by E. C. Diskin
“Okay.” She grabbed her purse and pulled a small mirror out of the drawer. “Oh, jeez, look at me!”
Sarah came around behind her like a hairdresser and pulled the pencil from her hair, allowing it to fall to her shoulders. “Relax. Just brush those gorgeous auburn locks of yours and here, have some lipstick.” She offered her burgundy color.
“Uh, not so much,” Abby laughed, pushing it away.
“Okay, so maybe it doesn’t go with your hair. Here,” she pulled another from her bag, “a beautiful nude for the natural beauty.”
It was perfect. “Thanks.”
“I heard Peter say he’d be coming.”
“Ugh. Whatever happened to ‘associates only’?” Abby dreaded seeing him. If she ignored him, it would probably be bad, and if she tried to make conversation, it would be terrible.
“Who the hell knows? I’ve seen at least three partners today who plan to attend. The Neils will be tripping over themselves. We should bring a wet nap for their shit-laden noses.”
Abby laughed. They had made Neil a description of all the up-and-coming, hundred-hour-billing, born-to-schmooze go-getters. “Well, if nothing else, free cocktails and a three course meal,” Abby offered as she turned off her computer and grabbed her coat.
Sarah did a final lipstick check. “Damn straight. I’m ready for some good vodka. What do you think, cosmos?”
“No, ma’am.” Abby stuck to white wine and wouldn’t dream of having more than a couple of drinks for fear of letting loose in front of the wrong people. Sarah did not share her burden and always relished getting tipsy and telling people what she really thought—about Republicans, religion, the firm, lawyers. It was entertaining to watch.
They took a cab to Bistro Margot on Wells, where they were ushered upstairs for cocktails. Abby scanned the room for anyone with whom she’d care to catch up. There had once been several associates Abby would have considered friends. When they joined the firm after law school, it was like a group of pledges, all green, starting out together. But as the years had passed, most of her class had left, either for other firms, career changes, or family issues. She and about four others from her class remained. They each worked eighty- to one hundred-hour weeks and, other than the chit-chat at dinner in the cafeteria, kept to themselves. There didn’t seem time for friends anymore. She noticed some younger associates. They were still green and giddy about their jobs. Too cheery. Then there were the Neils and a few quiet lateral hires that kept to themselves. And Sarah. Thank God for Sarah.
Sarah, now at the bar, waved Abby over. When Abby arrived, Sarah handed her a cosmo and cut her off before the protest. “Just drink it, b-e-otch!” She was busting. “Okay. I’ve been mature about this long enough. There’s no one here we need to talk to. Tell me what the hell happened on Monday night.”
Abby smiled and acquiesced. “Well, you remember how it was raining on Monday?”
“Yeah?”
“And you know how you can never find a cab when it rains?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, when I gave up on pulling the all-nighter, it was like eleven o’clock. I was so wiped. I’d spent the whole weekend on that damn brief for Peter and I just knew I had to get a few hours of sleep.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“When I didn’t see a cab, I decided to take the L.”
“Okay.”
Abby continued on with all the highlights. Sarah’s jaw dropped and she gasped at the details. Abby realized how crazy and unbelievable it all sounded. She needed to keep it that way. To think of them as characters in a play. That was the only way to keep that woman’s face and those men out of her dreams. She and Sarah toasted to her safety and tried to joke about her saga.
“Hey, who’s that tall drink of water?” Sarah asked. She was pointing to a man talking to some of the younger associates. Thirty-something, tall, maybe six foot two, with wavy dark hair and some funky glasses, or so it seemed from his profile.
“I don’t know.”
“Me likey,” Sarah purred. “Let’s go introduce.”
“Aren’t you the flirtatious one, Miss ‘I’m getting married in a week.’”
“Well, I’m not dead, and besides, I’m only suggesting that we say ‘Hi,’ oh Uptight One.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Abby replied with a smile. She followed Sarah toward the stranger.
