Some would think this would create an ethical dilemma, but it doesn't. I don't have to believe in my cases. I only have to use the evidence I have and do my best to present and argue them to convince a jury to see my way of thinking. I get paid a good salary to do this, and I have no qualms about keeping my emotions and personal feelings out of it, because ultimately I wasn't hired to protect Dr. Summerland. My actual client is his insurance company, TransBenefit Insurance, which makes billions of dollars every year and hires people like me to fight against claims like this so they can preserve their billions of dollars.
Leary and the type of law she practices are a bit different. She represents people, not corporations. She not only invests her time and effort into the actual evidence, but she has an emotional connection to the people she represents. Put money aside, and the stakes are higher for her than for me.
Now, back to Summerland being a schmuck.
Leary saved his deposition for last. After three solid days of being immersed in complex medical testimony, we're both exhausted. My brain is fuzzy, and luckily all I have to do this afternoon is listen to Leary's questions and object if necessary.
Summerland walked into the conference room, chest puffed out, chin raised, and condescension in his eyes. I prepared him last night via phone and highly encouraged him to come in humble, but I could tell right away that was a concept so foreign to him that he'd never be able to pull it off.
The first thing he did was refuse to shake Leary's hand when she stood up from the table to welcome him. The next thing he did was run his gaze up and down her body a few times, and even lick his bottom lip.
I get it. I really do. Leary is a phenomenal beauty and sexy as hell. What man wouldn't do that?
I wanted to punch the motherfucker.
Leary handled it like a pro. She grilled him for three hours straight, refusing to take a break when he asked to go to the bathroom. Every answer he gave her was short and clipped, and she had to fight with him the entire time to get him to answer her questions in a straightforward manner. She did it with an absolutely professional demeanor.
Total fucking schmuck, and I'm glad this deposition is almost over. I can tell when Leary starts winding down.
"Just a few more questions, Dr. Summerland," she says, flipping through her notes. "I want to talk to you about the finances of your practice, Summerland General Surgery."
"I don't think that's relevant," he sneers. "What I make has nothing to do with this case."
"Maybe, maybe not," she says calmly. "But I'm allowed to ask any questions that may lead to the discovery of admissible evidence. So I'm going to ask them, you're going to answer them, and it's up to your attorney--Mr. Holloway there--to keep anything inappropriate out of evidence. Okay?"
He just glares at Leary and that's enough for her. She presses on.
"Now, Dr. Summerland, I understand the majority of your practice relates to abdominal and gastrointestinal surgeries, is that correct?"
"Yes," he says.
"But you do other types of surgeries?"
"Yes." Glare.
"Minor surgeries like hernia repairs and appendectomies?"
"Yes." Eyes flick to her breasts.
"Surgical oncology, removal of tumors?"
"Yes." Eyes stay pinned on her breasts. My fists clench.
"And if I'm correct, the majority of your income earned comes from weight-loss surgeries like gastric bypass, right?"
"Yes." Lick of his lips. My nails dig into my palms.
"What percentage of your overall income is from the weight-loss surgeries?"
Summerland's eyes now snap up to Leary's. His lip curls up in a sneer. "I'm not answering that. It's none of your business."
"I have to wonder what you're so afraid of, Dr. Summerland. What could you possibly be trying to hide from the jury?" Leary says with wide-eyed innocence.
Summerland's face flames red and he stutters, realizing this will make him look like a fool to the trial jury. He is well aware of the camera Leary has rolling to later play to the jury--she's probably zoomed in now on his face. "I am not hiding anything. It's just that without my financial records in front of me, I can't honestly answer that question."
"And I assume you didn't bring those records with you today?" she asks politely.
"No, I didn't," he says confidently, giving her a smarmy smile, and his gaze goes back to her breasts.
"And may I also assume that if you did have those records here with you, you'd gladly disclose that information to the jury, who will later see this video?"
He gives a magnanimous incline of his head to her and says, "Of course I would."
