by Amy Faye
I don't much like the way it feels inside these cells. Being watched, everyone able to see you from every angle. It's one of the reasons that I've always been careful not to get into trouble.
Once I'd gone to law school, and running around facilities like these for a few minutes was more or less required, then it only solidified my desire not to spend any more time than necessary in one.
"Mom," I say, finally. She rolls over. She's been facing the wall, which I don't doubt for an instant was all a big setup so that she could theatrically look over at me, her face wet with tears streaking her cheeks.
"Oh, Autumn, thank God."
"Mom, what happened?"
"I got arrested," she says. "They put me in handcuffs and they put me in the car, and they made me get my picture taken and my thumbs, and—"
She breaks into tears. I might feel bad if I hadn't seen it before. Getting arrested is a first, but whenever anything blows up in her face, it's an emergency, and she's got to have a big, theatrical blow-up about it.
"Mom, stop it. I need you to tell me what happened."
That just makes her cry harder. I wait, impatient. I could have been having sex. Right now. I could have been having sex for the past thirty minutes. The best sex imaginable. Mind-blowing stuff. Sex worth years of therapy.
Instead, my mother is crying crocodile tears and refuses to allow anything but my sitting through the entire show that she's got lined up for me like a good girl. She's my mother, and I should be kinder to her.
But at the same time, she's my mother, and I know exactly what this is, and I know that it's not even important enough to qualify as a cry for help. She's just being a baby.
"Mom, I need you to listen."
She's bawling like a little child. I can't help if she doesn't tell me what is going on. Which she isn't likely to until she's good and ready. And that's what frustrates me more than anything.
I take a deep breath. I know what this is. I shouldn't have tried to fight it. That's what I keep learning, over and over again. There's no point in fighting the perfect image she's got in her head. As long as I'm her little doll, her plaything, that's the easiest way to go.
And if I want to make this go quickly, so I can get back to my life and do my part of making all of this go away, then she's going to have to calm down, and to calm her down, I'm going to have to…
I settle into the uncomfortable cot beside her and wrap an arm around her shoulder.
"That must have been awful, mom."
"It was awful," she repeats. "Everyone saw me."
"Nobody saw you, Mom. You were at my apartment, nobody knows you."
"They all saw me," she repeats.
"I know, but they already forgot all about it. It's going to be okay."
"I got arrested." I take a breath and pray for some sort of strength to deal with her nonsense.
"I know, Mom."
"They said I stole something."
"What did you do?"
"Nothing! I just, I was at Macy's. And, I just. I tried on this dress, and I forgot I had it on, and…"
I hold a breath. That's the way that you calm down best, right? You take a deep breath, and you hold it.
"So you stole the dress, then?"
"I'm going to jail, aren't I?"
I close my eyes. Stay calm. I know how to handle the case. I can probably get it settled. I'm not experienced, but I can use plenty of resources at my disposal to deal with this thing. I just have to stay calm and remember what I've already learned.
Handling my mother is a different issue entirely. Anyone who says that they can handle her is lying or doesn't know her well enough yet.
And I'm going to have to do both to get her out of this.
Chapter Eighteen
I've got other things to take care of today. I really can't afford, not even in theory, to sit here and obsess over a former relative. She's not my step-mother any more. That ended a decade ago.
The fact that I still can't get her out of my head, after all this time, really should be a hint to how much of a number she did on me back then.
Even that isn't really enough to explain it, though. It's not just her. It's me, too.
A bigger man might have been able to let the whole thing go. Let sleeping dogs lie. That sort of shit.
I'm not that kind of guy. I can't help myself. You have to be tough, in this world. Someone plays ball with you, then you can play nice with them. Maybe. But if someone fucks you over, you don't just let it go.
Otherwise, every other one of these crazy sons of bitches will make you regret it. And I'm not about to let the entire world decide that I'm losing my touch.
The phone rings, and my entire body seizes up. Is this going to be the one that finally sets me at ease? A moment later, Shannon's voice comes through the intercom.
"Mr. Warren, I've got a call on 2 from the District Attorney's office. Said he's getting back to you about the Logan case."
"Thank you. I'll take it."
I kick the butt of the phone with the heel of my palm and ease the handset into the crook of my neck. "Tom, hey."
"We just finished assigning your pet case. You're not working this one, are you?"
"I don't know," I tell him. Which is true. "I just know that I was supposed to look into it. What can you tell me?"
"Petty larceny. She's probably going to get off with a slap on the wrist. No real criminal history. No big deal."
"Yeah, I figured that was probably the case. You know who's prosecuting it?"
"Leah Kent should just be getting out of arraignment right about now. I can have her give you a call, if you need."
"No need. She looks good for it, though?"
"Yeah, no doubt she did it. We've got footage. There's no doubt. But it's just a hundred dollar value, and we got the stuff back. I don't think the judge will really want to put her in jail. Not when we've got plenty of real crooks going loose."
