“Thank you,” Ripley says when the polite applause ends. “The pleasure is mine. Thank you for having me.”
Morgan informs us that Ripley has a speaking engagement on Thursday. The plan was to invite Wexler to join him, but Louis contracted yellow fever in Brazil and can’t make it. “Caitlin.” Morgan turns to me. “We were hoping you could fill in.”
I’m so distracted by my analysis of the events of the morning that it takes a second for the invitation to filter through. “I’d love to,” I say, before I can stammer “Who? Me? What? Why?” like an idiot. Any other day I’d have been expecting—no, demanding—the invitation. But today I can barely pay attention.
Eye rolls and told-you-so looks are exchanged around the room. She fucked him, so she gets the job is the clear message, even if it’s not true, even if one has nothing to do with the other. They’d said the same thing last year, when Haines named me second chair on the Fowler class action. Our relationship had no bearing on the job, but no one can see past it, not even while they spend the bonuses my settlement earned us.
“Excellent.” Ripley claps his hands together, pleased. “The Fowler case is still big news. People will be interested in hearing about it directly from the source.”
The meeting continues for another hour, but I can’t take it in. When it’s over I’m the first one out the door, beelining it to the elevators and zipping down to the lobby before hustling out to the street and into a cab. My phone rings, but I send the call to voice mail, clinging to my sanity by a thread. This is why I have never tried to have a relationship. One weekend with somebody and already I can’t concentrate.
I reach my building and knock on Susan’s door, with no real hope she’ll be home at nine o’clock on a Monday. There’s no answer at all, but I suppose that’s for the best, since I don’t really want to explain my situation to Dorrie and Esperanza. I enter my apartment and slip out of my jacket and pants, too hot and uncomfortable to stay dressed.
And then I do nothing.
I have nothing to do, and no one to do it with. I couldn’t stomach the thought of staying in my glass cage—excuse me, my office—with those awful flowers and Eli’s angry words ringing in my ears. And I’m really in no condition to meet with Ripley to talk about Thursday, even though I’m sure it’s desperately necessary. People would kill for this opportunity and now I don’t even feel like fighting. I don’t care about what anyone else is saying about me, because all I can think about is what Eli said.
I’m selfish. He’s right. It’s not really a secret. And those other things they say, that I’m cold and I’m mean and a hundred other things, they’re true too, mostly. That’s the only way to get ahead in a business where a thousand other equally brilliant, equally qualified, equally ambitious people want what you want. It’s the way you offset big breasts and blond hair without apologizing for it. It’s the way I do it, anyway. By being the best, no matter what it takes.
No matter what it costs me.
I return to the office around four. I pretend I’ve been visiting clients, not sitting in my apartment plowing through a meat lover’s pizza and watching Friends reruns. I answer emails and try not to dwell on the events of the morning. If this was any other day, I’d be obsessing over finding the person who created the slideshow and making them pay, then meeting with Ripley and plotting how to get the most out of Thursday night’s engagement.
But as reckless as it is, I don’t care about any of that. I care about the confrontation with Eli, about the look on his face when he assured me he would never send me flowers. I don’t even like flowers, with their hidden meanings and falling petals. They’re a status symbol for some people, a guilty red beacon for others. Like me.
Last year I’d been working my ass off to earn the coveted second chair spot on the Fowler case. I’d worked longer and harder than everybody, gotten myself transferred to the area with the highest incident rate, and been well on my way to a spot on the team handling the country’s largest class action suit. And then one morning we’d headed out to do our interviews, cherry-picking the best cases with the saddest stories, the ones a jury would have no choice but to try to heal with millions of dollars, and we’d gotten to the first house and found it completely empty. The next three were home, but refused to speak with us. The people who held the future of the case in their hands no longer wanted to cooperate. Fowler had paid them off, and taken with them the biggest case of my career. And that’s how I’m feeling now. Like the most promising thing in my too-small world has just been yanked away. Or perhaps it ran away.
A knock on the door jerks me out of my self-pitying reverie and I turn to find Lee Haines and Alex Ripley hesitating at the threshold. “Good evening,” Haines says.
I straighten in my seat, hoping to appear as though I’d been staring out the window for work purposes. “Good evening.” It’s only as I say the word that I realize it’s true: it’s six-forty. I’ve been sitting at my desk for more than two hours without accomplishing a single thing. I am exactly the kind of person I loathe.
“We’re taking Alex to dinner at the Charlebois Club,” Haines says. I spot Morgan and Sterling walking down the hallway. “Why don’t you join us? It’ll give you two a chance to discuss your speaking engagement.”
That’s when it dawns on me: Haines sent the flowers. He volunteered my name to speak with Ripley. It’s a consolation prize. The scrap they’re tossing me since they’ve taken away all my real work. A way to pass the time.
He clears his throat and I remember that they’re waiting on my response. The offer may be phrased as an invitation, but we all know it’s an order.
I plaster on a smile. “I’d love to. Are you leaving now?”
“We are.”
I nod at my computer screen, as though I’m working on something important. “I’ll be finished in a few minutes. Why don’t I meet you there?”
