Angel: Counsel Series

by Shenda Paul

  “You and I both know that’s not true, Ms. Bain. Let’s not pussyfoot around. You’re an escort, paid thousands of dollars a month to service the senator. You are not just a dancer,” he challenges, his scorn apparent. ‘He knows’, the little voice in my head taunts. I ignore it and his comments about my relationship with Justin, choosing to respond to his remark about my dancing instead.

  “You’re right; I’m not just a dancer, Mr Thorne. I’m a very good dancer, some say an extraordinary once, and I earn every penny of the money I’m paid to dance,” I tell him coldly, looking him squarely in the eye despite the humiliation I feel that this man knows I’m a prostitute and that he so obviously despises me for it. I’m also indignant that he’s sitting in judgement of me and that he belittled my dancing, which I spent eleven years of my life learning. Outwardly, I may be calm, but inside, I’m a mess—confused, afraid, and concerned that I’m lying—again; something I’ve always detested in others. But I can’t just sit here and have this man, in all his perfection, look at me with such disgust.

  “I’m sure you do,” he says caustically, the barb turning the knife in my already wounded pride. I call him an ass under my breath.

  “Have we met before?” he asks, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “I don’t know, have we? Perhaps you’ve visited Liaison?” I can’t resist taunting. He dismisses the notion, saying he’d never stoop so low as to resort to visiting a place like that. He demands to know about my involvement with Joseph and Justin. I repeat that I’m merely an employee, a dancer, and Justin, a member.

  He bites out his response. “Oh, I know there’s a lot more to it than that; we have the evidence to prove it. What we’re trying to establish, is just how deeply involved both you and the senator are in the Cordis’ criminal activities. You are aware that prostitution is a crime, are you not?” he challenges, his tone threatening. “Luckily for you, we have bigger fish to fry, but you’d be helping yourself by cooperating,” he adds.

  “I … I’m not a prostitute,” I tell him, wanting to sound assertive but to my great annoyance, my voice cracks. I don’t know why his comments hurt so much. I’ve castigated myself for being a prostitute more times than I care to remember, but, somehow, when he says it, feels like he’s branding the word across my forehead. And, to rid myself of the hurt and shame he makes me feel, I’ve lied—yet again. What is it about this man that makes me act so out of character?

  “In the eyes of the law and based on a signed contract between Joseph Cordi and Justin Wade, you are a prostitute. Before you deny it, I should advise that we are in possession of the contract,” he adds when I’m about to respond.

  The sting of betrayal hurts. Justin has never, even when I asked, admitted to an agreement with Joseph. His omission only reinforces his low regard for me. Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to give in to them, and I bite down hard to stop my lip from quivering.

  Then, before I can begin to process the legal ramifications of this new information, Adam Thorne coldly informs me that I can either choose to cooperate or be an obstruction to his plans to put men responsible for the destruction of many lives in jail. Confused and hurt, the only thing that registers right now is that he’s trying to coerce me, so I give the first response that comes to mind. I accuse him of being a bully, but I don’t stop there. “I shouldn’t be surprised, really. How’s your car, Mr. Thorne?” I challenge.

  Surprise, shock, and, finally, recognition washes over his face. Gone is the cool prosecutor, the man glaring at me now is the same one who confronted me on the road that day.

  “A. White? You’re her? Giving false information, leaving the scene of an accident, and prostitution—quite the little criminal, aren’t you?” he snaps. I start to respond, but he cuts me off.

  “You’re going to pay for the damage to my car, or I’ll have you charged for leaving the scene of an accident and providing false information.” He recites the penalties for each of the crimes. I stand, my chair scraping harshly across floor. I’ve never come this close to resorting to violence in my life.

  “You’re insufferable! You can’t charge me with giving false information to the police; you’re not a policeman, and I didn’t know you were a prosecutor,” I reply indignantly.

  “That doesn’t lessen your criminality,” he says coldly.

  “For the last time, I’m not a criminal. I only drove away because you were such a…an ass!” I glare at him, mad at myself for not finding something more scathing to say.

