It was Sylvan’s turn to cock his head. “The bar association?” he asked. Then he let out a deep laugh. “No, Mr. Brunelle. I’m not from your licensing agency. But that does explain your responses. I was rather surprised—and impressed. But no, I’m not from the bar. I’m a sexologist. I specialize in nonreciprocal power relationships coupled with device and restraint protocols.”
Brunelle blinked again, his mind caught between the embarrassing mistake he’d made and his efforts to understand what Sylvan had just said.
“Bondage,” Sylvan translated. “That’s what it’s simplistically called by people who don’t really understand it.” He paused, then added, “And I’m thinking you fall into that category after all, eh, Mr. Brunelle?”
Brunelle felt the blush coming again. He was about to protest that he and his girlfriend had played a little bit, thank you very much, but some sense of ‘kiss and tell’ propriety made him hesitate just long enough.
“And don’t tell me you’ve played around with silk ribbons and holding hands over heads,” Sylvan repeated. “I’m talking about something far more complex, far more sophisticated than that sort of vanilla experimentation. In fact, that’s what I like to call ‘French vanilla.’ It may claim to have a touch more flavor, but when all is said and done, it’s still just vanilla.”
Brunelle’s mind stopped racing between thoughts of Kat, his neckties, and Robyn, just long enough to think rationally for a moment. If this wasn’t the bar investigator—and it certainly wasn’t—then…
“Why are you here?” Brunelle demanded, a bit testily at that point. He didn’t need his sexuality diminished by some ponytailed sexologist off the street. “Just professional interest in one of my cases?”
Sylvan took a moment, then leaned back in his seat again. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Brunelle. I believe I mentioned Mr. Jacobsen, the lawyer for Mr. Atkins?”
Brunelle nodded. He did recall that amid the embarrassing misunderstanding and subsequent belittlement.
“I’ve been retained by Mr. Jacobsen as an expert in the field of atypical sexual activities,” Sylvan explained. “If you don’t understand the relationship between Michael and Tina—and it’s clear you don’t—then the jury is likely to misunderstand it as well. It will be my job to educate them.”
Great, Brunelle thought. That should be… awkward.
“In any event,” Sylvan continued, “I wanted to introduce myself. I was in the courthouse anyway on an unrelated matter, so I thought I’d stop by. This sort of thing is usually better discussed in person than over the phone anyway. I thought Mr. Jacobsen had sent you an email with my resume, but apparently not. I’ll remind him to do that when we meet to discuss my testimony.”
Sylvan stood up.
“I must say,” he admitted, “I’m a bit disappointed that whole nineteen years thing was a misunderstanding. I was looking forward to being cross-examined by someone who actually knew what they were talking about. Oh well.”
He extended a hand to Brunelle, who shook it despite everything. He was just relieved the encounter was ending.
“Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Sylvan,” he said.
“Doctor,” Sylvan corrected. “Dr. Sylvan. I have a Ph.D. in sexology.”
Brunelle managed a tight smile. “Of course you do.”
He walked Sylvan back to the lobby, then returned to his desk and checked his spam filter. Sure enough, there was an email from Jacobsen from two days earlier, with Sylvan’s resume attached. Brunelle didn’t click on it. He knew enough.
He knew enough to know he didn’t know enough.
He pulled out his phone and finally sent his reply to Robyn: OK I’ll let you help me.
Then he decided to be honest: I need your help.
And finally, he decided to be candid: I need you.
Chapter 15
“It’s nice to be needed,” Robyn remarked as they sat down at the small table in the corner of the restaurant.
It was one of the nicest places Brunelle had ever been to, even if it was uncomfortably close to The Jade House where he and Kat regularly ate. It was called simply ‘The Pond’ and was hidden in the back of an unevenly paved parking lot, behind a strip mall of Asian markets at the edge of Seattle’s International District. He’d driven past that particular group of shops more times than he could count, but he’d never noticed the restaurant tucked away in the back. It was the kind of place he would have taken Kat to impress her and try get some action that night. Instead, Robyn had chosen it. He was pretty sure he knew what that meant.
