At nine o’clock I’m pacing around the living room, willing time to speed up. I’m confident the Novak meeting will go exactly as planned and Laurel Frances will drop her suit, but I’d like to have everything finalized. Then I just have to get through the company party, closing the last Chapter on my life in Chicago. I’m so distracted by my musings that I nearly fall over when a frantic pounding on my door jars me from my thoughts. Keys jangle outside and I know it’s Dorrie before she bursts in a second later, face wet with tears.
“She’s not coming!” she wails hysterically. “She’s stuck at the hospital and she c-can’t come!”
“Your mom can’t make your game?”
“Nooooo,” she cries. “I want her to s-see me!”
I crouch down to fold her in a hug. “I’m sorry, sweetie. You know she’s—”
Dorrie wrenches away furiously. “Busy! I know! When isn’t she busy? She never comes. She doesn’t care. She just—”
“Hey.” I catch her arm and pull her back into the hug, her warm, trembling body slumping against me. “She cares. I’m sure she’d do anything she could to be there.”
Dorrie pulls away and takes in my red power suit, fitted jacket and pencil skirt, cream silk blouse. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“Ah... I have meeting.”
Her face crumples. “Esperanza can’t drive me. Layla’s already there. I can’t go by myself—”
My heart seizes. I can’t do this. Can I? Or maybe the better question is, can Arthur? I mean, we quite literally wrote the script. He knows this case inside out. And he’s perfectly capable of driving himself to the office.
“I’ll take you,” I say abruptly.
She freezes, midtantrum. “You will?”
“Yes. Go get your stuff. We have to drive fast.”
Dorrie uses her fist to swipe at her tears. “Thank you, Caitlin.”
I take a deep breath. “Anytime.”
* * *
We arrive at the field in a cloud of dust and anxiety. Dorrie leaps out the instant I’m parked, running to the diamond with forty-five seconds to spare. I remove the keys from the ignition and exhale heavily before climbing out of the car and making my way across the gravel in four-inch heels. There was no time to change before we left, and I wasn’t about to wear sneakers with a two-thousand-dollar suit. It’s not much of a disguise, but still I slide on a pair of oversized sunglasses as I approach the bleachers, earning myself a few perplexed stares.
I greet a handful of parents and take a seat on the end, very deliberately not looking at Eli, which is difficult, since I can hear him ten feet away, giving the girls last-minute instructions.
“Where’s her mom?” someone whispers, and I turn to see Stella leaning across three people to talk to me.
“Working,” I say. “She got called into surgery.” That garners a few impressed reactions, but Stella looks sad.
“Too bad. Dorrie was excited about her coming.”
I turn back to the game as the players take the field, Eli on the pitcher’s mound. “I know,” I reply.
Halfway through the inning I remember I left my purse in my car, and now I have nothing with which to distract myself when the girls huddle on the bench, Eli alongside them. I make a show of adjusting my shoes, carefully folding my jacket in my lap when it gets too hot to keep it on, then focusing my attention on a pair of crows fighting over a piece of garbage.
I’d texted Arthur while stopped at a red light and told him I couldn’t make the meeting. Joseph Morgan would be around if he needed assistance, and if things get really bad, there are at least forty other lawyers on the floor who can step in to mop up his tears.
The Closers play typically poorly, though they seem to be having a wonderful time. When Dorrie gets up with two runners on base and cracks the ball over the right fielder’s head for what should be a double but three overthrows turn into a home run, I’m on my feet with the rest of the fans, cheering wildly.
She jumps on home plate with both feet and races to the bench, high-fiving her teammates and squealing ecstatically. When she finally breaks free from the crowd to come over for her requisite “I got a hit” hug, I’m ready. And that’s when her eyes focus on something over my shoulder and she screams “MOM!” at the top of her lungs.
