by Fenton, Liz
“Don’t get too excited. I’m not going.”
“Why not?” Carrie frowns.
“It’s Tiffany, an old friend from law school. I’d like to go, but I can’t.”
“Because of Janelle?”
I nod, my throat tight. After all these years, hearing her name still pinches a nerve.
“Maybe it’s time to face her.” Carrie tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “The only way to achieve redemption is to face the things you’ve done,” she says softly as her husband, Sam, walks by. He slows slightly, taking us in through the glass wall of the conference room, but keeps going before Carrie notices.
CHAPTER TWO
MONDAY
“I see that.” Chase points to the bottle of champagne I’d smuggled from the celebration peeking out from under my fitted black blazer.
“You see nothing!” I say playfully as I breeze past his sleek glass desk and through the doorway of my expansive office, the floor-to-ceiling windows rewarding my return with a birds-eye view of the Staples Center and LA Live. I used to sit on my desk at dusk and watch the Lakers fans gather for that night’s game, bemused by their undying loyalty for what used to be the best team in the country but had become average at best, the glory days of Kobe, Shaq, and Phil Jackson feeling like a lifetime ago.
I’d said as much to Sam once, when we’d stayed at the office late to prep for a deposition.
He’d cocked his head. “It’s the hope that keeps them coming back. Everyone needs to believe in something, Bennett.” He liked to call me by my last name, as if we were starring in some bad court procedural drama on CBS. It bothered me that I’d come to almost like it.
“Wouldn’t they be better off believing in the Golden State Warriors right now?” I’d cracked. This was before the Lakers signed LeBron. Before the entire city erupted in the great hope that the glory days were returning, something Sam still rubs in my face.
“Where is your loyalty?” he’d kidded.
Even back then I understood this was a loaded question. Still, I’d look up and catch him watching me in partner meetings. He’d smile. I’d smile. He’d go out of his way to make sure I was put on cases that would make me look good. He could be harsh, yes, but also encouraging. He took a personal interest in my career. For my part, I initially chose to ignore what it might imply, instead telling myself that he was looking out for me because he saw my true potential and wanted to help me rise quickly. And the truth is, that’s surely been part of it. But in the midst of that goodwill, I could still feel the spark against the flint of our alliance, one that would eventually ignite. But that day I wasn’t ready to give an inch, so I’d let his question about loyalty sit in the air between us as the sea of people in Black Mamba jerseys filed into the arena.
Now, as I stare at the red neon Staples Center sign, that night with Sam feels like forever ago. Back when I’d still had a chance to make different choices. I take a long swig directly from the champagne bottle (they’d sprung for Veuve, a very good sign for me) and hear a faint knock on the door. Before I have a chance to answer, Chase pokes his head in. “Your six o’clock is here. Do you want me to put that away for you?”
My eyes dart to the half-empty bottle of champagne in my hand. “He’s early.”
“Not that early—it’s five fifty-two,” he says, walking in, grabbing the neck of the bottle and opening the minifridge, settling it in between the Smartwater and Izzes. He pulls a file from under his arm and sets it on my desk. “Do you need to review this?”
I shake my head. I already know from Sam that Steve Greenwood wants to destroy his wife of ten years, and the stay-at-home mother of his two children, by making sure she doesn’t get a penny of his trust fund money supposedly protected by his ironclad prenup. Not that that’s how Sam said it. He knew better than to use the word destroy. But he did imply it was contentious. And that Greenwood had millions. Oh, and that apparently he’d insisted on me.
“But I specialize in criminal law,” I’d said.
“Apparently after frequently seeing your name in the news representing high-profile cases, he believes you’re the best. What kind of law you routinely practice is lost on him. He wants a star. And Greenwood gets what he wants.”
“We’ll see about that,” I deadpanned, then requested to have David Croft present in the meeting. Croft is the smarmy, albeit brilliant shark who heads up our family law department.
“Bennett,” Sam said, giving me a look. “Divorce and murder really aren’t that different. Just pretend he killed her, and everyone wins.”
I’d flipped him off and walked away.