Sarah paid no attention to the conversation in full swing in front of her—they were first-years, after all. She tapped the stranger’s shoulder and he turned around.
“Hello there,” Sarah offered. He was even better from the front. His hair was a little long on top, swooped across his forehead, and his funky rectangular-shaped neon-green frames were a great complement to the green eyes. So Sarah’s type. “I’m Sarah Voight, senior associate, Chicago office. This is Abigail Donovan,” she said with a nod toward Abby. “And who might you be?”
The man studied Abby’s face. “Abigail Donovan, Abby?”
“Yes?”
“It’s me. Nate. Jesus, I don’t think I’ve seen you since…,” and then his face darkened as he remembered, “Denny’s funeral.”
The new-found style hadn’t looked familiar, but those green eyes and the dimple on his right cheek—how had she not recognized him?
“Nate!” She grabbed him and hugged hard. He hugged back like he had found a long-lost family member.
“Well, what’s this reunion about?” Sarah asked.
“I’m sorry,” Nate said, pulling out of the embrace and returning to the professional stance. “The name is Nathan Walters. I practically grew up at Abby’s house. Abby’s big brother was my best friend.”
“Was?”
Abby’s gaze stared straight through Nate. She was lost in thought as she muttered, “He died in high school.”
Nate chimed in. “Just before graduation.” He then turned back to Abby and offered a subject change. “Now, are you an attorney? I would never have guessed!”
Abby smiled. She knew his comment was not meant as an insult. “Yeah, I know, but we all have to grow up.”
Sarah joined in. “Are you kidding? She’s the golden girl—definitely one of our best and brightest.”
Abby nudged her friend. “Shut up, Sarah.”
Nate was all smiles. “Really? That’s great, Abby. But what about your music?”
Sarah was obviously confused, but Abby turned her attention back to Nate. She was not up for a trip down memory lane and changed topics.
“You can’t be a new associate then, right?”
“No, actually, I’m here to present to all of you. I’m running a legal aid clinic these days and I’m on one of my recruiting missions to get all the fine big-firm associates to do some pro bono hours for me.”
Sarah interjected. “Haven’t you heard? We don’t really do much pro bono around here. It was good recruiting talk, but we only get fifty hours of credit toward our billing minimum for pro bono. I did a pro bono matter a few years back and it required about two hundred hours of my time. I had to do the work, of course, but it meant that I didn’t hit my two-thousand hour target that year. Advisors weren’t too pleased. And now we’re expected to hit twenty-one hundred a year, so it’s hard for associates to get excited about doing pro bono.”
“Well, not to worry, Sarah. It’s Sarah, right?”
She nodded.
“I’ve got a way to deal with that. These are major litigation pieces, not so much small matters that associates handle on their own. So I just need the help. Warm bodies. I can rotate people in and out once they’ve hit their fifty.”
Abby and Sarah were nodding with some enthusiasm. This sounded promising.
“And,” he added with some more excitement, as some of the younger associates listened in, “I’ve got it on good authority that if you’re getting exposure to some good skill-building, like depositions or trial prep, you can get more credit toward your minimum billables. And this is really interesting stuff. A little more scandalous and in
triguing than some negligence case for a spill.”
“Like what?” one of the young men nearby asked.
“Like police brutality. Like immigration issues, sex discrimination.”
“Nice,” the kid offered with a smile.
Sarah chimed in. “Okay, so maybe we will be doing some work together.” She and Abby knew it wasn’t easy getting trial experience at the firm as an associate. They did all the prep and the partners swooped in and did all the fun stuff.
“Anyway, that’s why I’m here.” He looked at Abby again. “Jeez, Abby, I just can’t believe I’ve run into you after all these years. How’re your parents doing these days?”
“Oh, they’re great. Dad’s actually contemplating retirement and Mom’s still busy trying to save the world.”
Nate smiled. “Your parents are awesome.”
Sarah looked intrigued by all this new information. “So, you and Abby’s brother were tight? Does that mean you saw our little Abby as a pre-teen study bug?” she asked, laughing at her friend.
