“Fine, fine,” I said. I took a sip of the water, then another, grateful for the cool slickness on my throat. “I didn’t remember that,” I said. I glanced at Chief Manning. “That morning, I mean, not until now.”
I tried to get my mind away from the image of Caroline, eyes wide, her back pushed into that corner. I tried to force myself into the detached clinical-questioning mode I went into during depositions, but I found it difficult to come up with something to say.
Again there was a hush at the table, and I considered changing the subject for good. Instead, I took a deep breath and asked, “And had my mother passed away? I mean, was she dead by the time Dan found us?” I tried to make this sound like normal conversation, but I already knew the answer.
“Correct,” Chief Manning said. His fork clanked on his plate as he cut a piece of lasagna. “She’d passed by then. Maybe she would have lived if she’d gotten immediate medical attention after she fell down the stairs.”
“Lou,” Bert said in a chastising tone.
He put his fork down and looked at his wife, then returned his attention to his plate. “That’s just speculation, though. She had a big head injury, and internal bleeding in the head can be nasty to treat. Sometimes there’s nothing they can do for it.”
“She died in her sleep then?” I found this concept oddly comforting.
“Seems so.”
“But how did she fall down the stairs?” I supposed people tripped and fell all the time, but my mom had been a runner, a graceful woman, and it seemed strange that she would accidentally fall.
Chief Manning turned his head toward me, a wondering expression on his face. “She just slipped. At least that’s what you told us.”
11
The alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. I staggered to the bathroom and stood under a hot shower. I told myself to hurry. I had to get on the road to Chicago before the traffic hit. I had to find out whether my arbitration decision was back. And then I would meet with the McKnight people, which hopefully wouldn’t include Sean McKnight.
But my body refused to be rushed, and my mind rebelled against the thought of leaving Woodland Dunes, so I leaned against the tiled wall, letting the water envelop me, letting my mind wake and sift through my dinner with the Mannings last night.
Chief Manning had said that he had interviewed me personally after my mom died. He’d interviewed all of my family, in fact, and both Caroline and I said that we had been talking to my mom by the stairs when she tripped and fell. Afterward, my mother said she was fine but that she wanted to lie down, so we helped her to bed. And it was in that bed, with her daughters in the same room, that she died.
I listened to Chief Manning talk, trying to remain impassive, to pretend he was just a witness at one of my many depositions. And all along I was willing more of my memories to spring into my mind. Yet as hard as I tried, I couldn’t recall my mother falling down the stairs. Was I not able to remember because it hadn’t happened, because Caroline and I had been covering for someone, maybe our father? Or could I have been lying to save my big sister, the one who needed lengthy psychiatric attention years later?
The thought that I’d been there that night had jolted me. I was seeking answers, when all along they might simply be hibernating in my mind, waiting to be awakened.
As the water pelted me, I kept thinking about that morning when I awoke with my mother next to me—dead, I now knew—and Dan calling from the other side of the door, Caroline curled in the corner. I had been wearing the same clothes I had on when I saw my mother stumbling to the door, her hand on her head, talking to someone. That scene with my mother at the door must have happened the night before I’d woken up in her bed, which meant it must have happened after she fell, and that was why she was clutching her head.
I squeezed my eyes shut in frustration. If only I could fill in the details of the fall, then I could be sure it was an accident, not murder as the letter had suggested.
I turned off the taps and dried myself with a fluffy white bath sheet, thinking that the only person who could help me remember, the only one who was there that night, was Caroline, and Caroline had disappeared. I wrapped the towel around me and looked in the mirror, combing my hair with a brush. My eyes, a muddy green, were unlike my mother’s or my siblings’, but my long, wet hair reminded me of my mom, of those nights she would run in the rain and come home with her hair soaked flat. Was that all she was doing on those nights? Or was she meeting a lover, that man on the beach, that man at the door that night?
