by Anna Premoli
Not that that would take a lot, thought Amalia, though she would never have admitted it in front of anybody outside the profession. She allowed herself a laugh. “Oh yeah? And what have you been discussing?” she asked sarcastically, “The district attorney?”
They probably spent all their time bickering about the latest fashions or the new theatrical season. She was ready to bet that arguing about what was supposed to be that year’s color had taken up most of their afternoon
“Of course not!” said Jackie, bringing a mocking smile to her niece’s lips. “We actually spoke mainly about deputy district attorneys.”
At that point Amalia stopped dead in her tracks, determined to put an end to this nonsense. She had no desire to play games, even though she did usually boast that she had an excellent sense of humor.
“Grandma, I’ll call you back later,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument.
Jackie wisely decided not to pursue the issue any further. “Okay, fine, whatever. But don’t say I didn’t warn you!” And so saying, she hung up in frustration.
What the hell was going on that day? Amalia looked around her in disbelief. There was still no sign of an empty taxi anywhere, but that was the risk you ran living in the East Village: in the morning there were nowhere near as many taxis around as there were on the Upper East Side, where her family’s roots had been firmly sunk for the last few centuries – maybe since even before the arrival of the founding fathers. They’d probably come over with the Vikings so as to be sure they wouldn’t have to mix with the common people and would get the most advantageous prices for the apartments with the best views before the crowds showed up and started actually building the place.
So Amalia chose the only remaining option still left open to her – an act of daring that would have had generations of Bergers turning in their graves and which, in fact, she had already done in the past as a small act of rebellion against her family. Other mortals had to use tattoos or piercings to provoke their parents, but in her case all she needed to do was take the subway.
Which was a stroke of luck, because although she loved annoying her parents, she wasn’t actually all that keen on needles.
*
She arrived in court with what was, objectively, irritating lateness. Even for a lawyer. And we’re not talking about people who are famous for their punctuality.
When, red faced, she finally opened the courtroom door, Judge Wyatt was rather annoyed and determined to make her pay for it, and it was clear that she was doomed even before the high commander of the courtroom opened his mouth to tell her off in front of his assembled subjects. His eyes had assumed a glacial expression, which would certainly have set a less experienced or simply more easily intimidated lawyer quivering in fear. Good thing that this session was only the formalization of a plea bargain which had already been agreed upon long ago, otherwise things could have got nasty.
“Ah, finally – Ms Berger decides to honor us with her presence!” said the almost outraged judge, leaning back in his chair.
“My apologies, your honor,” Amalia gasped as she tried to regain control of her voice and get her breathing under control after the sprint of seconds before: a new Olympic record for running in heels with a sore big toe, by the way…
“Punctuality is not optional, Ms Berger!” he glowered, clearly not intending to let her get away with it.
“I realize that, and I apologize once again,” she repeated firmly. Was there really any point wasting another ten minutes arguing over the fact that she’d been a little late?
Sitting to her left she saw Liz, the only just eighteen year old daughter of one of her most important clients, who had been arrested a few days earlier for driving under the influence. She was twisting a lock of hair around her finger as though she was at the hairdresser’s and not in a courtroom. She was a bored, arrogant little girl, but it was now Amalia’s job to try and get her out of trouble.
“Well, now that Ms Berger has repeatedly apologized to the court…” began Judge Wyatt, before stopping himself almost immediately. “I’m sorry but I have to ask – what exactly was the reason for your being so outrageously late?” he asked, suddenly fired by new anger.
‘Outrageously’?! Jeez, come on, let’s not overdo it, she thought.
Amalia tried to look impassive and to remain calm.
“I didn’t hear my alarm clock go off,” she replied. It was obvious to her how implausible her excuse must sound, but just because the truth is stupid isn’t really any excuse for trying to make it sound more convincing. And Amalia wasn’t in the mood for making the situation worse than it already was. Although, thinking about it and looking at Judge Wyatt’s expression…
“Oh, you didn’t hear the alarm clock? Really? Couldn’t you come up with anything more original than that? And I thought that you lawyers were supposed to be imaginative types!” complained the judge, irked by an explanation which was obviously not to his liking. But something as silly as not hearing an alarm clock go off didn’t give him much opportunity to go on with his lecture.
“What can you do, sometimes reality can be extremely unimaginative,” retorted Amalia, not at all intimidated.
She’d always found Judge Wyatt to be a pain in the butt. Obviously, she couldn’t expect everyone to get on with everybody, but that day he looked really mean – even more so than he usually did.
“Well, anyway – we are here for a settlement hearing…” the judge said eventually, finally deciding to move on. His glasses perched on the end of his long pointed nose, he took the papers that the secretary offered him and began to read, and very slowly a smile spread over his face. That was worrying – everyone knew that Judge Wyatt was not a guy who smiled. Ever.
“Interesting developments, I see. The prosecutor’s office rejects the plea bargain,” he read out aloud, as though he were holding a shopping list in his hand and had forgotten to pick up tomatoes for the salad.
