Imperfect Justice

by Cara Putman

  “You and I know that, but the funder is conveniently forgetting.” Rhoda rubbed around an eye, a gesture unlike her normal poise. “If there was anything I could do to change his mind, I would, but I’ve about exhausted my grand ideas. I’m open to thoughts.”

  “Is this our major funder?”

  “Yes.”

  The reply left no room for caveats or wondering. Something more had to be behind this than the Adamses. “Can you tell me anything more?”

  “I’ve already said too much. If you come up with ideas or arguments, let me know.” The phone on her desk rang, and Rhoda reached for it. “Sorry to have such bad news.”

  As Rhoda picked up the phone, Emilie nodded and then stood, a plan already forming.

  CHAPTER 32

  The team sat around the same conference table where the client competition launched Friday. Simone handed out Excel spreadsheets with updated information on who had contacted each person and the status of research about the prospects. Luke, Annabelle, and Matt took a moment to read the information while Reid scanned it one more time. He was feeling good about where they stood. Of the twenty potential clients they’d been assigned, his team had made initial contact with half, not bad considering the layers it took to reach some.

  “What’s next?” Reid punted the question out there to see how everyone would respond. If they’d think creatively, this competition was theirs.

  Annabelle glanced at him, then at Matt.

  “Annabelle?” She had to learn to speak for herself, but he’d prompt her if it helped.

  “What if we got them all on the phone—”

  Luke snorted. “We’ve already done that. We can’t contact them too frequently.”

  “If you’d let me finish . . .” There was a spark in her eyes that made Reid bite back a smile. Good, she needed to stand up for her ideas. “Let’s invite them to a reception where we give them the full experience of what Fletcher & Associates provides.”

  “A party?” Matt grinned and then reached over and patted her hand as if she were someone to be mollified. “These are wealthy people who won’t want crackers and cheese.”

  “Where will the funds come from?” Luke jumped back in with a curl to his lip.

  “If we pooled our marketing budgets, we could have the event as early as Friday. Make it an after-work mixer. An intimate experience in which we introduce them to the team.” She emphasized the word and then focused on Reid. “We’d build their personal connection with the firm. They’re already interested, so if we make the calls with the right script, it’ll work.”

  “I like it.” He turned to Simone. “Can we pull it off?”

  “Absolutely.” She jotted a few notes on her iPad. “Frankly, it’s brilliant, because it pulls them into the setting. The office is impressive. And sometimes last-minute events work best.”

  “Let’s do it.” Reid turned to the men for their ideas, but other than ongoing research, he didn’t hear anything fresh. “All right. We’ll split the list for personal invites. I’d also like one hand-delivered to each prospect by tomorrow at lunch. Up the personal touch. I’ll work on the presentation aspect. Let me know what you think the top three needs or interests of your prospects are, so I can focus on the right areas. Set the time for an hour. We’ll mix for thirty minutes, present for fifteen, and then back to mixing.”

  “I’ll make sure Mr. Fletcher can attend,” Annabelle put in, and Reid nodded. She was the one to ask.

  “I’ll ensure we have the right mix of hors d’oeuvres and drinks. No more than forty attendees, correct?” Simone glanced at him.

  “Right. Let’s do this.” As he left the room, things were headed in the right direction. Now to find the proper angle in the presentation to win the business. As he walked to his office, he side-stepped Vincent, who’d been near the door. “Listening for ideas?”

  “I don’t need yours. I’ve got plenty of my own.” The man thrust back his shoulders and walked away, but not before Reid caught the dark circles beneath his eyes. Working solo created a burden that teamwork shared.

  Did he have a big enough team to save Kinley? He hoped so, but hope might not be enough. His phone buzzed, a reminder about a basketball game Brandon had set up for tomorrow night. Exercise sounded perfect. He needed the release and hopefully the clear mind that came on the other side.

  Emilie’s list of potential stalkers had shrunk as she clicked through one Google search after another. The list of names wasn’t narrowed enough to produce results that meant anything.

