by Amanda Brown
On the way upstairs, it occurred to Elle that Eugenia’s straight As should have earned her a spot on this Law Review. “Did you make it, Genie?”
Eugenia grinned. “Yeah, thanks but no thanks. If I wanted to be a librarian, I would have been.” She maneuvered expertly through the bookcases to a shelf of Stanford Law Reviews. “Open it at random, Elle.” Eugenia picked out a recent volume. “I think you’ll agree that there are better ways to spend your time.”
“Probably few worse,” Elle laughed, cracking the heavy book open to a worn interior page. She leafed through the vacuum of time and talent.
Eugenia sighed suddenly. “You’d think with all their economic analyses, the inefficiency of spending twenty hours a week checking somebody else’s homework would occur to one of these people. Oh, by the way, Sarah made it, but Warner didn’t.”
Sensing that everyone would be caught up in the Law Review excitement, Elle decided that a massage and a facial would be a better way to use the next few hours than attending class. She didn’t notice that Larry had followed her out until he caught up with her in the hall.
“Elle, wait up.”
She turned around surprised. Larry stared intensely at Elle, walking next to her. She fished in her purse for her car keys, nearing the parking space where her trusty Range Rover was primed for exit.
“Elle,” Larry said as he placed a hand on his hip and watched her struggle through the clinking contents of her bag. “You’re too sexy for law school.”
“Larry, my mom’s Volvo is too sexy for law school.”
Larry laughed and agreed with her, but added that it didn’t make Elle any less sexy.
“Jezebel, my painted Jezebel,” Larry shifted lyrically into the Old Testament, extending one arm as if heralding Elle to a royal audience. “‘See to this accursed woman, and give her burial; after all, she was a king’s daughter.’”
Elle glanced up from her purse, surprised. “Jezebel? What on earth are you talking about?”
Larry leaned against the Range Rover, gazing at Elle with a dreamy, quiet calm. “A loving theft, a pilfering, a joining of the lips. A trade of moisture, warmth and breath, in soft and tiny sips.” He paused, watching her mouth drop in astonishment.
“You’re the Secret Angel!” Elle cried, recognizing the verse from her outlines.
“Every true romantic needs his Guinevere, Elle.” Larry’s gaze seemed detached, his John Lennon sunglasses hiding a world only glimpsed by his eyes.
“Oh, Larry, they’re so…unique,” she said. “Your poems…you’re inspired!” She paused, gazing at the English professor gone wrong. “But why on earth are you wasting your talents in law school?”
“Elle,” he smiled, “my talents aren’t wasted.” A. Lawrence Hesterton turned back toward the house of law. “A poet needs but one,” he said quietly.
Elle rested her weight against the car door and watched her Secret Angel depart. The unlikeliest people, she thought to herself, confounded by this flash of Larry’s private mind. Now that she knew that it was someone who was with her and saw how she had struggled in all of her classes, she decided that if she was his Guinevere, he was her Palo Alto Knight.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Elle awoke the next morning feeling tense. She was feeling the pressure of finals approaching again even though they were still quite a long time away. Dragging herself out of bed, she wondered how she would fare this time. She took Underdog for a long walk, ultimately arriving to Professional Responsibility a half hour late.
Elle wondered why she ever bothered to take notes on the zany antics of Charley Client, given that Professor Pfisak’s ethical conclusions were foregone and unassailable. She slid the April issue of Vogue under her desk. After reading the “Fitness” section, she decided to tear it out for Sarah. Although Sarah was improving at the gym, she was still having trouble with crunches. Elle hoped the article on abdominal toners, with pictures, would be helpful. She genuinely wanted so see Sarah succeed at the gym.
Elle glanced up from the magazine long enough to focus on the class and ascertain that, simply put, today’s ethical duty was to withhold information from paying clients. She peered into her casebook to see what rule created this Kafkaesque bureaucratic parody.
Fran volunteered to answer a hypothetical, which involved gun-wielding Charley Client racing paranoid into his lawyer’s office, asking whether the state has to find a corpse within state lines in order to bring a murder charge. Indignant, Fran repeated that the lawyer’s duty was to avoid at all costs giving information that would clue Charley in to his legal rights.
