All three of us stared down at the bandages currently mummifying Dad’s hand. His surgery wasn’t for another few days—I knew he was on pins and needles to find out if he’d be able to use it again. Dad still didn’t say anything, just closed his eyes as if suddenly incredibly fatigued. I turned back to face Zola, who still wouldn’t meet my eyes and just kept looking squarely at my father, as if he could stare a response out of him.
“I was wondering if you could say anything about the afterhours gambling operations the Messina family has been running out of Brooklyn nightclubs,” he said. “Specifically a jazz club called Nick’s over on Coney Island Avenue.”
To my left, I could feel, rather than see Dad’s body freeze—whether it was at the mention of gambling, the connection made between him and Nick’s, the idea of being witness against Victor Messina, I didn’t know. If this was what Messina did to people who didn’t pay their bills, I hated to think what he’d do to someone who ratted him out.
“I’m afraid my father doesn’t know anything about how the Messinas run their illegal businesses,” I said clearly, summoning up as much authority as I could muster. “He’s a sanitation worker, not a hustler.”
“He’s also a musician, and has been seen several times over the last few months handing envelopes of cash to Victor Messina and his associates in and around Nick’s,” Zola shot back calmly, still keeping his eyes trained on Dad, who grimaced at his words. “Mr. Crosby, I’m not looking to cause trouble; I was just curious if you could shed any light on the situation.”
“Did you have record of the gambling, sir?” I interrupted Zola as sweetly as I could. He still hadn’t looked directly at me, and I was getting tired of being treated like a piece of furniture when it was clear my dad didn’t want to talk. “Or anything illegal beyond sharing mail?”
Finally, Zola turned in my direction. His brown eyes blazed with irritation, but the rest of his admittedly handsome features settled into a blasé expression. He studied me for a moment before answering. “No,” he admitted. “I’m sorry if I offended. We’re not…you’re not in any danger from us here, Mr. Crosby. But Victor Messina has done you a very serious wrong, and saying something about it might help us make sure he can’t do it to anyone else.”
When Dad still refused to say anything in response, Zola gave an audible sigh. He stood up, and the rickety hospital chair creaking with the removal of his weight. Zola set his business card down on the small bureau next to the door. “If you think of anything you’d like to share, please give me a call, day or night. Mr. Crosby. Ms. Crosby.”
With a curt nod at each of us, he left. I turned to Dad, who was staring at the empty doorway with a look of pure terror on his face.
“Are you okay?” I asked. I reached a hand out and patted my dad’s leg to pull him out of his momentary trace.
Dad shook his head, grimaced, then closed his eyes and breathed deeply out his nose. “I…it’s been a long goddamn weekend, Pip. I just want to go home. Would you might turning off the TV?”
“Sure,” I said. Something was bothering me. On a whim, I grabbed a small cup with a few hurried words about getting some ice and jogged to the elevator.
“Mr. Zola!”
As the young attorney turned from the bank of elevators toward my voice, I was momentarily reminded of the opening scene of the James Bond movies where Bond turns and shoots toward a barrel of a gun. He had that look of the classic Bond actors—the dark, shiny hair, and the slight smirk on his chiseled features.
“Yes?” he asked.
I stopped as the elevator door rang open. He motioned for the people it to leave and allowed the doors to close before looking down at me.
“You mentioned that Messina has a calling card, and that’s just reserved for the people who don’t pay their debts on time. You’re right—he needs to be behind bars. But you saw my father, Mr. Zola. Did you really think he would speak up three days after he had his stuffing torn out? What do you think Messina does to a rat?”
Zola rubbed a hand over his chin. “He won’t necessarily know it’s your dad,” he said weakly, to which I only responded with a roll of my eyes. He and I both knew that as soon as the evidence was gathered and charges filed, it would have to be sent to Messina’s representation as part of a fair trial. After that, it would only be a matter of time before Dad and Bubbe had small time gangsters knocking on their doors again.
