by Stacy Wise
Kenneth catches me looking at him. “There’re too many of them out here. The cops do a sweep every few months.” He flicks a hand in the man’s direction. “They should come in more often, if you ask me. These guys reek of piss and liquor. What kind of food do you like?”
“Uh, anything but sushi,” I mutter, my mind stuck on his commentary. I wonder if I’ll become as jaded as he is one day. How many homeless people do you have to see before you stop caring where they sleep at night, or if they have friends who watch out for them?
“That’s rare—pun intended.” He laughs. “There’s a good American cuisine place just up the street. We’ll go there.”
“Thanks. Not liking sushi is as socially acceptable as being a smoker in L.A., but I can’t get past how it looks like an orange caterpillar laid out on a bed of rice.”
“You don’t look at it. Just slather wasabi on it and eat the little sucker. Pretend it’s something else.” He turns to me. “Heed my advice. It applies to more than sushi, if you catch my drift.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say slowly.
“It’s what we do, Katie. We paint lipstick on pigs and pass them off as prom queens.”
Gooseflesh erupts across my arms, defying the weather. Does he have any idea how offensive his words are? “Are you—” I start but stop abruptly. Maybe I shouldn’t lecture my boss. It could be a onetime offense. But seriously?
We reach the restaurant, and the hostess greets Kenneth by name. She leads us to a quiet table next to a window. I order the truffle mac and cheese while Kenneth orders an iceberg wedge with grilled chicken, dressing on the side. Once the server leaves, he places his napkin in his lap and straightens the salt and pepper shakers.
“The case you’ll work up is an animal bite case. Bird, to be exact. The good doctor was injured when he took his niece to a pet store and a scarlet macaw bit him. You’d think a bird couldn’t do much damage, but that pretty little shit nearly bit off the tip of his finger.” He pauses to pour Perrier into a glass. “It didn’t end there. He contracted psittacosis, also known as parrot fever, as a result of the bite. It’s an infection caused by a type of bacteria called chlamydia psittaci. Sounds like an STD to me. Finger chlamydia. The doc and I had a laugh over that.”
“That’s awful.”
“It’s something. The symptoms of parrot fever are similar to those of the flu or viral pneumonia, and he was initially misdiagnosed, which resulted in an extended loss of work.”
I shift my napkin to my lap and try not to picture the doctor wearing one of those finger condoms librarians wear.
“And while the case is strong—we have an infected bird that bit our client—we have some problems. A sign is posted near the bird’s perch warning patrons not to touch it.”
“Did he admit to touching the bird?”
“He did, but I have some ideas on how to handle it. There’s pretty clear-cut liability.” Our food arrives, and Kenneth begins cutting his lettuce with the precision of a surgeon. Once it’s sliced into uniform squares, he says, “Take a look at jury instructions and case law for similar cases and prepare a memo for me.”
His phone trills as he tucks into his salad, and he glances at the number. “Damn it! I’ve been waiting for this call all morning, and it comes during lunch.” He shoves one more bite of food into his mouth as he stands. He speaks into the phone, telling the person on the other end to hang on as he pulls a credit card from a black wallet and tosses it on the table. He covers the mouthpiece and says, “Finish your lunch and get mine packed to go. Sign my card and leave a twenty percent tip. I’ll see you back at the office.”
Before I can respond, he has the phone to his ear and is weaving through throngs of tables and chairs to the door. Part of me is relieved he’s gone. I need some time alone to process my morning.
When the server returns, I sign for the bill and place our food in the takeout boxes she brought. I’ve barely touched mine, but I’m too antsy to sit and eat. I dump the entire basket of bread into an extra container and stack all three in a paper bag.
The harsh sunshine greets me. By the time I reach the spot near our building where the homeless guy sits, my blouse clings to me from the heat. The poor guy must be miserable. I remove Kenneth’s salad from my takeout bag and leave my leftovers on the bench near him. I can eat when I get home tonight, but who knows when he’ll have his next meal? He loops a shaky finger through the handle and mutters words I don’t understand before I head into my air-conditioned office.