“Greenwood can wait his eight minutes,” I say to Chase and nod toward the fridge, flipping open the file and skimming the first page. He calls her a bored housewife. They have a nanny, but she doesn’t work. She’s a bad mom. He wants full custody. Claims she’s a boozehound. I slam the file shut. “Please call David and let him know we’re ready, and then offer Mr. Greenwood an Izze. I bet he’s a sparkling grapefruit kind of guy,” I say, already suspecting he’s not. He’ll probably scoff, wondering where his two fingers of Johnny Walker Blue are. The same scotch his allegedly alcoholic wife is probably expected to bring him when he gets home at night. The idea of Chase handing him sparkling water gives me tremendous pleasure. It’s the little things.
Chase grabs a pink can from the fridge and heads toward the door. “Oh, and your mom called. Twice. She said you need to answer your cell phone.”
She must have seen the verdict on the five o’clock news. “Will you let her know I’m swamped and that I’ll call her later?” I say, knowing I won’t. She’s going to want to discuss the murder trial in detail, and I can think of nothing I’d rather do less right now than defend why I defended Jeremiah. My mom’s been peppering our conversations with little jabs since I took the case. Ignore her, Ethan says when I recount her digs. She doesn’t get it. And it’s true—she doesn’t. It’s easy to judge me from her two-bedroom condo in Redondo Beach. Easy to make assumptions as she sips her skinny vanilla latte with her other retired teacher friends. What do I tell people? That my daughter is helping a murderer go free?
Yes, Mom. Tell them that.
I open the fridge and take one last swig of the Veuve, popping three breath mints into my mouth after. I pick up the phone and tell Chase I’m ready to help this douche formulate a game plan to make sure the woman who put up with him for ten years will be robbed of everything to which she is entitled.
Chase replies evenly that he’ll send him in. I know I’ll get a lecture later—about how I can’t do that to him when he’s sitting across from the client. Then he’ll ask me why I take the cases if I can’t stand the people I’m choosing to represent. And I’ll tell him I’m a partner now, and I need a certain number of billable hours. Then he’ll roll his eyes and start filing or scheduling something the way he does when he knows he’s in an argument he can’t win. Because, of course, I’ve got all my reasons ready when anyone says that, including my mom.
An hour and four Izzes later—all drunk by me and David—we usher Steve Greenwood to the lobby, the champagne from earlier still swirling in my gut. In addition to being the questionable human being I predicted he would be, he’s also ruined my buzz. Tragic. David tells him we’ll be in touch with his wife’s attorney, a guy named Mark with a small firm from Culver City whom I know from past experience won’t stand a chance against us. I wince slightly, wishing she hadn’t made it so easy for him. I decide that maybe she’s so disgusted by Greenwood that her main priority is to escape, and that narrative makes me feel a little better.
Maybe that’s what I’ll tell my mom when she asks. Although she’s proud of how I got here—working my ass off to get an academic scholarship to Loyola Marymount undergrad and student loans for law school—I think she’d be happier if I was fighting what she calls the good fight—taking on slumlords, maybe a few human-rights cases. And sure, there’s a part of me that would love that too, but I fought my way to
get to the top of this heap. My dad was killed when he was hit head-on by a teenage drunk driver. The girl spent a year in juvenile hall. And that was that. From that point on, my mom struggled. Struggled to make the rent. Struggled to be both a mother and a father to me. Struggled to put her shattered heart back together. I decided long ago that once I made it on my own, neither of us were ever going to struggle again.
During my first year of law school, my mom told me that before my father died he was a philanderer. I have no idea why. Maybe it was the third bottle of rosé we’d opened. Maybe she needed to release it so I’d understand the sacrifices she had made. What she had given up for me. Maybe she wanted to push him off the pedestal I’d placed him on since his premature death. Something shifted in me the night she shattered the picture-perfect image of my father. A fire that had been smoldering inside me was ignited. I distinctly remember transferring that burning anger toward my career path and deciding to practice criminal law. Maybe it was because I finally understood the juxtaposition of good people doing bad things and why it was still important that they get a fair defense. And sometimes that meant I had to defend people exactly like that teenager who killed my dad. But in this life, defending the Jeremiahs and Steve Greenwoods ensured we wouldn’t struggle financially.
