Sasha McCandless 03 - Irretrievably Broken

by Melissa F. Miller

  He flicked his eyes to Cinco, looking for confirmation that he’d delivered the right message. Cinco gave a little nod.

  Sasha stared straight ahead at the painting on the wall. As befit Cinco’s private conference room, it was a nude. There was no question that his secretary had not posed for this one. According to the brass placard hanging beneath it, it was the work of Philip Pearlstein, a native Pittsburgher and noted painter who specialized in nude models posing with unusual objects—in this case, a yoga ball.

  She ran through a series of calculations in her head. When she’d spoken to Greg, he’d admitted that Ellen had filed for divorce because of his gambling. He’d also admitted he’d lost his job because he’d taken to stopping in at the casino on his way to work, which inevitably led to him not going to work. So, with no income and Ellen’s estate tied up in the divorce, Greg had told her that, despite his ritzy address, cash flow was a problem.

  But Sasha simply wasn’t willing to be at Prescott & Talbott’s beck and call. Greg would have to figure out another way to pay her. She wondered if he had any space on his credit cards. Presumably, Naya could set arrange for her to accept credit cards. To date, all her clients had paid by wire transfer or check—yet another strike against dabbling in criminal law.

  She pushed her chair back from the table and stood.

  “Your proposal’s not feasible. If Mr. Lang wants me to represent him, we’ll work something out between the two of us. But I won’t have you breathing down my neck and second-guessing me.”

  Sasha reached in her purse for the retainer check, prepared to throw it on the gleaming table as part of her dramatic exit. It had been a mistake to even consider taking the case. What she really needed was a clean break from her former firm.

  Kevin Marcus leaned forward and said, “Wait. Please reconsider your position. I personally assure you that we won’t interfere wth your work. We will, however, stand ready to give you any support you request in your representation of Greg Lang. I’m sure we can work through this.”

  His voice was strained, but he stopped just short of begging.

  She remained standing but asked, “Why is this so important to the firm? And don’t feed me some line about friendship with Greg Lang. I bet half of you couldn’t pick him out of a lineup.”

  Kevin looked at Cinco. Cinco looked at Fred.

  Fred spread his paw-like hands wide and leaned back in his chair. “Seems to us Ellen was killed and her fella was framed to make the firm look bad.”

  “You think someone killed one of your female partners and framed her estranged husband so you’d get bad press?”

  “That’s right.”

  Had Fred slipped into dementia without anyone noticing? His conjecture was insane. She looked around the table. Everyone else was nodding, like it was a reasonable theory.

  “Assuming that were true, how exactly does it make Prescott look bad?” Sasha asked.

  Kevin fixed her with a look. “Come now, Sasha. You know we got very low marks on the Mothers in the Law’s last survey.”

  He tilted his head, as if he was wondering whether she had been one of the anonymous female lawyers who had responded to the survey by describing Prescott & Talbott as a place where relationships go to die.

  She held his gaze and said, “I was single, not to mention childless, during my time here, Kevin, remember? I didn’t pay any more attention to those surveys than I did to the mandatory retirement age issue. It wasn’t relevant to my life.”

  Marco bobbed his head and said, “And that’s why you were so damn good, Mac. No family, no kids. No whining about maternity leave and breast pumps and on-site daycare. None of that bullshit.”

  Cinco jumped in and said, “Although work-life balance issues weren’t high on your priority list, Sasha, they are important to the new associates and law students.” He paused and looked hard at Marco, then he said, “And I mean the women and the men. They all want to know that they’ll have time to raise their families.”

  Sasha shook her head. “Ellen didn’t have kids.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Kevin conceded. “But, you know, that survey also made a big point about the divorce rate for our lawyers. It’s hovering at around eighty percent for the partners.”

  Sasha thought of Noah, who had died convinced that his wife was going to leave him. As it turned out, he’d been right. Feeling neglected because he was always working, Laura Peterson had been having an affair.

