by Randy Singer
It was Sunday afternoon, six days after the directed verdict. The fickle media attention, so white-hot intense in the days immediately following the latest trial of the century, had moved on to more important matters.
Ahmed and Barnes were in custody. Leslie was preparing to go back to school in January and finish her degree. Brad and Sarah were now household names.
Brad had grabbed the brass ring, won his case of national import, and realized that there was no lasting satisfaction in such an accomplishment. One week later, the interviews were over, and the ecstasy was gone. Only the relationships remained. From Leslie, he was learning each day to treasure a woman who understood him and accepted him for who he was. From Sarah, he had witnessed the strength of a personal relationship with God, through His Son, Jesus Christ. Brad wasn’t ready to jump yet; all of this religious stuff was still very new to him. But he could not deny the comfort and contentment that both Sarah and Bella had found in their faith. He had heard Bella speak of her conversion experience. He had seen her change. And now he wondered if it could happen to him.
It was, to Brad’s way of thinking, an intensely private matter, and one he was not yet ready to discuss even with Leslie. Right now, as they finished their seafood feast, he had things of a more immediate concern on his agenda.
“So what are your plans now?” He was playing with the cheesecake Leslie had forced him to order. She seemed determined to make him regain ten pounds in one week. But as usual, she had skipped dessert herself and was nursing a cappuccino.
“I guess going back to school will seem pretty tame after this,” she said, playing with her drink. “But it’d be nice to actually have a law license if I intend to practice law.”
“What’s our future, Leslie?” he asked bluntly, embarrassed at himself even as the question crossed his lips. “What about us?”
Leslie paused before responding, and Brad looked down at his plate, pushing his cheesecake around with a fork. He loved her so much he was afraid to hear the answer.
“I could use a good tutor, if that’s what you mean,” Leslie quipped. “Especially in my legal ethics class. As you know, that’s not exactly my strong suit.”
Brad put down his fork and looked into her beautiful blue eyes. He reached out his hand without speaking, and she placed hers in it.
“I’m serious, Leslie,” he was almost pleading. “We’ve been great together, but was it all the result of the pressure and the case, or is there something special between us? something we can build on?”
He hesitated. Was it too much too fast? Would he scare her away and ruin the only part of his life that really mattered? His instincts told him to go for it. Now was the time. He would never forgive himself if he didn’t.
“I love you, Leslie Connors,” he said softly. “And I’ll move heaven and earth to make it work for us.” He squeezed her hand, held his breath, and waited.
She stared at their hands. “I promised myself after Bill died that I would never again love another man like I loved him. I thought it would be disloyal—” she stopped, blinked a few times, then continued—“and it hurt so much when I lost him.” She looked up at Brad with glistening eyes. The world around them came to a stop.
“Then you came along and had the audacity to sweep me off my feet.” A small smile. “I fought it as hard as I could, for as long as I could. But something about you and about this case—”
“Sir,” said their smiling young waitress with the bleached-blonde hair, oblivious to the moment she was destroying, “I have some good news for you.”
Brad didn’t take his eyes from Leslie. He totally ignored the waitress, pretending she didn’t exist. But Leslie cut her gaze away from Brad and up at the perky intruder.
“That’s great,” Leslie said, flashing her easy, sparkling smile. She brushed a tear from her eye with her free hand. “We’re always in the market for some good news.”
“That man in the corner has taken care of your bill,” the proud waitress said and, to Brad’s surprise, pointed to a smiling Mack Strobel, who sat with some men Brad did not recognize. He gave them a quick wave.
“That man?” Leslie said incredulously. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the blonde said. “He said to tell you it was the least he could do.”
“Wow,” Leslie said. She and Brad unclasped their hands, and both nodded back at their nemesis.
“Did he take care of your tip too?” Brad asked the waitress, who was still conspicuously hanging around.
“Oh yes, sir,” she replied enthusiastically. “He sure did.”
