'It's a generous offer, considering,' Dooher was saying. 'I know Mrs Diep feels that she's been wronged, but let's not pretend that she wasn't a willing participant in this whole unfortunate scenario. This is as far as we're going to go. I know the Archbishop. If I were you, I'd take it. That's honest advice.'
Trang forced himself to remain seated, to keep his voice calm. 'We were asking-'
'I know, I know, but look, Victor – do you mind if I call you Victor? – let's not pussy-foot around. You and I know what you've been doing. You've been out beating the bushes trying to find witnesses or victims or whatever you want to call them, to accuse priests of things that didn't happen, or are very difficult to prove. It's going to get ugly and it's going to take forever and PS you're going to lose. You're going to waste five years of your young life.' Dooher was standing by the windows. 'Come here a minute. Come here.'
Obediently, Trang rose and crossed the room. The height was dizzying. The floor upon which they stood seemed to end, unsupported, in space. Dooher stepped to the window, his shoes nearly touching the glass. He motioned Trang up next to him, stood too close to him, threateningly close.
Dooher picked up the thread of the discussion. 'You know, not a day goes by that I don't stand here looking down over the city reflecting on the frivolity of our fellow men. All these buildings, all this scrambling activity…' He leaned right into the window.'… All that humanity down on the street, tiny and busy as ants, doing so much that is frivolous. You know what I'm saying?'
'You are warning me about the dangers of bringing a frivolous lawsuit.'
A beam lit Dooher's face. 'That's exactly right, Victor. That's what I'm doing. Because I must tell you – this may be old news to you – that the courts are overworked as it is and extremely sensitive to frivolous lawsuits. Extremely sensitive. They smell frivolous and you got fines and even suspensions like you wouldn't believe. Bad stuff, very bad. Especially for sole practitioners such as yourself. Courts have been known to put 'em right out of business.'
Trang straightened himself, moved away from the windows. 'This lawsuit isn't frivolous.'
'Mrs Diep's may have some merit. We agree. Hence the fifteen thousand. Look.' Dooher laid a hand on his shoulder, seeming to push him out over the city. 'I was going to play hardball with you, Victor, and not make any offer. But when I told Jim Flaherty – the Archbishop – that you would be fined and have to pay our fees, and possibly be suspended from the Bar and so on… well, he insisted I convey to you this warning and offer the really generous settlement. Myself, I hate to give away strategy, but His Excellency doesn't want you to suffer, and if you go ahead with this lawsuit, you're going to.'
'That's a bald enough threat, Mr Dooher.'
'Not at all. It's friendly advice. Here, let's sit back down.' Dooher was shepherding him back toward the couch. 'Over the years we've had hundreds of cases with litigants who viewed the Church as deep pockets. Some kid's skateboarding on the steps of one of our buildings and breaks his leg. Dad hits us for liability – okay, we settle, sometimes. But some greedy people have attorneys who don't stop there – they want negligence due to faulty maintenance, punitive damages, that kind of thing. These cases always lose.'
Dooher picked up the check from the coffee table and dropped it in Trang's lap. 'You know why they lose, and you know why your amended complaint will lose? Because if you ask for three million dollars, you enter the realm of bullshit, and bullshit walks in this town, Victor. I've seen it happen a hundred times. Whereas there, on your lap, is fifteen thousand real dollars – you take a third, right? – five grand for your trouble, ten for Mrs Diep, and you get to spend your next five years a lot more profitably.'
Trang felt as though he would be sick. What Dooher was saying just couldn 't be true,, this case had to be a winner. It was the best idea Trang had ever had. If this one couldn't make him some money, he wasn't going to survive in the law. His mouth was sandpaper. Looking down, he saw his coffee cup and grabbed for it. Cold. He swallowed, nearly gagging, trying to think of some response. 'I can't take the check without consulting with my client.'
The buzz at the telephone gave him a moment's reprieve.
Dooher picked it up, nodded, said, 'Okay, let her come on in.' He shrugged an apology to Trang as the door opened and one of those impossible women appeared in the doorway – at least Trang's height, her skin flawless, her teeth even.
