disturbed at this moment. Should I tell him you stopped by, Mr. Carrington?”
“That won’t be necessary, Lori.” Adam blew past her and down the hall.
“Mr. Carrington! Mr. Carrington, you can’t—”
Her protests ceased to register as Adam slammed open a door at the end of the glass-encased hall.
Hudson spun at the intrusion, the back of his suit coat fanning out.
All the indignation and outrage that Adam had felt at first hearing his former partner’s name alongside an accused rapist came flooding back through him.
Hudson’s eyes flashed, but with a calm voice he spoke into the phone he held up to his ear. “Something has just come up, and I’ll have to call you back.” He lowered the phone into its cradle and regarded Adam with a hint of disbelief and a touch of wariness.
“Adam, what a pleasant surprise. Are you here to finally accept—”
He’d never understood the term seeing red before, but at that moment Adam got it. His vision flushed as blood coursed through his body, making him instantly hot. Like coals being shoveled into a steam locomotive, his body shot forward, his hands fisting the lapels on Hudson’s jacket as he shoved his old partner against the nearest wall with a loud thud.
Hudson’s eyes widened as Adam thrust his face forward until their noses were mere inches apart.
“Adam, calm down. Don’t do anything rash.” Hudson’s voice shook, though his face remained impassive.
Don’t do anything rash, son.
Like a splash of cold water, the reminder cooled him, and he realized one of his fists had dropped from Hudson’s lapel and was poised to punch the man across the side of his face. Taking a step back, he shook out his hands while glaring at the puppet in a suit.
“Munchouse, Hud? Seriously?”
Hudson tugged on the bottom of his coat and ran his hands down the front, trying to smooth out the wrinkles Adam’s grip had put in them. “Figured that’s what you were here about with murder in your eyes.”
“I wasn’t going to kill you.” Though, admittedly, he was angry enough to punch something.
“Assault then, hmm?”
Adam’s back molars ground together. “Defending Munchouse is a mistake, and you know it.”
Hudson walked past Adam, the scent of expensive cologne trailing behind him, and lowered himself into a black leather chair. He appeared unaffected as he looked up at Adam. “Don’t sound so self-righteous, Carrington. It wasn’t that long ago that you were in this exact same position. Besides, what I know, as you put it, is the Constitution, and Mr. Munchouse has a constitutional right to a fair and speedy trial, with representation, before an impartial jury of his peers. You know that as well as I do, Adam.”
Adam leaned against the mahogany executive desk across from Hudson, his fingers splayed against the cool wood as his nostrils flared. Didn’t Hudson see? It wasn’t self-righteousness that had driven him here to stop his old partner from making the biggest mistake of his life. It was righteous indignation. How dare Munchouse take such evil advantage over Stephanie Singh.
“What I know is how you’re going to twist the facts to make that creep into an upstanding citizen. His age, his lack of criminal history, his position as lacrosse captain at Miami University. You’re going to use phrases like ‘boys will be boys’ and ‘momentary slip in judgment shouldn’t severely impact him the rest of his life’ to excuse his reprehensible behavior. But the fact that Dan Munchouse is a white male star athlete at a school so many locals hold dear to their hearts does not entitle him to leniency, Hud. That momentary slip in judgment will forever severely impact Stephanie Singh, and Dave Munchouse should be held accountable for his crimes.” He slammed his hand down hard on the desk’s shiny surface, the sting upon his palm feeling strangely good.
Hudson leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “His alleged crimes. Innocent until proven guilty, Adam.”
“You and I both know that man is guilty.”
“Do I? Even if he is guilty, for argument’s sake, that does not revoke his rights as a US citizen.”
“What about Miss Singh’s rights? Doesn’t she have a right to live free from fear of abuse from men like Munchouse?”
“Of course she does.”
“And yet you’re going to do everything within your power to put him and countless others like him back on the streets. How is that freedom or justice?”
Hudson’s serene face hardened a fraction. “Careful, Adam. You’re beginning to sound like you’ve forgotten one of the leading principles of a criminal defense attorney. There is no line drawn between us and them. There is no ‘those people.’ Humanity resides in each of us. We all make mistakes, and no one likes to be forever defined by those mistakes.”
“But mistakes have consequences, and in this case, I don’t think a slap on the wrist is sufficient punishment.”
“If a jury does find my client guilty, what makes you think a judge won’t require a full sentence?”