At four fifty, my phone buzzes, causing my hands to spring from my keyboard. I grab the receiver. “This is Katie.”
“We have a situation. Come to my office.” Kenneth hangs up without waiting for a response. I hurry across the hall and tap the door.
“Come in.” I’m barely through the door when he continues. “I need you to locate the exhibits for the Watkins file. I hate to dump this on you last minute, but I thought another clerk had pulled them.” His cheek is puffed out with what appears to be an Atomic Fireball. Would it be weird to ask for one? Visions of my uneaten mac and cheese tease me, but I blink them away, forcing myself to focus. He raises his brow and waves a hand in my direction. “You should write this down.”
“Right.” I grab my phone from the pocket of my blazer. “Okay. Watkins file,” I say, typing into my phone.
“I need you to organize the exhibits and make five copies of each.” His voice is muffled as he talks around the candy. “The files are big, so make sure you send them to the copier, not your desktop printer. Start now. It’s going to take a while.”
“I’m on it.”
“Very well. Meet me here tomorrow morning at seven forty-five. We’ll leave for the depo then. Defense counsel’s offices are in our building on the seventeenth floor, so we won’t have far to go. It’s getting real, Katie. I hope you’re up to the task.”
“I am.” I leave his office with a purposeful stride. He may have trolls and treats, but he’s clearly a dedicated worker. Lauren was right when she said something greater than Bradshaw, Burke and Doyle was on the horizon. As I walk, I send her a quick text.
Going to be late tonight. Already working on a big project!
Hey! I’ve been thinking about you. Good first day?
Yes. Kind of a whirlwind, but good. Xo
Our suite is eerily quiet as I walk to the copy room. There could be other attorneys working behind closed doors, but it feels like I’m the only one here. My hunger pangs disappeared a few hours ago, but it’s possible my stomach ate itself. I try not to think about it as I watch the pages land softly in the output tray. Whish, whish, whish. The sound shouldn’t remind me of sizzling bacon. Who am I kidding? I’m starving. There’s no crime in checking out the office kitchen while I wait.
A cafeteria-style table and chairs sits in the middle of the room, surrounded by every imaginable kitchen appliance. I open drawer after drawer in the large counter, but find only assorted plastic utensils, paper napkins, and some takeout menus. I scan the delivery times with a sinking heart. They’re all closed for the night.
The refrigerator gleams in front of me, and I walk toward it, begging it to be stocked with leftover bagels and cream cheese that some kind soul brought in this morning. I open the door to find Tupperware containers sitting on the shelf along with a crusty jar of peanut butter, some condiments, and what looks like a little pie covered in crumpled tinfoil. I peel back the foil to see what it is. The stench of old meat wafts to my nose. Disgusting. I slam the refrigerator door and lean against it.
There are some sugar packets next to the tea bags, and I rip one open, dumping the sweet crystals into my mouth. Lauren would grab it from my hands, telling me it’s worse than crack cocaine and heroin, but I don’t care. It’ll give me a jolt of energy. I head back to the copy room and check my email as I wait for the last pages to print. There’s one from my mother asking how my first day went. Instead of responding to her email, I call.
“Hello, dear,
” she says in her signature crisp voice. I’m sure she’s in her post-work dressing gown enjoying a nice glass of pinot noir.
“Hi, Mom. I got your email.”
“How was your first day?”
I watch the stack of pages in the output tray grow taller. “It’s been busy but great. Kenneth already has me writing a memo for a new case, and I’m printing exhibits for a big depo as we speak. The best part is, I’ll attend the depo with him.”
“It sounds like you’re off to a roaring start.”
The copy machine beeps at me, demanding more paper, and I rush to add some. “Thanks again for setting up the interview. Speaking of which, did you—” I can’t finish the question. Maybe I don’t want to know.
“Did I what?”
Pressing a hand to my forehead, I say, “Did you get me the job?”
“For heaven’s sake, Katie. You got yourself the job. What is this about?”