My dad was a wonderful, attentive father but betrayed my mother in the worst way. My mom loved me so fiercely but was also capable of selfishly tarnishing the image I’d held of my dad to offload some of her own pain.
And it was then that the two voices inside me made themselves heard for the first time.
Lila, you are nothing like your mother and father.
Lila, you are just like your mother and father.
It’s dark by the time I head to the elevator, the lobby now deserted. I had told Ethan I’d be home by seven o’clock, and a glance at my phone tells me it’s pushing seven thirty. If I haul ass, I can be running through our front door in forty minutes. He said he was going to order Chinese earlier when I texted that I’d won the case, and I was already dreaming of the way the Mongolian beef would melt in my mouth, how the perfectly cooked brown rice would stick to each piece. I hadn’t eaten since the sesame bagel Chase had shoved at me on the way to court that morning.
The elevator finally arrives, and I push the close door button several times impatiently, then count down the floors before it sways slightly as it brings itself to a stop on the parking level. I step out and look left to see my Range Rover tucked into the back corner, one of the few cars left. The hairs on my arms shoot up, and I look around.
Someone is here.
I freeze and clutch my phone, letting out a yelp as a car door opens. I swivel to see Sam stepping out of his black Tesla.
“Oh my God! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
He smiles. “Sorry. I was getting ready to leave and saw you come out. Want to go grab a drink? To celebrate?”
“Didn’t we do that earlier?” I say coyly.
“Not properly,” he counters. He walks around and opens the passenger door of his sleek sedan. “Come on. They’re holding a table for me at Bestia. Let me buy you a proper cocktail.”
“No, sorry, I can’t,” I say quickly. “I need to get home and wash that meeting with Greenwood off me. That guy, don’t get me started.”
“Maybe it’s not as clear-cut as you think, Bennett. Greenwood might be sleazy, but there are still two sides to every story.”
“True,” I say, but I’m not referring only to Greenwood, and Sam knows it.
As if it’s a sign from the universe, I get a text from Ethan.
Mongolian beef here. Also got you the cream cheese wontons you love that you pretend not to like. Have pics of the new office space I want to show you too. ETA?
I hold up my phone. “Ethan is expecting me.” And the truth is, I want to go home to him. I want to dip my chopsticks into the same container while we watch bad TV and talk about his day. His renewed vigor for writing. Our conversation earlier reminded me of who we used to be. Of who we could be again.
“That’s never stopped you before,” he challenges, then softens when he sees my face fall. “You’ve had a big day. Let’s end it right,” he adds, his words filled with a million meanings.
I look at my car, parked a few feet away, then back to Sam, picturing Carrie’s face, bright and shiny, as she revealed she might be pregnant. I feel the pressure of my two worlds—the one where my dutiful husband waits patiently with cheap wooden chopsticks and low-sodium soy sauce. And the one right here, with my boss, powerful and expectant. Both of them knowing me and not knowing me all at the same time, in completely different ways. Almost as if I’m two different people. Tonight I feel the chasm become visceral, like my life could split in two—the choices laid at my feet leading me on completely different paths.
CHAPTER THREE
MONDAY
CAPTURED
“Come on, one little drink,” Sam presses, his eyes full of promise. “Bestia is our place, or have you forgotten?” He grins earnestly.
That smile. Sometimes I hate the way it possesses me. The way the image of his grinning face flashes through my mind at the most inopportune times—as I’m lying in bed with Ethan while CNN drones on in the background, the same five stories running on a loop. As I’m about to nail a closing argument in court. When I’m having lunch with Carrie. Each time, I shove the thought of his even white teeth, the cleft in his chin that becomes more pronounced when his lips are curled upward, out of my head. But the truth is, there are days I’d still love to lose myself in his lopsided grin, one side lifting a little bit more to the right than to the left. I feel some pride knowing there is softness underneath his intimidating veneer. As if he lets me know him in a way no one else does.