Nate smiled Abby’s way. “Well, I certainly knew Abby back in the day, but I’d never call her a study bug. She was the cool one. Friends, parties, singing in a band.”
“What? Abby, what happened?!”
Abby just shook her head in embarrassment, hoping the This is Your Life would end.
“Yeah,” Nate added with laughter. “Denny and I were the geeks. All about grades and college. We were ridiculously focused little goof balls.”
“And where did you go?” Sarah asked.
“Yale for undergrad. University of Chicago for law. Denny and I were going to room together at Yale, actually. In fact, I credit Abby’s brother for getting me in to Yale.”
“Why?” both women asked.
“Abby, you must know.” Nate turned to explain more to Sarah. “Denny was the one with all the big ambitions in high school. I didn’t know what to do with my life. He talked about law, and getting into an Ivy League, and actually kept us both pretty focused. I was lucky to have been his friend.”
Abby was getting a headache. She downed her drink and looked around for a quick exit.
“Nate, it’s so great to see you. But I’ve got to run to the ladies’ room before they round us up. Excuse me.” Nate didn’t have a chance to respond before she had walked away. She heard Sarah behind her adding, “Well, Nathan, we’ll talk later!”
BACK at home, Abby climbed into bed and opened a book. The words on the page dealt with a dysfunctional family, but she could only focus on her own. Mom, sitting perfectly still, legs crossed, posture sure, staring at the coffin—no emotion, no sound. Dad, wiping back tears that Abby had never thought possible. And Nate, sobbing for his best friend. Though she remembered that there were hundreds who came out for the service, she couldn’t make out more faces. The image of Denny’s face was as vivid as it had been fourteen years ago. His confident smile. That look he always gave her when she was making fun of him. She never knew how he could be such a dork and so confident at the same time. The ball was rising into her throat and the stinging behind her eyes began for the millionth time. Abby slammed the book shut, grabbed the remote, and searched for an episode of Friends or Seinfeld.
SEVEN
ON Friday morning, Abby floundered from one task to the other, unable to concentrate. She looked at the clock every thirty minutes, wondering when Officer Reilly would arrive. She hoped no one would be in the lobby at the time. She could just imagine the gossip.
By eleven thirty, she gave up on getting her own work done and focused on Ali’s problems. She ran a quick search on the Westlaw database for the Illinois and federal civil forfeiture laws. Back in 1997, when she was researching these laws for school, Congressman Henry Hyde had been trying to get a bill passed to change the laws and give property owners more rights. She wondered what had come of all of that.
She found a federal statute—the Civil Forfeiture Reform Act of 2000—and the Illinois version, and hit print. Maybe the laws had all changed. Her phone rang and the receptionist, Barbara, advised Abby that she had a delivery. Flowers. Abby walked to the lobby with a smile of anticipation, wondering who might have sent them, and picked up her printout en route. When she got there, Barbara was speaking to a uniformed officer. They both turned to Abby.
“Abby, this officer says you’re expecting him?”
Barbara’s raised eyebrow signaled her hope for some scoop. Abby ignored the unspoken request and reached out to shake hands with the officer.
Officer Reilly was tall, at least six foot four, but he didn’t have an intimidating look, other than the crew cut. He looked like a true Irishman—strawberry blond hair, fair skin, freckles, and blue eyes.
“Hello, Ms. Donovan. Nice to meet cha’. You ready?”
His accent was pure south side Chicago. Just like the mayor’s. A true Chicago boy, for sure.
“Actually, I need to grab my purse. I didn’t realize you were here. Barbara called me about some flowers,” Abby said, turning her attention back to the desk and the small assortment of daisies and lilies.
“Oh yeah,” the officer added. “Is it your birthday?”
Abby smiled. “No.” She silently read the card attached to the vase. I feel so blessed to have met you. Thank you, Abigail, for everything. Sincerely, Ali Rashid.