Everyone turns to see Dorrie sprint right past me, latching on to Susan, who’s hurrying across the grass, still wearing her scrubs, hair in a sloppy ponytail. “Was that your hit?” I hear her ask, crouching down to squeeze Dorrie in a tight hug. “That was incredible!”
“Did you see? From all the way over here?”
“Are you kidding? Of course I saw! I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Dorrie clutches Susan’s hand and tows her forward to meet her team, and the game continues. Susan is ordered to take a seat on the bench, and when Dorrie gets up to bat next, Susan’s the one she checks to make sure is watching. No amount of red clothing makes a difference; I’m completely invisible.
I feel my heart break a little more with each minute. I brought her here! I want to shout. I’ve been coming for weeks. I’m the one who cheers. I’m the one who knows she’s afraid of ground balls but loves pop flies. That she can’t remember she’s allowed to overrun first but not third. That she hums Montell Jordan’s “This is How We Do It” every time she walks to the plate.
But none of this matters. It’s not my day, it’s hers. It’s theirs. It’s not my place anymore. And when I can’t take it any longer, I check my watch. Ten twenty. If I drive fast, I might be able to make the tail end of the meeting.
“Excuse me,” I say as I ease my way off the crowded bleachers, my spot instantly absorbed. I glance at Dorrie to mouth good luck, but she’s chatting animatedly with Susan, who’s nodding along even though she knows nothing about softball.
I suck in deep breaths and force myself to mentally recite the scripts we’d prepared for Novak, refusing to cry. I’d bawled my head off in the shower on Wednesday, and that’s the last time I’ll do it. To the best of my knowledge, Eli hasn’t even looked at me today. I’d felt a few death stares somewhere around the second inning, but I suspect that was Winona. She should be thanking me, I sniff. I set the girlfriend bar low enough that she can probably hobble her way over it, cast and all.
By the time I get to the office, I’ve got my game face on. I stride out of the elevator and directly to the conference room where I see Arthur and Morgan squaring off against a red-faced Martina Novak. She glances up when I come into view and Morgan turns to notice me, holding up a hand to indicate that he’ll come out, I shouldn’t come in.
“How’s it going?” I ask when he approaches. The door doesn’t close all the way so I can hear Arthur slaying Novak with the facts we’d—I’d—uncovered, just as we’d rehearsed them.
“Better than anything I could have expected.” Morgan beams. “She knows she’s lost, he’s just hammering the final nails in the coffin.”
We fall silent as we eavesdrop, and sure enough, Arthur’s killing Novak’s dream of any sort of settlement. He briskly outlines Laurel and Alastor’s friendship and protest history, his relationship with Schwartz and the trio’s continued friendship when he moved back to Central America to begin life as a woman. They concocted a thin scheme to make money from Teller, Alastor/Tori got hired at the call center and compared her notes with Schwartz, then they doubled down on their scheme with the finger cutting when they deduced that the faulty wiring—not at all provable—could be blamed.
Any jury would be foolish to overlook the potential for conspiracy, and Novak knows it as Arthur continues to chip away at her case. When we wrote the scripts we’d split the “best” lines equally; now he’s getting them all. And he’s landing them. I almost feel proud.
“I’ll be in touch,” Novak says frostily, snatching up her briefcase and stormin
g out of the room, refusing to look at Morgan or me.
Arthur stands and we all grin as he enters the hall. “They’re dropping the suit,” he confirms.
“Excellent!” Morgan exclaims. “I knew you could do it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What was it you said when you put those two photos side by side? We don’t need to wonder how Alastor Pena knows Tori Castille—he is Tori Castille!” They roar with laughter. “Unbelievable!”
My smile feels frozen as they walk down the hall together, forgetting me completely. Unbelievable is the perfect word for this scenario, yet it looks like Morgan’s buying it. That was my line. I wrote it. I found out the truth. Well, Berry was there, but I figured it out.
I’m about to charge after them to point this out, then I stop.
It doesn’t matter.
We needed to win, and we did.
