by Carsen Taite
Her first instinct had been to go into the office on Sunday, write a letter of resignation, and leave it on Camille’s desk. Problem solved. Except what she’d told Camille about the job Friday night had been true. Despite her intentions, she’d come to enjoy not just the work, but feeling she belonged somewhere, that she was part of something important. Her morning greeting from Ester, special treatment from Peter, and the opportunity to work a case from both sides—all of these gave her a sense of belonging and purpose she’d been searching for her entire life. She wasn’t ready to give them up even if it meant spending the balance of the year working close to a woman she loved, but who might never love her back.
She pushed through the door of her apartment, and as she kicked off her soaking wet shoes, Bill appeared with an enormous towel in his hand. He shoved it at her. “Skinny people don’t need to run, especially not in the pouring rain. It makes the rest of us look bad.”
“Maybe skinny people are skinny because they run.”
He cocked his head and then shook it. “Nope. At least that’s not the case here. You only run when you’re upset or trying to figure something out. Care to share which?”
West toweled her hair dry. “Not really.”
“Are you going to work today?”
She squinted his way. “Why wouldn’t I go to work today?”
“Dunno. You’ve been in a bit of a funk since you got home Saturday morning,” he emphasized the last word. “I’ve been trying to give you some space, but if you want to talk, I’m here.”
She wanted to tell him everything. How she’d gotten her hopes up and how being with Camille had exceeded all her expectations, but telling him that part meant telling the rest, and she didn’t feel like choking her way through the story of Camille’s rejection. “I’m good,” she lied. “Going to grab a shower and then I’m out of here.”
Fifteen minutes later, clean but not refreshed, West stood in front of her closet, trying to decide what to wear and wondering why everything seemed so much harder now. She brushed her way through her usual attire until her hand landed on the hanger holding the last of the three suits she’d purchased, ostensibly for the job, but realistically to impress Camille. Look how well that turned out. Before she could think it to death, she yanked the suit from the closet and picked a shirt to go with it. If she was going down, she may as well look good doing it.
* * *
Camille was the first one in the office on Monday morning, and she headed directly to the kitchen. She switched on the coffeemaker and opened the cabinet. A big red plastic canister sat next to an airtight glass jar of the coffee West supplied, and Camille stared between the two for a moment before pulling down the canister and measuring out enough of the grounds for a large pot.
While the coffeemaker spit and sizzled, she sank into one of the chairs at the small table. She’d barely slept all weekend. Friday night she’d made love to West, and Saturday and Sunday she’d lain awake regretting the way she’d handled their parting. Now she was facing a full, long day of conflict in the Wilson trial, and all she wanted to do was hide in her office with the door locked.
The coffee tasted horrible, but she drank it, the least of the punishment she deserved for the way she’d handled things with West. She should never have gotten involved, but she had and she couldn’t bring herself to regret the intimacy they’d shared. West was charming, bright, handsome, and while they made love, Camille hadn’t cared about any of the boundaries she’d erected to keep them apart. What had changed?
Her job was secure. She could dance naked on the roof of the courthouse and it was unlikely she’d be impeached. And if someone like the now retired Clarence Thomas could get confirmed in spite of a string of women testifying he’d sexually harassed them, then why should a perfectly innocent love between two consenting adults interfere with her advancement?
And there it was. She did love West. She didn’t know when she’d fallen, but she had, and she’d fallen hard. But she’d thrown the possibility of a future with West away because she was worried about what other people might think. Damn it. She was a good attorney and had the chops to be an excellent jurist, especially now that she didn’t have to be a politician as well. Why was she making things more difficult by placing her professional goals over her personal desires? How could she sit in judgment of others if she wasn’t willing to examine her own life and measure the choices she’d made?
She stood and walked to the sink, tossing the foul tasting coffee down the drain. She was done with settling for anything less than the best, and she was going to remedy her last mistake the minute West arrived. She strode to her office full of purpose. If West wasn’t in yet, she’d call her. She’d walk the halls until she found her, but she wasn’t going to put on that robe until she made it clear to the woman she loved that they could figure out a way to make whatever this was work.
When she rounded the corner, Peter Donovan and a couple of other marshals she didn’t recognize were hovering near Ester’s desk. Ester was frowning, and the marshals’ serious expressions told her the plan to find West was going to be delayed, but she vowed to make quick work of whatever it was they were here to say. “Marshal Donovan.” She nodded at the others. “Do you have an update about the matter we discussed last week?”
Donovan shot a look at the other guys who now looked puzzled. “Judge Avery, perhaps we can talk in your office. Something else has come up and it needs your immediate attention, definitely before you resume trial this morning.”
Camille sighed at his ominous proclamation and motioned for them to follow her. She invited them into her office, but didn’t ask them to sit. “I came in early to get some work done, so I hope this won’t take long.”
Donovan launched in. “We’ve completed the bulk of our investigation about the press leaks in the Wilson case, and Judge Stroud asked us to brief you before the trial starts back up.”