I stopped brushing my hair. That man at the door. He might be able to help me, too. He might have seen something, heard something. My mother might have told him something.
I gripped the cool porcelain of the sink and squeezed my eyes shut once more, trying to bring back any details of him that would make him easier to find. But I could only see his hand, brown from the sun, resting on my mother’s blue shoulder, then gripping it, and I could hear the low rumble of his voice. I could feel myself holding on to the banister, peering around it. And then I remembered something new. I became my younger self, watching my mother at the door, watching that hand clutch her shoulder, and I saw that the man had worn a ring, because something glittered, catching the porch light through the open doorway. A gold ring with a large black diamond shape on the face. And then my mother swayed, pitched sideways, but the man caught her. I could see the back of his dark hair bending over her.
A knock interrupted me. I jumped, dropping the towel. The knock sounded again. I slipped into a hotel robe, glancing at the clock on my way to the door: 5:30 a.m. Who else was up this early? I had said goodbye to Ty last night, promising to keep in touch.
“Who is it?” I called, strangely afraid to open the door.
“Ty.”
He stood outside, holding a tray covered in white linen, and sitting atop that, a basket of rolls, a white ceramic pot of coffee and a plate of neatly sliced cantaloupe.
“I thought you should eat something before you leave.” He gestured with his head toward the tray, his copper hair falling over one eye. “I would have brought you cold pizza, but we were out.”
“You’re a sweetheart,” I said, giddy that it was him, not…Not who?
Ty brought the tray into the room, put it on the desk and poured me a cup of coffee. “Let me guess, skim milk?”
“I’m that predictable?”
Ty poured a little milk into my cup. “I don’t think I would ever use the word predictable to describe you.” He turned and handed me the mug.
“Will you stay and have one with me?” I smoothed my wet hair with my hand, aware that I was wearing only a robe.
“Nah. I know you have to get going.”
I took a sip of the coffee. It tasted like warm, roasted hazelnut. “Thank you,” I said. “This is a treat.”
“So was meeting you.”
We both smiled awkwardly. My grin felt stupid and too big for this time of the morning.
Ty glanced at his watch. “Well, I know you wanted to be gone by six. Let me know what happens, okay? And let me know if I can do anything else from this end.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Ty took a step forward, leaning toward me, until he kissed me softly on the cheek. “I’ll see you,” he said, and then he left.
I stood there, holding my coffee, wanting to call Matt in Portland and tell him I wouldn’t be coming, to call McKnight Corporation and tell someone else to check with the arbitrators. I could just stay here for a few more days, maybe longer.
But that wasn’t going to happen. I had work to do, obligations to fulfill, both in Chicago and in New York, and I had to get to Portland to see Matt. He was the only link to Caroline. Except for my father. The thought hit me like a slap. When I got back to Manhattan, I would have to face him.
Fifteen minutes later, I drove away from Long Beach Inn and headed out of Woodland Dunes, trying to ignore the feeling that I was leaving something behind.
12
At 7:
30 a.m., I reached the Chicago branch of Gardner, State & Lord, a cozy suite of rooms, so different from the huge, impersonal office in Manhattan. I used a spare office to log on to the firm’s network and check my e-mail. Immediately, I saw one from my father.
Hi, Sweetie,
I hope your arb went well, and you’re enjoying Chicago. It’s funny how I’ve been at this firm for nearly forty years, but now it doesn’t seem the same without you here. Give me a call and let me know when you’re returning. Love, Dad.
I read it over a few times. I searched for any hidden meanings, any hints that he knew what I was up to, but I only saw the words of the man who had raised me by himself.
When I was done checking e-mail, I called my secretary, Amy, who happened to be the most efficient twenty-year-old on the planet.
