by Shenda Paul
"I won’t apologize for getting angry, Lisa. What I do in my own time is my business and no one else's, not Madison Tate's… or yours, for that matter. I've not misled you; I told you from the start that I wasn’t interested in making a commitment, and you assured me you shared my sentiments. I would never have agreed to accompany you to dinner or go home with you afterward if I had even the faintest inkling that you wanted more. And for the record, I would never choose a partner to advance myself socially. I'm not the man for you, Lisa, you could have any man you want."
"What if the man I want is you?"
"Then I'm sorry to disappoint you. Now, I apologize if I sound rude, but I really am busy. Take care, Lisa."
"Just think about what I've said, Adam," she says. I hang up; irritated by the conversation and with myself for not seeing through her guile, and also at her for assuming she had the right to question me.
I wasn't about to give her or nosy Madison Tate the opportunity to spread gossip about Angelique. If I'm lucky enough to have her entertain any kind of relationship with me, we will, at some stage, have to face public scrutiny; but having the likes of Madison and her vacuous friends spread gossip wouldn't help at this fragile stage of getting to know each other.
I pour myself a glass of wine and move to my desk to work on plans for the center. I pack up some hours later, satisfied with what I've achieved, and for the first time in months, I go to bed feeling totally relaxed. The vision of Angelique’s tentative smile, the last image I see before drifting off.
The next morning, right on eight-thirty, Bec announces Tom’s arrival.
"Tom," I greet him politely on entering the conference room. He responds with a cool, "Counselor," and makes no effort to rise, so I don’t extend my hand.
"You requested this meeting, so why don't you get straight to the point?" I say, taking a seat across from him
"Surely you know why I'm here?"
"I have several opinions as to why you may have requested this meeting, but I don't care to speculate on them," I respond dryly.
"What have you decided about a retrial?" he demands.
"The DA and I have discussed the matter. We've agreed that I should give it further consideration. When I've decided, I'll talk to him again before we officially advise the courts and you of our decision."
"You can't keep Justin hanging with his life in limbo. He, like every defendant, is entitled to have a matter such as this dealt with expediently."
"You're absolutely right in your assertion that he be treated equally. He'll be notified of our decision within the requisite time just like any other defendant would."
"Cut the bullshit, Adam. Gerard Beazley isn’t going to make this decision; you’re his golden boy, after all. Or are you saying he's concerned about you being biased?"
"I'd think very carefully before casting aspersions. We take our responsibilities very seriously and won’t hesitate to take action against anyone who tries to defame the reputation of this office."
He glares balefully. "You should know that we don’t intend moving a motion against a new trial. We would, however, petition for the case to be tried before the same jury."
"I'm not surprised at either of those snippets of information; not that they’ll be influencing my decision in any way. If you have nothing further to add, I have a number of trials to prepare for. My assistant will show you out," I tell him, rising to my feet.
I could easily have shared the decision I came to early this morning, but I want to inform Bristly first, and I can't deny feeling a small degree of satisfaction at having Tom and Justin stew over the weekend.
The rest of the day flies by as Jodi and I continue to work on the Cordi trials. It's just gone two o'clock when I call for a break so I can run a much-considered errand. I’ve been wondering how I could contact Angelique. What I really want is to see her, but I don't think she's ready for that. I don’t want to regress from the first, tentative steps we've taken, so I decided to send flowers. And then, thinking it would be an easy task, I stupidly decided to choose them myself. So here I am, at the florist’s, bewildered by the variety on offer.
"Would you like some help," the woman behind the counter, thankfully, comes to my rescue.
"Please," I practically beg. She helpfully explains that certain flowers hold significance, and after I explain that the recipient is a friend, a very new friend, we agree that roses make too strong a statement. I refuse her suggestion of tulips or freesias because they just don’t seem special enough. As soon as she points out the delicate blush pink flowers, she tells me are called peonies, I know they’re what I want. Their delicate color reminds me of Angelique’s lovely complexion.
"Do they have a meaning," I ask.
"They’re said to symbolize riches and honor and were seen to be an omen of happiness to come."
"Perfect," I reply.
While Meg sets about extravagantly wrapping my offering, I struggle to write an appropriate message on the card she handed me. I think how ironic it is that I can so easily compose an opening and closing address, but wrestle with finding the right words to accompany a bunch of flowers. After much deliberation, I simply write,
Angelique,
To a good start; thank you for entertaining the thought.