It’s not about me.
I watch them round the corner, hearing Arthur recap his favorite moments of the meeting, omitting my name completely. Which, three months ago, is exactly what I would have done.
* * *
A few hours later I’m standing in my walk-in closet, staring at the garment bag holding the dress I’d bought for the party. It’s a knee-length magenta number with lace trim and an open back. Three weeks ago I thought it was the perfect thing to wear for my last company party: stylish, pretty and in a color no one else would dare wear. And for the first time in five years, I had a date.
Now all I have is a dress. I put it on and try it with eight different pairs of shoes, but none look right. The updo I’d planned doesn’t work, either. Nothing does. I let the dress pool at my feet and slump onto the bed in my underwear, flashing back to my all-girls’ private school’s version of a senior prom. Three nights a year we had coed dances with one of the neighboring boys’ schools, and despite the fact that I was valedictorian, captain of seven sports teams and editor of the yearbook, no one asked me. I’d ended the night drunk on wine coolers, losing my virginity in the front seat of a Porsche with one of the chaperones. I don’t even remember his name.
I may need to quit drinking.
This is ridiculous, I tell myself, shaking my head as I stand. This is my fifth summer party, and I’ve gone to every one of them alone. It’s for the best. This way there’s no one lingering at my side as I work the room, collecting names and numbers, graciously brushing aside compliments about my latest success. This way there’s no one preventing me from flirting, or asking if we can leave early, or telling me my dress is too tight or I should leave my hair down. This way there’s...no one.
I scrap the new dress and pick something black and demure that will help me blend in. Black heels, gold hoop earrings, hair down. Simple. Understated. Effortless.
Ha.
I watch a Blossom rerun and leave for the party in time to arrive fashionably late. The Sterling, Morgan & Haines summer gala is always held on the rooftop of a swanky hotel, and this year is no different. The space is decorated with tropical flowers and cages of colorful birds, and a string quartet plays classical music. The weather is beautiful, and everyone is dressed in their finest cocktail attire. Black, grays and blues abound, and today I fit right in. Or I would, if anyone was willing to talk to me.
I accept a glass of champagne and stare out at the city as though I’ve never seen it before. They usually start the speeches around five, which means I have just over an hour to kill. Last year I was practically frothing at the mouth in my eagerness to take the stage and deliver my carefully rehearsed thank-you message; today I’d rather die, but here I am, notes folded up and tucked into my bra, an unimaginative series of bland, respectful words bidding adieu to my time in Chicago and expressing high hopes for the firm’s future in LA.
Just as I contemplate faking an illness and heading home, shunning this whole, forced affair, I feel a presence at my back. My heart races as I turn, then skids to a disappointed halt when I see Louis Wexler standing behind me, two glasses of champagne in hand.
“Hello, Caitlin,” he says.
“Louis.” He extends a glass and I eye it suspiciously before accepting. He’s slightly older than me, pudgy and intense-looking, with beady eyes shadowed by thick brows. Today they’re drawn together in a way that’s meant to appear...contrite? “Are you feeling better?” I ask, when he doesn’t say anything else.
He blinks rapidly. “What?”
“The yellow fever. Have you recovered?”
“Oh. Ah. Yes. Mostly. Thanks.”
Behind him I see Haines and Morgan watching, though they quickly look away when I catch them. They’re great lawyers, but awful spies.
“Haines sent you, I guess?”
Louis moves to stand beside me, gazing down at the city. “Yes,” he answers finally. “But I—”
“Louis,” I interrupt.
He stops, surprised.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and the surprise morphs into shock. Which makes two of us.
His mouth moves but no words come out.
“I made a mistake with the power of attorney and you paid the price,” I say. “It was never my intention for you to go to Brazil. I’m sorry you missed the opportunity to speak with Ripley. I know you were looking forward to it.” I know no such thing, but it seems pretty obvious.
Louis shakes his head, confounded. “You’re apologizing to me?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re leaving.”
