Irreparable Harm (A Legal Thriller)

by Melissa F. Miller

  Chapter 31

  The offices of Prescott & Talbott

  8:30 p.m.

  One of the main benefits of working for a big law firm was the repository of documents the attorneys could draw on. Whatever you needed to file, someone had already done one. And because the document had been drafted, revised, and vetted by fellow Prescott attorneys, you could be confident that it was done properly. Cases were Shepardized, citations conformed to the Blue Book, and local rules of procedure were followed.

  Despite this wealth of material, however, a diligent Prescott & Talbott attorney never filed papers without double and triple checking that everything was in order, which meant that—in the end—the client paid just as much for its recycled documents as it would have had the attorney drafted them from scratch.

  With all those resources at their fingertips and with time at a premium, Sasha and Naya wanted to copy a motion for an emergency TRO from the database to use as their starting point. Creating one from whole cloth seemed so inefficient. But they both knew they’d leave their electronic fingerprints all over the network if they logged in.

  It occurred to Sasha that she knew Noah’s login and password information. So they accessed the database as a dead man.

  Dozens of people had been using Noah’s login all day long in an effort to get their arms around his cases. If someone really wanted to, they’d be able to match up the times that the database was accessed with the names of lawyers and staff who were signed in at the reception desk after hours.

  The results would be imprecise, though, because signing in was not policed and Sasha and Naya had paused at the register when they returned from Mickey’s office but had not entered their names.

  Cinco had resisted efforts to install card readers throughout the office. Prescott & Talbott employees and guests simply flashed their badges as they walked through the reception area. It was more or less an honor system. And Sasha and Naya intended to exploit it.

  They entered Noah’s attorney number and the name of his boat, “Res Ipsa Loquitur.” Latin for “the thing speaks for itself.” Then they searched until they found a recent TRO filed in the jurisdiction.

  Sasha copied it, changed the caption, customized the facts, updated the law, and drafted the affidavit. She printed and then closed the document without saving it, but she didn’t kid herself. Someone who knew where to look would find a trail that led right back to her.

  She read it over. It was solid. Much better than what Cook would be expecting from Mickey’s shop. It hit all the elements.

  To obtain a temporary restraining order, a movant must show four things: One, he is likely to win on the merits of the underlying argument. Two, he will suffer an irreparable harm if the TRO is not granted. Three, it will be less harmful to the defendant if the court issues the TRO than it will be to the plaintiff if the court doesn’t issue the TRO. Four, any public interest weighs in favor of issuing the TRO.

  Sasha tried to think of a harm more irreparable than death. She couldn’t.

  She had Naya review the facts. They had to give Cook enough to hang his hat on but not so much that it would be obvious Mickey had access to Hemisphere Air’s privileged information.

  Naya agreed they’d walked the line safely.

  “I think we’re done,” Sasha said. And it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet.

  She left a voicemail for Lettie, asking her to check first thing in the morning with the mailroom, UPS, and FedEx to try to track down a package from either a Tim Warner or Patriotech that should have been delivered to her attention but hadn’t.

  “Let’s call a messenger and put this to bed,” she said to Naya, slipping the emergency motion into a manila folder. She slid the folder into Mickey’s well-worn bag and fastened the buckle.

  “I’ll deliver it, Mac.” Naya’s eyes were tired but her mouth was set. “Carl’s picking me up. He can run me over to Fox Chapel. It’s just across the bridge.”

  Faithful Carl. He’d been Naya’s next door neighbor for years and had been open about his attraction to her. Naya’d been equally open that she didn’t have the same feelings for him, but Carl was undeterred. He’d do anything Naya asked of him. To her credit, Naya didn’t abuse his infatuation. She did accept his help when he offered it. She seemed to consider him a friend.

  Sasha was glad Naya wouldn’t be going home alone. She couldn’t see how Naya would be a target, but then she never would have expected to be attacked in the stairwell of the federal courthouse at eleven o’clock in the morning, either.

