Darkness Drops Again

by Melissa E Manning

  Glancing over my shoulder at my screen, Ethan inquires, “Who's the babe?”

  Aghast, I object, “I wouldn’t call her a babe. She’s passable at best.”

  Ethan laughs and points out, “You’re just saying that because she has bigger tits.”

  Barely suppressing my rage, I shoot back, “It’s not the size that matters, but what you do with them.”

  Immediately regretting my weak retort, I cringe as Ethan doubles over with laughter. When he recovers, he notes, “I don’t think that saying applies to boobs. The size most definitely matters.”

  Annoyed, I quickly close my screen.

  Never one to belabor disagreements, Ethan moves on with, “You look a wreck. Let’s lunch.”

  Normally, I turn down lunch invitations trying to cram in as many billable minutes as possible between my arrival and required early departure for daycare. But I put in twelve hours yesterday and deserve a break.

  “Sounds good. Where are we going?”

  Initially adamant we dine at 69 Chinese Restaurant, his usual haunt, Ethan finally relents to the Protein Bar where he can get a bar-rito and I can get my favorite Southwest salad with tofu. After some initial gossip about who may or may not be leaving the firm, Ethan and I turn back to our usual complaining over how much we hate work/the partners we work for. I lead off.

  “Don’t get me started. I’ve been relegated to acting as Elizabeth’s main drafter of dispositive motions. It’s a thankless job. Literally, the woman has never once thanked me for jumping through her myriad hoops. And the worst part is, I’m forced to smile and say ‘thank you, ma’am, may I have another,’ because she is the only person giving me work. I’m milking these three motions for all they’re worth, because who knows what I’ll do once they are fully briefed and awaiting a ruling. After last year’s maternity leave, I have to bill over two thousand hours this year.”

  This depressing thought makes me consider going back for a peanut butter brownie to sabotage my healthy lunch.

  “Well, you know whose fault that is?” Ethan chides. “As Jabba the Hutt told you, ‘babies are luxuries not necessities.’”

  “Ugh! Please don’t bring him up. I may lose my lunch.”

  Jabba the Hutt is Ethan’s and my nickname for the head of the Chicago office, Chris Bines. An oaf of a man, Chris feels no pressure to conform to the current climate and adopt a more PC approach to dealing with female associates. He routinely “lays off” women while they are still on maternity leave. He has casually hinted I may be next on the chopping block if I don’t “redeem” myself this year.

  Going for casual, Ethan takes a bite of his steakhouse ranch wrap and tosses out, “I notice you haven’t mentioned your newest case, State of Illinois v. Tammy Sanford.”

  I make Ethan meet my eyes before unequivocally informing him, “That’s because I don’t have a new case, Ethan. You know I have no interest in criminal law. Besides, even without Nicole, there are already enough lawyers on that pro bono case.”

  Ethan puts down his lunch and looks serious. “Maeve, we need a woman. The defendant is a woman and Tom doesn’t think it will give the right impression if she’s defended by two or three men.”

  I continue as if I hadn’t heard him. “Also there is no way in hell Chris would be cool with it. You know I need approval from the office head before taking on any pro bono projects and he won’t sign off. He’ll say I need to focus on getting my client hours back up. Let’s be honest. That guy doesn’t give a shit about helping out anyone who isn’t paying our $500-an-hour rate.”

  Ethan starts to fidget and stammer. Most atypical for the always cool and collected Ethan. “I was hoping to win you over with my charm, but the truth is you don’t have a choice. Tom’s a bit desperate. And he has a pretty big book of business, so Chris kisses his ass. Tom sent Chris an email yesterday telling him he’s adding you to our team. Chris will sign off. It’s a done deal.”

  The bite of avocado I just swallowed gets lodged in my throat. I force it down and stare at Ethan aghast. “And you didn’t stop him? You know my history, Ethan. You know I can’t handle a murder trial. How could you not have suggested another female associate?”

  Ethan, looking more uncomfortable by the second, quickly explains, “There wasn’t anyone else. Tom wants a junior partner or senior associate who will play a central role in preparing and cross-examining witnesses. You are the only female who fits the criteria. And you know you’ll be good at it. Remember you told me you received the award for highest grade in your Crim Law class out of a hundred and ten students!”