  A knock at her door brought her head up from the computer screen. Rhoda stepped in with a dark-haired man behind her. Emilie smiled as she recognized him from the newspapers a year ago and the annual fund-raiser in March. He had that slightly awkward, movie-star look. Hair spiked to roughly nuanced perfection and a tailored look the pressed khakis and button-down didn’t relax.

  “I don’t think you’ve met Jordan Westfall.” Rhoda waved a hand toward him. “He’s here for an update on our efforts.”

  Emilie pushed back her chair and then stood. “Actually, we met at the fund-raiser last spring.”

  “You remembered.” He held her hand for a moment.

  Heat built in her face. “Of course.” His gaze was focused and intense. She refused to squirm beneath the scrutiny. “What brings you to the Haven?”

  Rhoda stepped slightly between them. “Emilie is our attorney. At some point, with the right funding, I’d love to either make her full time or hire a second attorney.”

  “Why not do both? Though it doesn’t appear she’s busy currently.” He studied her desk, which held the stack of files, and she nudged the computer monitor out of his view, just in case he was looking.

  “You caught me right after I organized.”

  He gave her a slow smile. “Of course.”

  “It’s the nature of our work. We move from crisis to crisis.” Rhoda headed toward the door. “Well, let’s continue the tour and let Emilie get back to work. At any moment we could need an emergency petition or defense. Thanks for letting us interrupt.”

  “Nice to see you again, Mr. Westfall.” She met his gaze as he continued to study her.

  “Likewise.” His gaze locked with hers intensely, and after a moment he pivoted and followed Rhoda on the tour. Emilie sat frozen, her mind blank. What was that about? She shook her head and then looked at her screen. What had she been doing? Oh yeah, looking through clients. She typed the next name from her list into the firm’s document retrieval program.

  Chris Marville. She remembered him, since she’d handled the case from protective order to completed divorce. Chris had been an odd ex rather than a scary one. It had been the way he stared first at his ex-wife and then, over the course of the two-day custody battle, had transferred that energy to her. It had been dialed in with a focus she’d felt even as she forced herself to ignore him. But he’d never said or done anything more than stare. In and of itself, that wasn’t enough to make a man dangerous. Was it?

  She entered the next name. Randy Sheets seemed a more likely candidate. Until she’d seen the pictures of the marital home destroyed after her client and the kids left, she’d believed him coldly controlling, one of those men who focused on himself and his needs and wants. This burst of violence at the house had utterly obliterated walls, torn out cabinets and sinks, and ruined flooring. It had been enough to cause her to watch him warily through the final mediation, but the pictures had also been enough to prompt him to finally settle minutes before the trial began. He might be a narcissistic controller, but he hadn’t turned his violence on a person . . . yet.

  That yet left Emilie cold.

  The last ex was a boyfriend, a man who’d never agreed to commitment, something that should make her client eternally grateful. They’d had no kids, so once she gathered the courage to make her plan and leave, the client escaped. Then the ex started appearing at her job, her new apartment, restaurants. Only a protective order that threatened his top-secret clearan
ce—and by extension his livelihood—made him leave. She’d explained to his attorney that without a clear demonstration that his behavior had changed permanently, this young man would have the protective order slapped on him with all that it meant. Bill Hutchins finally received the message when she filed the preliminary paperwork.

  She leaned back and rubbed her eyes. Staring at the computer screen with such focused attention was making her eyes cross. She hadn’t found anything that seemed likely to make a client’s partner turn her direction with the threat of violence. While Randy had been violent to his home, he hadn’t been to his wife or kids.

  Her stalker was a shadow, not bothering to communicate much, but ensuring she felt his or her presence.

  Emilie paused.

  Her?

  Could it be an actual client who wasn’t happy with how her legal matter had concluded?