The subtext here is clear: What do you gain by apologizing? And the answer is simple—nothing. I don’t want anything, either. I’m just tired of having people assume the worst about me. Even when it’s true.
“That’s right,” I say, touching my glass to his. “I leave on Wednesday. If you like, I can go over some of the Eldard files with you. I’m sure your illness put you behind on things.”
“No, I... Wait. What? What are you doing?” He squints at me.
“I’m offering to help. If you want it. If not, that’s your choice.”
“I don’t want your help, Caitlin.”
“Okay. Fine.”
Louis gulps down his champagne. “What the fuck are you up to?”
I’m disappointed, but years of practice means not an ounce of it shows on my face. “Absolutely nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Your call.”
He shakes his head, agitated. “This was a waste of time.”
I draw in a calming breath and offer a small smile. “I see.”
Louis huffs and adjusts his jacket, preparing to leave. He takes two steps before he stops and turns slightly to look at me. “My apologies for the email,” he grits out. There’s not a trace of sincerity in his voice, and nothing but contempt in his stare. Haines and Morgan are still spying, but they’re too far away to overhear.
I lift my glass. “Apology accepted.”
A few interlopers titter their amusement, and I watch Louis disappear into the throng, leaving me alone again. I consider the champagne for a moment, then empty the glass into a potted plant.
* * *
“Attention. Your attention, please.” The shrill reverb from the microphone is what really gets our attention, and everyone turns to the makeshift stage where the three partners wait.
“Thank you for coming,” Sterling says, smiling out at us. “We’re thrilled to see all of you, and we trust you’re having a great time.”
A murmur of assent, as though we’d say anything else.
I concentrate on looking alert and attentive as the three partners take turns with the familiar introductory patter, applauding everyone for their wonderful work, welcoming the new round of first-years to the firm and promising great things to come. We laugh when appropriate, clap when prompted, nod agreeably as necessary. I’m going throug
h the motions, but my eyes, as they have for the better part of the hour, continue to scan the crowd for any sign of Eli. I don’t think he came. If he’s here, I haven’t seen him, and I can’t imagine him going out of his way to hide from me. I’m just one woman. And in this black dress, I’m practically in disguise.
Eventually I realize Haines has been calling my name. “Caitlin,” he says, and several heads turn to see what the delay is. “If you would like to say a few words...?” It dawns on me that I’ve missed his entire goodbye speech. I’m as good as gone, and we all know it. Still, I pick my way through the crowd, accept a fresh glass of champagne from an anonymous tray and step up to the microphone.
“Thank you,” I say, making myself smile, skimming the crowd for Eli. Still nothing. “Thank you for those kind words.” I assume they were kind; I didn’t hear a thing. I take a breath, tell myself to recall the speech I’d written, deliver it and get the hell out of here. I know everyone is hoping for someone to come on stage and challenge me like what happened last year, but they’d be disappointed. I’m not in a fighting mood. In fact, I don’t feel anything.
And they’re still staring at me.
Right.
Say something.
The room starts to look antsy as the pause lengthens to awkward proportions, and I drink the champagne to wet my suddenly dry mouth, racking my brain. The stage is elevated approximately two feet from the floor, and I’m the only one on it. It’s lonely as fuck up here.
The crowd shifts as Arthur makes his way to the front, looking concerned. Are you okay? he mouths.
I feel myself smile, the first genuine response I’ve managed all afternoon. I nod and clear my throat, looking at the sea of resigned faces. “I had a, ah, speech, planned for today,” I begin unoriginally. “But I won’t bore you with it.” A faint smattering of laughter. I take a fortifying sip of champagne and prepare to shock them. “Instead I would like to say thank you.” Yep. They’re shocked. “Thank you for five years,” I continue. “Thank you for working alongside me. Thank you for working with me. Thank you for making me a better lawyer.”
In Her Defense Page 27