  I quickly gather my salad bowl and napkins and stand. “Yeah, when your dad is a criminal lawyer, you pick up some stuff. That doesn’t mean I want any part of this. How could you let me be put in this situation? After I trusted you.” I leave Ethan to finish his lunch alone as I fight back tears all the way to the office.

  By the time I reach my desk, I’ve resolved to put this murder case out of my mind. I’ve received no word from Tom or Chris. For all I know, they could have found someone else to staff the case. Ethan’s been known to create drama out of nothing before. I spend another three hours editing a fifteen-page motion to dismiss. I even call for Jeanine’s help when I can’t get one paragraph to break evenly enough between pages to avoid violating Elizabeth’s widow/orphan rule. I draft a curt, “Elizabeth—please find attached the Gibson motion to dismiss for your review. I look forward to getting your edits,” (not) and hit send. I’ll actually pick up the boys a few minutes early for once. Just as I’m powering down, my phone rings. The caller ID shows Chris Bines. This can’t be good. I compose myself and try to answer as cheerfully as possible. “Hi Chris, what can I do for you?”

  A deep voice growls, “You can come straight down to my office and explain why you are asking for pro bono work when your billables are shit.”

  FUCK. “Of course, Chris. I’ll be right there.”

  While all partners receive the larger, cushier offices, those look like hovels compared to Chris’s kingdom. When Chris nabbed the office head gig, his first administrative act was to request a double partner office equipped with its own bathroom and shower. The idea that I could walk in here one day and catch Chris in just a towel makes me nauseous. When I get to his door, I take a deep breath to steady my nerves, and knock twice.

  “Enter!” Jabba bellows.

  I try to gather myself and walk in with as much dignity as I can muster. After all, I’m an almost forty-year-old professional woman who has been practicing law for over a decade. I have proven myself to be more than competent at my job. This asshole shouldn’t be able to shake me. And yet, my heart is racing as I wait for him to offer me a seat at one of the three separate seating areas available.

  Reading my mind, Jabba informs me brusquely, “Don’t bother sitting. This shouldn’t take long. Just explain to me why you want to spend your time on a pro bono case outside your specialty instead of devoting that time to developing your client relationships and justifying your salary.”

  I take a deep breath and as calmly as possible clarify, “Chris, there seems to be a misunderstanding. I didn’t ask to join the murder team and I don’t actually want to join the murder team. I am keenly aware that I need to have a high billable year and so I agree it makes sense for me to accept only billable work.”

  Chris seems momentarily confused but regains his composure and resumes the interrogation. “If that’s true then explain why I got an email from Tom Gaines requesting you specifically for his team.”

  It dawns on me that Chris might actually be able to save me from this disaster of an assignment. “My understanding is Tom is looking for a female junior partner or senior associate to replace Nicole on his team. Ethan probably offered my name. I’m sure Tom would happily accept any other candidate you suggest that fits that criteria.” I smile and begin to turn toward the door.

  Then I hear Chris mumble, “I see. Well, unfortunately, there is no one else then.”

  K
nowing I must have misheard, I turn back to Chris and ask, “Excuse me?”

  “You and Nicole are the only two females at Mulvaney Stewart with the requisite experience. I’ll have to allow it.”

  While this situation seems to have caught Chris off guard, he quickly reverts to his asshole default setting and bellows, “But don’t think this means you’re off the hook in terms of your hours. I’m going to be keeping an eye on your billables. If they dip below one seventy-five in any month, we’ll need to have a tough conversation about your future here.”

  Panic rising, I plead, “But that’s impossible. I can’t bill a hundred seventy-five hours on top of prepping for a trial. Please, just tell Tom I can’t do it.”

  Chris fixes me with a steely glare. “Ms. Shaw, other associates routinely bill over two hundred hours. Either step up your game or get off the field.”

  Sufficiently chastened, I acquiesce, “Of course, Chris. Understood.”