One step in, she stopped. 'Oh, I'm sorry. Janey said-. I didn't mean to interrupt.'
Dooher was coming forward. 'It's all right, Christina. Mr Trang and I were just about finished.'
He introduced them. Trang shook her cool and firm hand with his own hot and damp one.
There was, from Trang's perspective, a long and awkward moment, eye contact between the woman and Dooher. She seemed overly self-conscious that she was interrupting, that there was another person in the room. It was clear she had expected a personal moment, and was somehow disappointed.
At the same time, Dooher's bravado faltered. She was obviously one of his young associates, and yet it was clear that he was tongue-tied with her.
No, Trang thought, it was mutual, both of them somehow at risk. 'I could step outside,' he said.
Christina recovered. 'No, really. It's just a short message.' She was back at Dooher. 'I just wanted to tell you that I left my resume with Joe, as promised.'
'Good.'
She shrugged. 'Joe says from here on it's out of his hands.' She deepened the pitch of her voice, put on a stern face. 'After this, Christina, it all gets pretty objective.' A flash of that connection again between them.
'Objective works in your favor, Christina. I'm glad you let me know. We'll talk later?'
Trang thought he caught a note of panic in the question. It was nowhere near as casual as it sounded. Dooher desperately wanted to see her again, needed to see her again. He could put on any act he wanted in their negotiations, but here in this moment Trang was certain he glimpsed an underlying vulnerability.
But she kept it light, said sure, and apologized to Trang again before turning and leaving them.
When she'd gone, Dooher was lost another instant, staring after her. Then, as though surprised to find Trang still with him, he put on his smile again. The animation. 'So, Mr Trang – Victor – you want to use my phone, call Mrs Diep now? Feel free.'
But the woman's entrance had ruined Dooher's rhythm. He wasn't the same power broker he'd been. Suddenly the pushing to settle right now seemed overdone. It gave Trang some hope. Dooher wasn't as tough as the game he was playing. He could be beaten, and certainly Trang would never know if he didn't play it out at least a little further. 'I think Mrs Diep and I should confer in person.'
Dooher shrugged. No show of disappointment. He was back in his persona. 'Well, that's your decision. The check will be here until noon tomorrow. After that, the offer is rescinded. You understand that?'
Trang was standing. 'Yes, I do. And thank you for the warning. I'll consider it very strongly.'
A dim shadow fell across Sergeant Glitsky's desk and he lifted his eyes from the report he was pretending to read. A woman stood, back-lit from the fluorescents overhead. Wearily, he pushed his chair back, glanced up at the clock on the wall. Five to five, and here's a random witness come to the Hall. His lucky day. 'Help you?' he asked.
'I might have remembered something.'
Glitsky had no idea who she was. He stood up. 'I'm sorry, you are…?'
She put her hand out. 'Christina Cairera. Tania Willows? We met this morning at the Rape Crisis Center.'
Glitsky narrowed his eyes. It was possible, he supposed. He really wasn't noticing women these days. The woman this morning wore jeans and a wet jacket and had soaking hair hanging down in front of her face. But he still didn't think he could have picked this woman out of a line-up as the person he'd interviewed in the morning.
He ran a hand across his forehead, assayed a broken smile. 'Keen eye for detail. It's what makes a good cop.' He sat back
down, motioned she do the same, on the wooden chair by his desk. 'So what did you remember?'
'I'm not sure it's anything. I was downtown applying for a job. I thought it would be okay if I stopped in without an appointment.'
'It's fine,' Glitsky said, then repeated, 'what did you remember?'
'He has a tattoo.'
In the distant future, Glitsky thought, these days would be remembered as the Age of Bodily Mutilation. Everybody had a tattoo. Or a nipple ring, or at least something metal pushed through some erectile tissue somewhere.
But unless Tania Willows's rapist/killer had a tattoo of his full name with middle initial, it probably wasn't going to be distinctive enough to help Glitsky identify him. But the woman, Christina, was going on.
