by A. W. Gray
“I already know that,” Sharon said. She relaxed her posture, leaning back, scooting her rear end forward a bit. “Well, it was him. It’s been going on a year or so. First just a few suggestive jokes. Like I’d say, Boy, do we need to stick it to that guy, some defendant or other, and Milt would go, Well, I’d like to stick it to you, baby. I’m sure not a prude or anything, but that stuff isn’t even funny. No matter what I’d say, Milt would turn it around into something sexual, you know? Honest to Pete, I expected him to trot out some Long Dong Silver movies or something. Lately he’s been hitting on me to go for drinks, and I’d tell him, Sure, bring your wife along.” She sighed. “The other day in court he grabbed my breast.”
“The hell you say. Right in front of the judge?”
“Not right in court, in the witness room. Right after the jury brought in the Donello verdict. I quit on the spot after that little scene. Sent my official resignation letter a couple of days later, but I haven’t been back to the office since that day in court.”
“Rumors are that you did more than just walk out and quit. The story is that you …”
“Kicked him in the balls?” Her eyes flashed fire. “You bet your sweet ass I did. I wish I could’ve done worse than that.” Her eyes widened as if to say, What am I saying? Then she lowered her gaze to her lap as she said, “Actually, it was my knee. Kneed him, is the proper description. I couldn’t kick. My skirt was too tight, you know?”
“Probably would have been better for you,” Black said, “if it hadn’t of happened with two defense lawyers lookin’ into the witness room from out in the hall. It’s all anybody’s talked about over at the courthouse the past few days. I saw that Donello business on the news, by the way. Good job, Sharon. Wilfred Donello came by here, and I wouldn’t represent him. Greaso child-porno guys I don’t need, no way. Howard Saw wound up representin’ him, didn’t he?” He was watching her, remembering how she’d said, “grabbed my breast,” with no embarrassment or nervousness, just someone stating fact.
“Yes, it was Howard,” Sharon said. “We expected more of a fight in the Donello case, to tell the truth. Howard Saw didn’t seem to have a grasp of what was going on.”
It was the first thing she’d said which Black, having a personal rule against knocking another lawyer, didn’t particularly like. He decided that Sharon Hays was too fresh from the DA’s staff for him to call her hand on that one. Right now at any rate, but later on he’d probably let her know his feelings. “Since Milt Breyer’s one of the superchiefs,” Black said, “how’d you get to do the TV interview without him shoving you out of the way? He’s usually front and center anytime there’s a camera rollin’.”
“Milt …” Sharon’s gaze shifted downward for an instant, then she smiled and said, “Milt was indisposed.”
Black threw back his head and laughed, a deep, healthy chuckle. “Kind of bent over double.” Then, his expression suddenly serious, Black said, “You married?”
She hesitated, clearly surprised by the question and pondering her answer.
“Sharon,” Black said, “I’m not pitchin’ woo. I was wonderin’, one, what your husband thought about the stuff with Milt Breyer, and two, how much problem it’d cause at home if you had to work a lotta long hours. We’ve got no staff like the DA, and we have to do the grunt work after the courthouse closes.”
She firmed up her chin. “I’m not married, but I have a daughter. Eleven. I like to spend as much time as I can with her, evenings, which was one thing I did like about working for the county. When we weren’t in trial, our time was pretty much our own.”
“I can’t blame you for that,” Black said, feeling just a little uneasy, not wanting to ask about the father of her child, not wanting to pry. “You filin’ suit against the DA? The rumors say you are. That’s one thing that would bother most lawyers if they were thinking of takin’ you on as an associate. A sexual harassment charge against the DA, particularly in this fair county … First thing you know, your client’s plea-bargain offers would be zilch. DA’s got nearly every judge in his pocket, and you’d find your clients jailed without bond for crossin’ the street against the traffic light. I guess you’ve already thought about that.”
