The red-haired woman smiled again, whipped out her business card, handed it to Patrick and shook his hand.
“I’m Jordan Crespin,” she said. “You’re exactly the kind of person we’re looking for. Come down anytime. I’m always there and I’ll give you the deluxe tour of our operation. I think you’ll be impressed.”
When the woman left, Patrick glanced at the receptionist whose eyes were wide as she stared at him.
“What?” he asked.
“You really gonna go down there?”
“I might,” said Patrick as he tucked Jordan Crespin’s card into his shirt pocket and walked down the hallway to his office.
That night he met Sunny for dinner at one of their favorite Italian trattorias, Il Pimiento. They had been seeing each other for six months, one of the longest relationships Patrick had ever had.
“Hey, babe,” said an already seated Sunny, barely looking up while dabbing her lipstick with her finger while looking in a hand mirror. “Thank God, you finally got here, I’m starving.”
“It’s a miracle I got out of work at all,” said Patrick, pulling out his phone and checking his messages. “Half the office is still there. We’ve got a couple of big cases going down this week.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Sunny, smoothing her dark hair and launching into her own work woes. “At the station, I’m the low man on the totem pole and I always get all the crap assignments. But, not for long. There’s a rumor going around that they’re finally going to get rid of that old gasbag, Jim Bauer. I don’t know why it’s taken this long, you can practically see his hair plugs on the TV. He’s been at that anchor desk since I was in kindergarten. What I’ve heard is that if he goes, there’s a possibility that his job might be mine. If that happens, you and I will be on the A-list for everything—dinners, gallery openings, concerts, charity events. Our pictures in the paper will be a regular thing.”
Sunny chattered on for several minutes, sharing the network gossip and the comings and goings at KNYC, when she noticed Patrick had a glazed-over look in his eyes.
“What did I just say?” she asked as she squinted at him.
“You said the new woman anchoring on the weekend gets too much Botox and looks like a chipmunk.”
“Gopher. I said she looks like a gopher,” said Sunny, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’re not listening to me. What’s going on, Patrick?”
The young lawyer stared at his girlfriend unsure if he was ready to share his idea. Sunny held her gaze on him like a beam from the Death Star.
“I’ve been thinking about doing something new,” said Patrick.
“Is it about us?” she asked hopefully, wedding bells chiming in her head.
“I was asked to do some legal volunteer work for The Vindication Project.” The expectant look on Sunny’s face faded, replaced by one of confusion. “Oh,” she said. “What’s that?”
Patrick patiently explained TVP’s mission to an obviously uninterested Sunny.
“With the little free time you have, now you’re going to volunteer and go work with a bunch of criminals? We barely have any time together as it is,” she complained. “You already work late every night. When are you going to have time to do volunteer work?”
“I’ll make the time. I can give them some hours on weekends. This is something I want to do, Sun,” said Patrick. “A long time ago, someone called me an ambulance chaser. In some ways they were right. Truth is, sometimes I feel kind of dirty at the end of the day. Volunteering would be good for my soul.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” said Sunny, making a clicking sound with her tongue. “You’re a personal injury attorney. That’s a perfectly respectable profession.”
“I didn’t go to law school for that stuff. I wanted to help people.”
“You do help people,” said Sunny, leaning across the table taking his hand. “When someone trips on the sidewalk and breaks their ankle, you help them get the money for their medical bills. I’d call that helping. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“Half the time the claims are bogus, you and I both know that,” said Patrick. “We sue people and squeeze as much money out of their insurance company as possible. I studied law to be a prosecutor and get bad people off the street or to defend innocent people. Right now, I do neither of those things. All I have to show for myself is a big fat bank account.”
“What’s wrong with that? You work hard. You deserve everything you have. Besides, you also have me.” In a matter of moments, Sunny had turned the conversation back to her favorite topic, herself, and prattled cheerfully for the remainder of the meal assuming the crazy notion of Patrick volunteering had been tabled. As they left the restaurant, an elderly woman with white hair wearing a navy-blue plaid wool poncho approached them holding a piece of paper and a pen.
“Excuse me,” said the elderly woman nervously. “Aren’t you Sunny Raines, from Channel 8? I watch you all the time. I was wondering, could I get your autograph?”
Sunny graciously smiled and took the pen and paper with great fanfare. She loved when people asked her for her autograph. It didn’t happen very often, but when it did, she was in heaven.
“I love your weather forecasts and I always watch Jim Bauer do the news, too. Is he as great in person as he seems on television?” asked the elderly woman.
“Oh, he’s a darling, even better in person,” said Sunny, giving Patrick a wink.
Later, out on the street, Sunny took Patrick’s hand as they walked.
“You lie effortlessly, you know that?” said Patrick. “You’d make a good criminal.”
“What was I supposed to say? Jim Bauer is a depraved windbag? That he’s the most repugnant human being on the planet and I cringe whenever his sloth-like self enters a room?”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “I see your point. But still, lies roll off your tongue quite easily.”
“It’s a talent.”
