by Nenny May
But Christina hadn’t bothered with a response to Cohen. No, she’d merely followed him through the parted elevator doors and down a narrow hall and through the double doors of his office. Inside sat a long wooden table lined on both sides with chairs enough to sit each partner of the legal enterprise. Each aside from two of those seats was occupied.
Christina had learned after the hour-long meeting had started, that it had been held to decide her fate with Wellington & Turner. There’d been quite a lot of detailed data tossed about with regards to her recent case and the impact it had on the firm.
“We cannot overlook her impact on Jerald Parker’s case.” Divorce Attorney William Chase Morgan Esq., had been saying. Much like Christina, he hadn’t been made a name partner of the enterprise. But unlike her, he’d had years of experience beneath his sleeve with the firm. “Going over that precedent, she’d handled it in a manner that I could only closely compare to Aaron Wallestine.”
“There is no argument that she’d blossomed in that case, that isn’t our primary concern.” Daniel Scott Turner Esq. argued. The business attorney had been seated at the farthest end of the table, leaned forward with his hands steepled. “Stick to your brief, council.” He’d scolded William Chase Morgan Esq.
The air around the table was accusing; upsetting. And one by one, Christina had let her eyes run over the features of each partner until they’d become distorted smudges.
“Relying on our brief, she’s caused this company a handful of lawsuits stemming from the family of the deceased Kim Brimmings.” Susan Miranda Smith Esq. had said in a curtly flat voice. The real estate lawyer didn’t seem all that interested in keeping Christina with the firm. “And even as we speak, a handful of our best attorneys are in court trying to undo the damaged she’d caused.”
“So what’s going to happen to me?” Christina Gresham plainly asked. She didn’t want to listen any further to those people questioning her capabilities based on one lost case. It had crumbled. Her client had committed suicide. They hadn’t acknowledged the fact that anyone could have handled that case and brought about the same outcome. No, they saw her, the relatively new addition to the firm; she wasn’t capable of handling the case. And as such, she was deemed incapable of handling any other for their firm.
“Miss. Gresham.” Cohen had scolded her with his eyes, it hadn’t been enough, because he’d as well said; “That is no way to address your superiors.” She knew what he was doing. Kissing up to his fellow partners, throwing her under the bus.
“No, no, let her speak. This is, after all, a meeting; a mere formality to bring to the table the knowledge of her release from Wellington & Turner as a partner as well as an employee.” Susan Miranda Smith Esq. stated. Susan was a beautiful woman, but her beauty came with an arrogance that never ceased to irk Christina.
“And before she has an opportunity to react to our decision to let her go, I would like to make it known that we have individually reviewed her partnership agreement with our firm and would just like to know her settlement price?” Daniel Scott Turner Esq. said. Christina scratched the corner of her nose, leaned back in her seat, and with a face barren of expression, she’d said;
“A hundred and fifty.”
“Thousand?” Cohen had nearly choked.
“She can’t be serious.” William Chase Morgan Esq. voiced.
“We’re in debt because you were incapable of handling a case. And you expect us to accept your offer?” Susan Miranda Smith Esq. seemed baffled.
“It’s nothing close to the limit stipulated in section 15(3) of my partnership agreement that you all had time to run through.” Christina rose to her own defense. “And considering, how many other cases I successfully handled for this firm that each person in this room is willing to turn a blind eye to, a hundred and fifty thousand is doing this firm a favor.” There was silence, heavy enough to press against her chest.
“A hundred and fifty thousand and we want you dismissed immediately.” Daniel Scott Turner Esq. said rather firmly. The named partner who’d taken over three years above Cohen Wellington’s age had glared at Christina from the far end of the table, now seated with a hand running over his chin.
“We have a deal?” She asked, even though at the brink of a wet blubbery sob.
“We have a deal.” Cohen echoed.
Out from beneath the glare of her former associates, Christina on less than steady legs had begun towards her office. She hadn’t been given the solace she’d at the very least deserved to grieve the loss of her job. “What you did back there was unacceptable!” Cohen scolded managing to catch up to her by the doors to the elevator. She stifled a groan.
“I don’t work here anymore. What does it matter?” She bit the inside of her cheeks.
“Decorum, Christina!” He’d said this in a half-whisper-half-scream. The elevator doors parted and he’d joined her. “You need to remember that though their decision seems upsetting, they’re redirecting their hard earned money to fix the mess you made of this firm.”
“That was an impossible case, Cohen, and everyone in this enterprise knew that. I’d been so dumb… no, not dumb, I’d been too blinded by my goddamned pride to know at the time just how bleak it was. I took that case, and I did my best. That doesn’t matter, all that matters is that I lost it.”
“Precisely!” Cohen echoed. The doors parted. Her eyes rolled, and she continued to her office. “Your impact to this firm will not be forgotten, but I’m advising you for wherever you end up next as a lawyer you need to act with decorum.” He’d said with a nod. Christina had watched him, dumbfounded as he’d turned and walked away leaving her standing just outside her office door.