  She didn’t want to think someone she’d helped would turn on her. She mentally ran through her cases and clients from the past year. None seemed a strong candidate for someone who would terrorize her from a distance. They were women who had themselves been bullied and intimidated.

  She’d ask for Taylor’s opinion. Her assistant heard and saw things Emilie didn’t. Taylor saw them when they arrived and was often the contact in an emergency. In that space between lawyer and client, paralegals often spent more time on the phone with the clients, hearing their everyday issues and concerns. It was a service the attorneys could provide but really shouldn’t. It wasn’t an effective use of their time, but it also wasn’t something all clients understood. They’d hired the attorney, not the paralegals, and the realities of the legal profession didn’t always match expectations. Especially if you weren’t familiar with how the law worked.

  Who could understand before being forced to confront the legal system? TV and books didn’t give an accurate picture. Things had to be shifted and adjusted for the story. The result was unrealistic expectations. Could such expectations lead someone to feel aggrieved and focus on Emilie?

  Emilie rubbed her left shoulder where the tension had parked. She could feel the knot and knew it was something even a visit to her chiropractor wouldn’t release.

  If she could convince herself the feeling was the work of an overtired, overstressed mind, then she could release this belief that someone lurked in the shadows everywhere she went. She called Taylor in and shared her latest idea.

  Taylor’s brows furrowed, and her head cocked to the side. “You really think that could happen?” She frowned and twirled a pencil through her fingers. “No one comes to mind.”

  “Would you consider it? Look through client files from the last two years as you have time.” Emilie hoped Taylor heard the tone that said she knew her idea was crazy.

  Taylor gave a quick downward motion of her chin. “I can do that.” The pencil stopped twirling, and she stood. “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Me too.” Emilie sagged against her chair. She wanted Taylor to prove she had an overactive imagination. Then she could laugh as she blamed her fears, and in a few months or a year this season would be nothing more than a time she remembered with a feeling of foolishness.

  She pulled up a copy of the spreadsheet she’d compiled with each of her clients from the last three years. After hitting print, she watched as the pages spilled from the printer. The list was longer than she’d expected. Amazing how the clients blurred together even as each name brought a specific set of facts and a face to mind.

  Some might believe it was only a list.

  But she knew differently.

  She picked up a pen and went to work. Before she left, she’d have notes beside all the names, notes that hit the key points of their cases and stories. Then when Taylor was done with her list, they’d compare.

  CHAPTER 33

  The squeak of rubber against waxed wood ricocheted off the walls and high ceilings as Reid walked into the YMCA gymnasium. He tossed his bag onto the bleachers and sat to change into his basketball shoes. A hand clapped on his back, and he jerked forward, almost eating his knees. He finished tying his shoe as he wrenched to see who had tried to knock his teeth out.

  Brandon stood there, cocky grin in place, looking too tall and broad for a basketball court. He belonged on the much bigger football field. “Pretty absorbed in those shoes. Forget how to tie?”

  “Ha-ha.” Reid stood so Brandon didn’t feel so dominating. “How long you been here?”

  “Long enough to get us on the list for a court.”

  “Thanks. Everyone still coming?”

  “David texted that he’s on his way.”

  He clapped Brandon on the shoulder. “Good to see you.”

  “I know. The game wouldn’t be the same without me. How are you doing?”

  “I still feel discombobulated.”

  “Probably will for a while. These traumatic events. They take time, and it’s different with each.”

  Reid nodded as he let the words slide around him. He didn’t want more psychoanalyzing by a friend. What he needed was the physical outlet of a friendly game that would turn fiercely competitive. In the end he’d be bruised, sore, and, he hoped, ready to sleep soundly for the first time since Kaylene died.

  David strode through the door and tossed his duffel on the floor, where it slid into Reid. He pulled Reid over for a quick man hug. “Sorry about your sister and niece.”