52
May 2018
Juggling his personal injury clients, The Vindication Project and Sunny was a harder balancing act than Patrick had anticipated. With the added volunteering, he still managed to keep his personal injury cases moving forward, but Sunny was a different story.
“You don’t make time for me anymore,” she complained one evening.
“I’m making time for you right now,” said Patrick who had just arrived at her apartment after spending the better part of his Sunday with the other volunteers downtown at The Vindication Project offices. Since he had signed on to volunteer with TVP, he had worked there at least one full weekend day each week. There was so much to do and so many people wrongfully imprisoned that Patrick started putting in hours on both Saturdays and Sundays.
His first solo TVP case was a young black man from New York named Kamal Bolton. When he was eighteen, Kamal had been caught up in a routine stop and frisk in the Bronx, a practice that had since been discontinued by the City of New York. Police maintained they were looking for a gun but found only a small bag of marijuana and some other drug paraphernalia. Kamal couldn’t make bail nor did he have the money to hire an attorney. After spending four years in Rikers waiting for his case to go to trial, represented by an overloaded and not terribly interested public defender, Kamal was still sitting in jail. His assigned lawyer either didn’t care or simply didn’t have enough hours in the day to advocate properly for his client.
The one ace in the hole Kamal had was his relentless mother, Wanda Bolton, who kept making phone calls and knocking on doors until she finally got someone to listen. The person who heard her plea was TVP director, Jordan Crespin. Since taking the case on, Jordan had been trying to get Kamal’s case dismissed as time served. The first file Jordan handed over to Patrick was Kamal’s.
“He’s a nice kid,” said Jordan, nodding. “Been in Rikers all this time for a bag of weed. This is as gross a miscarriage of justice as I’ve ever come across. We’ve got to get him out of there. He’s been stuck in there with all those caree
r criminals. Thank God for his mother, Wanda. She is fierce and has never given up on her son.”
Patrick flipped through the file and stopped when he came across the mugshot of a terrified looking Kamal.
“He looks like he’s twelve in this picture,” said Patrick.
“That was taken when they booked him. He doesn’t look much older now,” said the director. “Take some time with the file and go meet with him. In my opinion, we’ve already got enough compiled to get him out of there. I need you to get the documents in order to present to the D.A. You up for it?”
“Absolutely,” said Patrick as he packed the files into his bag to bring home and review later that night.
“You’ve been working in negligence law, but heed my words, the New York correctional system is a whole different beast,” said Jordan. “If you’re going to visit your client ‘on island,’ which is what we call it when we visit someone on Rikers, you’ll have to call the Department of Corrections one day in advance to arrange it. Good luck getting anyone there to answer the phone. Sometimes, I have to let it ring fifty or sixty times before anyone picks up. You have to call at three o’clock the day before. If you call at 3:02, they won’t give you the appointment. They like to screw with us whenever they can.”
“Good to know. I’ll lower my expectations,” said Patrick, taking notes.
“Ask them to bring your client downtown to Centre Street for your meeting or you’ll spend your whole day getting in and out of Rikers. Trust me, have the meeting in lower Manhattan.”
“Got it.”
“After you sign in, the guards, who will try to make your visit as unpleasant as possible, will give you a badge and then you’ll have to lock up your stuff in a locker before you can see Kamal. That’s about it. Good luck.”
At 3pm the next day, Patrick called the NYC Corrections Department. After being disconnected four times, he let the phone ring nearly a hundred times until he got a rather unhelpful person on the line. Chalking it up to beginner’s luck, he got his meeting scheduled with Kamal.
The experience of getting into 100 Centre Street for his client meeting was as dreadful as Jordan had described. The correctional facility staff were openly hostile to the lawyers coming to meet with their clients. After Patrick signed in and locked up his personal items, he was led to the ninth floor and into a small room for his meeting. Seated at a small table in the bleak and dingy room, Patrick waited for the young man to arrive. Twenty minutes later, Kamal Bolton was brought in.
“Who are you?” asked a suspicious Kamal. “Where’s Ms. Crespin?”
“I work with her at TVP. My name is Patrick Walsh and I’m going to be helping Ms. Crespin get you out of jail.”
“Yeah, I heard that before.”
“Look, Kamal, we’ve gone through your files and with a little tweaking and proper petitions, we think we can get you out. That mom of yours, she never gave up on you.”
Kamal’s face lit up at the mention of his mother and he smiled for the first time. “Yeah, my mom’s a force. You don’t want to mess with her.”
Patrick stayed with his new client for forty-five minutes and explained what they planned to do and how he thought it would go down. “There are no guarantees,” said Patrick, “but I think we can make this happen. Don’t get into any trouble. Lay low and let us do our job, okay?”
Kamal smiled again and Patrick gave him a supportive pat on the back before guards led the young man away.
53
June 2018
Almost every week, Sunny dragged Patrick to dinners or work and charity events. If there was an important fundraiser in Manhattan, Sunny was there with Patrick by her side. Determined to be seen around town at all the right social functions, she wanted to see her name regularly appear in columns in the NY Post and the Daily News. A month earlier, the NY Post ran a fairly large picture of Patrick and Sunny standing next to the mayor of New York which made the ambitious weather girl enormously happy.