“It’s the only thing I’ve been thinking about,” she said, fiddling with the hem of her skirt. “And I’d love to bring charges. Every time I think about Milt groping me, God. But just for the reasons you’re talking about, no, I’m not filing any suit. I need a job a whole lot more than I need revenge. I did make the mistake of talking it over with the federal Equal Rights people. I wish I hadn’t, because I hadn’t been out of their office five minutes before everybody in town knew I’d been over there, and now that I’m on their list they won’t leave me alone. They’ve already called twice, trying to get me to file charges.”
“And they’ll keep callin’,” Black said. “Which is one reason that anything you say about not filin’ suit can’t be written in stone. Anybody’s got to think, Hey, she might change her mind at any time.”
Sharon ran her tongue tip over even upper teeth. “I wouldn’t do that. Not if I said I—”
“You’re not lettin’ me finish. What I’m sayin’ is, you’re talkin’ to one guy don’t care what the DA thinks. I’m not popular over there to begin with. I don’t want your decision about filin’ suit to have anything to do with workin’ for me. You want to do it, you go ahead. That clear?”
Her mouth softened in surprise. “Working for … ?”
“This résumé …” He opened the folder and rattled the paper inside. “You were a drama undergrad major and lived in New York?”
Sharon rolled her eyes. “She was gonna be an actress, and all that. I went to acting school after college, voice, dance, the whole works, went in debt up to my tush.” She thoughtfully regarded her folded hands in her lap, then raised her gaze. “I worked off-Broadway a year. Melanie was born up there, which was why I decided I had to make a living as something other than a starving artist. Which is also why I was twenty-eight before I got out of law school. Student loans piled on student loans.”
“You had to work while you were in law school, then,” Black said.
She nodded. “Waitressing mostly. A lot of real trendy Austin bars and restaurants.” She laughed, a pleasant, tinkly sound. “Milt Breyer’s not the first man that tried pinching my fanny, believe me. Poor Melanie got to know the daycare ladies very well.”
Black pushed the résumé aside, liking it that she was giving the bare-bones sketch, and that she took it all in good humor without going on and on about how tough things had been for her. Black could read between the lines if he cared to. “As far as I’m concerned,” he said, “time’s a-wastin’. Empty office is over there”—indicating, pointing a finger—“the other side of the library. How long before you can get your gear moved in?”
She smiled an eager smile. “Just like that? I thought you had other people to—”
“Did have. Did have, Sharon. Oh, hell, I got to ask you. You can’t defend any case you worked on while you were a prosecutor, right?”
Her mouth tightened thoughtfully. “It would be a breach of ethics,” she said. “If I made even one appearance in a case like that, the prosecutor would file a motion to have me removed as counsel before you could say, Ready for trial.”
Black dusted his hands together. “You ever do any work on the Rathermore case? Heard of it, I guess.”
“Who hasn’t? But no, I was knee-deep in Donello when they made that arrest.” Her interest picked up. “You’re representing Midge Rathermore? I thought she had a court-appointed lawyer.”
“She did, up until ten days ago. Her mother hired me. We’re talkin’ a teenage girl charged with hirin’ other kids to kill her daddy. You up to somethin’ like that? Won’t go against your grain or anything.”
“No.” She smiled. “I’m a criminal lawyer, remember? Nothing’s supposed to
go against my grain.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Black said. “Now, one o’clock, she’s over in family court for a hearing to certify her as an adult. You ever been in on one of those hearings?”
“Several.” Sharon said. “So many kids committing crimes these days, juvie cert got to be old hat at the DA’s office.”
“Well, I never have,” Black said. “Not too many teenagers are lookin’ for an old goat like me to represent ’em. Which is really goin’ to make me depend on you. Means you got one hour to get moved into your office. Can you do that?”
“You just watch my smoke,” Sharon said. She rose, hefted her shoulder bag, adjusted the strap, and took two rapid steps toward the exit. “I’ve just got a couple of boxes, and they’re in my car. Some briefs I’ve worked on, a couple of paperback law books is all.”
