“Ben Huston!” said Callie with even more enthusiasm. “He’s running for Senate.”
“I know who he is.”
“He’s going to be in Central Park.”
“You told me that already,” said Jess.
“The Mystery Man and I talked all about Ben Huston,” said Callie, sighing. “We both agreed he was the one.”
“The one what?”
“The one who could make big positive changes in our country,” said Callie becoming exasperated. “The Mystery Man said he was ‘the real deal,’ remember?”
“I thought we were way done with the Mystery Man. What do you think is going to happen if you go to that rally in the park?” asked Jess. “You think he’s going to be there waiting for you on a white horse?”
“He’ll be at that rally.”
“How do you know that?” asked Jess dubiously.
“I just do. I’m going to go to that rally and that’s how we’re going to find each other,” said Callie with utter confidence.
“It’s possible you’re insane,” said Jess. “Do you know how many people are going to be in the park that day? Thousands. Maybe tens of thousands. You don’t even know what he looks like. You wouldn’t know him if you were staring right at him.”
Callie bit her bottom lip and thought for a moment. “I have an idea,” she said with a confident smile.
“Here we go,” said Jess, shaking her head but still mildly curious. Over the years, Callie’s imagination coupled with her creativity had been a constant source of amazement to Jess.
“When the MM and I were on the phone, we had lots of things in common,” said Callie. “Both of us grew up with dogs. He loves beagles. I love beagles. I’ll bring a beagle to the rally. If the MM is there, I know he’ll come over to pet the dog. He told me whenever he saw a beagle on the street, he always has to pet it.”
“That’s your big plan?” asked Jess, her brow furrowed. “And where are you going to get a beagle?”
“You think I could borrow one from the animal shelter?”
“They don’t loan out dogs for political rallies.”
“Somebody we know must have one. That’s a minor wrinkle. I’ll figure that out,” said an excited Callie, throwing up her arms as she leaned over to take her first call of the day. “Good afternoon, I’m calling from Ariom Marketing. We’re doing a survey on voter registration and…”
55
George had vetoed anyone in the office taking time off between August and the November election day. Desperate to get the day off to attend the Huston rally, Callie came up with what she thought was a scathingly brilliant plan. While doing her marketing research, she had uncovered a particular piece of political information that she knew would score points with George. At the end of one of her shifts, she reviewed all of her surveys, compiled the statistics and created a final top sheet of results before bringing the stack of documents to George’s office. Gathering up her papers, she made sure everything was in perfect order before she walked across the large bullpen.
“Knock-knock,” she said as she poked her head into George’s small windowless office, decorated like a gulag—colorless and utilitarian with one exception, a large Star Trek poster hanging above his desk.
“What can I do for you, Caledoni-aah?” said George, barely looking up.
“It’s what I can do for you, George,” said Callie brightly as she placed the surveys on his desk. “You know how I was working on the questionnaires for the mayoral race in Chicago? You know how our client was concerned that the mayor’s re-election was going to be hurt by his pending divorce and that the rumors surrounding it would hurt him significantly in the polls?”
“Yes, Caledoni-aah, I know. I gave you that assignment.”
“I’ve been working on something all week,” said Callie, leaning in. “I compiled not only my surveys, but also all data from the other people who were working on this project, and guess what?”
“Illuminate me.”
“Turns out, the good citizens of Chicago think the mayor is a good man but they can’t stand Mr. Mayor’s wife,” said Callie. “They don’t like her because of that leak last year about her being abusive to her staff. People don’t like that kind of stuff. Nope, the people in Chicago will be very glad to see Mrs. Mayor take a hike. Bottom line—you can tell our client that his divorce is going to boost his ratings, not hurt them.”
George looked up at the smiling Callie as he reached for the stack of surveys to review her top line statistics. She waited for him to finish, convinced that she had brought him something really important—possibly game-changing.
George cleared his throat. “This is excellent work, Caledoni-aah. The chairman of the mayor’s re-election campaign is going to be very happy. You’re absolutely sure? You’ve double checked everything?”
“Don’t I always?”
George looked at her and gave her a half-smile, which for him indicated overwhelming joy. “Good job. I’ll see that you get a little something extra in your next check.”
Callie beamed as George turned his attention back to the surveys. “Thank you, George. That means so much coming from you.”
After a few moments he looked up and saw Callie still standing there.
“Is there something else?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Callie, “thanks for asking. I know we’re in crunch mode between now and November, what with only twelve weeks until the elections. But I was wondering if it would be all right for me to take one day off in a few weeks, August 19th?”
“I believe I informed everyone in the office that from now until the election, it’s ‘all hands on deck,’” said George. “There is a company-wide embargo on personal or vacation days. We’re short-staffed as it is.”
Callie promised to work extra days, nights, weekends—anything George wanted, if he would let her take August 19th off. After fifteen minutes of promises, he gave in.
“Enough, Caledoni-aah, you’re giving me a headache,” said George, looking back at his oversized Apple screen. “Fine. Take the day, but then I own you for the next twelve weeks. Agreed?”