“Don’t forget, we have the big charity gala tomorrow night,” said Sunny one evening while she and Patrick shared a Chinese takeout dinner in her apartment.
“I need to take a pass on that one,” said Patrick, stuffing the last piece of an egg roll into his mouth.
“What are you talking about?” Sunny gasped.
“I’m burning the candle at both ends right now,” said Patrick. “I need a break or I’m going to crash. I’ve been to two events with you in the past week.”
“I thought you were the big party boy?”
“Having a couple of beers with friends for an hour isn’t the same as attending a black-tie Junior League fundraiser. With all my extra TVP work, I’m stretched to the limit.”
“But we’ve already committed to the gala. You can’t back out on me now,” said Sunny. “It’s one of the biggest events of the year. I can’t show up alone. How would that look?”
“Take someone from the station,” said Patrick, reaching for a spare rib. “They can have my ticket.”
“But we’re building our brand, Sunny and Patrick. People expect to see us together,” she whined. “This event tomorrow night is too important for you to miss. Everyone will be there.”
As Patrick stared at the beautiful woman sitting across from him his thoughts drifted back to the Valentine’s Eve phone call.
“What?” asked Sunny, peering at him.
Patrick shook his head. “Let me ask you something. Have you any interest in going to Prague?”
“Is that in Poland?”
“No. Do you think we should set term limits for politicians?” Patrick asked with a blank stare.
Sunny’s eyes darted around the room, not sure why this line of questioning was being directed at her and wondering what the correct answer was. “No?” she said. Patrick didn’t respond but maintained eye contact.
“Yes?” she blurted out.
“Who do you like better, John Coltrane or Miles Davis?” asked Patrick.
Sunny’s eyes searched the walls for the correct answer. “They’re musicians, right?” she said weakly.
“They happen to be two of the greatest jazz musicians that ever lived.”
Sunny froze like a deer in headlights. “I knew that.”
“You don’t care about any of this stuff, do you?” said Patrick, smiling at her.
“Those topics are not my areas of expertise,” said Sunny, pouting.
“You know what I’m interested in—politics and the law,” said Patrick. “I want to help move the needle on social justice reforms that help poor people.”
“I have important interests, too,” protested Sunny. “I know all about pop-culture, and literature and art. I’ve got my finger on the pulse of the latest fashion trends from Europe and the newest breakthroughs in skin care. I know who the best dermatologists in New York are and when all the designer sample sales are going to happen.”
“That’s my whole point,” said Patrick. “We don’t speak the same language.”
“I do speak your language,” said Sunny raising her voice. “I participate in tons of charitable events that raise money for all sorts of causes—children’s hospitals, the arts, animal shelters and saving the whales. I was even the co-chairperson for the Junior League’s fundraiser to build new playgrounds throughout the city.”
“Yes, but you do it all so you can be seen and get your name on things,” said Patrick. “Not because you really care.”
“I think that’s very unfair,” said Sunny attempting to take back control of the conversation. “So what if I get my picture in the paper or my name on an event program. I’m still volunteering. I’m still making it happen. So I benefit from my good deeds a little. What matters is that the hospital gets built or the whale gets saved. It’s true we’re not exactly alike but together, we’re the whole fabulous package.”
“Are we?”
“You can’t back out on me for the charity gala,” said Sunny sharply. “This event is way too important.”
Patrick sighed. “Okay, I’ll go this one time, but we need to talk about us more and—”
“Not tonight,” said Sunny, getting up from the table and clearing the plates. “My head is pounding and I need to get to sleep. I have an early call tomorrow. We’ll talk about it after the gala. Let’s go to bed.”
For the next two weeks, every time Patrick tried to bring up the conversation about him switching careers, Sunny artfully changed the subject or distracted him. She may not have followed politics, but she knew very well how to be charming and kept things convivial between them. With little free time to think about his relationship, Patrick pushed down his doubts about Sunny and soon they were back into their old rhythm—the social butterfly and her handsome escort.
54
July 2018
Stepping out of an air-conditioned Panera Bread onto the street carrying her lunch, the hot, sticky New York City summer humidity enveloped Callie as she walked uptown towards her office. Halfway to her building, a poster hanging in a store window caught her eye.
Ben Huston for Senate
Rally in Central Park
— Great South Lawn —
12:30pm Wednesday August 19th
She took a picture of the sign and practically ran to the office to tell Jess. Her best friend was in the middle of doing a very difficult and extensive survey on capital punishment. An impatient Callie tapped her foot and poked her friend on the shoulder. Ignoring her, Jess continued with her questions. Callie fidgeted in her chair, hummed and strummed her fingers on her desk until Jess finally ended her call.
“I thought you’d never finish,” said Callie, bursting with excitement.
“This better be good.”
“Ben Huston…is giving a speech in Central Park in two weeks.”
“Okay,” said Jess, “not sure why that piece of information is so critical.”
The Fussy Virgin Page 18