Camille stared at him, barely able to register he wasn’t here to provide information about whoever had been delivering ominous notes imploring her to quit. “Excuse me, what?” She cleared her throat and tried again. “I wasn’t aware I had authorized any sort of investigation into press leaks. Can you explain?”
Donovan shifted in place, clearly uncomfortable, but why? He looked at the two men with him and jerked his chin at the door. When they’d exited the room, Donovan pointed at one of the chairs in front of her desk. “May I?”
“Yes, of course,” Camille answered. “Did you say Judge Stroud asked you to talk to me?”
“Yes, ma’am. He asked us to find out who was leaking sealed court documents to the local press outlets.”
Camille bristled at the information. This was her court, not Stroud’s. Leaks happened and, as pissed as she was that the leaks were happening on her watch, it was up to her to handle it, not Stroud. If she knew which side was leaking the information, she’d handle it with sanctions, not a potential criminal investigation led by the marshal service. What was Stroud’s motivation for getting in the middle of her case? “I assume you learned something or you wouldn’t be here this morning. Let’s hear it.”
Donovan avoided her gaze. “It appears several documents were emailed from this office to the local paper and a couple of the local TV news affiliates. The documents were sealed pleadings not otherwise available to the general public.”
Camille shook her head, unable to believe that anyone in her office would have been careless with the pleadings let alone purposely provided sealed court documents directly to the press—a very serious allegation. Now she knew why the marshal’s service was involved, but she still didn’t know what had prompted Stroud to initiate the inquiry, although he’d been way too involved in her court since the day she’d started.
She looked back at Donovan, who was clearly uncomfortable to be the messenger, and asked the question even though she was certain she already knew the answer. “Who sent the email?”
“West Fallon.”
* * *
West ran her hands down the front of the suit jacket and squared her shoulders before she pushed through the doors to the office suite, partly hoping court was back in session so she wouldn’t have to confront Camille just yet. She was already second-guessing her decision to wear the suit since any confrontation would be easier if she were comfortable, but nothing about the situation with Camille was comfortable, no matter what she wore. Maybe the suit was the edge she needed to get Camille to stop concentrating on the reasons they shouldn’t be together, and focus on her.
The minute she crossed the threshold, she knew something was wrong. Ester’s eyes widened and cut to the right of her desk where Peter was standing with a couple of marshals West didn’t recognize. Maybe they had some news about the whacko who’d been sending those notes to Camille. “Good morning, Ester,” she said. Peter turned at the sound of her voice and she waved at him. “Good morning to you too. Any news?”
“West, we need to talk.”
West heard the plaintive cord in his tone, but she couldn’t make sense of it. She looked back at Ester and could tell she was upset, but not why. “What’s going on?”
Peter reached for her arm. “Let’s go to Judge Avery’s office. We can talk there.”
Certain Peter and his pals had a breakthrough in the threatening note case, West willingly led the way down the hall, anxious about seeing Camille for the first time since they’d made love. The door was partially open, and Peter motioned for her to go in. She was surprised to see Judge Stroud seated in front of Camille’s desk, his face fixed into a stern expression. A dozen thoughts ran through her mind at once. Had Stroud found out they’d slept together? Was Camille in trouble for violating some arcane don’t have sex with your clerk code?
She tried in vain to catch Camille’s eye, but she was looking everywhere in the room but at her. West turned back to Peter, the only other friend she had in the room. “What’s going on?”
“Have a seat, West,” Stroud said, pointing at the chair next to him.
“I’m good, thanks.” West felt an ambush coming and sitting seemed like a really poor defensive posture.
Stroud frowned. “Fine then. I’ll get right to the point. It’s come to our attention,” he swept his arm to indicate the rest of the room, “that the press leaks in the Wilson case were made by you. Although no formal charges for obstruction of justice are pending at this point, it’s my duty to advise you of your rights before we discuss this further.”
West shook her head. Surely, she’d heard him wrong. Press leaks? Obstruction of justice? Her? The acid sting of nausea rose into her throat, and she grabbed the back of the chair to steady herself.
“West?”
She looked up into Camille’s eyes and saw genuine concern. And pain. Was she the cause of this? West wished more than anything that she and Camille were the only ones in the room. “It’s not true.”
“West, don’t say anything else,” Camille said, her voice flat and quiet. “You have a right to a lawyer.”
West smothered a laugh at the absurdity of the remark. Hell, she was a lawyer. If she weren’t, things would be so much easier. Maybe if she’d met Camille under different circumstances, they could’ve fallen in love without all the complications. But none of that mattered right now. Camille thought she’d done something wrong and she hadn’t. The question was why? She turned to Stroud. “What’s the evidence?”
“Excuse me,” he said, clearly annoyed at being questioned.
“You said I leaked sealed documents to the press. You must have evidence to make such an accusation. Witnesses, a paper trail, motivation?”