Amy had started working for me six months out of high school, after finishing a short secretarial course. Some evil person in Human Resources, who was irritated at having to give me my own secretary, when most associates had to share one, foisted Amy on me, figuring she would be horrid. She wasn’t. She was conscientious and funny and detail-oriented. And after I had trained her on my terrible shorthand and all my anal-retentive work habits—like diarying every court date five times (in my personal book, the firm book, the secretary book, the computer and my Palm Pilot)—Amy was secretarial perfection. I always encouraged her to go to college, but I secretly hoped she wouldn’t follow my advice. I would be lost without her.
“Well, you’ve got a million things here,” Amy said, “but three biggies.”
“Hit me.”
“Numero uno—Werner wants to know where your essay is.”
I groaned. Lev Werner was the head of the partnership-election committee, and he had been calling for weeks, asking me to write an essay on what it would mean to make partner. I thought that this sounded suspiciously like a beauty-contest question and wondered whether other candidates were being asked to write something similar.
“Tell him I’ll get it to him this week,” I said.
“Got it. Number two, your father called. Like, thirty times since you left, and four times since I talked to you Friday morning.”
“What did you tell him?” I had let Amy know that I’d be in Woodland Dunes, and I’d given her the number of Long Beach Inn just in case there were any emergencies, but I had asked her not to tell my father, or anyone else, where I was.
“I said you’d changed hotels in Chicago, and I’d lost the number of the second one.” Amy giggled at the thought that she could be so irresponsible.
“Great. Let him know I’ll be back tomorrow, and I’ll call him then.” I tried to wipe the thought of that from my mind. “What’s next?”
“The people from Your New Home called about that dep next week.”
I groaned. Your New Home was a big Internet client that was being sued for cybersquatting. One of their executives needed to be presented for his deposition next week in Delaware, but now that I was discovering information about my mom, I wanted to keep my schedule open if possible.
“Give it to Magoo,” I said, referring to Miguel Barragan, one of the cyber-law attorneys.
“No problem. What else do you need?”
I sighed. “An extra year.”
“You’re coming back today?”
“Today or tomorrow.” I was purposefully vague. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone I was going to Portland.
“All right. I’ll hold down the fort.”
Ten minutes after I hung up with Amy, I received a call from the arbitrators asking me to appear that morning for a reading of the decision. I felt that flicker of anticipation in my belly, that excitement I experienced whenever a verdict was back. In this case, I had a feeling that I might lose, and I would have to take the case to trial, but the nervous stomach was still there. These moments of anticipation were one of the reasons I loved being a trial attorney. You never knew what the outcome could be. It made for sleepless nights, but it was fun just the same.
I called Beth Halverson and asked her to bring Sean McKnight to the arbitration building.
I logged on to the Internet. Using a travel site, I checked the day’s flights from Chicago to Portland. There was one that left at 1:00 p.m. Perfect, I thought, checking my watch. The arbitration decision would be read at ten, which would only take a few minutes. We could return to McKnight headquarters and discuss our next move, which should take until no later than eleven-thirty, and then I could grab a cab to O’Hare. It was cutting it close, but I would make do. Matt wouldn’t talk to me over the phone about it, but he was clearly suspicious of my father. I wanted to know why. I wanted to meet my sister’s husband, and I wanted to help find her.
I clicked on the one-o’clock flight, then selected a red-eye return flight that left around midnight and would put me back in New York at seven in the morning. I could grab an hour or two of sleep and be in the office before lunch.
I fed my credit-card information into the computer, thinking I would be exhausted tomorrow, but it would be worth it. Today, I would meet my sister’s husband, and that was closer to Caroline than I’d been in two decades.
Someone had leaked the news of the arbitrators’ decision to the press, and a number of reporters, cameramen and photographers were loitering outside the room. When they saw me they went from bored chitchat directly into action, pressing microphones and camera lenses to my face, shouting questions. I pushed past them, elbowing a few in the process, thinking inanely that I was glad I had worn my red suit, but I wished I’d put on some more makeup at the office.