  She looked around the table, meeting each of their eyes for several seconds, then she asked, “Do you have any actual support for your belief that Greg is being framed for Ellen’s murder in an effort to sully the firm’s reputation?”

  John cleared his throat, but Cinco spoke first, saying, “Of course not. If we had proof, we’d have taken it to the district attorney the instant Greg was charged.”

  He sat back and waved both hands, gesturing to the men sitting around the table. “We may not have proof, Sasha, but we have, collectively, over a hundred years of solid legal judgment in this room. And, in our judgment, this is an act against the firm. Ellen and her husband, are——horrific as this may sound—collateral damage. Someone has committed this heinous crime in an effort to, as you say, sully our stellar reputation.”

  Sasha tried to ignore her rising nausea. Leave it to Prescott & Talbott to consider itself the true victim.

  When Cinco finished his self-serving speech, she said, “Not to be cute, but who do you think would murder one of your partners so your firm ranking plummets? WC&C?”

  Fred chuckled and covered it with a cough.

  Whitmore, Clay, & Charles—or WC&C—was probably indistinguishable from Prescott & Talbott to the average Pittsburgher. And for good reason. They were both well-established, well-regarded law firms that had served the city since the 1800s. Both employed hundreds of attorneys, most of whom hailed from the very best law schools. Both had filled seats on the federal bench and in boardrooms of publicly traded companies with their former partners. Both charged rates that topped out around a thousand dollars an hour.

  But if one were to suggest to an attorney employed by either firm that the two were interchangeable, one had better be prepared to duck. The bad blood between the firms was legendary. And long-lived.

  The three attorneys who formed WC&C broke off from Prescott & Talbott in 1892, in the aftermath of the bloody Homestead Strike. The strike, one of the most violent labor-management disputes in the history of the United States, had resulted in a shootout between striking steelworkers and Pinkerton agents, who had been hired to provide security for the steel mill.

  The Pinkertons had approached the mill from the river after dark. When they attempted to land their barges, the striking workers were waiting for them. In the end, several men were killed on each side of the gun battle; the Pinkertons surrendered and were beaten by a throng that was estimated to contain more than five thousand striking mill workers and sympathizers; the militia was called in; and the battle moved to the courtroom.

  More than a dozen of the strike leaders were charged with conspiracy, rioting, and murder. Similar charges were filed against the executives of the steel mill. Eventually, the charges were dropped against both the workers and management. Prescott & Talbott, of course, represented the Carnegie Steel Company; its owner, Andrew Carnegie; and Henry Clay Frick, who was running the company.

  Josiah Whitmore, a partner at Prescott & Talbott, was contacted by the Pinkerton Agency, who wanted to sue the steel company in civil court for putting its men in harm’s way. Prescott & Talbott couldn’t take the case because it would be a conflict of interest, but Whitmore saw it as his chance to strike out on his own.

  Joined by Matthew Clay and Clyde Charles, two newly minted lawyers, he left the firm and opened WC&C. In the early days, the three specialized in suing Prescott & Talbott clients, which resulted in protracted, bitter courtroom battles, where Prescott & Talbott tried to have their opponents disqualified.

  Despite the publi
c enmity between the two firms, the arrangement had worked to their mutual advantage for more than a hundred years: both firms ran up their clients’ bills fighting over every little thing, no matter how minor, and the attorneys at both firms could pound their chests about their take-no-prisoners battles.

  Marco turned to Sasha and said, with no trace of humor, “I wouldn’t put it past those bastards.”

  She was still formulating a response when Cinco frowned at Marco and said, “Of course it isn’t WC&C. But, I have no doubt that someone has murdered one of our respected colleagues—one of your former colleagues, I might add—in a deliberate attempt to smear the firm.”

  Cinco spoke with such self-assurance and conviction that she almost forgot his belief had no basis in fact.