Stroud nodded. “We have all of those things. The marshals will be happy to share the evidence they’ve developed, but as to the motivation, I think your past is motivation enough. Everything that has been printed in the press has been designed to poison the jurors’ minds against the defendant.” He held up his hands. “I’m not saying I think the allegations are wrong, but Mr. Wilson is entitled to a fair trial, just like any other person accused of a crime.” He leaned closer to West. “I can see how the horrible tragedy that resulted in your mother’s death might motivate you to exact revenge in a similar case, but your motivation is misplaced.”
He kept talking, but at the mention of her mother, his voice became a dull roar against the darkness that flooded West’s brain. Why was he talking about her mother? Why did he know anything about her mother and the way she’d died? In desperation, she looked around the room for answers. Camille was the only one to face her directly.
“Gentlemen,” she said, “I’d like a moment alone with West.”
Peter nodded and walked to the door, but Judge Stroud remained seated. Camille gave him a pointed look and he frowned again. “I strongly advise against this.”
“Point taken,” Camille said. “Now, please excuse us.”
Stroud slowly rose from his chair and glanced between them before stalking from the room. When the door finally shut behind him, West sank into the chair she’d refused earlier.
“Would you like some water?”
West looked up at Camille, suppressing another laugh at the oddness of the situation. A moment ago, she was being threatened with prosecution, and now the woman she loved was offering her a glass of water. Her head spun. “No. What I want is to know why in the hell you or anyone else thinks I would leak sealed documents?”
Camille folded her hands, her expression pained. “They have emails. Sent by you, from your computer.” She paused as if deciding whether to say more and then rushed her words. “And what Stroud said about your mother. After the way she died, what happened to her…of course this trial would bring up feelings for you, make you want to act on them.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I’ve read your file.”
“My file? There shouldn’t be anything about my mother in my personnel file.” West heard her voice rising and struggled to tamp it down long enough to get some answers. “How is that even relevant?”
Camille was silent for a moment and West waited her out. Something was off and she was determined to find out what.
Finally, Camille answered. “It wasn’t your personnel file. I’ve seen your CPS file. I know what happened to your mother.”
The nausea was back, but West swallowed to keep it at bay. “You don’t know anything.” She glared at Camille who merely sat silent. West stood, too fast, and swayed against the chair back. Anger coursed through her like hot lava. She wanted to lash out, to shout that whatever Camille had read wasn’t true, that it didn’t affect her, that she didn’t think about the impact of her mother’s actions every single day. But she’d be lying.
She summoned all the strength she had and spoke her final words to Camille. “My mother killed herself. She chose drugs over everything—over a job, school, groceries, rent.” She choked back a sob. “Over me.
“When she spent all the money we had shooting junk into her veins, she fucked her dealer for more. She died with a needle in her arm, and he went to prison. Did he get what he deserved? I don’t know. It’s not for me to decide. But she’s better off dead than leading the life she did, and I’m better off without her. If you think I’d try to tank a case because of something that happened in my past, you don’t know me at all, and you’re not the woman I thought I loved.”
Suddenly, she realized the real reason Camille had held her at a distance. Her past had come back to haunt her with a vengeance, inserted a wedge between her desires and satisfaction. Well, it was time she took control of her own destiny. She started toward the door. “And by the way, I quit.”
West walked briskly to the front of the office where Stroud and Peter were standing near Ester’s desk with Ester glaring at both of them. She reached down, gave Ester a hug, and whispered, “I tried,” before walking past the two men.
“If you want to arrest me,” she said. “You’ll have to come find me. I’m sure you know where I live. It’s all in my file.” Ang
ry and deflated, West stalked out of the office and didn’t look back.
Chapter Nineteen
“It’s been a week. Do you think you might ever wear real clothes again?” Bill asked as he walked in the door.
West rose from the couch just enough to chuck a pillow at him and sank back into the cushions. “Leave me alone.”
“That line is getting old.” He sat down beside her. “Besides, I’m a little worried this end of the couch is getting worn out. Maybe you could switch it up a bit and lie on the other side next week?”
West groaned inwardly at the thought of another week of this. Since she’d stormed out of Camille’s office, her life had been in limbo. She’d gone home, tossed her suit in the back of her closet, and taken up residence on Bill’s way too comfortable couch in front of the TV. The first couple of days her phone had blown up with messages, voice and text, mostly from Camille, imploring her to respond, saying she was sorry, saying she was wrong. The last time her cell battery died, West found the solution to her search for solitude and simply stopped charging it. Bill was the only human contact she’d had in a week, and it looked like she might be wearing him out. She just couldn’t muster the energy to go back out in the world. Not yet.
“I’m sorry. I promise I’ll figure out my life soon.”
“It’s whatever. You’ll figure it out when you’re ready. In fact, I might have some news that will help you along. But first,” he grabbed the remote and turned on the television, “there’s some news I think you should see.”
He flipped through the channels until he landed on the local Eyewitness News. West watched a reporter talking to a man about an altercation with a roving pack of dogs. “Is this your idea of cheering me up? Because it’s not working.”