“You’ve got a deal,” said a triumphant Callie as she left his office and walked back to her cubicle. When she sat down, Jess swung around the partition.
“Why were you in the troll’s office all that time?” said Jess.
“He’s not so bad.”
“Whaaa?”
“I got the day off to go to the Huston rally,” said Callie.
“No way.”
“It’s the universe working its magic,” said Callie. “All I’ve got to do now is find a beagle.”
56
Nearly nine months into the longest relationship Patrick had been involved in since law school, he and Sunny went out to dinner to their favorite Japanese restaurant, Sushi Zen. It was the first time they had been together in a week. The large Asian eatery seated nearly eighty people when full and this Saturday night it was crowded and noisy.
After they ordered, Sunny rattled on about office politics at KNYC, while she nibbled on a salty green edamame pod.
“You have no idea how stressful it is at the station these days,” said Sunny, pouting as she reached for another edamame. “I thought they would have moved me into that anchor job but then Bauer cleaned up his act. Can you believe that?”
“Sucks,” said Patrick supportively.
“Sucks is right,” said Sunny. “I’m not getting any younger. You have to make your move for an anchor job when you’re young. Nobody’s putting a fifty-year-old woman on in prime time.”
“You’re twenty-seven.”
“And fifty’s just around the corner. In the blink of an eye, I’ll be collecting my first social security check, if there’s any money left. Look at my crow’s feet,” said Sunny, pointing to her flawless eyes. “People with crow’s feet do not host the evening news.”
Patrick shook his head and laughed. “Can I talk to you about something serious?”
“M
y career isn’t serious?”
“Of course it is, but I’ve been trying to talk to you for weeks about something I’m thinking of doing,” said Patrick. “It will affect us.”
Sunny sat up straight and cocked her head. Now, he had her full attention.
“You know I’m volunteering at TVP,” said Patrick. “I never imagined how good it was going to make me feel.”
“That’s great, sweetie,” said Sunny, distracted by a chip in the melon-colored nail polish on her right index finger.
“Lately, when I’m working on a personal injury case, I find myself thinking about my work at TVP. I’ve realized that’s what really matters to me. I’m finding it hard to stay focused at my law firm.”
“You just need more sleep,” said Sunny, looking up from her nails and taking his hand.
“I only got into personal injury law to pay down my student loans and make some cash. I wanted to have some fun,” said Patrick, “but I never wanted to do personal injury law. The work I do at TVP feels right. Each time I go there, I feel more alive.”
“Where are you going with this, Patrick?”
“I want to get more involved with TVP,” he said. “I want to do more.”
“When? We hardly see each other now. If you put in more hours at TVP, I’ll never see you.”
“Sunny, I’m thinking of making a career change.”
“What does that mean?” said Sunny with slight scowl. “What kind of a change.”
Patrick smiled. “I can’t do anything now because TVP is a volunteer-only organization but doing that kind of work has made me re-think about what I want to do with my life.”
“But you’re not leaving your job at the law firm, right?” asked Sunny, a wild look in her eyes.
“Not right now,” said Patrick as he picked up his menu, “but I’m thinking about a change down the road.”
The rest of their dinner was quiet as Sunny evaluated the potential new playing field that had been laid out. She considered the pros and cons. Patrick made her laugh and was the perfect escort for society events. Everyone liked him. She looked good on his arm but now it felt like things were changing and she was losing her upper hand. Weather girls made a lot less money than most people thought. A boyfriend or husband with a good income was kind of essential to her lifestyle. On the other hand, she knew if she stood in his way, she might lose him so she decided to play the long game and go along with things for the time being.
“I’m one hundred percent supportive of anything you want to pursue,” she said with a syrupy voice. “As long as you’ll occasionally do some of the things I like to do. Fair?”
Patrick smiled and nodded.
He’ll get tired of the gritty tedium of TVP, she thought. I’ll wait it out.
57
Juggling his many responsibilities at Pagliero, Arkin & Sawyer, his TVP caseload along with his high-maintenance girlfriend, Patrick barely had time to get himself a haircut or a sandwich for lunch. Sunny had been cautiously supportive once Patrick had agreed to her terms and he in turn promised to make himself available to her for at least one event per week.
TVP had a lot of irons in the fire and Patrick and Jordan had recently had a big win. Kamal Bolton had been released from Rikers with time served and they were both waiting there along with his mother, Wanda, to see him become a free man.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy before,” said Patrick to Jordan after they left the mother and son.
“We don’t make any money doing this,” said Jordan, smiling, “but we sure feel good. Ready for another one?”
The following Saturday, Patrick sat in the back room at TVP going through files on the Malcolm Cleary case. Cleary was a teenager from Ohio serving twenty-five years for the murder of a teacher in a suburb of Cincinnati. From what everyone at TVP could tell, it appeared Malcolm had been railroaded and coerced by prosecutors to confess. Not a single person had definitively identified Cleary. Somehow, prosecutors had wrangled a confession out of the kid when he was alone and only sixteen. Later, he had been sentenced as an adult.