The food was Vietnamese, the décor impeccable, and the lighting a perfect level of romantic dim. The maître d’ had taken one look at the old man with the young beauty and seated them in the back corner, partially behind some potted palms. More than enough privacy to discuss whatever such a couple might want to discuss over a late dinner.
Brunelle shook his head as he sat down. If they only knew.
“Uh, yeah,” he fumbled his reply. “I guess I need your help after all.”
Brunelle wasn't bad with women. He knew how to play the game. He knew switching back from needing Robyn to just needing her help wasn’t going to go unnoticed. But it was hard to play the game when he expected his quarterback to walk in any minute and find him giving the playbook to another team. Despite the splendor of The Pond, he was starting to wish they'd maybe gone someplace else.
Like Portland.
On the other hand, it was walking distance to Robyn's apartment, and he'd parked his car there, so no matter how things went, he was walking her back to her building. Maybe they could just grab an appetizer and leave before the QB showed up.
Robyn frowned at his reply, but her eyes held the smile still. “Oh, my help. Right.” She looked around the romantic restaurant. “Strictly business then. Well, at least I can write it off on my taxes.”
Brunelle grimaced. If he wasn't careful he could end up pissing off both women. So he did what he was best at: spinning with words, suggesting without saying, tempting without promising.
“Just because I said I need your help,” he answered, “doesn't mean that's all I need.”
The smile returned to Robyn's lips, made that much more seductive in the half-light. “Smooth, Mr. Brunelle,” she acknowledged. “But remember: I know what we do for a living. I do it too. We twist words to get what we want.”
Brunelle crossed his arms but maintained his own careful grin. “Maybe you do that, but I'm a prosecutor. My job is to seek the truth.”
Robyn didn't say anything for a long moment. Then she burst out laughing. “Oh, fuck you, Dave.” She shook her beautiful head, the red curls bouncing. “Didn't you learn anything playing defense attorney down in Cali?”
That stung. Not the accusation that he’d been too stubborn to learn from his brief experience as a defense attorney. And not being reminded about Kat, the one who’d convinced him to go to California in the first place; Kat wasn’t a sting—she was a dull ache in the back of his heart. No, what stung was that laugh. He didn’t like being laughed at. He didn’t like Robyn laughing at him.
It broke the trance. He suddenly realized he was an older man with a younger woman hiding in the corner of a romantic restaurant, pretending to be there to talk shop, but really thinking about, hoping for, but also afraid of what might happen between them after dinner. He shook his own head slightly, at himself. “Right,” he agreed weakly. “Good point. I was just kidding. But, uh, you know, this case is more difficult than I thought. You said you might have some insights?”
The waiter arrived before Robyn could answer. A young Asian man, dressed sharply in all black. He gave them each a glass of water with lemon, plus a pot of tea and a promise to return in a few minutes to take their orders.
Robyn rested her pretty face on her hand and scrutinized Brunelle across the table. Brunelle felt the weight of her stare and was glad the restaurant was dark enough that the burning in his cheeks was likely unapparent. He let his own gaze caress her featur
es. She really was beautiful. Stunning even. That one dimple was clearly visible as she grinned at him. Brunelle’s eyes drifted to the other cheek where the scar was only partially hidden by the dimness. He couldn’t imagine how anyone else could wear a facial scar with such magnificence. It wasn’t a scar; it was a beauty mark.
He was so caught up in the radiance of her face that he was actually startled when she finally spoke, doubly so by her words.
“I know you’re fucking the medical examiner,” she said. “I kinda don’t care.”
Brunelle felt his heart break into a sprint even as any potential response got stuck in his throat. Still, something inside him made him feel the need to defend his relationship with Kat. “I’m not just fucking her…” he started, but he lost where he might go next.
Robyn smirked. “Oh, right. She’s your girlfriend.”