  The lump in my throat tells me I need to make a quick departure. I don’t want to give Jabba the pleasure of making me emotional. As I walk back to my office, I take a quick glance at my Fitbit Alta. Almost six. Guess the boys won’t be picked up early after all.

  Chapter 7

  Patrick flew in late last night. I have no idea when he got home because I was so tired from the week I basically fell into a coma as soon as I got the boys settled. But I wake around midnight and he is next to me. Looking at him lying on his side with nothing but his Northwestern sweats on evokes so many emotions. How I love curling into his toned, bare chest. I desperately want him to turn over, give me his shy little smile, pull me close and whisper his usual, “I missed you, babe” into my ear. But then an unwelcome vision appears of an exhausted Patrick and Marcie spooning post-coitus, and my stomach begins to churn. Too disturbed by that visual to go back to sleep, I grab my iPhone and start scrolling through my Facebook feed. After a few minutes of scanning my friends’ typical posts of political outrage punctuated by kid updates, it occurs to me Marcie may also have a Facebook page. I type Marcie Spellman into the search line and scroll through a half page of erroneous results before spotting her. It seems Marcie is the athletic type too. Her profile picture shows her on top of a glacier in Iceland. While her account is private, there are a few other pictures visible on her newsfeed. Marcie crossing the finish line of the New York City Marathon. Marcie next to a giant redwood in Sequoia National Park. It strikes me that Marcie is the better version of me. Me if I hadn’t become obsessed with work and insisted on having children. Me if I hadn’t stopped obsessively dieting and exercising. Me if I wore a C cup instead of an A. Marcie is the version of me that Patrick wants. I put down my phone a little too aggressively on the nightstand causing a crack to form on the screen.

  After tossing and turning the rest of the night, I let Patrick handle the daycare drop off and head into the office early. I need a distraction from the Real Housewives-level drama I’m dealing with on the home front. Nothing better to kill all thoughts of sex than drafting mind-numbing legal arguments. Since Elizabeth still hasn’t given me edits to the first motion, I turn my attention to outlining her second. To complete my whole “woman done wrong” mood, I select the Tori Amos station on Pandora for background. Just as I’m starting to get into a groove, an email pops up in my inbox from none other than Thomas Gaines. The subject reads “Welcome to the Team.” Heart plummeting, I reluctantly double click on the message.

  Ms. Shaw - Thank you for agreeing to jump on the Tammy Sanford case. As Ethan may have mentioned, we have a hearing at nine on Monday to set a trial date. Plan to attend. We will of course request as much time as possible, but I expect the judge will set a date within the next six months. Begin to familiarize yourself with the case file before Monday’s hearing so you are ready to hit the ground running. Best, Tom

  I sarcastically draft a response in my mind, “No, Tom. Ethan conveniently forgot to mention we have a hearing in three days. Maybe that’s because he’s a prick.” Dejected, I realize there is no putting this off any longer. I open up the firm’s electronic file organizing software creatively titled WorkSpace and quickly locate the Tammy Sanford file. Ethan is clearly devoted to this case, as he has created an “attorney notes” folder containing detailed outlines of the facts, profiles on the victim and accused, a summary of the prosecution’s theory, and a quick reference of key evidence and potential witnesses. Sipping my coffee, I start skimming for highlights.

  Tammy Sanford is a forty-four-year-old grandmother accused of strangling her only daughter, Kyleigh. The file contains several photos of Kyleigh as a child—all from what appear to be dance and talent competitions. Kyleigh was your stereotypically blond-haired, blue-eyed child with just the right amount of baby fat. She was billed as a triple threat—she could sing, dance, and act. It appears she raked up a substantial amount of first place trophies and prize money over the years. She even nabbed small spots on television commercials for Gap and Carters brands. The photos and news clippings seem to peter out when Kyleigh hits her teen years, but it’s hard to accurately gauge her age under all that makeup. Nevertheless, at some point, Kyleigh stops winning prize money and turns to drugs. Specifically, opioids. As the story usually goes, Kyleigh developed an addiction to the prescription drugs she received for a back injury. When the doctor stopped signing scripts, Kyleigh turned to heroin. There are frequent domestic violence calls to the police by concerned neighbors. Tammy also called the police on Kyleigh on three occasions when she stole from Tammy’s house to feed her habit. Toward the end of her short life, Kyleigh had a baby boy named Garrett. He was present at several of the domestic violence incidents and ultimately at the murder scene.