The facts of the case were too similar, and Brittany Foresythe’s dejected expression at the sentencing of her attacker—Adam’s defendant—floated in front of his mind’s eye like a ghostly apparition. “History.”
Hudson sighed. “Look, I know the Foresythe case— Now don’
t look at me like that.” He held up his hands. “I’m just saying I know that case shook you. I won’t pretend that cases of mine haven’t disturbed me as well, but—” He massaged his forehead, suddenly looking weary. “Do you remember why you decided on criminal defense law to begin with?”
Adam jerked back as if the top of the desk had burned his hands.
“I remember when you first waltzed your way into my office, so full of idealism and a drive to see justice done for those who’d been given a raw deal. Atticus Finch from To Kill a Mockingbird, remember? You wanted to be just like him—defending the wrongly accused.”
And yet instead he’d been an instrument in allowing a living nightmare to roam free, searching for his next victim. Guilt sat like an anvil heavy upon his shoulders, pushing him down until his knees gave way and he sank to the seat behind him. “Atticus helped the innocent. I…I…”
“Did your job.” Hudson leaned forward and rested his forearms on his desk. “Do you remember the Carter case?”
Jason Carter, sixteen, killed his neighbor and stole her car. The media had a field day with the kid.
“You managed to see past the actions and see that hurting boy. You saw the pain of years of abuse by his father’s hand. The fear in his eyes at the wrath he knew he would experience when his dad learned he’d skipped school that day to help a fellow classmate. When everyone else was ready to hand him over to the media on a silver platter, you learned that he’d merely wanted to escape his nightmarish life and so had stolen his dad’s gun to protect himself. He didn’t want or mean to shoot and kill his neighbor. He only needed her car to escape his own nightmare.”
Adam clenched his eyes closed, wishing Hudson would shut up.
“Humanity, Adam. You knew that kid was sorry. That he couldn’t believe he’d pulled the trigger in the first place. He wasn’t wicked. He was merely damaged and in distress.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “That doesn’t excuse what he did though.”
“No. No, it doesn’t. But it does explain his actions. It does help us to understand. It does show us that maybe we shouldn’t always be so quick to judge, that even those who’ve found themselves at the bottom of the pit by their own hand deserve compassion as well.”
Adam leaned back in the chair, drained. There was right and there was wrong. Black and white. Why, then, did he suddenly find himself drowning in a sea of gray?
Chapter 16
Olivia: So…I’m adopted, huh?
Lily: So were Marilyn Monroe, Steve Jobs, and Dave Thomas. Way I see it, all the cool kids are adopted.
Olivia: Dave Thomas. The Wendy’s guy?
Lily: * GIF of a guy stuffing his face with french fries*
Olivia: You looked up those facts to try and make me feel better, didn’t you?
Lily: Is it working?
Olivia: *hugging emoji* Got to go to work. Ttyl.
The kitchen of Seaside was a cacophony of an orchestra without a conductor. The expediter and chef yelled orders back and forth between the pass-thru window, and the food on the flattop and in skillets sizzled and popped, a low hum from the line cooks underscoring the production. Across the kitchen, the spray of powerful jets, the tinkling of silverware, and the clanking of dishes resounded from the dish room. Servers passed each other in the aisle, filling drink orders and carrying food-laden trays from the kitchen, through swinging doors, and out toward hungry guests in the dining room.
Olivia glanced at the digital clock mounted on the side wall. She’d already finished her side work in the back of the house and dropped her last two checks. As long as the hostess didn’t seat anyone at her remaining table, she’d be able to dart out of work on time. For once.
She peeked out the glass panes in the swinging doors and watched as Nicole led a couple to a two-top in the corner…in her section.
“Hey, what’s with you today?” Teresa brushed back dark-blond wisps of hair that had wiggled their way free from her ponytail. She used the scoop on the ice bin to fill two glasses, then picked up the peach-tea pitcher and poured to the brim, topping them off with a wedge of lemon on the rim. “You’ve been distracted and antsy all day.”
Olivia sighed. It was true, and she hated that she hadn’t done as good a job at hiding it as she’d thought. She was used to the excess energy that pumped through her limbs, but she usually channeled that into her job, working circles around her colleagues. But that energy had an edge of anxiousness to it today, and her focus had been off. She’d knocked over and spilled a pitcher of fresh-squeezed lemonade and forgotten to put in an order, making the chef rush to get it cooked and plated before her angry guests walked out. Besides those catastrophes, she’d seemed to go through her shift on mere second nature. Her body was present, but her mind was elsewhere. And apparently everyone had noticed.