Brunelle still chafed a bit at the whole ‘boyfriend-girlfriend’ label. He wasn’t sure why. It just seemed so high school. Nevertheless, he went ahead and adopted it. “Yeah.” But not with much conviction.
“She’s just your girlfriend, right?” Robyn pressed. “Not fiancée? Not wife?”
Brunelle shook his head. “No, just my—” but he choked on the ‘girlfriend’ word that time. “We date, I guess.”
“You mean you fuck,” Robyn laughed. “A couple times a week, right? Maybe dinner beforehand?”
Brunelle shrugged. It was more than that.
“Kinda like you and I are doing right now?” Robyn tested.
Brunelle shifted in his seat. He didn’t like being so transparent. “I thought we we’re talking about my case.”
Robyn lowered her eyes at him. “Really, Dave? You could have called me. We could have met in the Pit. Shit, we could have grabbed a coffee from the stand in the courthouse lobby. But none of those are gonna get you down my pants, are they?”
Brunelle wasn’t sure what to say. So Robyn kept talking.
“So, what’s the deal, Dave? Do you and Dr. Dead have rules about this?”
Brunelle cocked his head. “Rules?”
“Yeah, rules,” Robyn confirmed. “Can you see other people? You’re not married, right? Shit, a lot of marriages are open, but they have rules, ya know? Each partner knows what the rules are. What are your rules with Kitty Kat?”
Brunelle thought about it for a second. He and Kat had never discussed whether they could see other people. It never came up. He knew why, though. Of course they couldn’t see other people. That’s what it meant to be boyfriend-girlfriend … didn’t it?
“Uh,” Brunelle stammered, “we don’t really have rules. I mean, we haven’t talked about it.”
Robyn shook her head at him. “Tsk, tsk, sir. You have to have rules. How can you be safe if you don’t know the rules?”
Brunelle wasn’t sure. “I don’t know.”
Robyn reached across the table and patted his hand. It was more motherly than sexual, but the feel of her flesh on his aroused him anyway. “I know. That’s your problem. You’re a rule-follower but you don’t even know the rules.”
Brunelle turned his hand over and grasped hers. His grip was strong. He could tell she liked it. “So where’s the rule book?”
Robyn tugged slightly on her hand, but only to see if he’d let go. He didn’t. She smiled and met his gaze under lidded eyes. “It’s at my apartment.”
Chapter 16
Despite the urge to leave for Robyn's apartment right then, they actually stayed for dinner. Brunelle was glad for two reasons. First, the food was excellent. Cashew chicken, five stars. Second, it gave his blood time to cool--and redirect itself upwards to his brain. By the time they reached Robyn's apartment, Brunelle had managed to recover whatever part of him remembered the rule about staying faithful to his girlfriend.
Robyn stepped up onto the small porch at the entrance of her apartment building. When Brunelle didn't follow, she turned back. “Aren't you coming up?”
Brunelle took a deep breath. There had been few things in his life he'd wanted to do more than he wanted to do Robyn right then. But somehow he managed to say, “I think maybe I shouldn't.”
One thing Brunelle had first noticed about Robyn was how she always seemed to be smiling. Even those times her mouth traded the grin for a more serious expression, the spark of her smile still twinkled in her eyes. So he was struck not so much by his sudden flash of will power in refusing her as by the stony expression it elicited.
She stared at him for several long seconds, through narrowed, smile-less eyes. Finally, she shoved a fist onto a perfectly curved hip and said, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Brunelle shrugged and looked down. He didn't like her eyes without the smile. “I think it's probably better if we say goodnight out here.”
He looked back up to see her still staring at him, her disbelief fully apparent on those perfect features of hers. After a moment, she cracked a grin, then glanced down and shook her head. When she looked up again, the smile-light had return to her eyes. She stepped off the porch and right into Brunelle's space. He didn't step away and she laid a hand on his chest, then looked up into his eyes.
Brunelle's heart almost beat out of his chest. If she'd ordered him inside right then, he would have obeyed. He would have done anything she'd asked. But she didn't ask him anything. Instead, she told him something.