Barbara wanted the scoop. “New boyfriend, Abby?”
Abby shook her head and felt a sudden awkwardness, with the man who was going after Ali’s building standing right behind her. She picked up the vase and turned back to Reilly.
“Let me just run these back to my office and I’ll grab my purse.” She headed off before he could respond, but within a few steps fumbled with the print-out and several pages went sailing to the floor.
“Here. Let me help,” Reilly offered, as he joined her in gathering the papers.
“Thank you. I haven’t even read this yet.”
“Research?”
“Yeah.”
Reilly read the title of the bill out loud as he passed the papers back.
Abby didn’t look at him, unsure what to say. “Thanks, I’ll be right back.”
THEY made small talk on the way to the station. Reilly was obviously saving the real questions for later. He asked about her heritage, talked about his own Irish roots, and mentioned that his grandparents’ best friends in Ireland were the Donovans. Abby’s own family had been in America for several generations, but she laughed and played along. He seemed nice.
Once at the station, Officer Reilly and his partner, Officer Trask, asked Abby to review what happened, which she did: the train mishap, the gang on the platform, finding Reggie’s, the woman, the drugs, the men, the mugging, the chase, and Ali’s kindness.
“So, you know Mr. Rashid?”
“Well, yes, he gave me a ride home and I just met with him yesterday, too.”
The officers looked at each other.
She knew what they were thinking. “He told me some officers came into the store and asked if he recognized my picture. I guess that was you?”
Reilly replied, “Yeah.”
Abby continued. “He was just nervous. He was afraid I had done something wrong and he would be in trouble for giving me a ride. But actually, we just met because I left my glasses in his car.” Abby thought it best not to mention the legal assistance.
The officers nodded and seemed to accept her story.
She looked through three binders of mug shots, but it was fruitless. The only man she really remembered was the big one with the scar on his face who chased her into Ali’s store. And other than the scar, she didn’t think she could describe him well. It had been so dark and he wore black. She didn’t know anything about the drugs or the woman.
There were no inconsistencies with her written statement and after about forty-five minutes, the officers thanked her for her help and Officer Reilly drove her back to work. Abby wished him luck on the case.
THE alarm went off at eight o’clock on Saturday. Abby sm
acked the snooze button. It happened again. She snoozed again. Three more times. Finally, she turned it off and pushed off the covers. But she couldn’t get out of bed. She stared at the ceiling for what seemed like an hour, replaying her week, thinking about that night, which already seemed like a bad dream, thinking about Ali, and the real problems he now faced, thinking about David marrying that woman. It seemed impossible to think about work. Fuck it. She grabbed the covers and rolled over.
At ten, Abby finally got up. She read every page of the paper but saw nothing about that dead woman at Reggie’s. She’d never seen anything in the paper about it all week. Too many crimes to report, she figured. Just another senseless death in that neighborhood. No one cared.
She spent the day in her pajamas, listening to music and cleaning out closets. She found some of David’s T-shirts, books, and CDs, and stared at the phone, wondering if she’d ever get the courage to call. She put his things in a bag and left them in the spare bedroom.
WHEN the alarm went off at eight again on Sunday, she only hit snooze twice. She really needed to get to the office. There was so much to do. The Amro deposition was Wednesday. She was so behind. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, unable to get up. Where was her drive? That will and determination that had served her career so well? That dedication that had alienated David? She fell back onto the mattress as if she weighed too much to stand. She wasn’t sure if it was her near-death experience, her new friend, Ali, or David’s engagement, but that singular focus was failing her. She finally got up and showered, but when she went into the bedroom to get some clothes, she reached for her sweatpants.
ON Monday morning, inquisitive associates, the ones who were always at the office on weekends, popped in her doorway at what seemed like regular intervals, wondering what event had finally kept her away. They knew it had to be something big—a death or a wedding—and they each hoped for a good story, a distraction, a delay from their own start to the new week. Abby brushed them off and enjoyed the surprised reactions as she told them all she had done nothing.