"Yeah. I get you. Thanks, man. You need anything, give me a call. I owe you."
"Yeah, you do," he says. He's got a lightness to his voice. I'll send over a bottle of whiskey later. I recall that being his drink of choice. Maybe he calls me for something, but more than likely that's the end of it.
I settle back in my chair, the weight already coming off my shoulders.
Petty larceny. Yeah, she's not likely to see the inside of a prison cell. Not even thirty days. In a worst case, maybe thirty days to straighten her out.
Which isn't near enough, but even that little bit is hardly likely.
It sets my teeth on edge. It's hardly likely as it is. But that doesn't mean that it couldn't happen. It could always happen. And as it happens, I could make sure that it happens, if I need it to.
I lay my head back and close my eyes. See it in my head. The crime isn't really about the money. Not for a hundred bucks. If it was, it would just be cheaper for the district attorney's office to pay back the value of the dress.
If they spend two hours getting the documents prepared, they've already gone over the value of the stolen merchandise, and then the hours of litigation keep adding more on top of it.
Which is why it's got nothing to do with restitution. It's everything to do with punishing the criminal. And that's where my interests align, for the first time in a long time, with the district attorney's office.
I've defended plenty of guys who deserved jail. But this is the first time that I've been interested in making sure that they get the maximum sentence.
It's unusual for another reason, as well. I've had cases where I struggled to figure how to sow doubt about a case that's open-and-shut. What I haven't done, on the other hand, is try to take a case that's a shoe-in for a plea deal—a woman whose entire life has always been a roller coaster, a recipe for jury sympathy and the DA knows it—and make sure she sees the inside of a jail cell.
If this is how the District Attorney feels every day, I might have gotten into the wrong side of this.
Chapter Ninetee
n
I've developed a little ritual over the past twenty minutes. I keep thinking, as I do it, that this time it's going to make all the difference. That I'll finally get all my ducks in order and I'll feel better and I'll be able to dig in a little and go inside the office.
The secretary—I get a secret delight from calling her that. I really shouldn't, but I do—is watching me with bored eyes. She's probably thinking that I've got other work to do, and I do. But this is important, and sooner or later I've got to do it.
The longer I put it off, the more that it's going to be trouble when I finally have the stones to go into the office.
But at the same time, it means explaining a lot of stuff that I'm not remotely ready to explain.
Why did it take me so long to tell him the truth, for example? We nearly slept together! I was ready to do it, too, so the idea that I wasn't that worried about it doesn't hold water.
It's a huge breach of trust, and I wouldn't be surprised if he's real mad at me about it. But that changes nothing. I can't do this on my own, for a thousand different reasons.
I'm not halfway used to the song-and-dance. Mom's in need of someone who's an absolute genius at it, because she's freaking out a thousand times more than necessary.
I'm not licensed to practice law. Which means that I don't have any attorney-client privilege and further I can't do anything in court.
I've never done discovery, so I really don't even know what I'm in for.
Every single thing on the list just seems to get longer, and every one is worse than the last. How to get someone off on a case like this is something I learned in school.
Actually doing it, though, is a whole different beast. I saw that once already, in Phoenix, and I don't want to see it in the form of getting Mom into more trouble than she's already gotten herself into.
I know what she'll say already, if I do. It'll be a guilt trip, in the form of telling me that it's all totally understandable. After all, I'm not even a real lawyer yet.
But just, if I'd done a little better, maybe then she wouldn't have all these problems. But she understands. But maybe I should have just tried a little harder, worked a little more.
Worse than that, I'm not going to argue with her. I'm not going to disagree. She'll be a hundred percent right, especially if I don't even bother going to the only person I know who could do the job right.
And all because I didn't want him to hate me. Why would he? I haven't done anything wrong. So there's no reason to figure that he would think that I had done something. But something in my mind has me worried anyways.
Deep breath in, forget the anxiety, and…
"I'm going in," I say softly. Shannon looks up for a moment from the computer screen, and then looks back it. How delightful.
I open the door. It's heavier than usual. Something about the anxiety mixes to make the sensation of weight that much more extreme.
"Autumn. How can I help you?"
"I need your help."
He leans forward. "Is this about that thing last night?"
He must have heard through my phone. It takes me a moment to temper my reaction.
"Yes."
He nods. "Okay. Well, let's sit and talk this through, then. Start from the beginning."
"The very beginning?"
"You can skip the first few chapters of Genesis, I got most of those."
"Do you mind if I sit?"
He gestures broadly at the chairs across from the table, and I settle into one.
"My name is really Autumn Logan. I don't want to say I lied, because I didn't, but I might have left out some parts of my past that didn't seem immediately obvious."
"Go on."
"I used to know you, when I was little. Your dad and my mom used to be married. So technically, legally, you and I are—"
"Yes, I know," he says.
"Oh, you knew. That makes the rest easier."