  “Sit down, Ms. Bain, I’m not through questioning you. I won’t be sidetracked, but, rest assured, I will pursue you through the proper channels for the damage to my car. Right now, I want to know about your relationship with Joseph Cordi and Justin Wade.”

  Sanctimonious ass, I think, instantly regretting that I hadn’t said that moments ago.

  “I’ve already told you; I was employed by Mr. Cordi as a dancer, and I’m a friend of Senator Wade.”

  “Oh, we’re well aware of the nature of your friendship and what you were paid for it,” he says.

  “The senator has never paid me.”

  “He may not have, but you have been paid for sexual favors. Your name is listed among the prostitutes working for Joseph Cordi. Count yourself lucky that we haven’t decided to formally investigate you. Instead, we’d like you to consider testifying for the Commonwealth. I’ll give you a few moments to consider,” he says and leans back in his chair to better scrutinize me.

  I blanch at what he’s just said, and, despite Tom’s assurances that I couldn’t be charged, I’m sure that if anyone can find a loophole in the law, this man can. I foolishly promised to remain quiet about Justin, and I’ve been taught to keep my word. But Justin’s actions leave me wondering—he signed a contract to buy me like property, refused to admit it or discuss it with me, and to add insult to injury, he hasn’t even bothered to acknowledge my concern for his wellbeing. My mind’s reeling. There’s so much to take in, to think about, and I feel trapped by this man. Right now, Adam Thorne’s yet another person wanting to bend me to his will, and, he’s not even trying to temper his demands with civility. I won’t stand for it, I decide. I meet his gaze defiantly.

  “I don’t like you, at all, Mr. Thorne, and I don’t intend to help you… in any way. I will not turn on Senator Wade; he’s my friend.”

  “Oh, I know quite a bit about his brand of friendship, Ms. Bain,” he sneers. “Believe me; if it came down to his political ambitions and your friendship, there’d be no contest. As I’ve said, we’d like to have your cooperation, but I’d just as happily see you on the stand under cross-examination. Or, I could call you as a hostile witness—any way you choose, you will answer my questions. You obviously need more time to consider; we’ll be in touch,” he says, clearly dismissing me.

  I pick up my handbag. I’m a mess, but I’m determined not to leave with my tail between my legs. I gather my last vestiges of resolve to sweep past him as he moves to open the door. I reach it first and turn to face him.

  “Even in your expensive suit and the authority of your position, you’re still an unmitigated ass,” I say with as much venom as I can muster and walk out before he can deliver another scathing response

  I shed so many tears that night—of humiliation, remorse for the shame and disappointment I’m about to cause my mother, and finally tears of anger—at Joseph Cordi for his cold-heartedness, at myself for giving in to him, at Justin for his betrayal, and, finally, at Adam Thorne for forcing me out into the open. Rationally, I know he’s only doing his job, but he’d been unnecessarily abrasive, I feel. The man I faced this evening most definitely lived up to his reputation of being a cold-hearted bastard. I cry myself to sleep, something I haven’t done in quite some time.

  I barely function over the next days, going to and from work as if in a daze. Ruth and Declan express concern, but I fob them off by saying I’m coming down with something. Ruth offers to take over my classes, and I’m sorely tempted to accept, but
I can’t afford the time off. Sarah and Amy call many times, but I don’t feel ready to speak to anyone connected to Liaison, so I don’t answer. I come home each night, force food down and go to bed, hoping for oblivion but failing to find sleep.

  A week after our meeting, I receive a letter from my insurer advising me of a claim made against me. It also advises of an increase in premiums. Try as I may to maintain my indignation, I can’t. Once my initial anger subsides, I feel a sense of relief that I’ve at least been able to set one of my wrongdoings right.

  18

  “W hat’s wrong?” Samuel asks only minutes into our conversation. I tried to sound normal when asking after Nic and Flynn and how his new job’s going, but he knows me too well. And now, despite having rehearsed my confession for most of last night, words fail me.

  “Umm… I…something’s happened…” I stammer.

  “Are you all right?” he asks, sounding anxious now.

  “Samuel…this is hard for me to say—”

  “Just say it. You know you can tell me anything.”