"Then I'd like to go ahead and hand this to you," she says as she pulls a white form out from underneath her notepad.
Dr. Summerland blinks in surprise and reaches a tentative hand out to accept the document. She's been handing him various medical records all afternoon and going through his notes with painstaking detail, so he thinks nothing of taking this document from her now.
His gaze goes down to skim the paper in his hand and then jolts back to hers. I have no clue what she just handed him, and ordinarily I'd ask to see it, but damn . . . I'm kind of enjoying watching her hand him his ass.
"That's a subpoena, Dr. Summerland, demanding you turn over your tax returns for the last five years, as well as your accounting books, specifically asking your income to be broken down by the various types of surgeries you conduct each year."
Summerland starts to shake and I see him getting ready to explode. I want to cover my face with my hand to laugh at him. I want to shoot a smirk and a wink across the table to Leary, never having enjoyed one of my clients getting sandbagged before.
Instead, I remember my duty and say quickly, "Let's go off the record."
I half expect Leary to refuse, just like she did in Jenna's deposition a few weeks ago. Instead, she gives me an accommodating smile and says, "Sure."
"We're off the record," the court reporter says, and the assistant working the camera turns it off.
"This is fucking preposterous," Summerland bellows as he throws the subpoena back at Leary. It veers sharply and then floats harmlessly to the floor beside her chair.
"Dr. Summerland," I chastise firmly, "you need to calm down."
Leary simply leans over in her chair, giving me a quick peek at her luscious ass that I'm hoping to tap one day, and picks the paper back up. She does nothing more than hand it across the table to me.
"I'm sure you'll agree, Mr. Holloway, that your client was duly served with this subpoena."
I nod at her because she's right. As an officer of the court, she had him properly served the minute she handed the document to him.
"I'm not doing it," Dr. Summerland barks as he pushes back from the table and stands up. "I'm not turning over my financial records to some ambulance chaser who represents a whore trying to scam the system."
My jaw drops open at his crudity, and I immediately stand up to usher him out of the conference room. I want to kick this shit out of this asshole, but more important, I need to get him calmed down so he can finish the deposition.
"Let's go outside, Dr. Summerland," I say calmly. "We need to talk."
"I'm done, Holloway. Deposition is over," he says, and I'm surprised he doesn't stomp his foot. Now that he knows the camera is off, he's going into full-fledged tantrum mode.
"Damn," Leary mutters. "Should have kept the camera rolling."
Dr. Summerland shoots her a nasty glare and points his finger at her. "I'm reporting you to your bar association. Your behavior is unacceptable toward a member of the medical community."
Leary shrugs her shoulders, completely unruffled. "First, it's not the bar association. It's the North Carolina State Bar. Their phone number is 919-555-3955. Second, make sure to give them my bar number to make the process go easier. It's 4850A-45."
For a moment I think Dr. Summerland might stroke out. His face turns red, then a frightening shade of purple.
I swear I can see steam coming out of his ears.
A quick glance at Leary shows her staring impassively at Dr. Summerland.
At this moment, I don't know that I've ever respected another attorney more than I respect her. She's brilliant, fiendishly clever, completely unshakable, and more mature than this douche who is twenty-plus years her senior.
God, I want to fuck her bad right now.
Leary turns her gaze to me and politely says, "I'm finished with my questions of Dr. Summerland, Mr. Holloway. For now, anyway."
I open my mouth to suggest to Dr. Summerland we leave, but he simply barrels past me and storms out of the conference room, slamming the door so hard behind him the prints on the wall rattle.
I can't fucking help myself. I turn to Leary, completely uncaring that the court reporter and cameraman are still in the room. I shoot her a grin and say, "I've never seen anything quite like that before."
The cameraman snickers, but I don't take my eyes off Leary. She shrugs and starts packing up her materials. "Your client is a prick, Mr. Holloway."
"Not going to argue there," I mutter, stuffing my own belongings into my briefcase.