“One of the lawyers said something, and it bothered me. I should be used to it by now, right?”
“Ignore them. As I’ve always said, you are the only one in charge of your life.”
It doesn’t reassure me as much as I’d hoped. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll try to remember that.”
“You’re welcome, dear. Don’t stay too late. Prove yourself, but don’t create a situation in which you burn out.”
I click off and turn to watch the machine as it continues to churn pages neatly into the tray. She’s right. All I need to focus on is working hard and proving myself. Stealing a glance at my watch, I note that it’s only nine forty-five. If this were a Saturday night, I’d just be getting ready to go out. I’ll simply pretend it’s the weekend. A lot of drive-throughs are open twenty-four hours. I can stop at one on my way home and order the largest shake they offer. I’ve earned it.
Suddenly, I’m in complete darkness, and the papers I was holding fall to the floor.
The lights flash back on, and Craig stands in the doorway, a computer bag hanging from his shoulder. “Sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”
I fumble to pick up the scattered papers. “Yeah,” I say, looking up. “Kenneth needed a file organized for a depo tomorrow, so…”
“So you stayed late. Sorry I startled you.” He swipes the last page from the ground and hands it to me. “Have the security guard walk you to your car when you leave. His name is Harold. He’s a good guy.”
“Thanks.”
He pats the door twice before stepping out, as if emphasizing his words. His advice is surprisingly nice. Maybe he isn’t as bad as I presumed.
Chapter Nine
It’s eleven a.m., which makes it five hours since I reluctantly left the comfort of my bed.
Three Bankers Boxes sit at my feet, packed full of my hard work. Exhibit number sixteen is on my lap, ready for Kenneth as soon as he asks.
When he came in this morning, I had everything organized and ready. I felt like a hostess on a game show, albeit a highly caffeinated one, happily displaying the game-winning prize. “Impeccable work, Katie. Well done,” he had said. After my long night, the compliment felt extra good. I mentally add appreciative boss to my gratitude list.
Kenneth fires questions at the witness. He’s been at it for two hours. I force my sleep-deprived brain to stay focused, the effects of the caffeine long gone. Four defense attorneys sit across from us, wearing power suits and pugnacious expressions. I’ve heard the word “objection” so many times today, it’s starting to sound strange, like it shouldn’t be a word at all.
Kenneth slices through the objections with dexterity, like a skilled Samurai wielding his sword. He turns to me. “Give me the one with the motor.”
Exhibit sixteen doesn’t have a motor, and he just finished with fifteen. “I think you mean exhibit sixteen,” I whisper, happy I can contribute.
He darts a warning look at me. “Give me what I asked for. I know what the hell I’m doing,” he hisses.
The defense attorneys sit across from me, four pairs of eyes watching me fumble. They exude a cool confidence, but they’re primed to attack. Flipping through the files, I press my foggy brain to remember where the file with the motor is. It was an oversize document, requiring eleven-by-seventeen paper. It’s in the forties. I pull the lid from the second box and shuffle through the folders. Exhibit forty-four is bulky with a large document. I yank it out and scan it, but before I have a chance to confirm it’s the correct one, Kenneth grabs it from me.
He glances at it and continues with his questioning. He went out of order to impeach the witness—to catch him in a lie. I try to tell myself it’s fine, he got what he needed, but I can’t stop my face from flaring red or my palms from tingling with sweat.
I pass the next seven exhibits to Kenneth without incident, even though my carefully numbered manila folders—per his instructions—are now out of sequence. At noon, we break for lunch. Kenneth and I shuffle from the conference room in silence. Once on the elevator, he slaps his hand against the button and exhales a frustrated breath.
Geez. If he’s that mad, he should say something. All this slapping and sighing seems unnecessary. But then, what if he’s waiting for me to apologize? It was my mistake, after all. “I’m sorry about the exhibit. It won’t happen again.”