  “Okay,” she said, “that’d be great. Tell Carl I’ll reimburse his mileage.”

  Naya waved the offer away with a hand.

  “And thank you for your help tonight. I promise if this goes south I’ll keep your name out of it.”

  “I know you will, Mac. That’s why I stayed. Do me a favor and be careful.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Connelly left it on four.”

  Naya frowned.

  The fourth level of the garage was shadowy, and the elevator bay was obscured by a wide column. She never parked on four if she could avoid it. No one did. Which was why there was a spot available when Connelly returned her car to her at lunchtime.

  “Naya, I’ll be fine.”

  “I hate that elevator. That blind spot freaks me out.”

  “I’ll take the stairs. I’ll be fine. Now, go. Carl’s probably waiting in the fire lane and you need to deliver that bag and get home to your mom.”

  Naya came around the desk and surprised Sasha with a quick, light hug. “Good night, Mac. You take care and don’t stay too late.”

  “Good night.”

  Naya hung Mickey Collin’s bag across her chest diagonally and left.

  Sasha watched her go. She would wade through her e-mails then cut out. Another thirty minutes, tops. Then she’d pick up some takeout and meet Connelly to plan for tomorrow.

  Connelly. Funny how he’d become a fixture so quickly. An annoying fixture, to be sure. But, still. She called up his cell phone number. Four rings. No answer.

  “Connelly, it’s me. It’s quarter to nine. I should be home before ten. I’ll bring Thai food. Let me know what you like.”

  She dropped her phone into her bag and it thudded against Connelly’s enormous gun. Just having the gun in her purse made her feel queasy with responsibility.

  She stared at the computer screen. Her in-box was devoted to Noah’s death; e-mails provided information about the arrangements, expressed sympathy, and discussed the transition of his various matters.

  An image of Laura Peterson, alone and grieving, flashed in her mind, and, on an impulse, she dialed the Petersons’ home number.

  Laura answered on the third ring. “Peterson residence.” Her voice was strained, but still elegant.

  “Laura, it’s Sasha McCandless.”

  “Sasha.”

  “I am so sorry about Noah, Laura. I just wanted to call and see if you need anything. Is there anything I can do?”

  “That’s very kind of you, Sasha. I have a friend coming over to stay with me. I’ll be fine.”

  Laura sounded drained.

  “Okay, well, please. If you think of anything . . .,” Sasha trailed off.

  “Thank you.” Laura paused, and then she said, “Sasha, I hope you know what high regard Noah held you in. He respected you very much as a lawyer and liked you a great deal as a person.”

  Sasha’s eyes filled. She blinked back the warm tears, afraid if she started crying, she might not stop.

  “That means a lot to me, because I felt the same way about him.”

  Sasha decided to tell her, not about her belief that Noah had been murdered—she couldn’t do that until she had some answers—but about the trip to France.

  “I don’t know if Noah got a chance to tell you before ... before he died, but he was planning to take a sabbatical and take you to the French countryside for a year.”


  Sasha hoped she’d made the right decision. Laura wasn’t saying anything.

  “Laura?”

  “Are you sure about that, Sasha?” Laura’s voice was soft.

  “Yes. We were having a dri. . . talk. He seemed distracted and I asked why. He definitely was planning to tell you the last time I saw him.”

  Laura’s response came slowly. “But, why would he do that? Take a year off from the firm?”

  Now it was Sasha’s turn to hesitate. She’d started this. She had to be honest; she just hoped the truth wouldn’t cause Noah’s widow more pain. “He was afraid you were going to leave him.”

  Sasha heard Laura’s sharp intake of breath. “He was right.”

  “Pardon me?” Sasha must have misheard.

  “I was going to leave him. After all, he left me years ago. For the firm.”

  The two women sat in mutual silence. Sasha didn’t know what Laura was thinking. Sasha was thinking she was glad Noah had died not knowing.