“Lost in thought, is all.” A tug of war on her mental focus had been waged for the past forty-eight hours. The rug had been pulled out from under her with the DNA results, and she’d been grappling with the news as well as going over the conversations she’d need to have with her parents. She imagined what they’d say, but no matter what words her psyche put in their mouths, she was left with an ache of betrayal and a listlessness that came with being lost.
Then her thoughts would shift as they were tugged back in another direction. Even after she’d gotten Adam alone in his car, he’d remained as silent as a rock on the subject of the alleged rape they’d seen on the news. She hadn’t pushed or prodded, but even her attempts at making him crack a smile had been an utter failure. No amount of teasing would get him to loosen up. If anything, the frown lines only deepened across his forehead.
“What time does your shift end?”
Olivia blinked. “What?”
Teresa balanced a tray of drinks on her palm. “Your shift. What time does it end?”
“Oh. Umm. Five minutes. But I just got sat, so I’ll probably still be here an hour from now unless someone coming in will let me transfer the check to them.”
“You get out of here. I’ll take the table.”
“You sure?”
Teresa used her backside to push open the door to the dining room. “Of course. I can use the extra money anyway.”
Olivia smiled as she untied the apron strings from behind her back. “Thanks, girl. I owe you.”
Teresa smiled and disappeared behind the door.
Using her key card, Olivia swiped it along the side of the POS monitor and typed in her employee number, clocking out of her shift for the day. She slipped the apron over her head and draped it across her arm.
“Leaving?” Alejandro asked as she passed him from his position of expediter.
“Yep. See y’all tomorrow.”
“Just a sec.” He waved one of the cooks off the line to take his place, then gripped her elbow and steered her to a corner of the kitchen. “What’s up?”
With Teresa the question had been asked with concern. Alejandro…well, the hardness that chiseled parentheses on the sides of his mouth spoke more to the fact he didn’t really care if something had happened to upset her but that she’d screwed up her shift. “Nothing. An off day is all. Won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t. You’re a good server, but Seaside can’t afford to comp a hundred-dollar ticket. I’d rather you take a day to get your head back on straight than have you back tomorrow and make another disaster of my kitchen.”
Olivia nodded while she wrapped the strings of her apron tightly around her fist, cutting off the circulation. “Understood.”
“Good.” Without another word he spun on his heel and barked orders for the cook to return to the line.
She released the curl of her fingers and wiggled them from their bounds, striding toward the back exit and muttering under her breath. If not for the tips, which had covered her parents’ mortgage for the past four months, she’d quit on the spot. But until her dad found another job, she’d have to swallow her pride, paint on a smile, and co
ntinue doing what she’d been doing.
She dug her keys out of her apron pocket and unlocked the driver’s-side door. Adam expected her at Southern Charm in an hour, just enough time to swing by her house and change her clothes. The food truck was low key, and her black slacks and black button-up oxford, not to mention the silver tie wound in a Windsor knot around her neck, didn’t exactly mesh with the ambiance of street-side dinning.
Releasing her cell from its prison in the center console, she checked the screen and swiped to listen to a missed call.
Hey, it’s Summer…Adam’s sister-in-law? Anyway, just wanted to say it was so nice to meet you last night and I was wondering if you wanted to meet up for coffee sometime. That is, if we didn’t scare you off too badly. Anyway, talk to you later.
A smile spread across her mouth as she turned the key in the ignition. With Lily so busy with her dissertation and lab studies, Olivia could use another girlfriend to hang out with…and maybe talk her off a ledge or two, depending on where her swinging emotions regarding her birth landed her.
What would her parents’ response be when she showed them the DNA results? Would they try to deny the truth or justify their years of living a lie—of making her out to be something she wasn’t? Did they know who her mother was? Her father? Would they know how to contact her biological parents? Did Olivia even want to?
She slowed at a stop sign and noticed a bright-orange sign along the side of the road, with a Native woman dressed in traditional patchwork garb on it. In large white letters she read, Intertribal Powwow. Olivia scanned the sign. The event was being held in a couple of weeks.
What did she even know about the Seminole—her people, apparently—other than they owned the Hard Rock Café and so many places in Florida were named after them—Osceola, Micanopy, Okeechobee, Withlacoochee, Loxahatchee? If she didn’t know where she came from, her own culture and history, then how could she know who she was?