  “I’m in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble? Just tell me, for God’s sake, I’m going crazy here.”

  “I got involved with some people, and…well, they may be tangled up in some crime…and the DA’s office called me.” He doesn’t say a word, which makes me even more nervous but strangely thankful that he’s not interrupting me. If he did, I don’t think I’d be able to get out the worst part, so I tell him everything.

  “Say something, please?” I beg at his silence when I’ve finished my sordid tale. I know Samuel. He’s angry, and he’s trying to control himself. ‘He’s probably sickened by you as well,’ my subconscious unhelpfully adds.

  “I’m sorry….” I whisper.

  He lets out a long sigh. “Damn, Angelique…why? We could have worked something out, come to some arrangement with the facility…”

  “I’d been through all the options; there were none…well, other than to spend the money we invested for Mom’s care, and I couldn’t do that.”

  “You…you’re not still doing that, are you?” he asks, and another pang of regret lances me at the hurt and confusion I hear behind his anger. Samuel’s never confused about anything.

  “No; no,” I assure him.

  “I’m coming to see you,” he announces.

  “No… you don’t have to. I just wanted to talk to you. I don’t… I can’t tell Mom; it would kill her, and if I talk to Mandi, it puts her in an awkward position. I don’t want to ask her to lie for me.”

  “We can’t discuss this over the phone. Just give me a couple of days to sort things out with Nic and my job, okay? And Angelique?”

  “Yes?” I answer tentatively.

  “Call me if you need anything, and don’t do anything else stupid, do you hear me.” He sounds harsh, but I know it’s just worry and shock.

  “Thanks, Samuel,” I say tearfully. I hadn’t realized, until he’d said he was coming, just how much I need the support.

  The following evening, while watching the news, I learn that Justin’s preliminary hearing took place earlier in the day and that the judge ruled that he has a case to answer. It’s almost certain now that I’ll be called as a witness, and, it seems, I won’t have any choice in the matter because, according to Adam Thorne, he’d simply call me as a hostile witness. I don’t even know what that means, I realize, so I retrieve my laptop and do some research. My stomach churns at what I read. ‘Even if an attorney has called a witness to the stand, he or she can ask that the witness be declared hostile or adverse. If the judge grants the request, the attorney is allowed to ask leading questions,’ the piece I’m reading says. It goes on to clarify that asking leading questions means the questioning attorney can suggest answers or challenge testimony. I can’t help wishing that I hadn’t been so quick to give Tom my word because I’ve discovered just how confrontational Adam Thorne can be. I can only imagine how much more intimidating he’d be in a courtroom; especially with a witness he views as hostile.

  I sleep fitfully that night, dreaming of Mom’s disappointment and pain when she learns the truth, and I have a vision of Dad, smiling at me broken-heartedly. I wake, crying, and find myself unable to get back to sleep. It’s much too early to go into the studio to dance my desolation away, so I pull out an old ballet DVD to watch on my laptop instead. It’s Margot Fonteyn and Rudolf Nureyev’s filmed adaptation of Swan Lake, one of my favorite routines and one of the greatest ballet partnerships of all time. I allow myself a moment’s wallowing about what I’d once hoped for with Luke before I pull myself from my pity-party and concentrate on the magnificence of the performance.

  “Miss Angelique, could you please explain beat?” Eleven-year-old Emily asks just as class is packing up. Several eager heads turn to hear my response. I smile, remembering being that age and as obsessed with ballet as they now are.

  “Well, the phrase beat or beating is frequently used in the allegro part of your lessons. Does everyone know what allegro means?”

  “Fast,” Jenny replies immediately.

  “That’s right. It means fast, lively, or bright. Elevation steps fall under the term allegro. A beat is essentially when one leg comes into contact with the other. To perform this, both legs are extended and held slightly opened before the beat, meaning they are separated before they touch each other. The action is fast, almost unseen, and your footwork needs to be really quick while you’re in the air. Like this,” I say, demonstrating the motion with my arms.

  “The main jumping steps that have a beat are royale, jeté, entrechat, and brisé. Any other questions?”

