by Adam Aust
III
Trial went as expected—ten sleepless nights of corralling evidence and coordinating legal research with nerve-wracked junior attorneys in a cramped back room. It was never clear from her vantage point how well the case was going, but the fact that every one of her tasks seemed to be an emergency didn’t bode well. Just finding time to eat had been a struggle.
Despite the tight schedule, she’d apparently managed to gore herself twice during trial. Again, she couldn’t remember when or how she did it.
Back home, her sister Molly had surprised her with an unannounced visit. Thinking she was doing Sarah a favor, Molly had run a load of laundry for her, discovering by accident several of Sarah’s bloodstained garments. She confronted Sarah about the source of those stains, and in the ensuing, awkward conversation, Sarah, greatly embarrassed, conceded that she’d been cutting herself since as early as high school, and confessed that their parents had secretly chauffeured her to therapy for years. Molly’s “how could you do that to yourself?” look had been soul-flattening. Shock, concern, disgust, and disappointment seemed waft off her, thickening the air between them, despite Sarah’s insistence that she had things under control. The mood had lightened only slightly when Molly hugged Sarah goodbye and said, “I’ll check in on you.”
Alone again, Sarah stared frequently at the two slashes on right side of her rear end, poking at the blood-encrusted marks, shaking her head, and thinking, You’re becoming quite the fucking head case, aren’t you?
With Molly gone, though, Sarah could at least refocus on work, which she did, attacking her assignments with monk-like dedication. No blogs, news websites, or online shopping. For four straight days—including Saturday and Sunday—she ate every meal at her desk, rising only infrequently to use the restroom.
Booting up her computer the Tuesday after Molly left, Sarah saw her cell phone light up—Molly was calling. Sarah ignored her. Molly called again. Sarah ignored her again. Jesus, Molly, she thought, shaking her head, it’s the beginning of the work day. Undeterred, Molly left text messages: “Need to talk”; “You lied to me.”
Sarah silenced her phone and flipped it over, just as David Marshall shoved his way into her office. “Sarah? Got a second?”
“Of course,” she said, doing her best to look happy and eager—and to block from her thoughts what happened the last time David stopped by for a “quick chat.”
He grabbed the stack of papers on Sarah’s visitors’ chair, scanned her desk for an empty spot to put it, and, unable to find one, dropped the stack on a covered banker’s box near the wall, and sat.
I really need to get this place organized, she thought.
“I know it was tough having that witness taken away from you just before the Omnicron trial,” he said soberly, peering straight at her, almost through her, “but it was just business. The client was getting nervous about having an associate stand up in front of the jury on such a big case.” He paused here for an uncomfortably long time and trained his eyes on hers, seemingly trying to prompt a response. The silence lingered, feeding her fears, but she knew better than to fill the space with nervous chatter. I must have fucked something else up. Must have . . .
“Anyway,” David continued, in a conciliatory tone, “you handled it like a professional, and you did great work orchestrating things behind the scenes at trial.”
Sarah forced the corners of her mouth upwards as she waited for David to say “but . . . ,” but it never came.
“I was impressed,” he went on. “How would you like to work on a matter with me directly? It would be a much smaller case—nowhere near the magnitude of the Omnicron trial—but it’s probably more important to the company involved, Sonalux Labs. They asked me to put together a team of my best attorneys, and I want you on that team. In fact, I want you to manage it day-to-day. Think you can handle it?”
Sarah’s blood warmed in her veins. “Absolutely.” She fought the urge to fist pump. “Thank you!”
“You earned it.” His smile widened. Sarah could feel her cheeks flush. “There are a few preliminary things you can get started on right—”
Sarah’s office line rang. The caller ID read “Molly Evans.” David stopped, glanced at the phone, then back at Sarah, whose hands were instinctively reaching for the “ignore” button or whatever the equivalent was on her overly complicated, firm-issued Cisco phone. But she couldn’t find it. Her back stiffened. As a mid-level associate, she’d never had the luxury of being able to ignore a call at work. She sat, helplessly gawking at the phone as if it were a fire she couldn’t extinguish, while it proclaimed, with each jarring ring, just how technically incompetent she was.
“You know there’s—” David began.
Sarah snatched the receiver off the cradle and slammed it back in place, startling David and cutting him off. “Sorry,” she offered, “I’m really bad with these phones. What were you saying?”
He squinted at her and paused for a moment before continuing: “I was just saying that there’s a do not dist—”
The phone rang again.
“Do you need to get that?” he asked.
“It’s just my sister. I can call her back.” Sarah waived a hand dismissively.
The phone kept ringing. Sarah tried to find the “do not disturb” button, which seemed just as elusive as the “ignore” button.
“Sarah,” David said, “it’s your sister. What if it’s an emergency? I insist.” He looked stern now, his voice tightening. “Answer the phone.”
She swallowed hard and turned away from David, lifting the handset and whispering into the receiver: “Molly, unless this is an emergency, it’s a really bad time.”
“Sarah, what the hell? Why do you keep ignoring me? And why did you lie to me?” Molly began.
“What? I—”
“I spoke to Mom and Dad about your . . . affliction.”
Does she keep anything to herself?
“Well,” she continued, “they were completely shocked.”
“I guess so. They didn’t know this was ongoing. They thought it ended years ago.” She glanced over her shoulder at David. “I’m sure they’ll now expect a thorough explanation next time I’m home—”
“Sarah, I don’t think you understand. They had no idea you had ever cut yourself.”
“What? Yes they did. That’s—”
“No, they didn’t. They’re obviously worried, but I asked them not to call you. I told them it might just be a misunderstanding and that I would talk to you and figure it out. I’m really worried about you. Why would you lie to me about this?”
“Molly,” she said as evenly as possible, “I didn’t lie to you. I’m just . . .” She felt the blood drain from her cheeks. She looked back at David, who was getting noticeably impatient. How could they not remember taking me to therapy in high school? “Look, Moll, I can’t talk about this right now. I’ll figure things out and call you back, OK? Gotta go. Love you.” She hung up and turned to face David again, fighting the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach and struggling to maintain a neutral expression. “I’m so sorry about that,” she said to David.
“Family’s important, Sarah.” David’s tone had changed. He was scolding her now; a father relaying a life lesson to his recalcitrant daughter. “My advice to you is don’t take that for granted. I lost my first wife because I focused too much on this job. You don’t want to end up in that position. Trust me.”
She stared straight through him. He said something. You have to respond. “Yes. . . . Thank you.”
“Now, let me show you how to set your phone to ‘do not disturb’ so we can actually discuss this case that you will be running.”