“Travel light, huh?” Black grinned. “Good, I like that.”
She opened the door.
“Sharon?” Black said.
She turned with raised eyebrows. “Yes?”
“Guess you ought to know, Milt Breyer’s the prosecutor in the Rathermore case. The DA assigned it to him a few days ago, as soon as Donello was over. That going to give you a problem?”
Her soft forehead furrowed, then she said quickly, “The only one it might give a problem is him. Milt’s not a very good lawyer, though he is smart enough to have some good lawyers working with him. Having him on the other side, if he’s actually going to prosecute the case himself, ought to make our job easier.” She took one step into the hallway, then turned back, her features tight. “I hope Milt doesn’t bend over and cover his crotch every time I walk near him in the courtroom,” Sharon said, then brightened. “On the other hand, maybe I hope that he does. It would give the jury something to wonder about, huh?” She left with a smile on her face.
A lightbulb exploded in Black’s head. He got up quickly, followed her over to the door, leaned against the jamb, and thrust his hands into his pockets. She moved in modeling-runway strides, crossed the waiting room to sit on the Naugahyde sofa, crossed her legs, and removed one high-heeled shoe. She dug in her shoulder bag for one spotless white Reebok, dug a sock out of the shoe’s insides, and slipped the sock up over her ankle.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Black said.
She looked up at him from across the room.
“You knew all along I had the Rathermore case, and that old Milt was goin’ to be the prosecutor,” Black said. “Didn’ you?”
She smiled a tiny smile, then bent her head to pull her sneaker on and snugged up the laces. “I might’ve heard some rumors,” Sharon Hays said.
2
Sharon left Russell Black’s first-floor office, hop-skipping in Reebok sneakers down the two steps to the sidewalk, and it was all she could do to keep from breaking into a run. It was the first time that her spirits had been on the upswing since five days ago—five days? God, it seemed like ever-loving weeks—when she’d put Milt Breyer temporarily out of commission and herself out of a job. Not that she wouldn’t do the same thing all over again. She’d gotten the bastard right where he lived, which was exactly what he’d deserved. Just thinking about Milton Breyer made Sharon’s flesh crawl.
So it wasn’t any regret over what she’d done to dear old Milton which had had her down in the dumps. Her sinking spells of late had been due to the nagging dread—the absolute terror, in fact—that she’d cut off her nose to spite her face. The fear had pursued her day and night, ever since she’d submitted her resignation to the DA, that as a female with a potential sexual-harassment suit against the county, she’d be too much of a hot potato for anyone to give a job. God knew she couldn’t afford her own office. And even if she’d had the money to set up her own practice, she wouldn’t have had the slightest idea where her clients would have come from.
But now—zap!—everything had changed for Sharon in the space of twenty minutes or so. Not only was she going to have the chance to go up against Milton Breyer himself in her first trial as a defense lawyer—a prospect which, though she’d never admit it to anyone, had her licking her chops—she was going to be riding shotgun for none other than Russell Black. He didn’t know it—and would never know, Sharon thought, would that be embarrassing or what?—but her feeling from afar for the older lawyer went a great deal deeper than she’d let on in the interview.
She hadn’t had a crush on him or anything, she told herself with a chuckle, but from a legal standpoint she’d been using Russell Black as a role model ever since she’d been a law student. Even when she’d been a prosecutor, every time that Black had been in trial she’d managed to sneak away for an hour or so just to sit in the back of the spectators’ section and watch him work. She’d marveled at his homespun demeanor and razor-sharp questions when he’d been intent on tearing the state’s witnesses down—which he did successfully more often than not—and had thought to herself many times, Gee, could I possibly ever do that? Early on in her career, in the secrecy of her bedroom, she’d more than once paraded in front of her mirror—naked as a jaybird half the time—mimicking Black’s mannerisms and imagining herself the female Russell Black. In the end she’d settled on a more subdued courtroom manner, which, she felt, was better suited to her personality, but most of her closing arguments had been modified versions of what she’d heard while watching Russell Black stalk in front of a jury. Stalk, that was the proper word for it. There were lawyers who preened in front of the jury and lawyers who strutted, but no one she’d ever seen could mesmerize jurors, make state’s witnesses quiver in their boots, and hone in on a case with the intensity of Russell Black. Assisting this guy, Sharon thought, is going to be a constant adrenaline high.
