by R. J. Blain
“Will the department in the FBI handling the case cooperate?”
“While I would assume so, it wasn’t something I directly had experience with.”
Handling paperwork as an anchor hadn’t put me in position to work with the attorneys; that had fallen under the umbrella of the field agents with direct exposure to the case. I had scheduled the appointments in court and the joint meetings with the attorneys with the defense and prosecution.
“Would you be willing to attend the opening portions of this trial to advise us on anything we may need to know to help our case?”
I clenched my teeth, sucked in a breath, and fought the tightening in my chest and throat. “Of course, sir.”
“Excellent. Work with Zenza. I’ve already discussed the situation with her. She volunteered to help handle your duties while you’re handling the sessions.”
At least I wouldn’t have any problems figuring out which woman Zenza was. She was the only African in the office, born and raised in Zimbabwe before her parents had immigrated to the United States. Zenza wasn’t her real name, but when she discovered most people in New York had trouble with spelling her real name, she had come up with it to ease her transition. “Okay, sir. I’ll speak with her.”
“I’ll pick you up in forty-five minutes.”
Forty-five minutes wasn’t enough time to get my necessary work done, but I handled the critical scheduling work, forwarded the emails of the important tasks to Zenza, and dropped into the paralegal’s office to discuss what needed to be handled while I was gone. The woman’s brows arched as I briefed her on what the next few hours of my day should have looked like.
“I seem to have underestimated the amount of work you manage to cram into half a day,” she confessed.
I understood. Without any distractions, I could get a lot done, and since I had nothing to distract me at all, I lived and breathed my work. If she found out about the make-work I did during the lulls, she’d probably have a heart attack. “That’s what happens when managing ten people.”
Smiling bothered me, but I did it anyway.
“True enough. I’ll make sure this gets done before you’re back, and I’ll email you if there are any issues.”
“Text me if there’s any serious problems. I’ll take an office laptop just in case.”
Making off with one of the laptops would cost me ten minutes, and I bailed from Zenza’s office, ambushed one of the tech guys, and pleaded for a temporary system to take to the trial in case I needed it.
Instead of a laptop, I got an oversized tablet with a stylus and a portable keyboard. I made it back to my desk with two minutes to spare, giving me enough time to snag my purse. Neither the keyboard nor tablet fit, and I was glaring at the useless leather bag in disgust when Mr. Desjardins showed up.
“Put it in here,” he offered, setting his black leather briefcase on my desk and opening it.
I handed over the devices. “Thank you, sir.”
“Bring a briefcase tomorrow. You’ll need it.”
I swallowed my sigh at the unwanted expense—and the hassle involved with going out and finding a court-appropriate briefcase. While I had a laptop of my own, it had cost less than three hundred and I only used it when absolutely necessary. I’d be laughed out of court if I showed up with it. “Yes, sir.”
“Let’s go. You can read over the papers in the car.”
Since Mr. and Mrs. Hemshaw had already been scheduled to appear in court for the divorce trial, the docket had been adjusted to do a back-to-back opening of the divorce trial and the arraignment of the kidnapping case. The notes for the divorce trial argued that due to Mrs. Hemshaw abusive behavior, she shouldn’t be entitled to a full fifty percent of Mr. Hemshaw’s wealth.
A motion to include evidence from the kidnapping case waited for presentation to the judge, and I suspected they wouldn’t have any issues having the motion approved despite the timing. The FBI agent still lingering in me thought the timing was too perfect, that Mr. Hemshaw had gotten off too easy while his daughter battled for her life, that he had too much to gain from her death.
“You have an odd expression,” Mr. Desjardins commented after parking his car in the paid lot near the courthouse.
“If I were investigating this case, I would be taking a close look at Mr. Hemshaw right now,” I confessed, closing the manila envelope and returning it to the attorney’s briefcase.
“Explain.”
“According to this, Mr. Hemshaw’s net worth sits at a little below three hundred million dollars, of which one fifty of his assets would become the property of Mrs. Hemshaw. Their physical property values aren’t even ten million dollars, which would result in a great deal of lost stocks and other financial properties becoming Mrs. Hemshaw’s property. He currently has custody of their daughter, as she wasn’t working and he had sufficient evidence to support him being the better parent.” I slung my purse over my shoulder and slid out of his vehicle. “I want to withhold judgment on the likelihood of Mrs. Hemshaw risking one hundred and fifty million dollars to kidnap their daughter when their custody agreement has her with extensive visitation and parental rights without owing child support.”
“A similar thought had occurred to me. Mr. Hemshaw is very fond of his money.”
I wondered if Mr. Desjardins would side with his client’s pocketbook or the truth. I expected the worst but hoped for the best, something I recognized would end in disappointment. Some things never changed.
Twelve
There won’t be a problem, sir.
The scent of spice and cinnamon hit my nose the instant I stepped into the courthouse, and every muscle in my body tensed. I hadn’t become a fox since leaving Baltimore, but my memories of a Fenerec’s distinctive smell refused to leave me alone.