“I’ll tell you what, we can make it a shot if you’re in a hurry,” he adds, running his hand over his chin, as he does when he’s strategizing.
And this is strategic. He knows I like a good shot. Especially purple ones. So efficient. The sharp edges of anxiety are blurred in those moments. Wanting to blunt the questions swirling inside me, I feel my lips start to form the word okay.
But Ethan. Chinese food. Sweatpants instead of my pencil skirt and heels that have been pinching my pinky toes for hours. My husband home waiting, excited to tell me about what the rest of his life might look like. And Carrie. What she said. The way it made my insides curl up into a tight ball. All reasons not to go. To say goodbye to him and all the complicated feelings that came with this relationship that started six months ago one evening when my defenses were down.
He smiles again. Damn it.
The bad girl inside me is cheering. The other voice, the one that is so damn good, is telling me this is a very bad idea. Not to go. But she’s overly cautious. What’s one drink?
I pull out my phone and send Ethan a quick text. So sorry! The partners are insisting I have dinner to celebrate the big win. Can’t say no. Will be home as soon as I can.
One lie and a truth. At least that’s what I tell myself. That I’m honest more often than I’m not.
No, you aren’t, the voice says.
“One beer. And no shots!” I insist, reasoning that driving there myself and sipping a pale ale will ensure I’ll keep my wits about me. Because this is how it starts—one drink leads to one more, which takes us to places I don’t want to think about going right now. Because what we’re doing is wrong.
Sam holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay. But can we order a couple of apps too? What about the pâté and those mussels you love? Oh, and maybe the burrata pizza? I’m starving.”
“Fine.” I relent, not at all surprised that the second I agreed, he changed the terms. I walk over and climb into my car, ignoring the twist in my stomach as the ignition turns over, and I follow Sam out of the garage, staring at his taillights until my eyes become blurry.
“To big wins.” Sam holds up his Chef’s Old Fashioned, his favorite drink off the cocktail menu. I clink my Citra Pale A
le against his glass and look past Sam, his back to the entrance. We’re at a table in the rear corner of the bustling restaurant, but I still worry about being seen by someone we know. Having to lie. Again.
“It didn’t feel as good as I thought it would,” I confess, feeling a jab in my gut for telling him so quickly how I feel after making Carrie pull it out of me. But I’m desperate for someone to understand how I’m feeling about this case. Sometimes Ethan plays that role for me, the objective sounding board I need after a long day. But tonight I want someone who already knows the case intimately to tell me it was all okay. That the jury was right.
That’s how you’re justifying it to yourself, anyway, the voice reminds me.
“Really?” Sam replies, raising his eyebrows. And I’m not surprised. My relationship with Sam doesn’t have room for my soft spots, but there’s a part of me that wants it to—at least right now. Our strength was the magnet that drew us together, our weaknesses and fears typically saved for whispered conversations with our spouses. “Your career is going to skyrocket now. The name partners are particularly impressed with the way you handled your closing argument—you humanized him. Tied back his community service. All the character witnesses who think he’s an honest man. You worked around his lack of an ironclad alibi. You highlighted the missing murder weapon. You reminded the jury of the meaning of probable doubt. We have big plans for you.”
I swallow my uncertainty about the verdict and my desire for Sam to make me feel better and focus on his words. The three name partners, the ones who founded the firm thirty years prior, are notoriously hard to please. When they want to send you places, you go, whether it’s to pack up your desk because you failed to bill enough hours or on the fast track to high-profile cases and huge bonuses. I take a drink of my beer and let the words sink in. If Sam is telling the truth (and he’s always sworn he saves his lies for Carrie, which pleases me in a way that I’m not proud of), then it means something. That creepy partner who always finds a reason to brush my ass when he passes me in the break room? Worth it. The time I’d had to pull an all-nighter to comb through the cell phone records of our client’s wife only to discover she used a burner phone for all of her important calls? Fine. I’d do it again. The hopelessness that tries to cling to me every time I visit a client in prison? Shake it off. My high-profile win today has changed my trajectory from a Ford Fusion to a rocket ship.