Brad felt the need to thank Strobel. Leslie followed at his shoulder.
Mack stood and offered his hand. His eyes were glazed, and he had a smile pasted on his lips.
“Bradley!” he said warmly and loudly.
Brad winced but was determined to be gracious. “Thanks for lunch, Mack. You didn’t have to do that.”
Strobel released Brad’s hand and extended the same courtesy to Leslie. “As I told your waitress, it’s the least I can do,” Mack said, smiling. “You’ve already helped me have one of my best billable years ever, and I haven’t even started on my appeal yet.”
Strobel was talking loud enough that several of the patrons stopped eating and began staring.
“You can chase those old rabbits by my door anytime you want,” Mack continued. “In fact, you keep bringing me juicy cases like that one, I might have my firm take out keyman insurance on you. It’s plaintiff’s lawyers like you who keep old hacks like me in business.”
Brad grinned and tilted his head. He didn’t quite know what to make of the old man.
“You tried a great case,” Brad said.
“As did you, young man,” Strobel said loudly. “I just try to give my clients their money’s worth.”
“They got every penny’s worth from you,” Brad replied earnestly.
Strobel turned to Leslie. “And as for you, when you get out of William and Mary and want to start a real international law practice, I’ve got an office right next to mine with your name on it.”
Leslie narrowed her eyes, and Brad sensed that she was ready to tell him what she thought of that offer. But Strobel didn’t pause long enough to give her the chance.
“I know the fringe benefits might not be as good as Carson & Associates,” he continued with a wink, “but at least you wouldn’t have to worry about any antinepotism policy.”
He slapped Brad on the back. Brad wondered how many drinks Strobel had knocked down at lunch.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Leslie said without conviction.
“Do that.” Strobel grinned. He was rocking back and forth, barely maintaining his balance.
“Well,” Brad said as he started to move away, realizing how little he had in common with Mack, “gotta run. Take care of yourself. And much as it helps your billable hours, I hope I don’t see you in court again any time soon. There are much easier defense lawyers out there.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Strobel grinned. “And you probably won’t be seeing me in court for a while anyway. I’ll be spending the next few months jousting with the district attorney. Can you believe, after everything that happened, Aberijan retained me to handle his criminal case?”
“And you took it?” Leslie cried, wide-eyed in utter disbelief.
“It was all part of the master plan,” Strobel said, grabbing the back of the chair and steadying himself. “All in a day’s work. He pays the retainer. I take the case. And I think we’ve got a pretty good argument on entrapment.”
Brad noticed the blood rising in Leslie’s face. He grabbed her gently by the arm and steered her away.
“And we wonder why lawyers have a bad name,” Leslie murmured under her breath as they headed toward the coatrack.
Brad enjoyed helping her into her overcoat and kept his arm around her shoulder as they walked toward the door. Like a refined gentleman, he held the door open for her and for another couple on
their way in. The cold November wind blasted his face as he stepped outside. He used it as an excuse to pull Leslie close.
They walked around the corner of the building to where Brad had parked his Jeep. Leslie seemed agitated by Strobel’s comments.
“Entrapment?” she asked.
“Fat chance,” Brad replied confidently. “Entrapment only works if the government entices you into doing something you wouldn’t otherwise do. And since Aberijan had already bribed a juror before you ever dealt with him, how could he make that argument? Plus, nobody enticed Aberijan to order a hit on you and O’Malley. He did that entirely on his own.”
“What about the appeal of the civil case?” Leslie asked. “Does he stand a chance?”
“I don’t think so,” Brad replied without hesitation. “You were a pretty convincing witness with some pretty damaging evidence. He may delay it for a while, but he’ll pay. And we can afford to wait now that we have the settlement check from Johnson. In the meantime, the phones are ringing off the hook with new clients. It’s nice being famous.”
Leslie put her arm around his waist. Brad’s confidence seemed to reassure her and put her mind at ease.