A lot of members of CARD were witches or werewolves, with the rare and talented Normal filling in the blanks. In my effort to put the FBI and everything it had represented behind me, I had forgotten. Swallowing, I tailed Mr. Desjardins to the courtroom, forcing a smile while the attorney introduced me to our client. I took a seat on the other side of Mr. Hemshaw, a middle-aged man with dark, hard eyes and the first hints of gray touching his hair.
The firm insisted on natural hair only, which meant my white tips stayed. I had offered to dye them away, claiming that I had some freakish genetic mutation that meant the ends turned white over time. Since I no longer had photographs from my childhood to prove it, I had offered to demonstrate the issue by cutting off the ends, since I needed a trim anyway.
Within a month, the tips had faded as they liked to do, and I was informed I wasn’t to dye my hair. If needed, I could cut the ends off. I thought the rule was ridiculous, but not even the lead attorneys hid their gray hairs, so I left mine alone. In the months since my initial return to humanity, I had added over a foot of length, and it’d grown in thick, so when I tied it back, it resembled a fox’s bushy tail.
To hide as much of the white as possible, I wrapped my hair in a bun.
During the wait for the trial, I claimed one of Mr. Desjardins’s extra legal pads and a pen, preparing to take notes.
“Why did you bring your assistant?” Mr. Hemshaw asked in a way that made it clear he wasn’t happy with my presence.
“She has expertise relevant to your case and will be an invaluable source of information for ensuring a smooth trial.”
I had to give Mr. Desjardins credit. Unless Mr. Hemshaw really thought about it, he wouldn’t realize his own attorney hadn’t given any claims it would work in his favor.
“All rise for the Honorable Judge Taylor,” the bailiff announced. Like everyone else in the room, I obeyed, although I kept my gaze focused on the yellow pad in front of me.
The instant it was acceptable, I sank onto my chair, aware of too many eyes focused on me, my client, and the attorney I worked for. Mr. Desjardins presented the motion to delay the divorce trial due to the kidnapping case, which would provide substantial evidence supporting the
decision regarding Mr. Hemshaw’s wealth and full custody of his injured daughter.
The judge approved the motion, and without delay or fanfare, ordered the bailiff to proceed to the next item on the docket, the kidnapping of Jessica Hemshaw. Mr. Desjardins hadn’t had full information—or hardly anything beyond the fact she’d been kidnapped and battled for her life in critical condition.
When the judge called in the CARD team for the presentation of base evidence for the arraignment, my heart took up residence in the general vicinity of my feet. Jake noticed me around the same time I had noticed him, and he betrayed his shock with a widening of his eyes.
I counted my blessings; I couldn’t pale much thanks to my complexion, although I felt the blood rush out of my head to join my heart.
Jake’s parents were with him, and I made a note that in order for the Thomas family to be involved in the case, Jessica had been taken to Maryland, Washington D.C., or Virginia by the time CARD had gotten involved, which was where they would have deployed from. For there to only be three of them, they had either had special disposition to work as a three-man team, or they had a replacement team member who hadn’t been able to attend.
I placed my bets on the former.
Anxiety sickened me, and I had to keep swallowing to keep from throwing up in the courtroom and humiliating myself, my boss, and our client. I struggled to concentrate, using the notepad and pen as a lifeline while Pauline laid out the circumstances surrounding Jessica Hemshaw’s disappearance and recovery.
I found it interesting she didn’t provide the full evidence, merely laying out a general timeline and key points. Neither attorney would be able to do much without a briefing session, which would be given to both at the same time to keep the FBI’s involvement as neutral as possible.
Jessica had been found alone, and while Mrs. Hemshaw had been roughly in the same area, there was no hard evidence she had been involved in the kidnapping. The investigation was ongoing. Judge Taylor ordered the preliminary hearing to take place in six days before dismissing the session.
Pauline spoke to my boss and the rival attorney, scheduling in a briefing session for later that afternoon, which I booked on the office calendar using my phone. The entire time, I felt Jake’s gaze on me.
By some miracle I refused to question, I made it all the way back to the law firm before I threw up.
Mr. Desjardins had noticed the key similarity between me and the Thomas family: our last name. As soon as I emerged from the bathroom, barely in control of my stomach, he ambushed me. “How are you related to them?”
There was no use in hiding anything. “I’m married to James Thomas, the younger man on the team, sir.”
The admission almost cracked my fragile control over my stomach.
“Divorced?”
“No. Separated.”
“What stage of the divorce are you in?”
“We’re not in any stage of a divorce, sir. We’re just separated. He lives and works in Baltimore. I live and work here. We needed some space.” I needed the space, and Jake needed to learn he couldn’t just expect me to be a net ready to catch him, not when he’d let me fall because he valued his pack and family over me.
It still hurt. I had no doubt it always would.
“Is this going to be a problem?”
My inability to share the same room with them without throwing up would be a problem. “No, sir.”
“I think you’re lying to me. I’ll have to look into the legalities of your involvement. As you’re interior staff not directly related to the operation of the case, and they are only providing evidence on behalf of the FBI, it is probably not an issue, but I will inquire with the state.”
Familiar numbness settled over me. “There won’t be a problem, sir.”
“Make sure of it. Mr. Hemshaw is insistent I represent him for as much of his cases as possible.”