“Sounds good. See you shortly.”
The men leave and I close the screen and take a deep breath. Charlebois is an old gentleman’s club with dark paneled walls and dim lighting, the scent of old cigars baked into the leather chairs and mounted animal heads that serve as decorations. I try to muster up some enthusiasm as I get on the elevator, but the best I can do is reapply my lipstick and scowl at my reflection.
The car stops at twenty-five and River Smith steps on, megawatt smile flashing when he sees me. “Be honest,” he says as he punches the button for the fifth floor. “You’re stalking me, aren’t you? First the baseball game, now you’re leaving the office before seven for the second time in as many weeks? I think you’ve been riding in the elevator for hours, just waiting to see me.”
I return the smile. He’s quite possibly the prettiest man I’ve ever seen. “Guilty.”
When I don’t say anything else, he clears his throat and catches my eye in the mirrored wall. “I have to drop something off on five, then I’m done for the day. Why don’t we grab a drink?”
Where was River last Monday, when I’d stumbled into The Lonely Goat and an all-too-brief fling with the IT guy? I would have jumped at the chance to be alone with him, sharing overpriced drinks in whichever bar he’d recently named Chicago’s finest, pretending not to notice the envious stares of everyone around us. Now when I tell him I have plans, I’m not nearly as disappointed as I let on, though I let myself believe his regret is genuine, if only to stoke my freshly battered ego.
“Another time,” he says with an exaggerated sigh, making me laugh as we reach his floor and he steps off.
I wave goodbye and check my phone for the seventy-first time, just in case I somehow missed it beep or ring or vibrate. But it’s ominously dark, no messages. I force myself to turn it off and put on my most professional face as I make the three-block trek to the Charlebois Club.
I know better than to mope, letting personal issues override my professionalism, my I
vy League good judgment. When dealing with clients coping with difficult emotional issues like divorce or death, I always consider the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. They come in struggling to accept their circumstances; they get angry at their ex, their lawyer, the world; they try to negotiate unrealistic terms; they become despondent and hopeless; and then, finally, they make peace with their circumstances and let me do my job.
Well, I’m going to skip all those stages, I vow as the doorman pulls open the heavy wooden door to the Charlebois Club. Things with Eli didn’t work out? No problem. I’m over it. I’m about to have dinner with four very respected men, and be grateful for the opportunity that fell in my lap this morning. Who cares how people think it landed there? I know the truth, and that’s all that matters. Those same people would kill to be in my shoes right now, and I won’t waste time mourning something that was never meant to be. There is no room for regret in my life. I’m exactly where I want to be.
Denial, my ass.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning I wake up enraged. There was a small fire in the building across the street at three o’clock, and I’d been woken up half a dozen times by arriving emergency vehicles that couldn’t be bothered to turn off their sirens, even though we all knew where the problem was.
I curse viciously when my alarm goes off at five, and, for the first time in my life, I hit the sleep button. Eight times. I only get up because I hit the clock so hard it falls on the floor and the radio turns on, volume jacked up to a million, scaring the shit out of me. When I get in the shower the water is both too hot and too cold, and when I get out I’m hungry but don’t want to eat any of the food in my kitchen.
On the plus side, when I get to the office I’m focused and furious, my second and third favorite F-words, and the people who’d felt confident voicing their snide remarks yesterday are newly intimidated. They scurry out of my way, make sudden detours when our paths cross and remember just who they’re dealing with.
Everyone, that is, except Arthur Wong, who’s sitting in my office, legs crossed, hands resting on his knee, waiting for me. We haven’t spoken since he called me at the softball game.
“What do you want?” I ask, rounding my desk and sitting down.
“Um, good morning.”
I cut my eyes at him and he blinks rapidly, holding the stare. Uh-oh. This is determined Arthur. At least, the most determined version he can be. I hope he’s not trying to “man up” with me. “Why are you in here?”
He picks at a hangnail as he explains that Joseph Morgan is busy with Alex Ripley today, and he could use an extra set of eyes on the Teller case. “I know the partners put some limitations on your involvement, but, well...I thought you might have time.”
Of course I have time. I’m sitting here like a fucking idiot, pretending to be busy and useful for twelve hours a day, spending the mornings looking for apartments in LA and afternoons bemoaning my fate. My emotions slingshot between angry and depressed, and I don’t know what to do about it. I’ve never been a very emotional person, neither particularly happy nor sad, just driven. And now I’m bored, and it’s killing me. “Fine,” I say curtly.
We spend the morning working in the boardroom, preparing Arthur’s deposition questions for Herbert Schwartz. Not only did Schwartz provide very damning testimony at a similar trial a few years earlier, he worked as an engineer for Teller for close to a decade and would have insider knowledge of their manufacturing process. And its flaws. It’s a tricky deposition, but I won’t be a part of it because I will be on my mandatory holiday, trying not to kill myself.
“Do you want to, um, take a break?” Arthur asks tentatively. I glance at my watch—it’s three o’clock. He’s obviously starving and has most likely been too timid to ask if we could pause to eat.