'I don't know why I didn't think of it this morning, when we were talking.' She touched her head. 'It just wasn't here. There were a lot of other things going on. And then I was thinking about Tania, what had happened – waiting for the bus, and I saw this guy in an ad with a tattoo…'
'Okay.'
She paused a minute, swallowed. 'It was on his penis.'
Glitsky pulled himself back up to the desk, sat up straighten Okay, this might be something.
'On his penis?'
She nodded. 'He asked her if she wanted to see his tattoo, and she said sure, thinking it was… I mean, you know. Not there. She never thought that.'
Glitsky broke a rare smile. 'The old "come up and see my etchings" trick, updated for the romantic nineties. Did Tania happen to notice what it said?'
Christina shook her head no. 'I'm sure she didn't. She would have…' She trailed off, but the pretty head kept shaking, looking down – embarrassed, Glitsky surmised, by the topic. Her eyes came up to his, and he saw that in fact she was trying to control herself, her laughter.
He knew exactly what she was thinking.
'Not Wendy then?'
'It's not funny,' she said. 'I don't mean to laugh. No, it wasn't Wendy, I don't think.'
The Wendy joke: when the man got an erection, the tattoo read: Welcome to Jamaica. Have a nice day.
Suddenly, Glitsky, whose professional life was a litany of violent deaths, who hadn't slept more than four hours any night in the past month, who had little money, three young children, and whose thirty-nine-year-old wife was dying of cancer – suddenly something broke in him, as it had done in Christina that morning, and he couldn't stop himself from laughing. Out loud.
The Chief of Homicide, Lieutenant Frank Batiste, had come out of his cubicle to see if anything was wrong. Glitsky hadn't laughed here in the Homicide Detail in his memory. Maybe nowhere else either.
'You okay, Abe?'
Glitsky had it back under control. He raised a hand to Batiste, looked over at Christina. 'That never happens to me. I'm very sorry.' His eyes glistened with tears. The fit had gone on for nearly half a minute.
'It's okay.' Christina had lost it for a second or two herself. 'It's supposed to be good for you.'
Glitsky wiped his eyes, took in a breath, sighed. 'Whew.' Batiste went back inside his office. 'Sorry anyway,' he repeated. Then, unexpected: 'I don't know what I'm doing here.'
'What do you mean?'
'I don't recognize you four hours after our interview. I crack up over some rapist's tattoo. I ought to take a leave, come back when I'm worth something.'
She didn't know how to respond to such a personal exposure, but felt she should say something. 'You said your wife was sick. Maybe your brain is concentrating on her?'
Truly sobered now, Glitsky reached for the Willows file. 'That could be it,' he said.
'Maybe you should call her? See if she's feeling better?'
He waited, deciding whether he should say it. Denial didn't seem to help, so maybe admission once in a while wouldn't hurt. 'She's not going to get better,' he said. 'She has cancer.'
Christina sat back. 'Oh, I'm so sorry.'
He waved it off, opened the file, stared at it for a few seconds. 'Was there anything else you remembered?'
CHAPTER SEVEN
Outside Dooher's windows, the city lights glowed up through the clouds. He sat in his darkened office, elbows on the arms of his chair, his fingers templed at his lips. In the hallways, he could hear the occasional voice – all of the associates at McCabe & Roth worked late.
Dooher ran a tight ship. His crew – the young men and women who hoped, after seven years, to make partner and thus in theory secure their financial future – were expected to bill forty hours a week, fifty-two weeks a year. This left them no time during the 'regular' 9-to-5 workday to do administrative work, answer their mail, talk to husbands, wives, significant others, eat, take breaks (or vacations, for that matter), go to the bathroom, small details like that.
To bill eight hours, the associates had to work at least ten, and more likely twelve hours every day. If they wanted their two-week vacation on top of that, they could count on working at least ten weekends a year. So at this time every day, the firm hummed along. Mark Dooher, who had overseen the downsizing and belt-tightening that had made the place profitable again, felt a profound satisfaction in what he'd wrought. People weren't necessarily happy, but they put out some serious work.
For which, he reminded himself, they were handsomely rewarded. And nobody had ever said a law firm was in business to make its members happy.