“I haven’t passed the bar yet, Mr. Zola, but I’m not an idiot,” I replied. “You’ve got to do better than this.”
Zola studied me again, this time with a frown of concentration. “What are you going into? Criminal defense?”
I frowned at the sudden change of subject.
“Are you staying in Massachusetts or coming to New York?” he continued. “I’m guessing you’re either taking job at a criminal defense firm like Loewen, Kroger and Barrymore, or you’re going to the public defender’s office. Am I right?”
I chewed on my lower lip. “Actually, I haven’t completely determined a focus yet. I like some family law and domestic violence work, but I haven’t decided where I’m going yet.”
Like most people who knew anything about the stresses of exiting law school, Zola balked, his black brows rose visibly at the statement.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I said, willing the flush not to rise up my neck. “But that’s neither here nor there.”
He dug around in his interior jacket pocket for a moment before procuring another one of his business cards. “Well, bully for me, then. I already left one of these with your dad, but you should have one too. I happen to know the domestic violence bureau chief at the Brooklyn D.A.’s office is hiring.”
I accepted the card and stared down at it, sifting over the stark black lettering of Zola’s personal info against the simple white background. I brushed my thumb over the words, and then stuck it back in my pocket.
“If you can cross-examine anyone the way you did me back there, they could probably use you. But, Ms. Crosby?”
I looked back up at his deep brown eyes. There was a still a bit of aloofness there from our previous interactions, but now they were more friendly, bright with interest.
“Yeah?” I asked.
He looked behind me to the open door of my dad’s room, and his bright eyes flashed again. “If he has something to say, I hope you’ll help him say it. The D.A.’s office will offer him whatever kind of protection we can. Victor Messina is a bad man. The sooner he’s off the streets, the better.”
Zola reached over and pressed the down button for the elevator again. Seconds later, the bell and red arrow light flashed on, signaling its arrival.
“Please think about it,” Zola said as he stepped inside. “And if you want me to pass your resumé on to the DV unit, let me know. Pleasure meeting you.”
“Thank you,” I said, slightly stunned as I watched the doors close between us. I looked down at the business card again. It wasn’t what I was expecting when I’d ran out to meet him, but it was certainly something to think about.
~
Chapter 34
It took ten more days for Dad to go through his hand surgery, get a private nurse settled (against Bubbe’s very vocal arguments against it, which quickly quieted down once she realized that Annalisa make excellent Cuban-style coffee), and feel well enough to move around again. When I left he was moving about the house with relative ease, his newly bionic hand packed against his chest in a sling. He had second surgery was several weeks away—the doctors wanted to wait until the bones were healed and the swelling was reduced before working the more complicated process of tendon reconstruction.
I arrived back in class on a Thursday morning, courtesy of an early morning first-class plane ticket messengered by a certain pushy tycoon-attorney who had made no secret of wanting me back in Boston. While his concern for my father hadn’t waned, it had become clear in the ten days since I’d last seen him that Brandon was extremely ready to get me home. His calls had become more f
requent, his tone slightly more irritable, and he was rarely willing to let me say goodbye when we spoke on the phone. I might have found it annoyingly clingy if I didn’t like the attention so much.
I walked into the clinic that afternoon, ready to make up my missed Wednesday. It was uncharacteristically busy, with a long line of people waiting at reception to meet with an attorney. I walked to the small cubicle cluster I sometimes shared with my classmates when I wasn’t working directly with Kieran. Several were finishing up their early hours while Professor Ashe moved between them, checking and rechecking their work. I was the first from the later shift.
Eric was at the desk next to mine, finishing a meeting with a new client. He nodded at me as I walked past to check in with Kieran.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Sanchez,” he said to his client before standing up to look over the flimsy walls of his office space to where I was setting down my things. “Watch out. She’s on a rampage today,” he said before popping back down to Mrs. Sanchez.
I frowned and then walked back out to Kieran’s office, where she was clearly in the middle of a contentious phone call.