Normally I’d wave him away, telling him to take a break “if he needed it,” deliberately implying that I considered him less of a lawyer for this show of weakness. But today he’s in luck. Seven hours spent refocusing my fury on Laurel Frances and her fake claims has dulled my edge and I’m feeling generous. Also, if I’m nice to Arthur, maybe he’ll continue to ask me to assist on the case. This isn’t bargaining, it’s just good sense.
“Let’s order in,” I say.
Arthur spends the first five minutes of the meal reluctant to eat anything, but once he ascertains that I’m not going to yell at him for touching the pad Thai, he musters up the courage. Sufficiently fueled, we spend the next four hours working in companionable silence in the boardroom, then Arthur clears his throat and asks if I’ll look over his list of questions for tomorrow’s deposition of Petra Moreno, Laurel Frances’s Whispering Angels support group friend. “Read them out,” I say, typing up notes on my laptop. “I’m listening.”
By the time he finishes, he’s staring at me with the same hopeful gaze that makes me want to kick him. Praise is overrated. Results are what matter, and Arthur does not get results. Or praise. I sigh. “You want the truth?”
He swallows nervously, but nods.
“The questions are fine. It’s your delivery that’s lacking.”
“What could I do better?”
“Everything, essentially.”
“Like what?”
I try to pick just one thing. “Try to be more confident.”
He runs a hand through his hair, making his cowlick stand up.
“And don’t touch your hair.”
He drops his hands. “Sorry.”
“And don’t apologize.” Well, maybe three things.
“Don’t apologize?”
“No. Novak—Martina Novak, counsel for the plaintiff?” I prompt, when he stares at me blankly. Dear God. “She likes to interrupt, make it sound like you’re asking questions you shouldn’t be asking. Don’t let her throw you off your game.” Not that he has one. “Don’t apologize. Don’t look at the camera for approval. And if you can’t stop your hands from shaking, cross your arms so you at least look serious.”
Arthur assumes the position, but he just looks like the slightly mutinous leader of a math club.
“Okay.” I hide a wince and circle round to his side of the table. “Sit up a bit straighter. Don’t stare at your notes like you don’t know what you have. You wrote the questions—you should be familiar with them. And act like you have a purpose—this isn’t a fishing expedition. We know what Moreno’s going to say, we’re just getting it on record.”
He clears his throat and follows instructions, staring at the empty seat across the table like he hates it.
“Okay, dial it back a bit. She’s in a depression support group—you don’t want to push her over the edge.”
He softens his gaze slightly.
“That’s better. Ask your first question.”
“Would you state your full name, please?” he asks the chair.
“Petra Moreno,” I reply, taking the seat beside invisible Petra. He rattles off a series of dull establishing questions, and I begin thinking his awkward, uncomfortable demeanor might be comforting for jittery Petra.
“And you met Laurel Frances through Whispering Angels?” he inquires.
“Yes.”
“And you talked about her financial problems?”
“Objection,” I snap, acting as Martina Novak. “Leading.”
“Sorry,” Arthur says hastily, shuffling his papers. “Sorry, I—I’ll rephrase.”
“Don’t apologize!”
“Sorry, I—”
“Don’t apologize!”
“S—Okay, I won’t. I take it back.”
“And don’t ask leading questions. Novak will jump all over you. That wasn’t on your list. Try again.”
It’s dark by the time we wrap up, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I’m not certain Ar
thur’s going to fail. It’s hard to believe he’s made it this far in his career with so much insecurity, but maybe there’s a very faint flicker of hope for him.
“Oh, geez,” he says, looking at his watch, then up at me with dread. “It’s 8:30.”
“So?”
“So you have to leave by seven, or—”
I close my eyes tiredly. “The elevators.”
“I’m sorry, Caitlin, I should have—”
“Stop apologizing,” I interrupt. “We’ve been over this.”
He opens his mouth to apologize again, then shuts it. “Right.”
“It’s no big deal. I’ll find a way down.”
“Do you want me to, I could, um...”
“No. Don’t help me. Even if I’m late because we were working together, Morgan’s trying to prove a point. He’ll punish you, then Teller will have two lawyers who aren’t allowed in their own elevator.”
He begins gathering papers so we can go home. I do the same, realizing I miss this. I miss late nights here, the floor quiet, my mind focused. Arthur leaves and I return to my office to continue working. It’s not like I have any reason to go home, nothing else to do, no one to do it with. I try to find some of the morning’s anger, but it’s conspicuously absent.
I work until the words blur, then learn a lesson from my last mistake and turn off my computer, slip out of my heels and head for the stairwell. It’s after ten, so I don’t bother stopping on other floors to ask for elevator access. It’s impossible not to think of Eli while I’m in here, passing the spot where he’d ended things, descending toward the door we’d entered the night he led me to the parking garage.
I take off my coat at twenty-seven, am sweating openly by eighteen and when I reach ground level I have to sprawl on the bottom step to catch my breath and give my weak legs a break. The combination of yesterday’s disappointments, last night’s sleep deprivation and today’s long hours catches up to me and I yawn, loud enough to alert the security guard in the lobby, who opens the door and peers around suspiciously before spotting me.
In Her Defense Page 12