By the time she’d returned to her desk, Carter hadn’t been there. She’d thought to call him, but shunned the idea. He would find out about her dismissal from Wellington & Turner through Cohen. She could bet the old-man had been itching to share the news. On her way in, she’d requested boxes sent over; though she hadn’t anticipated the bright pink envelope that sat on her desk. With her head crooked, she’d reached for it with slow hands. She’d flipped it on its back. It hadn’t been addressed. Turning it around, she ripped it open, there was nothing inside aside from a piece of paper. One with the sentence; I know who killed Lawrence Harrington, scribbled inside. Her heart thundered like warning drums.
Chapter FIVE
Terrence Gresham couldn’t have executed the murder of Lawrence Harrington. However, Barron wasn’t ready to completely cross out Terrence Gresham as a suspect; even if his latest findings with Cornwell and Slater tossed him in a different direction. He was going to keep the elderly man as an ally unless the tables took an ugly turn.
Someone else had carried out the murder on Lawrence. And Detective Harrington couldn’t seem to decipher who would have had such negative intentions towards his father. If only he’d had a relationship with the elderly Lawrence. If only he’d been there in his father’s last days, at the very least he would have been able to retrace his old man's last steps. Now, whenever faced with that question, he’d continuously drawn a blank space in his mind. Had Lawrence reached out to him in his last days? Was he to depend on Lawrence to reach out? Why hadn’t he? Barron knew why he hadn’t reached out. In all honesty, he hadn’t thought anything of their distance. He’d always shoved the feelings to the back of his mind. If only he’d known Lawrence wasn’t going to live forever; that he wasn’t going to get the opportunity to mend their dying relationship.
No, this wasn’t the time, Harrington reminded himself just as the steel elevator doors slid apart welcoming him to the second floor. He’d jogged the short stretched hall and forked a sharp right by the water cooler skidding to a halt by the second door to his left that read Criminologist. The first knock went unanswered, the second however had attracted a faint; “Come in,” He’d done exactly that shoving the door out of the way and instantly regretting it.
Criminologist Emily Jeffery had been engaged in a conversation with Sheriff
Robinson and Lieutenant Watson by the time Detective Harrington had poked his head in. The air in her tight office reeked of a tension he wouldn’t have been able to ripple through with a bullet. Neither one of the men seemed pleased more so with his presence. He couldn’t explain it any other way. There’d been a deeply rooted scowl etched on the features of both men as they glared at him over their shoulders. Well, not precisely. When it came to Watson, his eyes almost blared a warning only Harrington could interpret. “Got a minute, Jeffery?” Harrington straightened. She’d looked up at him from above wired rimmed glasses.
“Depends,” He edged further into the room offering a nod to his superiors. He’d considered Jeffery’s comment. His forehead creased.
“On?” He asked. She’d shut the report she’d been working on, placing the pen gently on her table.
“If it has anything to do with the Harrington case, they’re going to have to bear witness to whatever you have to say.” Barron didn’t have a problem with that. If anything he’d taken it as an opportunity for both men to see just how far he’d come with Lawrence’s case. It was a chance to give his superiors a reason to keep him in his father’s case. Initially, he’d been dreading documenting a report summarizing his impact on the case, but it was better explained in person than on paper.
“I hope you’ve come to us with good news?” Sheriff Robinson pitched in a hefty voice. Harrington nodded, briefly then stopped saying;
“I came here to evaluate our suspect's profile with Jeffery. Turns out Gresham might not be our guy.” Watson’s eyes broadened. The Lieutenant stifled a cough.
“What do you mean?” He wanted to know. It was clear the man was uncomfortable learning new information about the case while in the presence of the Sheriff. Harrington didn’t think too much about it. How he looked in the situation was what mattered more to him.
“I spoke to Slater and he had something quite interesting to say about the murder weapon.”
“Cut to the chase son, we’re busy men.” Sheriff Robinson urged. Harrington nodded, not the slightest bit phased by the thin line Watson’s lips had been pressed into.
“Wait the murder weapon that wasn’t at the scene. What did he have to say about it?” Emily Jeffery wanted to know.
“He brought in a specialist. We’re not looking for a Glock 26 as we initially thought. We’re looking for 19.”
“So someone from the force?” Watson rubbed his hands together.
“Precisely.” Harrington echoed. Emily nodded, turning to the computer. She’d run her fingers over her keyboard and mouse for a brief while then said;
“The victim had been overpowered; if you’d taken a look at the cadaver, there’d been signs of a struggle before he’d been strangled. At that, she’d whirled her monitor in the direction of the three men in her office. Sheriff Robinson had sat up in his seat, leaned forward and squinted his downward sloping eyes. He’d mumbled something about needing to get a pair of glasses that didn’t go unheard to Harrington. Watson remained unmoving in his seat. Displayed on the screen from what the detective could see yet again, were those images from the autopsy. Cornwell had gone ahead to upload them to the precinct database. Harrington didn’t know how to feel about that. No, he did. He was glad, she was efficient, but he was also disturbed; particularly by those images. “We’re looking for a male suspect, in his thirties. Someone quick on his feet with enough ripe strength to suffocate the victim.” Jeffery had scrolled to another image, one Harrington hadn’t seen before. It was taken at the scene with the body against the dead crimson splotch on a once fossil grey carpet.