Also call the police and bill him for the time, no doubt, thought Elle with increasing impatience.
Finally, on Charley’s third misadventure, Elle raised her hand. “Ms. Woods,” Pfisak noticed her with surprise. “I presume you’ve caught up with the class discussion, as most of it preceded your entrance.”
Elle glowered amid her classmates’ smug chuckles. “Maybe I haven’t caught on,” she said. “Because what I hear is that we’re supposed to learn all this law so we can lock it up in our offices and decide for people what the ‘interest of justice’ will permit them to know.”
“She must think Charley is a blond,” Claire whispered to Sarah.
“Thank you for your contribution, Ms. Woods,” Professor Pfisak said. He turned to John Matthews. “Mr. Matthews, perhaps you can tell us how a lawyer would handle the next situation and not risk disbarment.”
This class would bankrupt them all if it had any relevance past the exam. Elle turned back to Vogue to learn something that mattered. She had a scheduled date with Brooke later that day.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Elle gazed sullenly around at the student audience of Wills and Estate Planning, cheered only by the fact that Brooke was out on bail and visiting her today after class. Another grim morning of Death with Gilbreath, then maybe she’d talk Brooke into a shopping spree, nontelevised of course.
Behind her she could hear Cari and Michael exchanging death jokes. “Did you hear the one about the lawyer who believed in reincarnation? In his will he left everything to himself!” Michael laughed uproariously.
Dr. Dan dropped his head to the desk. “What I don’t know won’t hurt me,” he declared, justifying a morning nap.
Mr. Heigh and his wife arrived carrying Thermoses of Chinese tea made from dried figs. Mr. Heigh’s gray-haired chest was bared in a tank top that read: “It took me FORTY YEARS to look this good!”
Elle pulled out Self just as Professor Gilbreath shut the door to begin class. While Ben ar-tic-u-lat-ed an interminable theory of “partial will republication by holographic codicil,” Elle immersed herself in “The Politics of Hair.” It was an interesting article, but not entirely favorable to blondes, she noted with concern.
Elle was pleased when she noticed that “The Politics of Hair” had engrossed her throughout Gilbreath’s entire lecture. She knew without checking the clock that class would be over in exactly two minutes, since Claire had begun to attack her split ends. On the dot, exactly two minutes before the end of every class, Claire would start arranging her unruly hair just so, preparing to approach the law school hallway as if it were her great debut. Elle used Claire’s hair-poking as the signal to pack up her books.
Elle strolled toward the front entrance, where Brooke stood waiting. She looked stunning in an emerald green slinky silk tank top and a knee-length linen skirt with a thigh-high side slit.
“So you’re at large again,” Elle laughed, greeting the jailbird with a happy embrace. “Congratulations.”
“What a relief,” Brooke gushed. “Christopher’s so great, you should have heard him at the bail hearing!”
“Come on.” Elle linked her arm with Brooke’s. “Now you can see what my prison is like.” Together they walked to the law lounge.
“I’ll have to warn you, the caffeine syrup they call ‘coffee’ here might keep you up for days.”
Drawing glares
from law students immersed in their casebooks, Brooke rattled briskly through the events of the last few days. “I’ve been so busy, Elle, I wanted to come see you sooner. Everything’s been so crazy, trying to get back to my normal life.”
“As if you ever had a normal life!”
“Hey, we aren’t all lucky enough to go to law school,” Brooke giggled. She sipped the smoking black tar and grimaced. “Eeew, you’re right about the coffee. Swamp syrup!”
Elle agreed, adding a pack of Equal to hers.
“Let’s go get a latte someplace decent,” Brooke offered. “Can you skip out of class? I want you to see my new Mercedes.”
“Already?” Elle choked on her coffee, laughing. “Oh, Brooke!”
“Heyworth wanted to get rid of the Jag, anyway,” Brooke justified her purchase casually. “His British stocks weren’t doing so hot, and he said we should boycott the queen’s economy.”