  “Miss Angelique, could you show us?”

  “Your Moms are probably waiting, so just very briefly. I’ll perform a jeté and a brisé, then we have to go.”

  I demonstrate a combination of movements, careful not to put too much pressure on my weak leg, and then repeat it to ensure they’ve all seen and have understood my explanation. “That’s it, class. You all did very well today,” I say, taking a playful bow at their round of applause.

  I’m packing up when my phone rings. “I’ve been asked to be a witness,” Amy announces without preamble. My first response is relief that I’m not the only Liaison worker they’re interested in.

  “Who contacted you?” I ask.

  “Someone called Jodi Maddox. Why?”

  “I just wondered whether it was the same person I spoke to.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Adam Thorne.”

  “The hot guy on TV?” she practically screeches.

  “Yes, and he’s an ass!” I say shortly.

  “A hot ass—exactly my type,” Amy replies. I think she’s only half-joking.

  “Amy, this is hardly the time…”

  “I know; sorry. I keep forgetting how serious this is for you. I won’t say anything bad about you; you know that, don’t you?”

  “I do and thank you. Just tell the truth, but just—please—try not to embellish.”

  “Sarah said nearly the same thing,” she giggles.

  “I wonder why,” I say dryly, and she laughs, admitting that she does exaggerate. “Just a teeny bit—it makes everything more interesting,’ she adds. I remind her that this isn’t the time to make things sound exciting. She assures me that she knows that. We chat for some minutes before saying goodbye, with her promising to call and let me know how her interview went.

  She calls two days later to invite me to join her and Sarah for dinner. I’m pleased she hasn’t suggested we go out because I really can’t afford it right now.

  Later, when we’re gathered in her kitchen, in true Amy fashion, she fills us in on every minute detail.

  “Jodi Maddox questioned me. She seems nice, and she’s pretty good at her job, I think, but it’s clear he’s in charge. Although, he didn’t say anything, but I did catch her looking at him when she thought I wouldn’t notice—to check things, I think.

  “You should see him, thou
gh; he’s gorgeous. There’s a great body hidden under that suit; I just know it—” Sarah cuts her off impatiently; thankfully, saving me from having to listen to her gush about Adam Thorne.

  “Amy! We all know what he looks like. Tell us something that will help Angelique.”

  “Sorry,” she giggles like a schoolgirl, “but he really is—”

  “Amy!” Sarah and I both warn.

  “Okay, okay—sheez! She asked how I came to work at Liaison, and I told her that Mick saw me dance and then arranged for an interview with Mr. Cordi. Then she asked if I knew what I was expected to do as an escort. Can you believe that; I mean, who doesn’t know what an escort is?” she asks, genuinely astonished. Sarah twirls her finger for her to continue.

  “She asked if anyone forced me, and I said no, but I did hear about some girls at the other clubs who might have been.”

  “What girls?” I ask sharply

  “Oh! Didn’t I tell you? I’m sure—well, maybe it was before you joined. Sarah?” Amy turns to her.

  “No, you didn’t,” I say at the same time Sarah shakes her head.

  “Well, Lucy used to work at Deseo before she came to Liaison. She told me some girls there said they weren’t given a choice. Anyway, back to my interview—Jodi showed me a photo of a Latino girl and asked if I’d seen her around. I said no.”

  “Who was she; did she say?”

  “No, but she looked young, maybe fifteen; it was hard to tell. Adam Thorne looked interested, but Jodi went on like it didn’t matter. Oh, and Angelique, they were very interested in you.”

  My stomach twists sickeningly. Amy’s looking at me as if I should be thrilled when all I want is to have the DA’s office, Adam Thorne, especially, forget I exist

  “I didn’t really say anything,” she adds, seeing my expression.

  “What did you say?” Sarah asks suspiciously.

  Amy shoots her a reproachful look. “They wanted to know if all the dancers were escorts. I said yes, until you started. Jodi asked me to explain, and I told that them, at first, you only danced, and then you left. When you came back, you started escorting, and after that, you saw Senator Wade exclusively. Then they wanted more information about you and the senator.”