"You have a few minutes to talk?" Leary asks me casually. "To discuss the case."
I look up at Leary and she's staring at me with a look that almost makes my knees buckle. It's one of starving need.
"Sure," I say, hoping my voice doesn't give way to the matching lust I'm feeling right now.
"I think we should have a legal rule that says we end all depositions this way," Leary pants in my ear.
She's lying on her back on the carpet of her office, her skirt bunched up around her hips and her panties dangling from one ankle. My pants and underwear have only come to midthigh, and my tie is tossed over my shoulder so it doesn't obstruct my view when I look down to see my cock pounding away between her legs.
"Fucking awesome rule," I groan as I push and grind in and against her.
"Shit . . . I'm going to come," she moans.
"Give it to me, baby," I encourage her with a particularly brutal thrust.
And she does . . .
And it's spectacular.
I follow right along behind, my mind going blissfully blank as I start to unload inside her, concentrating on nothing but the feeling of her wrapped around me, milking me dry.
When every last spasm has quieted in my body, I roll off Leary and lie beside her on the carpet. Our panting fills the air, but I can hear the noise of the Pit just outside her door.
I can't believe we just fucked on her office floor with dozens of people right outside. For Christ's sake, the door isn't even locked. I followed her into her office, thinking maybe we might make out. She'd no sooner shut the door than she was pulling me to the ground. She was instantly wet for me, and of course I was brutally hard for her.
And one hard and fast fucking later, I am completely at peace with my world.
I slide my hand over to hers and grasp it. She squeezes me and I can actually feel a satisfied smile in her touch.
"You tore my doctor up," I say offhandedly.
"He deserved it."
"Again, not going to argue," I say with a laugh. "It was kind of hot . . . watching you walk all over him."
"You were kind of hot just sitting there watching me walk all over him," she says with a chuckle. "I'd actually planned on torturing him a bit more, but then I made the mistake of looking over at you, and I was just done. Had to get you here in my office."
A languid smile comes over my face, but she can't see it because we're both still staring up at the ceiling, holding hands and waiting for our heartbeats to go back to normal.
Normal, I think with an inner smile to match my exterior one.
I don't think anything is going to be normal for me ever again. At least not where Leary's concerned.
CHAPTER 11
LEARY
Blinking my eyes, I give them a quick rub and then peer back at my computer monitor. I'm trying to read our bar association's weekly periodical that provides digest opinions on all recently decided appellate and supreme court cases. While this isn't actual legal research, it does qualify as highly boring.
I've always been the attorney who shunned relying on the actual particulars of the law, instead trying to argue my way through to victory using cunning and emotion. It's served me well so far, but I've also become dependent on my ability to talk my way out of just about any situation. It's made me weak on the actual law itself, so I sit down every Wednesday afternoon and read the digest, hoping that maybe if just one-tenth of what I read soaks in, I will be a better attorney for it.
Glancing at my watch, I see I've been struggling with this asinine idea for the last hour, and I'm not making any headway. I decide on a break and do a quick scan of my e-mail.
My lips pull into a smile when I see an e-mail from Reeve. He's been gone the last two days on out-of-state depositions, and I hate to admit it, but I miss him. He sent me a short message to let me know he'll be flying back into Raleigh tomorrow morning, and wants to know if we can do dinner.
I invite him to my house. While I won't have time to cook something on a work night, I'll make sure to pick up something good from the local market we can heat up.
My next e-mail is from a reporter from the Raleigh Times, wanting an interview about the LaPietra case. This pleases me immensely because it's always good to get public opinion behind you if possible. The bad news is that I suck at the PR stuff. The good news is that Midge does not and prefers to handle it anyway, so I forward the e-mail to her and ask if she can call the reporter.
Then I see an e-mail from Ford. It's short--not that I'd been expecting an essay. I invited him to lunch today, but his quick reply is that he already has plans.