“You can’t keep blowing her off!” her voiced echoed down the hallway. Obviously it wasn’t a client phone call. “It makes me look like an idiot when you and I aren’t on the same page, and she’s getting pissed off too. You’re supposed to be my client, for crying out loud! I should know these things first!”
Huh. Apparently it was a client after all. I approached the open glass door and knocked lightly. Kieran looked up with a dagger-sharp glare, and I had to force myself not to back up.
“No,” she said on the phone as she waved me in. “No, I’m not going to drop you. I wouldn’t do that. But please, will you take this shit seriously? It’s not a joke. Miranda has sharks for representation, and they’re circling the ship right now.”
The microscopic voice on the other side of the line mumbled something into her ear that made Kieran roll her eyes. She tugged a file out of her desk and handed it to me while he spoke.
“You’re an absolute idiot,” she retorted. “A bull-headed, stubborn, complete fucking moron if you don’t do what I tell you and let me handle this. I’m not kidding.”
The voice, obviously a man’s, said something else that made one corner of Kieran’s crimson mouth lift. She shook her head, bemused.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she scoffed. “Just keep that thing in your pants in court, all right? I don’t need a pissing contest between you and Blaine on top of everything else. Who Miranda, uh, spends her time with is Miranda’s business, and it’s not going to matter worth a damn to the judge, especially considering how long it’s been. Besides—” She looked sharply up at me and frowned. “I didn’t think you’d care about that much these days. You know, considering.”
The voice said one more thing, causing Kieran to laugh outside, a short, terse bark that I guessed was about all she was capable of when it came to humor.
“Good to hear. Well, I have to get back to it and clean up your damn mess. Again. I’ll call you later with the progress.”
With a brief word of good bye, she hung up the phone and turned to me. “Sorry about that. It’s been a bit of a catastrophe this morning, and it’s not even noon.”
“Everything all right?” I asked, holding up the slim file in my hand. “Anything I can help with?”
She opened her mouth and closed it again, as if weighing whether or not to tell me. As her underling, I was technically protected by client-attorney privilege, but it didn’t sound like the client she was speaking to was from FLS. I had never seen Kieran talk to any of the clients here like that; she was usually professional to the point of robotic.
“It’s nothing,” she said finally. “Just a client from my firm. A difficult one, as you could probably tell. Anyway, can you double check that motion for me? It needs to be filed by the end of the day. Then you can start taking clients.”
I nodded in acknowledgment, flipping through the file to check its contents. Kieran waved me out of the office as she started dialing another number on her phone.
“Skylar?” she called as she brought the phone to her ear.
I turned around, prepared to take another request. Maybe she had changed her mind about the other client.
“Close your door on the way out,” she said, and abruptly looked back down to her work.
~
I had seen three separate clients by the time the ancient clock on the wall read four o’clock, marking the end of my shift. As I finished packing up my things, my cell phone rang. I answered it quickly, not even checking the caller ID.
“Hello?” I said as I pulled on my short trench jacket.
“Hello, is this Skylar Crosby?”
“It is,” I replied. I checked around my desk, making sure I hadn’t left anything. I grabbed my keys from a far corner.
“Ms. Crosby, this is Matthew Zola with the Brooklyn District Attorney’s office.”
“Oh!” I reached behind me for my chair and sat down immediately. This required my attention. “Hello. What can I do for you? And…how did you get my number?”
There was a small chuckle on the other end of the line. “It wasn’t that hard, actually. Your grandmother is very accommodating.”
I gripped the edge of my seat. This was not good, particularly considering what Brandon and I had been up to at Nick’s before he’d left. Why had Bubbe been chatting with the D.A.?
“Apparently your father requested that any inquiries into his involvement with the Messina case be directed to his lawyer—that’s you, right?”