Harrington squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see more. It was unprofessional, but that was his father. The man that had raised him, bought him toys for Christmas. Was he going to forget all of that because they’d had so little in common when Barron had grown up? His breathing was shallow. Very faintly, he recalled his college graduation, Lawrence’s speech, the tears that had run down his cheek as he’d spoken about his son. Barron felt raped by his guilt. Feeble against its stronghold, forced to endure each thrust, a memory of his father, wondering just when all of it would stop. He needed to leave, but there were too many eyes on him. With fingers tucked up in a fist, Harrington pried his eyes open. No one had noticed his meltdown. For that, the detective was relieved. Then again, who wanted to look at the detective by the door when there was a body on a computer screen?
“And with this new information Slater gave Harrington, we’re looking for someone with a history on the force.” Watson pitched.
“Well, Harrington, you’ve got your work cut out for you, don’t give us a reason to reassign Mathews to the case.” Sheriff Robinson rose to his feet. Lieutenant Watson had mirrored the hefty man's actions. With a pat on Harrington’s shoulder, Robinson had ducked out the door. Watson however had mumbled something to Jeffery; something Harrington assumed had to do with the report she’d been working on when he’d walked in. What other way would he interpret her almost instinctive reaction to reach for the report she’d once closed and the pen she’d put away. On his way out, Watson hadn’t bothered a look to the Detective. With a clenched jaw, Harrington ran over the information he’d been given.
Harrington occupied the spot the Sheriff once sat in. It was warm and the cushion on the seat had flattened. He felt uncomfortable, not just by the chair. The screen hadn’t been spun back to Jeffery so Lawrence’s decomposing corpse still glared violently at Harrington, his lunch; a grilled chicken salad clogged his throat, threatening to come back the way it had gone down. “I’m going to need more details, Jeffery.” His voice to his ears sounded tired, worn-weary. She’d turned the monitor away from Harrington, though the image much like that of the autopsy had been burned to his brain.
Emily hadn’t bothered to run her fingers over her keyboard. No, she’d merely dragged her mouse around in a semi-circle, clicked, and said; “There were footprints faint and heavy ones on the carpet. And judging by the shoe size and shape they belonged to a man, the pattern they’d etched into the carpet suggested a wealthy man.I wouldn’t completely erase Gresham from our list.”
“What do you mean?” He was confused.
“Getting that kind of weapon would be nearly impossible for an ordinary man, but let’s not forget Gresham has connections.” Jeffery shrugged. “If he wanted a Glock 26, he could get one; all it would take is a few phone calls to the right people.”
Someone knew who killed Lawrence Harrington. Former Wellington & Turner Attorney Christina Gresham had completely cleared out her office at about 10:36 P.M.and sent her belongings to Wellington & Turners storage facility on the ground floor of the firm, all the while, she’d been deliberating over who could have sent the note. She’d asked around, drawing her former secretary Kenneth aside when he’d brought the boxes to her. He’d given her the necessary information on who’d dropped off the note. According to him, it was a middle agedman; he’d had black hair and blue eyes and had seemed like a mere delivery man. Kenneth’s description painted this man as just-your-average-Joe. Well, just-your-average-Joe doesn’t deliver a note claiming to have the answer to the million dollar question on the minds of many of those in Harlem Manhattan.
Kenneth had nonetheless, made the man register the letter as a package for Christina Gresham. She’d been tempted to hug him, but she’d restrained herself. Her stomach had grumbled and moaned each passing minute she’d spent with the content of the note swirling about her mind. Someone knew what had happened to Lawrence Harrington. Someone had witnessed the murder. Had they been at the scene? A guilt stricken accomplice? A first time killer up to his neck with regret? Christina didn’t care too much about who the person was; she was more concerned about what he had to say.
This person could be an asset if things turned against Terrence. But then, wouldn’t Detective Harrington like to know who’d killed his father? He would. She knew if she were in his shoes, she would want to know. If she were in his shoes she wouldn’t have been able to sit poi
nt on her father’s case. He really was a man to be adored for his raw strength.
While on the subway to W 145th Street, she’ddialed the number of the John-Doe that had left the note. She’d filled his phonewith a couple of missed calls and a voice message requesting that they meet up. She would like to ask a few questions at the very least about who had given him the note if indeed he was a delivery man.
By the time she’d gotten home it was about midnight, and although she’d been once more greeted by that dreaded medical report, it had left nothing but a surface wound, almost as if the edges of its reality had become blunt. Maybe just maybe, talking about it to Carter had taken the edge off. But why hadn’t she been able to feel the relief then? It was too complicated. So, she’d picked up the report and shoved it away, out of sight. Even if it didn’t hurt as much, it didn’t mean she wanted to be reminded of her new reality. She had cancer. And, a question still nagged at the back of her mind, was she going to be a survivor, or was she going to bite it?