She briskly jaywalked to the remodeled gas station across the street from the back of the George Allen Courts Building, looking both ways for oncoming cars as she did. The old station now served as a covered parking lot, and was the same lot where she’d left her car nearly every day for her first four years as a prosecutor. In those days the criminal courts had been in the Allen Building, and during the same four-year period Sharon had worked her way up through the misdemeanor courts to become chief felony prosecutor in the 368th under Judge Hagood (nasty-dispositioned old bastard, Sharon thought). She’d finally become a first assistant to Milton Breyer (great career move that was, Sharon thought), and now had made her gracious exit to civilian life after kneeing her boss in the balls. What sparkling credentials I’ve got, Sharon thought. She ducked underneath the garage awning and hustled toward her Volvo, at five-nine a tall young woman with the supple walk of a dancer. Her brown leather shoulder bag bumped gently against her hip.
The blue Volvo had seen better days. She’d been driving it for six years. In fact, she’d been planning to trade the car in, but that had been before the Milton Breyer Confrontation, Bout of the Century. So much for a new car—or a new anything else, for that matter—at least for the time being.
She glanced ruefully at the small dent in the Volvo’s left front fender, something done in this very parking lot two or three years ago, something she’d chosen to call a little scratch instead of the full-sized dent that it was. It had been a choice between living with the fender or forking over the two hundred and fifty bucks which was her insurance deductible to have it fixed. It was true, as Russell Black had guessed, that she’d made over fifty thousand a year as a prosecutor, but fifty-six, five as a single mother, what with the cost of care for Melanie while mommy busted her fanny in trial, wasn’t by any means a bonanza. And now her income was to be skimpier still. She clucked her tongue at the Volvo, murmured, “I hope you’ve got another hundred thousand miles in you, old girl,” then unlocked the car and opened the rear left-hand door.
She’d expected Black to register surprise when she’d told him that she had her things right outside in her car, as if she lived in the old heap of a Volvo, but he hadn’t even blinked. Actually, h
auling around what was left of the belongings accumulated in six years as an ADA had been her idea of thinking positive, like a teenage boy carrying a condom in the hope that opportunity would come knocking, and for once her positive thinking had worked. And—ta—taa—there they were, all her lawyerly possessions, packed in twin three-by-three-foot cardboard boxes which sat side by side on her backseat. One box was an Oreo Cookies container and the other had once held El Cid Picante Sauce, and she’d begged both boxes from the manager of the Tom Thumb Supermarket near her home. The six-inch, bright green plastic Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle figurines scattered about on top of the boxes weren’t part of Sharon’s legal paraphernalia, of course—God, she thought, my darling little girl, Tomboy Princess—and Sharon quickly dropped the figures, one by one, on the floorboard, halfway expecting Donatello to leap up and shout, “Cowabunga,” loudly in her ear. Melanie had outgrown the Turtles, just as she’d outgrown the Care Bears, Big Bird, and everything else passing through her little-girl existence—criminy, Sharon thought, including her clothes—and Sharon planned to drop Donatello and company off the first time she passed a Goodwill station.
The digital clock radio which peeked at her through the crack in the nearest box’s lid wasn’t legal material, either, not exactly, but as far as Sharon was concerned, the radio was as vital as the paper-bound editions of the Texas Penal Code and the Code of Criminal Procedure. She confessed to being a C&W nut, and had worked out many a final argument and briefed many an issue as she hummed along with Garth Brooks or Jerry Jeff Walker on Country 96.3.