He rose and walked around his desk, stopping at the edge of the windows again to look out. Now, with the clouds, there was no view, merely a sensation of floating.
She'd left her resume!
Telling him it was his move.
Joe Avery was at his desk, plugging away. Dooher knocked quietly at his office door and Avery looked up in surprise. Two visits from the managing partner in two weeks! Unheard of.
'Still at it?' Dooher asked. 'I thought after last night you'd call it early.'
Avery struggled for the proper tone. 'That was a good party, sir. I meant to come up and thank you earlier, but this Baker matter…'
Dooher waved him down. Shut the kid up. 'I'm sure it's in good hands, Joe. I came down to pick up the summer apps file.'
A worried look crossed Avery's face. 'It's not…? I mean, is there some problem?'
'Not at all, not at all.' Stepping into the office, he closed the door behind him. 'We're handing off your summer clerk duties to another associate, Joe. I think you're going to find yourself with more meaningful work.'
'Sir?'
Dooher cut off the expected barrage of questions, raising his hand again. 'I've said more than I should, Joe. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned anything, but you might as well know. The summer clerks are going to have to get by without your involvement. There are bigger items on your agenda, and more than that I really can't say.'
In another minute, he had the wine box full of resumes under his arm.
On his cellphone in the car, driving home, he left a message. 'Christina. This is Mark Dooher. Just wanted to thank you for keeping me in the loop on your application. I'm proud of you. You made the right decision. If you need to talk to me, anytime, the number here in my car is…'
He left his home number as well.
Christina didn't hear Dooher's message. She'd talked to her parents in Ojai when she'd finally gotten home from her meeting with Glitsky, and then decided that her day – which had begun with ashes at 6:30 – was over. She was plain done in.
If the phone rang at this time of night, it would just be Joe anyway, and she really didn't feel like talking to him. So, with the sound turned down on her machine, she was snuggled under her comforter, in bed and beginning to doze.
The doorbell rang, and she heard Joe's voice. 'Christina?' Then a soft knock. 'Christina, you there?'
She knew she could just lie there and pretend she was asleep, but she wasn't able to do it. Exhausted and angry, she grabbed her bathrobe, wrapping it around her. 'One second.'
Unhooking the chain, she opened the door.
'You're in bed already?'
'N
o. Actually I'm standing here in the doorway. You got a problem with that?'
'No. I just thought we might… what's the matter?'
'Oh, nothing. Not a thing.' She whirled around, crossed the front room, snapped on the floorlamp and plopped herself down on the sofa. 'You coming in or not?'
He closed the door after him. 'Why are you so mad?'
She pulled her robe close around her, glaring up at him. 'See if maybe you can guess?'
He spread his arms, all innocence. 'Chris. We had a misunderstanding, that's all. Your resume's on file now.'
'File… that's good. It really is.'
'That's a fact. It's on Mark Dooher's desk at this instant, as we speak, in fact.'
'In fact,' she repeated.
He went on, oblivious: 'He picked them all up tonight. They're giving the summer hires to somebody else.'
'Why?'
'Because I'm moving up.' He ventured a step closer. 'Come on, Chris, don't be mad at me, not tonight. Tonight we should celebrate.'
'I don't want to celebrate. I don't even know what we'd be celebrating. I don't even know if there should be a "we" anymore, I really don't.'
'Chris…' He sat on the far end of the couch.
'I mean it, Joe. Okay, you're moving up, maybe, and I'm glad for you, but where are we going? Are we getting engaged? Are we getting married? I mean, what is all this? I don't get to apply to your firm because we might be an item someday?'
'We are.. .'
'No, we're not.' She held out her left hand. 'You see a ring there? I don't. We're still trying to decide, Joe, aren't we? We're still looking at the facts.'
He went silent. 'How am I supposed to respond to that, Chris? You know it's-'
'No! You're just getting to where you think that after all the time you've put in on our relationship, it would be nice if it worked out, after all.' She swiped at the angry tears that had broken. 'But the truth is that you don't like how I act, how I am. You certainly don't want me working around you, that's obvious.'
'But I do!'
'Which is why you didn't want me to apply?'
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