  Will cleared his throat and added, “Sasha, even if you aren’t convinced that we’re right, it’s clear you aren’t convinced that we’re wrong. That means there’s a chance Mr. Lang was wrongly accused. Imagine being charged with a murder you didn’t commit.”

  She did as he asked. She put aside her own reaction to the man and to the firm’s idiotic theory and put herself in Greg’s shoes. She pictured herself finding Connelly’s lifeless body and then being charged with his murder. Facing that fear in the middle of a sea of grief and despair.

  She nodded.

  Sasha walked out of the Carnegie with the retainer check and two new things: an agreement that she would defend Greg Lang and keep Volmer—and Volmer only—in the loop and the unshakeable feeling that she was being manipulated.

  CHAPTER 13

  Leo took a deep breath before he pushed open the door to Sasha’s office building. The jangle of the bells over the door caught Ocean’s attention, and she turned around from the chalkboard where she was writing the lunch specials in stylized bubble letters.

  “Hey, Leo, you wanna cup?” she offered, with a wide smile.

  Leo smiled back. “Not right now. Thanks, though. Is Sasha around?”

  Ocean’s shoulders rose in an exaggerated shrug and she said, “I haven’t seen her. I just got here.”

  “Okay. Save me a bowl of that white chicken chili,” Leo said, nodding to her half-finished menu.

  He took the stairs by two and poked his head into Sasha’s office. It was empty. Her screensaver—an image of the Lady of Justice statue that graced the clock tower atop the Clear Brook County Courthouse—was on, so she’d been gone more than a few minutes.

  Probably across the hall gossiping with Naya.

  He rapped on Naya’s door.

  “Come in,” Naya called.

  He eased the door open and craned his neck to look in: no Sasha.

  “Oh, it’s you. I thought you were Mac,” Naya said.

  “Hello to you, too, Naya.”

  He strode in and flung himself into the cream- and navy-striped guest chair.

  “Come on in and have a seat, fly boy,” Naya deadpanned.

  “Thanks.”

  Leo smiled at her. For all her prickliness, he knew Naya liked him. Or, he was pretty sure she did. Most of the time.

  “Where is she, anyway?” he asked.

  “She must still be at P & T.”

  “Prescott & Talbott? What’s she doing there?”

  Naya gave him a sharp look. “She didn’t tell you?”

  Leo shook his head. Their conversation the night before had centered on his job opportunity, before devolving into a trip down memory lane, as they recounted their year together over drinks—far too many drinks. She hadn’t mentioned work at all, which, in retrospect, was unlike her.

  Naya arched an eyebrow.

  “What?” Leo asked.

  She sighed. “They asked her to represent Ellen Mortenson’s husband on his murder charges.”

  Leo shook his head like he had water in his ear. “I’m sorry, Prescott & Talbott wants Sasha to represent the man who’s been charged with killing a Prescott partner?”

  “You got it.”

  “That’s ...” he trailed off, unable to come up with a word to describe the situation.

  Naya had several, however.

  “Insane? Ridiculous? Inadvisable? A terrible idea?”

  “Well, yeah. She’s not going to do it, right?”

  Naya shrugged, with an exaggerated motion, as if to say, who knows what that girl will do. She narrowed her eyes, taking in his khakis and sweater.

  “No work today?”

  It was Leo’s turn to give Naya a sharp look.

  “Sasha didn’t tell you?” he asked.

  “Tell me what?”

  “I’ve been offered a job in the private sector. Outside D.C.”

  Naya’s dark eyes flashed, but she hid her surprise and said, “You’re not going to take it, though.”

  He said nothing.

  “Leo?”

  He couldn’t tell her. He didn’t trust her not to tell Sasha. The job offer was more like a soft landing that his supervisor had arranged. Apparently, the Department of Homeland Security had decided he was not a team player, as befit a special agent with the U.S. Air Marshal’s Office. “Lone wolf,” was what his supervisor had said, in describing his unofficial investigation into the Hemisphere Air crash and the role he’d played in the Marcellus Shale mess up in Clear Brook County.

