Imminent Peril

by Melissa F. Miller

  She skimmed the article—more of an item, really. There was no accompanying photograph (thank goodness) and the tidbit took up less than an inch of print:

  McCandless & Volmer partner Sasha McCandless-Connelly was arrested last night after a brawl erupted at a popular Downtown bar. No details were available. Central processing officials at the Allegheny County Jail did not return our call. McCandless-Connelly, formerly of Prescott & Talbott, is no stranger to these pages, having been involved in several high-profile criminal matters over the years. McCandless & Volmer partner Will Volmer, who is believed to be representing McCandless-Connelly, declined to comment citing a pending investigation.

  She looked up. “No comment?”

  “We need to craft a cogent media strategy, Sasha. And a message for our clients—and our employees.”

  Will looked tired, like he was carrying a heavy burden, which, of course, he was. And knowing that she was the yoke on his back filled her with guilt.

  “Okay. I’ll talk to Connelly today and let you know about the deal.” She handed the newspaper back to him.

  “That would be a good first step.”

  Sasha slid into the booth beside Connelly and leaned in for a kiss.

  “Thanks for meeting me.”

  “A late breakfast with my lovely wife—who would say no to that? Your mom was thrilled to have a couple hours with the kids. Coffee’s on its way.”

  She smiled. Breakfast at Pamela's had been a tradition since before they were married. In fact, they’d shared their first table at Pamela’s back when Connelly was just the irritating federal agent who wouldn’t leave her alone for her own safety. Now he was her rock, her world.

  She angled herself in the booth and took his large hands in hers. “So, this isn’t just an impromptu date. There’s something I want to talk about.”

  Connelly flashed a crooked grin. “I know. Will called me.”

  A frisson of surprise and irritation zipped through her. “Will shared our conversation with you? That’s supposed to be privileged.”

  He shot her an ‘oh, come on’ look. “He didn't divulge the substance of your conversation. He told me that the two of you talked about a deal the district attorney's office was offering.”

  “That’s all he said?” She narrowed her eyes.

  “He also said that he’d encouraged you to talk it over with me. He said he was giving me a head’s up because it would be good if we could arrange a time to discuss it without Finn and Fiona doing their monkey imitations in the background.”

  It all sounded eminently reasonable. And yet the suspicion that she was being managed lingered. She might have pressed the issue, but Becca, their favorite waitress, appeared with a carafe of coffee.

  “I’m just gonna leave this here for you two because I can't be running back and forth all morning,” she cracked.

  “Thanks, Becca.”

  “The usual—a tall stack with a side of bacon and an omelet with dry wheat toast?” she asked, her pencil poised.

  “Yep.” Pamela’s might be famous for its pancakes—and Connelly certainly loved them; but Sasha was in it for the eggs.

  Becca headed off to put in their order, and Connelly locked eyes with Sasha.

  “Tell me about the deal.”

  Sasha’s anger clashed into her worry; together, they threatened to pour out. She inhaled then exhaled slowly before answering. “The district attorney wants me to agree to ARD.”

  “English, please.”

  “Alternative Rehabilitative Disposition—it’s a program for first-time offenders. If I were to go through the program, I wouldn’t have to go to trial.”

  “Would you have to plead to anything?”

  “Well, no. But I’d have to go through an anger management program, Connelly.”

  He cocked his head. “But no guilty plea?”

  “Right. But do you really think a jury would find me guilty, anyway?”

  “I don’t know the details, but from what little you told me last night, of course not.” His gray eyes were thoughtful. “But Will is usually pretty sensible. So why does he think you should take the deal?”

  She tapped her fingernails on the side of her porcelain mug as she answered. “He thinks that even though I’d ultimately win at trial, the publicity would be bad for us—our family and the firm. So, basically to avoid a smear campaign, I’m supposed to bow to this demand even though I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  He didn’t answer right away. “But you don’t have to admit that you did anything wrong.”

  “Sure, I don’t have to enter a guilty plea, but, come on, we both know how taking a deal looks.”

  He shrugged. “I guess you could view at it as conceding something. Or you could just look at it as being conservative in an attempt to protect people you care about.”

  Her chest tightened, and she pushed her mug away. “So you’re saying I should take the deal?”

  “Nope. That’s not my decision to make. You have to decide. I’m just saying there are two ways to look at it.” His voice was low and gentle.

  “Do you think I need to take an anger management class?”

  “Far be it from me to tell the woman who broke my nose and stole my gun the first time I met her that she has a quick temper,” he teased.

  She laughed despite herself. “Noted. Listen, I appreciate that you respect my right to make up my own mind. But we are a team. I’d like to know what you think of the deal.”

  “I guess I’m not quite as brave as you are. I don’t want to see my wife risk jail time, the loss of her legal license, and her standing in the community just to prove a point. If you know you didn't do anything wrong, that’s all that matters.”

  She stared at her husband for a long moment, taking in the contours of his face, the shape of his eyes, his lopsided smile. Finally, she said aloud what she had not yet admitted to herself, “I’m scared. Really scared. I haven’t felt this way since right after Wally stabbed me.”