“How do you think your case went?” they yelled. “Are you expecting a victory?” “What will you do if the decision goes against you?” “Do you think the rumors of Sean McKnight’s problems with the Fieldings company will affect the decision?”
“All right!” I yelled, because they were starting to frighten me. Luckily, my outburst worked the same way; it scared them into silence like a pack of dogs. “I’ll make a brief statement,” I said.
Cameramen steadied their equipment, their lights blinking red; reporters pushed their microphones into position.
“The Fieldings allegations,” I said, “are just that—baseless allegations that have absolutely no merit and no bearing on this case. McKnight Corporation is an outstanding company with an outstanding record and nothing to hide. We look forward to the reading of the decision.”
When I was done, I pushed through them, refusing to answer any other questions. As soon as I got into the room, I called Beth on her cell and warned her about the press.
Five minutes later, she came into the room with Sean McKnight, the sounds of reporters’ questions following them. Beth looked a little rattled, but McKnight was cool as ever in a light gray spring-weight suit and silvery tie.
“Hailey,” Beth said. “How are you?”
“Fine.” I stood and shook both their hands. Sean McKnight looked me over, as if he would have to give a report later about precisely what I was wearing that day. He seem to grimace at the red of my suit, before he took a seat and pulled out the Wall Street Journal. I shot a look of exasperation at Beth, who rolled her eyes.
At exactly ten o’clock, the three arbitrators came into the room, greeted the participants and took their seats.
“As you know,” said the lead arbitrator, an older gentleman with a rumpled suit and white hair, “once we’ve rendered our decision, it is final. However, either party may file a notice of rejection of the award within fourteen days. If you choose to do so, you must pay the statutory fee and this case will be placed back on the trial call with the federal court. Any questions?”
I glanced at Evan Lamey sitting at the opposing counsel’s table. He shook his head, and I did the same. This was it. The excited tickle in my stomach grew.
The lead arbitrator opened a folder and read, “In the matter of Kingston Marketing Company versus McKnight Corporation, we find in favor of the plaintiff, Kingston Marketing, and award the sum of five-hu
ndred-thousand dollars.”
I let my breath ease out of my lungs, disappointed but not entirely unhappy. I had lost, just as I suspected, but the award was much lower than Kingston had asked for. In Lamey’s closing argument, he’d asserted that the company had lost millions because of the copyright and trademark infringement and asked for forty million in damages. So, essentially, this was a victory for McKnight Corporation. If they wanted to, McKnight could pay the award easily and the whole thing would go away, although I had a feeling that Evan Lamey would reject the award if I didn’t.
I turned to Beth and McKnight. Beth raised her eyebrows and mouthed the words “Not bad,” but McKnight had his mouth set in a steely line. I should have known that he would be happy with nothing but total domination.
“Let’s go back to the office to talk,” I said.
“I’ll meet you there,” Sean said, and then he was out of his seat and out the door, pushing through the reporters without a word.
Once Beth and I reached McKnight headquarters, Sean McKnight was not there to meet us as promised. Instead, Beth and I holed up in a conference room, going over the arbitration award, the effect it would have on the company if they paid it, and the pros and cons of advancing to trial. I kept looking at my watch, irritated that McKnight couldn’t be bothered to grace us with his presence, then growing more anxious than annoyed as the time crept past eleven and toward eleven-thirty. I had to leave for the airport by twelve at the latest. Even then, I was giving myself probably only thirty minutes to get through security and on the flight.
“So what do you think, Hailey?” Beth said, interrupting my thoughts. “Pay it or play it?”
“It’s not a bad judgment,” I said for the third time that day.
I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince myself or Beth. The award was minimal compared to the millions the company had, but while paying it could get McKnight Corporation and its CEO out of my life, it could also make the company look guilty and affect future earnings. Beyond that, I was growing concerned again about what the verdict would do to my chances of making partner at the firm. Any partners opposed to the thought of me making their ranks too soon could just point to a recent loss on behalf of a big client and use it as an excuse.
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