“What?” exclaimed Amalia, jumping up even though she had only just sat down. “But he can’t refuse it! It took us days to reach a deal!” she snapped.
Then she turned furiously to her right to try and figure out which member of the prosecutor’s office had been drinking, because it was obvious someone had gone way over the top with their breakfast whiskey that morning.
But on the prosecution bench sat a familiar looking man who shouldn’t have had anything to do with the New York District Attorney’s office.
“Oh. My. God…” she whispered, as her eyes inspected with painstaking care first the face and then the body of someone who looked too similar to Ryan O’Moore for comfort. Far too similar.
It couldn’t be him, though. The last time she’d heard his name mentioned, Ryan O’Moore had been living in Chicago. He was supposed to be a thousand miles from there.
But her fears were confirmed when he greeted her in a deep voice.
“Hello, Amalia.”
Unfortunately for her, then, apparently it actually was Ryan O’Moore in the flesh! Either that or his twin brother.
“Ah, you two have already met, I see,” the judge interjected quickly, eager to take part in events. No judge enjoys having his limelight stolen, Wyatt even less than most. “In that case, Mr Assistant Prosecutor, since you and Ms Berger are apparently old friends, I’m sure you will be able to settle the affair between yourselves. The case is adjourned for three days. And do not make me waste any more time!” he said, hurriedly dismissing all parties and eager to move on to the next case.
“But… what about Assistant District Attorney Height?” stammered Amalia, simultaneously stunned and outraged.
Wyatt lowered his glasses again with a bored expression. “Don’t you lawyers read the papers, Ms Berger? Height has resigned! For ‘unknown reasons’…” And as he spoke, his face took on an eloquent expression which was commentary enough on the story of the former assistant district attorney’s lightning resignation.
“But we had an agreement…” began Amal
ia, who was still not ready to admit defeat.
“I’m afraid that agreement was a tad generous,” interjected the new assistant district attorney. And the asshole could scarcely hide the hint of a smile as he said it.
Amalia glared at him icily.
“Generous, my ass,” she muttered frostily, totally disinterested in keeping up appearances.
“Esteemed colleagues, would you be so kind as to continue this new and completely pointless debate of yours outside my courtroom, hmm? Please come back in three days, with a settlement reached, otherwise I will be forced to decide for you. Ms Berger, allow me to offer you some friendly advice: don’t make me decide for you. I say this for your own good.”
Amalia found herself motionless and speechless, her mouth hanging wide open in a mixture of exasperation, incredulity and suppressed anger which threatened to make her explode like an overheated pressure cooker.
“Come on, Liz,” she said to her client, who at least had the good sense to look slightly worried for the first time since the whole thing had started. Maybe there was hope for her yet.
An agitated Amalia picked up the papers she had prepared a few minutes before and put them back into her black leather briefcase. She needed to take control of the situation before she found herself face to face with Ryan O’Moore for a second time. How the hell was she going to manage to cope with a shock like this? Ryan O’Moore the new assistant prosecutor? This was like some kind of horror movie!
But there he was, appearing right in front of her without even giving her time to digest the news. Well, playing dirty had always been one of his characteristics, even back at university – it looked like nothing had changed.
“Everything okay, Amalia?” he asked as he watched her struggle to close her briefcase.
In reply he was given yet another cold stare from those frosty eyes, which long ago had earned her the nickname among her colleagues of ‘ice queen’.
“Everything’s fine,” she hissed, absolutely livid. He had sent her plea bargain to hell in a handcart and now he was actually trying to act friendly? Amalia’s mood was getting worse with every passing second.
“Listen, about the plea bargain…” he began in an overly familiar tone – he must be trying to get a rise out of her. “Well, how about we discuss it over dinner tonight?” he offered, behaving as if it were a perfectly normal request.
Amalia took a deep breath, as though he had asked her to drink poison. “Excuse me?” she hissed.
Ryan laughed at her instinctive reaction.
“Ah, I see – you’re making fun of me. Ha ha, very funny…” she said sarcastically. It was obvious that she found him about as likeable as a stomach ache.
“Do you want to come to the District Attorney’s office or do you want me to drop by yours?” he asked her, trying to stay serious this time.
It seemed there was no other way out. “You might as well come to my office. But make it tomorrow afternoon. I have too much to do today.” She had to try and get her brain back under control, and she had the sneaking suspicion that after the events of that morning it was going to take several hours.
Ryan actually gave her a wink.
“I guess you need time to get used to the idea,” he teased, showing that he had understood her tactics.
“The idea of what? Of you being in New York?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips defiantly.
“Well, yeah, I realize that my presence must have come as a bit of a surprise…” he answered.
Their conversation was again interrupted by Judge Wyatt.
“Could you please discuss the various formalities outside this courtroom and let us carry on with our work?” he admonished them.
Amalia picked up her briefcase and jacket and walked towards the exit. “Ryan, just between you and me, it would have been better if you had stayed put in Chicago.”
And with this she left the room, disappearing from view but leaving behind her the intense smell of her perfume.