  Just then, Becca returned with their plates. She must have sensed the mood at the table because she dropped off their food and left without making any conversation. Sasha looked down at her eggs and wondered if she’d be able to force herself to eat them.

  Connelly didn’t touch his fork. Instead, he took her face in his hands. “You don't spook easily. What’s going on?”

  “I just have this feeling—” she trailed off and shivered. “The whole thing feels wrong to me, like a trap.”

  “Do you mean the ARD offer?” he probed.

  “All of it. This is like one of those kids’ choose your own adventure books—only with no good choices. No matter which path I pick, I have a hunch it’s going to be a bad one.”

  He poured a small lake of syrup over his hot cakes and said, “Which feels like the least bad choice?”

  She shook her head in frustration. “I don't know. I think taking the deal and agreeing to ARD is less risky.”

  “The worst possible outcome if you roll the dice and go to trial is pretty bad—jail time, right?”

  “Right.”

  “What's the worst possible outcome if you take the deal?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I won’t be able to live with myself for being a coward.”

  “Seems like you might want to reexamine how you define bravery.”

  She blinked back the tears and looked at him through her now-wet eyelashes. “I guess so.”

  He reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Your omelet’s getting cold.”

  9

  Prachi glanced down the corridor one way and then the other to confirm that nobody was coming. She hadn’t planned to take the samples this soon, but she’d found the storage room on a building map. When she’d walked by to scout it out, two facts had jumped out at her: one, despite its label on the map it was large, much larger than its description as a ‘closet’ suggested; and, two, to her amazement, it wasn’t locked.

  She’d decided then and the
re to take the products she needed before someone realized their error—if it was an error—and locked the door. She wasn’t yet ready to test the samples, but she’d find a place to keep them hidden until the time came. First things first, she told herself. Get them now.

  She was jumpy and ill-prepared but determined not to let this opportunity slip out of her grasp. She furtively pushed open the storeroom door and slipped inside. She didn’t know where the wall lights were located, but she had a small flashlight attached to the strap of her purse—a holdover from the year her student housing had come complete with spotty electricity. She clicked it on and scanned the room for the light switch.

  As she reached up to flip the switch her heart caught in her throat. What if someone saw a square of light spilling out from under the door and came to investigate?

  She pulled her hand back from the switch plate as if it were a hot stove and aimed her puny flashlight beam at the crooked rows of pallets, piled high with boxes. Given the disorganized nature of the company, she imagined it would be too much to hope that they were in any kind of order. She read off the printed labels as she picked through the rows:

  AL180; AP022. Good. Alphabetical order would be perfect.

  Then the system broke down. JM773; PP119; LI441. She muttered under her breath.

  She finally located the cluster of pallets holding AR462 sandwiched between NE004 and DL215. Her hands shook as she used the letter opener from her desk to cut a slit in the packing tape. She eased three packages through the opening and then resealed it as best she could. She grimaced at the realization that she hadn’t thought to bring a bag or tote to transport the products to her laboratory. She swung the flashlight around the storage room in a weak arc of light but saw no trash bags or buckets or anything that would be useful for concealing the packages. She shrugged out of her white lab coat—it was a hilarious costume anyway, considering that she functioned as a glorified data entry clerk. She wrapped the coat around the three shrink-wrapped, cardboard-backed retail sets and draped the long end of the coat over her arm.

  She filled her lungs with air, pulled the windowless metal door open, and strode out into the empty hallway as casually as she could. She forced herself to walk until she reached the end of the corridor. Then she turned right and broke into a jog as she made her way to the staircase that led to her office three floors up, her heart pounding in her ears and her breath coming shallow and fast. She’d done it.

  10

  Sasha shifted in the metal chair, trying and failing to achieve a comfortable position, and looked around. There were a dozen of the chairs with attached half-desks arranged in a circle but only five—including hers—were occupied. Her four fellow anger management students wore expressions ranging from bored to scared to, well, angry.

  No one seemed particularly happy to be there, but who would be? The best thing Sasha could say for the program so far was that the class was held in a community-based probation office that was within walking distance of both her office and her home and was conveniently scheduled for six o’clock in the evening. She could even swing by the market on her way home and pick up some apples. Satisfied with her efforts to find something positive in her current situation, she settled back and waited.

  The room was painted an institutional green-gray. The two windows were small and high on the walls—too high for daydreamers to gaze out. A plain-looking clock and a whiteboard hung on the front wall. She ranked the ambiance somewhere above the holding cell but below her mechanic’s waiting room.

  After several minutes, the uncomfortable silence that blanketed the room was broken by the squeak of the under-oiled metal door to the classroom swinging open. A gray-haired woman walked in and scanned the room.

  “I’m Karen Hogan. You may call me Mrs. Hogan. I’m a social worker and I'll be facilitating this group. Today we’re going to start by setting out the ground rules and my expectations for you and talk about what we hope to achieve during our eight weeks together,” she said crisply.

  She had the air of a no-nonsense teacher who would impose strict order on a classroom full of unruly middle schoolers. Despite the fact that she was decades removed from junior high, Sasha sat up a little straighter and fixed her eyes on the woman.