"That was Deborah on the phone, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"Okay. What happened this time?"
I close my eyes. I didn't imagine this conversation going this way. I imagined it better, or worse. But I didn't really imagine just getting right down to business. It was always some big revelation.
Instead, he'd already guessed at least half of it, and just needed me for the details.
Now I just had to give them to him, and then we'd figure out what to do next from there.
Chapter Twenty
There's a little voice in my head, something that might approximate morality. I think, once, there was a strong sense of right and wrong there. I don't have the luxury of deciding between good people and bad people any more, or of deciding between the right thing to do and the effective thing to do.
I do what I have to do. The world accommodates. That's how it is, and there's really no avoiding it. The prosecutor doesn't worry about fair or unfair to my clients. They worry about proving guilt.
I don't worry about fair or unfair, either, because those are the rules of the game that I'm playing. Winning is what matters. Not anything else.
But even still, I can't get rid of that little voice in my mind that tells me that I need to back off. To think about this rationally. To really decide if I'm ready and willing to go there.
And right now, as I finally talk about Deborah for the first time in almost ten years, and I try to talk Autumn through the case, that voice is asking me if I'm really ready to fuck her over on this.
No—asking isn't the right word. It's screaming at me like a fire alarm, back out now. Don't do this. Don't do it, you're going to regret it.
I remember the first time I ever thought like that, though, and I have learned quite a bit since then. Like how to ignore that voice even when it might make the most sense to listen to it. How to do what needs to be done, in spite of the fact that it's not the right thing to do.
The thing I can't do, whether I want to or not, is bring myself to give Autumn fundamentally bad advice. She could be a very valuable asset, if I use her adequately.
She's smart. That is definitely true. More than that, she's useful. Beautiful, smart, and a desire to learn. There's nothing more I could possibly ask.
Well, there's one other thing. I could ask that she only be as much of a backstabbing bitch as I need her to be. Whether or not she's that, too, remains to be seen.
Not enough, and she won't last long in this career. Too much, and she's… well, she's a backstabbing bitch. A man can carry the reputation a little further than a woman can, fair or not. This game isn't measured in units of fairness, it's measured in wins and losses. She's going to have to learn to get around fair as best she can.
"Petty larceny is a punitive crime, but it's also a small one. It shows dishonesty more than anything else. They're not going to find her guilty because she did it, or innocent because she didn't do it, per se."
"Right," I say. Almost textbook recitation.
"So the first thing we should do is find character witnesses. Right?"
"Right again."
That's where the problems are going to start for this particular case. I'm particularly glad that I'm not especially committed to the task of getting her off scot-free. Because Deborah Logan isn't the sort of woman who gets a lot of solid character witnesses.
She's a bridge-burner. Act all nice and friendly to get across, and then as she takes her final steps, she monetizes, or she pisses them off. It's how she lets herself constantly feel like a victim. She's always got someone new that hates her.
There's obviously no reason, of course, to believe that she had anything to do with creating that situation. Because she's the victim here, and there's no arguing with that.
So there are going to be precious few, but that's not the same as 'none.' Some people can't be fucked over. Priests, maybe her bosses. Her coworkers likely aren't fooled, but it doesn't much matter. You just don't invite them onto the stand.
On the other hand, it's easy to discredit witnesses. Character witnesses
, too. You can find them praising someone who was obviously bad. You can find them insulting someone who's obviously good. Or you can find something wrong with their character.
And then that witness is useless. Which is why it's very good to know well in advance who's going to be on that list. I'm taking notes as Autumn lists them off. It's all in the name of a good defense.
That is, it will be until she leaves, and then it's all fair game.
Chapter Twenty-One
"Hello, I'm calling from the Office of Eric Warren. Is this Connie White?"
The woman's voice on the other end of the line is appropriately uncertain. "Yes? What's this about?"
I don't like making people nervous, of course. I never have and I never will. But it's almost necessary, in some ways; you get better responses from people on their back foot.
That's one of the first things I learned, and it was immediately obvious even in mock-trials. The worst thing that can happen in a trial is the unexpected. You build your case around evidence that already exists.
As best as you can manage, you foresee every possibility and then you put that plan into action. There shouldn't be any such thing as "risk" in practicing law. You don't create a plan that might work. You create a plan that can't fail.
That way, when something doesn't break the way you want it to, well… there was leeway built into the plan from the start. It was a rock-solid case to begin with. And people don't do things that are unexpected, not very often.
Not when they're terrified, anyways.
"I'm calling because—you knew Deborah Logan, yes?"
"I suppose I did."
"She put you down as a reference on her last job application. A personal reference. So you knew her, right?"
"Oh. Yeah, I knew her."
"What would you say about her?"
"Hard worker. She was always everyone's friend. Seemed like she had a few tough breaks, though, so we parted ways. So she got that job down in the City, huh?"
"And would you be willing to testify to that in a court of law?"