“Ah, yeah,” I said. “That would be me. For now. But I’m not under the impression that my father has changed his mind about testifying. He’s sustained enough personal damage over the last few weeks; I’m afraid the stress of the trial would be too much for him.” I was careful not to say anything that would directly implicate Dad, but the message was clear. He wasn’t interested in being Messina’s target yet again and ruining his other hand.
“I understand,” Zola said, unexpectedly amicable. “I hope he’ll change his decision, but I get it.”
I twisted back and forth in my swivel chair, somewhat taken aback by his easygoing demeanor. Was this supposed to be some sort of gambit? “Okay,” I said uncertainly. “Great.”
“I also wanted to let you know that the domestic violence bureau received your resume, and I put in a good word with you with the D.A. If I were a betting man, I’d guess you’ll be getting a phone call within the next few days.”
Eric turned from his desk and frowned at the expression on my face. “What is it?” he mouthed at me.
I shook my head. No doubt I looked incredibly confused. Zola’s remarks were completely unorthodox. He had absolutely no reason to take such an active interest in my employment—unless he wanted something. There was a slightly flirtation in his voice that made me think it wasn’t just the testimony from my dad, but that didn’t make any sense. I lived in Boston, and he was trying to get me a job. Not exactly the best prospects for dating.
“Ms. Crosby?”
“Sorry, that’s great, thank you,” I blurted out, having been caught in my thoughts. “Really. I don’t know if I’m looking to relocate from Boston, but it’s good to have another option.”
“Especially this late in the game,” Zola replied. I grimaced even though he couldn’t see me. My professors had been hounding me about this issue as well—I didn’t need yet another reminder that I still had no official job offers as the year was winding down.
“Thanks,” I said again, this time with considerably less enthusiasm.
“It’s nothing,” he replied. “I hope you let me know what happens. We’d be lucky to have you down here.”
“Sure,” I said, although I had no intention of calling him back. It didn’t matter than he looked like a Latin pop star, with the charisma of a young Johnny Depp.
It wasn’t until after he hung up that it occurred to me how stupid I had been to
go to Nick’s myself, especially when I knew it was being watched by the D.A. and the police. Both Brandon and I could be in major trouble if anyone caught wind of the money we were giving Messina. Yeah, there was no way in hell I’d be taking that interview, or ever talking to Matthew Zola again. I didn’t care how deep his dimples were.
After gathering up my things, I dialed the house phone to check in with Bubbe before leaving.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Bubbe, it’s me.”
“Oh, hello, sweetheart. Is everything okay, bubbela? Did you forget something here?”
“No, no,” I said. “I got a call from someone at the Brooklyn D.A.’s office, saying he’d talked to you.”
“Oh, yes, your father just asked that he call you instead, so I gave him your number. Nice fella. Very charming.”
I twiddled a pencil in my hands, then set it down on the desk. “Okay. Can you call me next time before you give out my number? You know, considering everything that’s happened with Dad?”
There was a brief silence, then a quiet reply. “Of course, Skylar. I’m sorry.” My heart sank. Bubbe had been putting on an outward show of strength, but it occurred to me that she probably felt somewhat responsible for what had happened, simply because she hadn’t kept better tabs on Dad.
I stood up and walked to the back of the office, where I could step into the breakroom for a bit more privacy from the curious ears of my classmates.
“It’s fine, Bubbe, I promise,” I said, trying to invest as much lightness in my voice as I could. “Listen, I also wanted to ask about the refinancing application this morning. Were you approved?”
I wanted to get the money to Messina as soon as possible to get that damn monkey off my back. Or Dad’s so to speak. Dad wouldn’t be able to start a rehab program until he was finished with his second hand surgery, but at least we could remove the stress of his debt, and I could get the whole thing over with.
“Oh, I didn’t go.”
My heart fell in my chest as the familiar ball of stress in my stomach tightened. I reached a hand out to brace myself against the refrigerator, over a magnet of Sammy Sosa selling a sports drink.
Legally Yours (Spitfire Book 1) Page 37