But his mind was not, and it had nothing to do with the case. It had taken all his nerve, but he had said it. He had shared his feelings, told her that he loved her, and waited to hear her say it in return. Then the moment was lost to Mack Strobel, almost as if Strobel had planned the whole frustrating thing.
“Brad!” she yelled and pointed toward his Jeep. He jerked his head up just in time to see it on the business end of a tow truck heading out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
Brad sprinted across the parking lot to catch the driver before he made the turn.
“Hey!” he yelled and ran faster. The tow truck was waiting for a break in traffic, and Brad had about fifty yards to go. “Hey! That’s my car! It’s a mistake! I’m a lawyer! I’ll sue!”
Brad caught the eyes of the tow truck driver as he looked in his mirror, then back to the highway. Brad was sprinting hard, closing on the truck. Ten yards to go . . . a small break in traffic . . . a spinning of truck tires on loose gravel . . . rocks and sand kicking up toward Brad . . . and the tow truck was on his way.
Another day, another repo.
“Ugh!” Brad threw his hands up, then leaned forward on his knees, catching his breath.
“This stinks!” he yelled in frustration. He kicked at the gravel. He had been looking forward to spending the day with Leslie: a romantic drive across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel and some time together on the secluded eastern shore. And now this. Stuck in a parking lot with no wheels, and a hard northeastern wind blowing in a storm.
Leslie walked toward him, smiling. “Maybe we should call Bella,” she teased.
“I’m calling a cab,” he said. He started walking around Leslie, who had stationed herself between him and the restaurant. “And since my cell phone’s in the Jeep, I’ve got to do it from a lousy pay phone.”
As a frustrated Brad walked by, Leslie grabbed his arm, pulled him toward her, stood on her toes, and attacked him with a kiss. He closed his eyes and forgot about the weather, the Jeep, Strobel, and the pay phone. For the first time since they met, he could now focus entirely on Leslie, freed from the pressures of the case, untold secrets, and unspoken feelings. Freed from wondering whether she felt the same way he did.
And when their lips finally parted, they still embraced, her head on his shoulder, his arms gently and tenderly holding her close. They stood there in silence for a moment; then she turned her head and whispered softly and confidently in his ear.
“I love you too, Brad Carson.”
FROM
THE JUSTICE GAME
RACHEL CRAWFORD CLOSED her eyes while the show’s makeup artist, a spunky woman named Carmen, did a quick touch-up.
“The sun looks good on you,” Carmen said. “The Diva’s shake ’n bake turns her orange.”
“The Diva” was WDXR prime-time anchor Lisa Roberts. She treated the staff like dirt and was easy to hate. Five-ten with long, skinny legs, Lisa always complained about how much weight the camera added to her figure. Her chair had to be adjusted higher than everyone else’s; the camera always had to be positioned to capture her left side (exposing a mole on her left cheek that she considered sexy); and her water had to be cold with just the right amount of ice.
“Maybe my next report will be on tanning beds,” Rachel said. Carmen removed the makeup cape, and Rachel checked herself out in the mirror. She was no Lisa. A little shorter, heavier, with more of a girl-next-door look. But Rachel had one thing Lisa didn’t; it was the reason for her glow.
“I hear tanning beds cause cancer,” Carmen said, perking up with the thought. “Not just skin cancer, either—liver, thyroid, all kinds of nasty stuff.”
Rachel did a subtle sideways twist, so casual that Carmen didn’t notice. The blouse Rachel wore fit loose—not so loose as to be obvious, but just loose enough. She would have a few more weeks before her secret was out.
As a new reporter for the WDXR “I-team,” Rachel had been working on a piece about the effect of cell phones on pregnant women. In two weeks, she would break her own exciting news on air as part of that piece. For at least one night, Lisa wouldn’t be the center of attention.