  This has all the markings of a heat of the moment, passion crime. A voluntary manslaughter charge at worst. But the prosecution claims Kyleigh’s murder was premeditated. Their theory is that Tammy is not some long-suffering mother driven over the edge watching her only daughter fall deeper and deeper into addiction. Instead, they paint Tammy as a disappointed pageant mom whose adorable little paycheck burns out and starts stealing more than she’s bringing in. Once Tammy realizes Kyleigh is more Lindsay Lohan than Anne Hathaway, she decides to cut her losses. They say Tammy went to Kyleigh’s dealer’s house that night. Remained in her car for over an hour waiting for the dealer to go off on a run. Then she gained access into the house, probably through promises of cash, and strangled Kyleigh.

  The prosecution’s theory strikes me as a bit too Lifetime movie of the week. Nothing more so than the murder weapon. According to the prosecution, Tammy waited until Kyleigh lay down on her dealer’s bed and dozed off. No doubt too high to stop herself. Tammy then allegedly crawled on top of Kyleigh and strangled her. I click back through the case file to find a subfolder of crime scene photos. It easily contains over a hundred thumbnails. All too small to reveal their image so I have to quickly click through each one. The majority depict a squalid apartment littered with drug paraphernalia. The crime scene photographer seemed determined to capture each powder-filled baggie, burnt spoon with accompanying lighter or candle, scale for weighing quantities, and discarded needle. As I feel my anxiety level start to rise, I start clicking through more quickly. I don’t need a lesson on the various instruments and implements of an addict. I’ve had enough real-world experience to qualify as an expert.

  The last twenty-five thumbnails are of the bedroom crime scene and are hard to stomach. Kyleigh is pictured face up on top of the comforter. She is wearing only gray boxer briefs and a dirty, light pink camisole with bits of the lace torn in places. She is thin, but not in a healthy way. One of her forearms is facing the ceiling and the track marks are clearly visible. She has a mass of tangled bleached blond hair with two inches of visible dark brown roots. There are spatters of dried brown blood on multiple spots of the comforter. Around Kyleigh, the bedroom is in the same shape as the rest of the house. Clothes are flung haphazardly. Various beer and liquor bottles are visible on the floor as well as more
drug paraphernalia. There are a few pieces of broken glass on the floor near the beaten-up dresser that could be indicative of a struggle. But given the state of the remainder of the house, it would be hard to say that conclusively. The most heart-wrenching images are saved for the end. An empty Costco car seat sits on the kitchen table, if you can call a cheap folding table that. And the car seat appears to be a hand-me-down. There are multiple stains on the hot pink fabric. Not a color I can see Kyleigh or Tammy buying for their little boy unless they are more genderfluid than I assume. I shudder to wonder how long Garrett sat in that chair after his mother’s death before someone found him. I unconsciously wrap my arms around my chest for comfort.

  I’m still staring at the dirty kitchen stacked with pizza and takeout boxes in the middle of which sat little Garrett when my Jabber pings. It’s Ethan.

  Tom told me he emailed you about Monday’s hearing. I know you’re still pissed, but I think after you meet Tammy you’ll be glad you took the case.

  Nice try.

  I didn’t take the case, Ethan. It was thrust on me.

  A minute goes by before Ethan responds.

  Listen, Tammy needs us. The prosecution has it all wrong. Sure, Tammy is uneducated. Greedy even. Maybe undeserving of a mother-of-the-year trophy, but she’s not a calculated killer. She tried over and over to get Kyleigh clean. You of all people should understand how hard that is and the toll addiction takes on the family.

  My blood pressure spikes. I need to nip this shit in the bud.

  Listen. Whether I like it or not, it seems I’m on this case, but we will only remain friends if we get something clear right now. You are never to use my drunken confession against me. There will be no more references to my sob story. Understood?