At the time of the initial questioning, Malcolm was a high school drop-out living with his mother and younger sister in a trailer park midway between Cincinnati and Chicago. The kid had no support system and his mother, a frequent substance abuser, had zero money to hire a lawyer. Not surprisingly, Malcolm had received the maximum sentence and had been locked up in a federal prison for the past four years. He was now twenty and TVP aimed to get his verdict overturned for gross misconduct on the part of the kid’s court appointed attorney. Turns out Malcom’s lawyer, a woman, had a personal relationship with the prosecutor.
After digging through countless records and interviewing dozens of people who knew Malcolm Cleary, TVP took on his case. The kid was aimless but sweet, not the type to hurt anyone. Moreover, the evidence didn’t support the conviction—it was mainly circumstantial and most of the witnesses unreliable. Cherry on top: Malcolm’s old school records supported the position that the kid had developmental challenges, which is why he buckled when they asked for a confession.
“Those prosecutors only cared about boosting their conviction record,” said Patrick to the TVP director. “They plowed over legitimate evidence with absolutely no regard for this poor kid. I can’t believe this stuff happens.”
“The average citizen has no idea this goes on all the time,” said Jordan. “There are two sets of laws in this country. If you’re poor, you’re likely to get the maximum sentence. If you’re rich, you’ll skate. It’s that simple. That’s why we’re here, to try and right some of the wrongs.”
Two weeks earlier, a judge had granted a retrial after improprieties on the part of the public defender were documented by Patrick and the team. TVP was able to prove that Cleary’s public defender had material that might have exonerated Malcolm but she neglected to provide those findings to the court. The kid was only seventeen during the trial and didn’t know any better. Next thing he knew, he woke up in maxi.
Patrick and Jordan flew out to the prison in Ohio to meet with Malcolm in person.
“Do you understand, Malcolm?” asked Jordan gently to the pale skinny twenty-one-year-old sitting across from her.
“I think so,” said Malcolm. “I’m going to get a retrial because my lawyer didn’t do a good job.”
“Your lawyer did a terrible job. We’ve found evidence that supports your innocence, and your attorney didn’t provide any of it to the courts,” said Patrick. “She did you a gross disservice and we’re going to try and fix that.”
Malcolm smiled for the first time in a long time. “Thank you, Mr. Walsh. I didn’t do it, honest. I wouldn’t do something like that.”
“We know that, Malcolm,” said Patrick.
“Hang in there,” said Jordan. “Trust us, things are happening.”
As Patrick and Jordan boarded the plane to fly back to New York, Jordan asked him to be the lead attorney on Malcolm’s case and he accepted.
“We’ve got a lot going on,” said Jordan. “I’ve been in touch with Columbia and NYU law schools and we’re going to get some of their best and brightest as interns this year. That should help lighten the load a little.”
“That will be huge.”
“If we ever got a grant to bring on staff,” said Jordan. “Would you ever consider working for TVP full time?”
“Wow, you’ve taken me by surprise.”
“We haven’t gotten anything yet,” said Jordan, “but the president of our board thinks we may get a sizable grant very soon, enough to bring on some paid staff. You wouldn’t earn anything close to what you’re making in personal injury but I promise, you’ll sleep like a baby.”
“I’d have to give it some thought,” said Patrick. “I have a lot of bills and expenses.”
“Think about it. I could use someone like you here every day.”
It was nearly nine o’clock by the time an exhausted Patrick arrived home. He picked up his mail, got into the
elevator and entered his apartment hoping he had a can of anything in his kitchen cabinets. The only thing he had was a can of white clam sauce and a pouch of microwavable white rice.
Halfway through his makeshift meal, he smiled. Today was an excellent day and I’ve learned something new, clam sauce on rice is pretty good.
58
“Hey, Mom?” Patrick called out as he walked through the front door of his mother’s tidy ranch house in Middleburg, New Jersey. “I’m home.”
The charming white home on a corner lot was where Patrick and his older sister had grown up. It was the only house he ever lived in. When his parents got married, they lived in an apartment in Hoboken but once his sister Bridget was born, they had scraped together enough money for a down payment and bought the three-bedroom house. Two and a half years later, Patrick arrived and he lived there until he finished law school. The complexion of the town had changed over the years. Many smaller houses had been sold, knocked down and replaced by much larger ones that used every inch of the property. What had been a modest neighborhood of small, efficiently designed homes had turned into rows and rows of McMansions. Patrick’s mother’s house was one of the few original homes left.
“Mom?” he called out again as he wandered through the house to his bedroom and tossed his overnight bag on his old twin bed. Pictures of Patrick playing basketball in high school and college still hung on the walls and all of his sports trophies remained on top of his dresser. His mother hadn’t changed a thing and he found it comforting. It was still his special place. Through his bedroom window, he spotted his mother outside in the garden. He walked back through the living room and opened the sliding glass doors to the back deck.
Wearing a tan wide-brimmed hat and oversized protective sunglasses, his mother had her back to him while expertly handling a weed-whacker, cleaning up around the base of some bushes. The roar of the motor drowned his voice out. He walked up behind her and gently tapped her shoulder.
The Fussy Virgin Page 19