“Thanks, Carmen,” Rachel said. She scooped up her pad and water bottle and headed toward the door. “This water’s way too warm,” she said, mocking Lisa’s perfect diction.
Carmen cackled. “Plus, it goes straight to my hips.” She cocked her chin in the air as she gave Rachel a dismissive little shake of the head.
Rachel smiled and left the makeup room, settling into investigative reporter mode. Most of tonight’s report was already on tape. Things had gone well during the 5 p.m. newscast. What could possibly go wrong at six?
She loved her job. But she loved the thought of being a mother even more. She wanted to do both—part-time I-team reporter and full-time mom. But that was a conversation for another day.
* * *
Rachel fiddled with her earpiece, listening to the show’s producer give Lisa Roberts and Manuel Sanchez instructions about the next few segments. Rachel sat up as straight as possible, though she would still be a few inches shorter than Lisa, and she smiled at the camera. The show’s producer started the countdown. Lisa didn’t change her scowl until the man said zero, triggering a magical transformation from spoiled diva to devoted and caring newswoman.
“Over three thousand international college students come to Virginia Beach each summer to work in the resort city,” Lisa said, reading the prompter. “An unlucky few end up being victims of a sinister human-trafficking industry. I-team reporter Rachel Crawford has the details.”
Lisa held her pose as they transitioned to the I-team tape. She might be hard to stomach, but she was a pro. Her cover girl looks and unshakable poise would soon carry Lisa beyond the Norfolk market, away from the place she scornfully referred to as a “dead end Navy town,” the only place that Rachel could ever imagine calling home.
Rachel watched the report for about the fortieth time and allowed herself a brief moment of pride. The segment started with a few shots of The Surf, a popular Virginia Beach hangout, with a voiceover from Rachel about the way international student workers helped keep the place afloat. They had video of two female Eastern European students tending bar, waiting tables, even taking out the trash. The camera angles had been carefully selected so the viewers could never quite get a good look at the students’ faces. The tape cut to Rachel, standing in front of the bar, a serious tilt to her head.
“But a few of these girls, who talked to WDXR under condition of anonymity, said there was a dark side to their summer at the Beach. . . .”
The next shot featured Rachel interviewing one of the students. The editors had blocked out the student’s face and digitally altered her voice. She talked about the owner of The Surf—Larry Jamison—the man who had promised the students jobs an
d paid for the girls to come to America.
“If you didn’t become one of Larry’s girls, you could never get out of debt, no matter how hard you worked. Plus, there were threats. . . .”
As Rachel explained the scam, a Web page appeared on-screen. The girl’s images were distorted, but it was obviously a porn site, one that Rachel had traced back to Larry Jamison.
“We asked Mr. Jamison about these charges,” Rachel said on the tape. “He refused to be interviewed for this report.”
In a few seconds, they would be live again. Rachel checked her earpiece and turned toward Lisa. She heard a pop that startled her—it might have been a few pops—something like firecrackers, coming from the other side of the studio’s soundproof door. She glanced at the doors but nobody else seemed bothered by it.
“Five seconds,” said a voice in her ear. “Four, three, two, one . . .”
A cameraman pointed to Lisa and she turned toward Rachel. “Those girls you interviewed seemed so vulnerable. Did they understand they could press charges against this guy?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel noticed a flash of commotion at the back of the studio. Like a pro, she stayed focused on Lisa, explaining why the girls were not willing to come forward.
“Hey!” someone yelled. “He’s got a gun!”
Shots rang out as Rachel swiveled toward the voices, blinded by the bright lights bearing down on her. She heard more shots, screams of panic and pain—pandemonium in the studio.
“Get down!” someone shouted.
There was cursing and a third barrage of shots as Rachel dove to the floor, crawling quickly behind the anchor desk—a fancy acrylic fixture that certainly wouldn’t stop a bullet. In the chaos, she looked over to see Lisa, wide-eyed with fear, her fist to her mouth, a silent sob.
For a moment, everything was still.