Hands clasped in front of him, he tilts forward, as if in a full-body nod. “Mistakes are expected in the early days. Learn from them. Limit them.” He turns his full gaze on me, his pale-blue eyes boring through me. “But don’t ever question my capabilities. Trust me, I don’t need the advice of a law school grad. Your job is to start thinking the way I do, like a damn good attorney. Pay attention. Predict. Stay in the game. Because it’s all a big chess match, Katie.”
The three cups of coffee I gulped earlier this morning sit uncomfortably in my stomach. My mistake was stupid. I meet Kenneth’s gaze. “I understand. Like I said, it won’t happen again.”
The doors open, and he nods. “Very well. Meet me back here in one hour.”
He stalks off to our suite, but I linger behind, turning down the hall to the restrooms. I push the sleeves of my blazer up to my elbows, pump a good bit of institutional foamy soap into my palm, and scrub my hands and forearms with the vigor of a doctor getting prepped for surgery. If only I could scrub the day clean and start over. But yeah, there are no do-overs in the real world. I dry my skin and smooth my blazer. Deep breaths, Katie. You’ve got this.
The reception area is quiet when I walk in. Patty must be at lunch. Good. The mere thought of engaging in polite conversation is exhausting.
As I round the corner, Brooks McDonough barrels from his office. “Yes!” He dances in a circle, pulling his fist in toward his body. “Yes!” I freeze where I am, not wanting to get mowed down by his exuberance. He looks my way, and his cheeks redden. I didn’t peg him as someone to embarrass easily, although his red face could be a result of the worrisome tie. “Hi. Katie Capwell, right? I’m feeling celebratory. Do you know why, Katie Capwell?”
“I don’t. But I’m sure you’ll tell me,” I say, thoroughly enjoying his enthusiasm.
“We escaped death today, my dear! My client was spared his life. I just got the call, and all charges were dropped.”
Even though it’s quite possible his client is guilty of something, it’s hard not to be happy for him. “Congratulations. That’s a big win.”
“You bet it is.” He loosens his tie, and we both exhale. “With some of my clients, I fight hard, but in my heart, I know there’s a chance they’re guilty. But not this time. No sir. This time, one of the good ones dodged a bullet. It’s a phenomenal feeling.” He wipes his brow, and I swear his eyes look glassy.
“That’s really nice to hear. If I’m ever in trouble, I’m coming to you,” I say with a laugh. “You’re one of the good ones, too.” A strange flicker of envy flashes through me, but I dismiss it. I’m helping people, too—just in a different way.
He pats my shoulder with a beefy hand. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“You’re welcome. Enjoy your day. I’m off to the trenches.”
“Go get ’em, young lady.”
By the time I reach the gym, my head is spinning. The depositions after lunch were fine. Good, even. When we took the elevator back to our suite, Kenneth introduced me to an attorney from another office, calling me his illustrious new clerk. But when we reached our offices, the compliments were replaced with an icy silence that I couldn’t begin to decipher.
People mill around near the mats, talking and stretching before their class begins. Claire is nowhere to be seen, and I say a silent thank you. It doesn’t bother me that she’s going out with Brad, but that doesn’t mean I want to overhear details of their dates. A hand touches my shoulder, and I jump.
Ryan laughs behind me. “One day when someone taps your shoulder unexpectedly you’ll know how to throw a killer back-elbow strike.”
“A girl can dream.”
“Stick with me, and you’ll be a walking lethal weapon. You ready to warm up?”
“Yep. I should warn you, though—I may punch a hole through one of your mitts today.”
He raises a brow in question.
“Second day of work.”
“Let’s hit the treadmills, and you can tell me about it.”
I hop on the track, and he holds down the button until I’m walking at a brisk pace. The desire to tell him everything burns inside me, but I refrain, focusing instead on keeping a steady stride.
He sits sideways on an exercise bike, facing me. “So, break it down for me, Katie.”
The pragmatic, protective part of me thought he’d blow off asking about my day. Because what guy likes to hear anyone vent? But he didn’t blow it off. My reflection in the mirror ahead winks at me as if to say, I knew it all along. “It was good until I misunderstood what my boss wanted at a big deposition today, and I made a mistake.”