My eyebrows scrunch up in skepticism as I read it. He's been avoiding me like the plague the last few weeks, since I started seeing Reeve, claiming that he's been too busy to get together. This could be true, because Ford is a busy man and we've gone long periods in the past when we couldn't hang. But usually he compensates by at least calling me to check in or stopping by my office to discuss a case.
Since the charity event at the Marriott, he's been completely absent from my life. This bothers me, because while I don't miss the sexual intimacy we've shared from time to time, I miss his friendship and wisdom.
Resolved to put this out on the table with Ford, I start to pick up my phone to buzz his office when Midge responds to my e-mail.
Be glad to handle reporter. Come talk to me first, though. Bring me up to speed on the case. I feel like drinking a whiskey and I don't like drinking alone.
My heart starts racing.
I've been summoned. I'm being granted entrance into the reclusive Midge Payne's inner domain. I hate whiskey, but I'll gladly drink one with her just to spend some time in her presence.
I snicker to myself over the dramatics of my thoughts. It's true, I don't see Midge a lot, as she truly does hole herself up in her office. But we have sat down for some meetings on occasion over the years. But just because I don't have many face-to-faces with her doesn't mean we don't communicate. I talk to her several times a week through e-mail or on the phone, and over the years we've developed an easy personal and professional relationship.
My call to Ford forgotten, I shoot Midge back a quick e-mail that I'm on my way. Because I immediately get up from my desk and start across the Pit toward her office, I'm betting that I might actually beat my e-mail there.
Her secretary looks up as I approach, giving me a warm smile. "You can go right in, Leary. She's expecting you."
"Thank you, Danielle," I say while smoothing down my dress and straightening the scarf around my neck.
Deep breath in, slow breath out, and I open the door to Midge's office.
"Leary," she says as I walk in. "You're looking stunning as ever."
I appreciate that sentiment from Midge, but she's the one who looks stunning. Her hair is sleek and shiny, her makeup flawless, an
d she's rocking a pair of tan skinny jeans, over-the-knee black boots with four-inch heels, and an off-the-shoulder black sweater.
Midge is standing at the minibar that is recessed into her bookshelves. When she turns my way, she has two tumblers of neat whiskey in her hand. I have no clue what the brand is--never asked the one other time I drank one with her, when I got my partnership. She keeps her liquors in beautiful Waterford decanters, and only she is privy to what's actually in those bottles. Knowing Midge, it's expensive stuff.
"Let's sit on the couch," Midge says as she hands me the heavy highball glass. The cuts in the crystal make the dark-amber liquid inside shimmer.
Midge sits on one end of a plush cream-colored couch, and I sit on the other. I lean on my hip and cross my legs. Midge merely pulls one of her legs up under her and slings her free hand over the back of the couch.
"So, how have you been doing, kiddo?" she asks.
This is what I love about Midge. I hardly ever see her, but it's like that doesn't matter. When she talks to me, it's with absolute interest and obvious concern. She might not socialize with her minions, but I know without a doubt she cares deeply for all of us.
"I'm good," I tell her truthfully. "Jenna's case is coming along well. Our experts are going to shred theirs, and Dr. Summerland is a douche. The jury's going to hate him."
She nods and takes a sip of her drink. "Send me over a very short summary of our theory of negligence and the opinions that bolster it. Then I'll call that reporter back."
"I'll send it before I leave for the day."
"Now, what about Jenna? How is she going to do on the stand?" Midge asks.
"She's nervous but she'll be fine. I think the jury is going to empathize with her."
"Will they forgive her for being a dancer?" Midge asks wisely.
"Yeah, she's got good reason to do it. Her kid and all. She's clean, no drugs or alcohol. No criminal record. Just a hardworking mom who took an unconventional job to support an autistic child."
Midge nods and rubs her thumb over the edge of her glass. "Any potential problems?"
"Not so far," I tell her. "The insurance adjuster is a jackass. Doubt they'll offer anything at mediation, so this is probably going to go all the way."
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