“Respecting his wishes,” Elle said, smiling. “What loyalty. You would have made a great Delta Gamma.”
“I was cut in prefs,” Brooke snapped back, remembering her first social trauma. “I got a Theta bid. They didn’t have a choice and neither did I, since I was a legacy. If I’d had my way, I would have been a Pi-Phi.”
“Oh.” Elle covered her face, embarrassed. “Oops. Theta’s cool, though.”
“Ancient history.” Brooke dismissed it with a manicured wave. “Pi-Phi had the scariest rush, though, I’ll never forget it. They made us eat this dessert of ice cream scooped in the middle of a doughnut. It’s impossible to eat, because if you use a fork you can’t shake hands, but if you lift it up the ice cream drools all over the place. That’s how they weed ’em out. They cut the droolers and the forkers.”
Elle rolled her eyes. “I remember that. I think I was actually a forker and a drooler!” She looked curiously at Brooke. “How’d you…approach the doughnut?”
“Oh, I just told everyone that I was on a macrobiotic diet that didn’t include dairy products. I got a plain doughnut.”
“Bonus!”
“Yeah, those were the days.” Brooke beamed at her sorority coup. “But I’ve made something of myself without Pi-Phi or Delta Gamma!”
“Touché,” Elle laughed. “So what are you going to do now?”
“What do you mean?” Brooke asked. “After the trial?”
Elle nodded.
“Well, if Christopher keeps me out of jail, I’ll get married again.” Brooke wrinkled her nose and squinted at Elle quizzically. “Of course.”
“Any prospects?” said Elle, grinning.
“That’s the silliest thing I ever heard.” Brooke shook her head, struck by Elle’s naïveté. “What else would I do? I’ll be married by year’s end, no question. Aren’t you going to get married?”
Elle grew quiet. “Not by year’s end,” she admitted. “Well, anyway,” she added, “probably not.” Suddenly she dug into her white Kate Spade tote and produced a jewelry box, which she handed to Brooke.
“I don’t want to marry you!” Brooke squealed.
“Of course not! It’s a present. Open it!”
Brooke dangled a gold earring and peered at its delicate italic carving. “One, Elle?”
“It’s my jewelry line!” Elle exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Brooke, you’re going to flip when you hear this, but I met some people from the Home Shopping Network, you know, when we were investigating your alibi.”
Brooke scowled. “Leeches.”
“Listen, listen.” Elle grabbed for the earring, nearly spilling her coffee. “See, I was a jewelry design major in college, before”—she glanced dubiously around the lounge—“before I gave it all up for this. Anyway, some of the Home Shopping executives met me when I had to go over some of your receipts at their offices, and they actually wanted me to audition or interview…whatever, to be a legal correspondent—they actually called it that. It was for a proposed show called Fashion Crimes!”
“So you’re going to be like a fashion rehabilitator?” Brooke asked skeptically.
“Exactly! Plus, I’m going to design a whole line of legal-themed jewelry and advise people, on air, which pieces to buy! Home Shopping loves the idea and I’ve already gotten started.”
Elle reached for a tiny velvet box and handed it to Brooke. “I designed one piece with you in mind. This fabulous diamond ‘shackle’ on a gold chain bracelet. You don’t have to wear it around your ankle this time,” Elle laughed.
Brooke unhooked the dainty bracelet still in the box. “What a riot! An artist’s original! Hey, Elle, I hope you sell your jewelry in stores, because you know I can’t order anything off TV.” Suddenly she shot from her chair, checking her watch. “Oh, Elle, I didn’t realize how late it was. You just reminded me, I’ve got to get to my meeting.”
Elle grinned. “Shopper Stoppers Anonymous?”
“Former Home Shoppers,” Brooke corrected meekly. “Addicted.”
Elle followed Brooke to the parking lot, where the Mercedes’ owner was obvious from its license plates alone: ISO SWM.
Chapter Forty
“Hop into my chariot!” Suddenly Brooke vaulted into the driver’s seat of her sparkling gold convertible as if she were mounting a charger.
Elle giggled, opening the passenger door. Vaulting would have been impossible given the narrow dimensions of her white piqué halter dress.