“You texted me. You said you needed me. You asked me out to dinner. I picked the place, but you paid. And you walked me all the way home. You did all that. Not me, you.” She took his chin in her hand. Her grip was hot and strong. “But now you're telling me no.”
She looked down and shook her head. “That hurts my feelings.”
Then she shoved him away by his face and leveled a glare that bore right through him. “And that's against the rules.”
Chapter 17
The next morning was painful. In part because of the regret of not having spent the night with Robyn. In part because of the hangover from trying to drown that regret in whiskey when he got home. But mostly because, this time, the unexpected visitor at the front window really was an investigator from the bar association.
At least she’s pretty, Brunelle thought. Tall, thin, long black curls, and fashionable glasses. He could think of worse things to look at as he watched his career slip away from him.
Brunelle smiled as he extended his hand in greeting. “Dave Brunelle.”
The investigator shook it with a warm, firm grasp. “Yvonne Taylor, from the Bar Association. Nice to meet you. Do you have a few minutes to speak with me this morning?”
Brunelle knew the right answer. “Of course. I always have time for the Bar Association.”
Some of his defense attorney friends had a saying: ‘Bar card first.’ It meant clients—especially criminal defendants—were likely to ask you to do things which were morally questionable and professionally unethical. Even if the requests were tempting in their potential effectiveness, it wouldn’t do anyone any good if you lost your bar license. No single defendant was worth that. It didn’t come up nearly as often for prosecutors. Victims usually didn’t ask you to do unethical things; cops weren’t supposed to. Either way it was easy to say no.
Unless, Brunelle realized, it was a defense attorney asking you to do something that wasn’t actually unethical but the criminal defendant would file a bar complaint anyway.
Brunelle led them back to his office and they took their respective stances. Taylor, sitting in a guest chair, the predator. Brunelle, the prey, hiding behind his desk.
“I’ll try to make this quick,” she said. “You’ve received our letter. It outlines the allegations against you. Primarily, the grievant is alleging that you violated Rule of Professional Conduct 4.2, which prohibits a lawyer from directly contacting a person he knows is represented by an attorney.”
“Well, see,” Brunelle tried to smile casually, “his lawyer was the one who asked me to talk with him and he was present the entire time.”
Taylor just stared at
him for a moment. She was frozen in the conversational pose she’d been in as she’d finished her last sentence. She looked like a statue of a pretty bar investigator. She waited long enough to make it uncomfortable, then said, “I wasn’t finished.”
Brunelle’s heart sank. It already wasn’t going well. He became acutely aware that his future was in the hands of a stranger who may not have the background and experience to truly understand who he was or what he did. And then he realized that was probably how Master Michael felt about him.
He leaned back and sat up straight in his desk chair. “I’m sorry. Please. Go ahead.”
Taylor waited another long moment. The kind of long moment designed to make sure the other party knows who’s in control. Brunelle knew. He didn’t like it, but he knew. Then she spoke again.
“As I was saying,” she drew the words out, “it is a violation of the Rules of Professional Conduct for a lawyer to directly contact someone the lawyer knows is represented by counsel. Such communication must go through the represented person’s counsel. That is the allegation against you. My job is to investigate the circumstances to determine whether the RPCs have been violated. If so, it will be up to the Discipline Committee to determine what sanction to impose.” Another pause. Brunelle knew not to interrupt. He also guessed what she was going to say next. “Up to and including disbarment.”
Brunelle knew that was a mostly empty threat. Even if they decided he shouldn’t have talked with Master Michael, it was unlikely they would pull his license. He’d probably just get an admonishment. Or maybe a formal reprimand. Probably not an actual suspension. And almost certainly not disbarment.
Then again, he couldn’t believe he was in trouble with the bar in the first place. It was just a misunderstanding. An accident.
“Do you even know the actual language of RPC 4.2?” Taylor challenged.
Substantial Risk (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Series Book 5) Page 7