I shrugged, grateful for the chance to discuss anything other than Jake and the mess he’d made of my life. No, we’d made a mess of our lives, but he tended to land on his feet while I smacked face-first into the concrete. “He knows you’re inexperienced with criminal prosecution, and he will refuse to work well with the assigned prosecutor, giving the defense a substantial edge.”
“And how does that help him?”
“Plea bargaining. If the defense believes the circumstances are favorable for Mrs. Hemshaw to have kidnapped Jessica, they’ll encourage her to plead guilty to lessen the sentencing. If Mr. Hemshaw is wise, he’ll offer a pittance of what she’s owed in exchange for minimal sentencing and custody. An inexperienced attorney may not realize there’s more to the story, resulting in Mrs. Hemshaw paying for a crime she may not have committed. If Mr. Hemshaw did commit the crime, her opting to bargain rather than take on a risky, expensive trial benefits him. Mrs. Hemshaw probably can’t afford a good lawyer, so the defense won’t want to risk a full trial on what looks like an obvious lose. In a case like this, a state-provided defense attorney could be problematic. Some of them are talented. Some are not. She won’t be able to decide her attorney, so it depends on the luck of the draw for her.”
“It’s a shame, really. I suspect you would make a very fine attorney if you decided to expand your education. Make sure you’re ready to handle this afternoon, Mrs. Thomas—without throwing up afterwards this time.”
Why did brilliant men so often have to be assholes? I waited until he turned his back to flip my middle finger at him.
The briefing took place when I normally would have gone to lunch. Instead of nausea, I battled lightheadedness and dizziness, which made the problem of sharing a room with Jake and his parents insignificant in comparison. It took every bit of my concentration to take notes, leaving no time or energy to worry about Jake or what I should do about him and his parents.
Well, I spared a few moments to fantasize about strangling them, particularly Pauline.
Forty-five minutes into it, I reached for my glass of water and woke up on the floor, vaguely aware of a paramedic situating an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. Blurred figures moved around me, but my eyes refused to focus. The next time I blinked, the sterile white of a hospital room surrounded me, and pain shot up my arm from someone inserting a catheter near my elbow. I yelped.
Somehow, the nurse managed to install the catheter and IV line despite my semi-conscious protests startling her. As soon as she had the drip started to her satisfaction, she began questioning me, and I struggled to produce the answers she wanted, ranging from my name, date of birth, place of employment, and circumstances surrounding how and why I had fainted.
A mix of dehydration and malnutrition took the blame for my fainting spell, with stress coming in a close third. The hospital wanted to keep me overnight for observation. Considering I couldn’t stand without becoming dizzy and running the risk of passing out again, the doctor and nurses won the argument without having to say a single word.
Being stuck in the damned hospital again made me easy prey for the various assholes in my life. Since we weren’t divorced and Jake had no scruples about using our marriage license to gain access to my room, I ended up with an unwanted, huffing visitor.
“You were the last person I expected to see in that courtroom today.” He dropped onto the chair beside my hospital bed. My roommate, a little old lady also under observation, drooled all over my ex-partner.
Had his attention been turned elsewhere, I might have indulged, too. Unlike me, Jake remained in his prime, and if I hadn’t known everything had fallen apart, I would’ve believed everything was good in his life.
Then again, maybe it was. I had no idea. Before I’d ditched out on the FBI’s requirements for a pension, I’d scanned my emails as required while pretending I could make it through the rest of my life without having to talk to him ever again.
Maybe the little old lady could take him off my hands.
“If you want him, I’ll sell him to you for ten dollars,” I offered. “He’s decent in bed, but he
is annoying the rest of the time.”
She laughed and waved her boney hand. “I’d tire the poor dear out, but thank you for the offer. Try giving him a little attention right in the morning. That tends to keep them docile until the evening. You can use a baseball bat in the evenings if he doesn’t mind his manners.”
I giggled at her prescribed solution, which wouldn’t do me any good, but I rather enjoyed what I might be able to do with a baseball bat after I had a long nap and something to eat.
“That was not nice,” Jake complained. If my offer had bothered him, I saw no sign of it in his expression. I expected that from Jake.
He hid things better than I did most days.
I drew in a breath, wishing it could blow away all of the pain and uncertainty and leave me with nothing but clean, fresh air in its wake. Even breathing reminded me I wasn’t human anymore but could never be a wolf. “You can’t take the credit for making me faint. The meeting happened during my lunch break.”
“Credit? No, when I aim to take credit, I arrange the situation so I can catch you when you fall. My position at the other end of the table made that rather difficult. No concussion?”
If only that was the truth. I had needed to be caught long ago, and I’d broken when I’d hit the ground. Therapy might help, but I doubted I’d make it far. A shattered glass couldn’t be pieced back together and still function as a glass.
It could be melted down and turned into something new, but I wasn’t ready to try being someone new yet.
I lived, and that was good enough—and I remembered my ma hadn’t wanted that, so I’d keep living out of spite. Living badly counted as living, so I’d be all right one day.
I couldn’t afford to hope for anything else, not yet. One day, maybe—but not yet.