  “Thanks.” What else could he say? He vaguely remembered David and Ciara attending the service. Much of that day was shadows, nothing concrete and solid. As David stepped aside, Reid saw Ciara coming, toting baby Amber in a carrier thingy that looked like a torture implement for the mom. Then he froze. Beside Ciara, lugging what had to be the mother ship of all diaper bags, was Emilie Wesley.

  She wore a flowing top and a pair of skinny jeans that fit just right, and he had to remind his lungs to do their job. She glanced at him and a shy smile tipped her lips. He took a step toward her, but David intercepted him.

  “She’s a special friend, Reid.”

  “Okay.” It wasn’t like his friend to warn him off. “You know we’ve been on a date, right?”

  “Yep, and I’m serious. I’m watching closely. Ciara is very protective of Emilie.”

  Reid held up his hands and took a step back. “Noted.”

  “I’m so glad you came tonight. You work entirely too hard.”

  Ciara’s words circled around Emilie as she set the monstrous bag on a bleacher bench. How much stuff did a two-month-old need? Even in her most must-be-prepared-for-any-situation days in college, her backpack had never been this stuffed. She was scared to unzip the bag and peek in, for fear the slightest movement would cause the contents to explode like a demented jack-in-the-box.

  First-time parents.

  She couldn’t ignore the joy looking into Amber’s clear blue eyes brought. Recently it felt all she experienced was an overwhelming exhaustion and fear that she couldn’t perform up to some elusive standard she’d set for herself. She was disappointing everyone—herself most of all.

  It was a rock that threatened to sink her beneath the waves, and she wasn’t strong enough to swim back to the surface.

  “You okay?” Ciara’s words brought her back to the moment, and Emilie forced a smile.

  “I’m good.” She glanced around the battered gym. “Why do you come to these again?”

  “When you’re married, it means you go to smelly, noisy places because it’s what your husband likes.” She unfastened a couple of the bizarre collection of buckles strapping Amber to her seat. “David likes to show off for me, and it gives him time with his friends when he doesn’t feel he’s cheating us of time.” She shrugged and glanced at Emilie. “It’s a small enough thing.”

  Her words conveyed a message that love comprised a series of small sacrifices that built over time to a lasting relationship.

  Emilie sensed the wisdom embedded in the words. When would she find the man with whom she could build a lasting love? Ciara had found
hers with David. And Hayden looked to be building her happily-ever-after with Andrew. What held her back from finding the man who could love her truly, deeply, and with that everlasting, all-consuming love—but wouldn’t burn into the unbridled need for control, as the women who came to the Haven had experienced?

  Emilie wanted to be loved.

  She didn’t want to disappear into someone else’s control.

  The possibility terrified her.

  “You still with us?” Ciara’s words snapped Emilie back to the moment.

  “Yeah. Got lost for a second.”

  “You could say that.” Ciara shifted the now freed Amber in her arms and then nudged her chin toward the basketball court. “I see you’ve captured the attention of David’s friend Reid.”

  Emilie felt heat crawl up her neck. “I’m not looking for attention.”

  “So says my friend who is desperate to be loved.”

  Ouch. “Who gave you the crystal ball into my soul?”

  “God can whisper the truth even through little ole me.”

  Emilie’s gaze trailed to the court, where David and Reid had been joined by the hulking guy she’d seen at the funeral and again in the restaurant. He was tall and probably had a hundred pounds on her, but not one was fat. He screamed athlete—a different look from Reid, who wasn’t muscle-bound. Yet Reid had an intelligence and spark that drew her.

  There was a flurry of activity at the doorway, and she turned to see another man walk in, flanked by a man and a woman. She recognized him at once. “Does that guy have security?”

  Ciara turned from digging through the bottomless bag. “Jordan? It might be overkill, but he must have needed them for something earlier today.”

  “Seriously?” The woman never stopped scanning the room as she moved ahead of the men to take a loop of the court. “That’s intense.”

  The guys greeted each other, a standoffish vibe coming from the latest entrant, as if he wanted to enter in but couldn’t quite let himself.