*
“So you already know Amalia Berger?” asked the new Assistant District Attorney’s young trainee while they were making their way in the direction of their office.
“More or less,” he confirmed vaguely, not particularly keen to discuss it.
“She knows you, though. She knew you’d come from Chicago,” said Alex.
Ryan smiled at the tenacity of the young man, who showed promising observational skills, and tried to overcome at least some of his natural reserve. “We attended the same law school,” he revealed.
“Wow, so you must know her pretty well then.”
Well? Who could say that they knew Amalia Berger well?
“We crossed paths at lectures and parties for a few years,” he admitted, without going into further detail. That would only serve to create gossip and, as the newcomer in the office, the last thing he needed was gossip going around about the two of them.
“She certainly seemed a little angry with you…” remarked Alex, clearly skeptical of his boss’s story.
A tight smile formed on Ryan’s face.
“Just a little? Amalia hates me. I took the editor’s job at the Yale Law Journal off her. She’s never forgiven me for it,” he said. That anything but minor detail would have come out sooner or later anyway. In their world, everyone always knew everything. It was better to tell Alex himself before some amiable former university friends – spoiled rich kids who would be biased, and certainly not towards him – started circulating rumors which weren’t true.
“I hear you. She’s a very competitive lawyer, from what they say. I guess she must have been a pretty determined student too,” Alex commented.
Ryan had only ever known Amalia Berger in a rather superficial way. She was the kind of girl who was used to having everyone falling at her feet and getting what she wanted without too much effort. At university, everyone knew of the family she came from and tried to outdo each other to make her like them. But a girl like that would have been noticed even without the trust fund associated with her: she’d always been absolutely resolute in her way of doing things – a way that at times seemed almost to border on anger and which was united with an enviable physical presence. It seemed that in her case, fate had decided to make an exception and had just given her everything. Not that it made her happy, of course. Oh no, Amalia Berger never seemed to be happy with anything.
He had realized right from the start that she was one of those girls it was better to stay away from, and over the years he had almost always succeeded in this. They had never been friends, only acquaintances who bumped into each other from time to time because they knew the same people. He had, however, known that Amalia had chosen to practice law in New York. And that sooner or later, if he went there, he would be bound to meet her. No city was ever big enough to completely avoid a person, especially one who worked in your own profession.
Of course, he had hoped he would have had a bit more time before it actually happened: he hadn’t counted on finding her standing in front of him on his very first case. And when he had seen her name on the file that had been delivered to him the night before, he hadn’t been able to resist the infantile, stupid impulse to reject the plea bargain. It was not something he was proud of, but that name had driven him to it. It was painful to admit it, but he probably would have had no objection to the agreement if the other party’s lawyer had been a complete stranger. Yes, there were a couple of things that needed tweaking, but he could have let them pass. At the end of the day, it was a fair settlement that didn’t give either of the parties an unfair advantage and allowed the prosecutor to come out with his head held high. Precisely the goal at which his new boss was aiming, given how close they were to the upcoming elections. Except that he had found himself looking at Amalia’s name and just hadn’t been able to pretend that he didn’t care. Ryan tried to ignore the bitter knowledge that he shouldn’t have given in to the impulse because he had no rational reason for wanting to step on Amalia Berger’s toes –
by doing so he had only attracted her attention and in terms of stupidity on a scale from zero to ten, his move was up there at around a hundred. Needless to say, Ryan was not very proud of his moment of weakness.
“You can say that again. She was like a rottweiler. Blonde, but a rottweiler,” he replied to Alex, remembering the wild honey colored hair that she used to leave loose around her shoulders years ago. That day, however, her hair had been tied up in a bun so tight that it almost made you wonder how it didn’t hurt. It was obvious that she was trying to come across as serious and professional, but Ryan suspected that there was something more behind the tough exterior that she worked so hard to project. When he saw her rush red-faced into the courtroom, for a moment he had almost been tempted to go over and free her poor hair from its painful imprisonment.
The direction of his thoughts was proving somewhat alarming, so he tried to remove the image of Amalia and her curls. But it wasn’t easy.
Alex burst out laughing. “Come on – she’s a little more eye-catching than a rottweiler…” he ventured, unaware of the assistant prosecutor’s state of mind.
Ryan was slightly uncomfortable commenting on Amalia’s physical appearance: that she was a beautiful woman was so perfectly obvious that there wasn’t really much else to add.
“I guess it’s impossible for her not to attract the attention of others,” he observed diplomatically, in the hope of not giving too much away.
“So we’re starting the plea agreement from scratch, right?” the young man asked. Fortunately, he seemed more amused than anything else at the idea of having to take up the case again.
Ryan nodded.
Liz Stubbs was the daughter of a Wall Street big shot, and in no time at all the news of her arrest for driving under the influence and damage to public property had been plastered over all the country’s major newspapers. And not just the tabloids.
So, why not accept the work they’d already done and keep going? Ryan tried with all his might to come up with any credible legal justification that was consistent with what he had done.