  Leo hadn’t bothered to argue the decision. He’d been tagged as a problem. His impeccable record, past commendations, and indisputable effectiveness meant nothing now, as far as the Department was concerned. It was a stain that no amount of argument would remove. He supposed he should be grateful that he had enough goodwill left within the Department to get him the cushy civilian job with the six-figure salary.

  But, he didn’t want Sasha to know. He knew she’d blame herself, even though he’d decided on his own to skirt the limits of his authority to help her. She had never asked him to do anything. He’d wanted her to see him as indispensable. He’d wanted to be important to her.

  Naya was still staring at him. Or glaring at him, actually. She was leaning forward in her chair like she was ready to spring at him.

  “I don’t know, Naya. It’s an enticing offer.”

  Her glare grew even fiercer.

  Leo felt the absurd need to make her understand. “Come on, Naya, Sasha knew my position here was temporary.”

  It was true. He’d been working out of the Pittsburgh field office for nearly a year with no real justification for it. Once it had become clear that no marshals had been involved in the Hemisphere Air disaster, he should have packed up and returned to D.C. Instead, he’d stayed because of Sasha. And, up until the powers that be had decided he was no longer wanted in the department, they’d been happy to let him stay indefinitely. But, they could have called him back at any time, and Sasha had understood that.

  Naya proved to be less understanding.

  “Sure, right, Homeland Security could have told you to haul your butt back to D.C., but they didn’t, did they? You went out and got yourself a better gig with no regard for Sasha or her feelings,” she said, her voice thick with anger.

  “It’s not like that,” he protested.

  “Then what’s it like?” she shot back.

  Leo clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. It wouldn’t matter what he said; Naya was on the attack now, like a mother bear.

  CHAPTER 14

  Sasha stared into the white foamy water pulsing up from the Point State Park Fountain and shivered. The early October wind whipped through the water, sending a spray in her direction. Some time in the next few weeks, the Department of Public Works would shut off the fountain’s pumps for the winter and the eight hundred thousand gallons that fed into the fountain from the underground river that ran under the Point would flow wherever it was they flowed.

  She scanned the park. It was nearly deserted, except for her and a lone older man walking a white cockapoo on the far side of the park. Both owner and dog had their heads bowed, leaning into the wind. The dog yipped and yapped at the leaves that skittered by him.

&nb
sp; She looked back to the fountain. Leo was going to leave. How could he not? A position as the chief security officer of a large pharmaceutical company was a great career opportunity.

  Her chest tightened and her eyes stung.

  Don’t cry.

  Growing up with three older brothers had taught Sasha innumerable survival skills. She could pitch a tent in a driving rainstorm, dress a good-sized wound without growing faint, and change her car’s oil. But the skill she valued most was her ability to shut down her tears before they started flowing. It was just a matter of discipline.

  Think about something else.

  Like why the firm was so eager for her to represent Greg Lang. The partners couldn’t actually believe Ellen had been slaughtered and Greg framed just so Prescott & Talbott would be dinged on work-life balance surveys. It was too crazy.

  But, they were worried, deeply worried, about something. That much was clear from the cloud of fear that had hung over the conference room. As far as she could tell, Will didn’t seem to know their real motivation, and the others would never tell her.

  In the end, it didn’t matter. She’d been retained to represent Greg, regardless of why Prescott & Talbott wanted her. They’d gotten her. So, now what?

  Did she have an innocent client? Did it even matter? She didn’t know. What she did know was someone had taken pictures of Greg Lang at the poker table and sent them to his wife. Might as well start by finding out who and why.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Walking back to Prescott & Talbott’s garage to retrieve her car, Sasha pulled up Naya’s telephone number on her Blackberry.

  Naya answered on the third ring.

  “Where the hell are you, Mac?”

  “I took a walk after my meeting on the Death Star. Why, is something wrong?”