  Karen Hogan picked up a dry erase marker and wrote her name on the white board at the front of the room: Mrs. Hogan. Then she recapped the marker, turned, and held up the fingers of her right hand as she ticked off the rules. “One, the most important rule is that you must attend each session and work honestly and sincerely on your anger problem. I will not sign off that you’ve completed the course unless you put in the time and do the work. There are eight classes, and I expect you to attend eight classes—arriving on time, ready to address your issues.”

  The bored teenager raised her hand. “What if we get sick?”

  “Unless you’re in the hospital, you need to come to class. If you do have the misfortune to be hospitalized, you should hope it’s a quick stay. If you miss two classes, you’re done.”

  “Done?” the teenage girl echoed.

  “As in removed from the program. This is serious business, ladies. You're here because you need help. I can only help you if you show up.”

  Sasha felt herself bristling. The Indian woman sitting two seats away frowned.

  “Are we all perfectly clear on the attendance policy?” Mrs. Hogan asked.

  A series of halfhearted “yeses” rose from the circle. Sasha couldn’t bring herself to join the singsong chorus, so she nodded.

  “Good. Rule number two, you have to be truthful and real; otherwise, you aren’t going to get anything out of this. Finally, three, we work for fifty minutes. We will have one ten-minute break at the twenty-five minute mark. Don’t come back late. The door will be locked.” She paused to let the information sink in.

  She’s trying to get a rise out of us, Sasha told herself. Don’t take the bait.

  The women stared back at Mrs. Hogan silently.

  “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let's go around the circle. Introduce yourself and explain what brought you here. We’ll start with you.” She nodded at the girl who asked the question about absences.

  “I’m Lani. And, um, I'm here because I got into an argument with my foster mom and pushed her.”

  “And what was the argument about, Lani?” Mrs. Hogan asked in a tone that left no doubt she already knew the answer.

  “Curfew.”

  Apparently Lani was a woman of few words. She settled back into her chair and gave Mrs. Hogan a blank look.

  The sour-looking woman sitting next to Lani spoke up. “My name is Carla Fisher. My ex-husband and I were fighting about the visitation schedule. He brought the kids back two hours late.”

  “So what did you do?”

  Carla lowered her eyes. “Slashed the dirtbag’s tires.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Hogan murmured.

  Sasha was next. She considered how much she wanted to share with the group. The actual answer, of course, was not a blessed thing, but she had to say something. “I’m Sasha McCandless-Connelly. I’m here because I was involved in an altercation at a bar.”

  Karen Hogan’s face registered no emotion but Lani leaned across Carla and said, “You were in a bar fight? With who—a Keebler elf?” The crack earned a snort from Carla and a reproving shake of the head from Mrs. Hogan.

  “Actually, I was in a bar fight with a man who was harassing a woman. I stepped in and stopped him.” She regretted the words as soon as they flew out of her mouth.

  “It sounds to me like you’re still defending your behavior.”

  Sasha clenched her teeth and nodded.

  “Don’t worry; we’ll be working on owning our actions,” Mrs. Hogan assured her.

  Next was Gracelyn, who explained that she worked as a flagger for a road crew. “So I was holding a stop sign, and this jagoff drove his BMW right through the work area without obeying the sign.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Mrs. Hogan prom
pted.

  “So I reached through his open window and grabbed him by the shirt.”

  “And you do understand that was not an appropriate response, correct?”

  “Yeah,” Gracelyn mumbled.

  Everyone turned to the last woman. “My name is Prachi Agarwal. I am here for no reason.”

  One silver eyebrow shot up. Then Mrs. Hogan said, “Are you trying to tell us you don't know why you're here, Ms. Agarwal?”

  “It's Dr. Agarwal, actually. And no, I know why I’m here. I have to attend this class as a condition of my continued employment. Otherwise my visa will be revoked, and I’ll have to leave the country. But I didn't do anything.”

  “Another defensive posture,” Mrs. Hogan observed.

  “No, I’m not defending something I did. I literally didn't do anything. I’m being railroaded because I brought a problem to the attention of management—”

  Mrs. Hogan’s hand shot up. “Let me stop you right there, Prachi. Rule number two is to be honest.” She looked down at her clipboard. “You threw a picture frame at an executive vice president. You simply cannot assault your coworkers.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You’re not going to get anything from this class unless you are open and truthful about your problem.” Mrs. Hogan’s voice was icy.

  Prachi muttered something under her breath, which Mrs. Hogan must have heard but chose to disregard. Instead, she walked around the circle handing out notebooks and pens along with copies of a syllabus and a handout that listed the physiological signs of rising anger. Then she set a timer for ten minutes and told them their first exercise was to write a list of all the tools they currently used to manage their anger.

  Sasha started out with the old standbys—taking a deep breath; counting to ten; walking around the block—then moved on to the mindfulness and meditation techniques she’d been working on. As she reached the end of the page, she glanced up to see if everyone else was still writing. Three other pens were still moving. Prachi Agarwal stared stone-faced at a blank sheet of paper, her pen capped and on the desk in front of her.