Brooke looked somewhat disappointed by Elle’s conventional entrance, but that didn’t slow her down as she merged into the freeway traffic, heading north toward the airport.
“The color of your car really complements our hair,” Elle said, thoughtfully examining a strand of her own hair as she pulled it back into a ponytail.
Brooke nodded silently.
“I’m dying to know where these anonymous meetings are held,” Elle said.
“The meetings aren’t anonymous at all, Elle. It’s the members’ identities that must be kept anonymous.”
“Right. Sorry,” Elle said. She realized once again how seriously Brooke took these meetings and the group members.
“Sometimes I feel like even you make fun of my addiction, Elle.”
Elle looked away from Brooke, pretending to check her makeup in the side mirror of the car. “I’m so sorry, Brooke,” Elle said. “I’m not making fun of your addiction. It’s just hard to imagine anyone, especially you, with your sense of style and elegance, ordering something like porcelain commemorative dolls of the nation’s first ladies.”
“Those were pretty scary,” Brooke admitted as she screeched the convertible to a halt in front of the airport Hilton.
The Hilton. Elle wondered if one of the members rented a suite under a false name.
Brooke and Elle pulled out hairbrushes to fix their windblown hair and then entered the hotel. Elle followed Brooke to a second-floor suite called the Archibald Room. The only furnishings were cheap plastic chairs placed around a long Formica table and oddly mismatched paintings and prints.
Several people, the most eclectic mix Elle had ever seen, were sitting around the table. They seemed to be at ease with one another and were conversing in a casual manner. A few others were gathered around an enormous coffee machine or had taken seats in extra chairs around the edges of the room. From their wide range of looks, they seemed to be everything from housewives, to mechanics, to doctors, to CEOs.
When Brooke and Elle entered, Brooke announced that Elle was there as a guest and not a member. This had the effect of quieting the nervous murmurs and stares of the nine or ten people present. Brooke suggested that they introduce themselves to Elle, and when nobody volunteered, Elle gave a wave of her hand generally around the smoke-filled room.
“My name is Elle Woods. I’m a friend of Brooke’s from college, and I wanted to meet the people who have helped her so much,” she said with a smile.
“I’m Miranda,” said a tiny dark-haired woman. “Welcome.”
Brooke tapped Elle’s arm. “She’s the life leader,” she whispered into Elle’s e
ar.
Miranda stood up and closed the door behind Elle. “We’re all here,” she said, returning to her seat. “Yves, why don’t you begin by introducing yourself to our guest.”
A wrinkled man sitting closest to the door, wearing a starched, collarless denim shirt, squinted through wire-rimmed glasses, then removed them from his small face. “My name is Yves Muir,” he said.
Elle, having taken a seat next to Brooke at the other end of the table, waved from her chair. “Hi, Yves.”
“I’m from Citrus Heights, California,” the little man continued. “Last month I was rolling my shopping debt over on five credit cards, three in my wife’s name, and she’s been deceased for several years.” He nervously reached for a cigarette and lit it.
Elle heard a sympathetic murmur from several people in the room.
“Yves is our most recent member,” Miranda said. She then turned to the woman seated by the wall next to Yves who was loudly crunching her way through a bag of Cheetos. “Veronica, why don’t you introduce yourself next?”
“My name is Veronica,” said the garish woman, who wore a lemon yellow bouffant. Her cheeks and lips were streaked with the same bloodred color, giving her white face the appearance of a checkered gingham cloth. She was dressed in a prune-colored sweater that exposed one shoulder like Jennifer Beals in Flashdance. Elle wondered if her penchant was for high-volume cosmetic purchases.
“I’m a florist, originally from Bentonville, Arkansas,” she said. “That’s where the original Wal-Mart store is located, you know. I always did love a bargain!” She smiled engagingly and revealed that she had ordered enough scented soaps and oils to take baths every hour for twenty years. Elle giggled, but drew a scowl from Yves and Veronica together. She straightened her face into a more appropriate look of concern.
“Nice to meet you, Veronica,” she said, and was relieved when the woman returned her smile.