Sincerely,
Adam Thorne
It seems pretty inept, inadequate really, but I didn't know what to say that would sum up my hope without scaring her off.
I initially planned to have them delivered to Angelique’s home, but felt it would be wrong to invade her privacy in the place where she’s entitled to feel most safe, and it would also be a gross misuse of official information. I then decided to send them to the studio, but when Meg asks for the delivery address, I tell her I’ll deliver them myself.
The bunch of flowers, in my mind, seems to grow bigger and more conspicuous with each step I take, and by the time I enter the studio, I’m wondering what the hell I'd been thinking when deciding to deliver them myself. Relief floods me when I spot the person I hoped to find.
"Mr. Murphy," I call out. His eyes narrow as I approach.
"If you're looking for Miss Angelique, she isn’t here," he says brusquely.
"I know, Sir, but I remember you saying she dances here most evenings. I had no other place to leave these, so I thought I could leave it…in case she turns up." I feel like a gauche schoolboy as he stares first at me, then the flowers, and back again.
"I didn't tell her about your last visit, lad," he finally says. "I should have, so I'm glad you decided to come out into the open. She doesn't need anyone else treating her like some dirty secret. She never says anything, that lass, but I know she's hurting."
"As I've said, Sir, I don't intend hurting her. I'd like to be her friend."
"Well, she needs friends…and at least you seem to have good taste," he remarks dryly, glancing down at the flowers.
"Do you think she'll be in today?" I ask anxiously. He smiles at my obvious discomfort.
"She'll probably be in after the last class finishes, so she doesn’t run into any parents. I hope you signed that card; I don't want to keep any more secrets from her."
"I did. Thank you so much for your help and your earlier discretion, Mr. Murphy."
"Call me Declan, and remember what I said about kicking your ass," he warns but smiles as he accepts the flowers.
Later that afternoon, I meet with Bristly to discuss Justin’s case. He gives no hint of his personal views as I explain my thinking on the matter. The only reaction I get is a tiny smile when I announce that I’ve decided against a retrial.
"May I ask what you would have done, Sir?" I ask.
"I wondered when you’d ask," he replies, his smile widening. "I would have come to the same conclusion, Adam. By deciding against a retrial, you've cut Defense off at every pass. You’ve avoided the invocation of double jeopardy, you’ve denied them the po
ssibility of an innocent verdict, and if, as you say, they intended petitioning for the same jury, you’ve denied them the possibility of another mistrial. The numbers could have shifted either way in a new trial; this way, Wade will always be faced with an eleven to one guilty verdict. It’s almost as damning as being found guilty."
"Will you advise them tonight?" he asks when I nod at his summation.
"The deadline is Monday; I thought I'd wait until then."
"That's what I thought." He guffaws loudly. "It’s also what I would have done. Have a good weekend, Adam," he calls out as I leave.
.
.
It's Saturday evening, and my family’s gathered in my living room after dinner.
"I've decided to open a community center for underprivileged children," I announce once Mom and Cait have served coffee and tea.
"What the fuck…sorry!" Matt immediately apologizes at Mom’s disapproving look.
"You know about this?" Dad asks, noticing Mom’s lack of surprise.
"Adam and I discussed it briefly. Why don't you listen to what he has to say?" she diplomatically suggests.
I relay my plans and then sit back, waiting for comments. Dad breaks the silence first. "Don't you think you're too busy to take on something like this, Adam? Why not simply donate to a charity?"
"The idea materialized when I was thinking of ways to help a friend. Then, when I spoke to Mom, and she suggested ancillary services like counseling, it grew."
"Who’s this friend?" Dad asks, and I studiously avoid Mom and Cait’s knowing glances.
"Well…I only recently met her, but I'm hoping she'll become a friend. She was actually involved in the Wade case and lost her job because of it."
"Surely this is going too far to simply help someone find a job?" Dad questions at the same time Matt speaks.
"It's Angelique, isn't it? The prostitute…"
I lunge across the coffee table and grab hold of his collar. "Don't fucking call her that! Don't call her a prostitute," I say, lowering my voice when I realize I'd been guilty of doing that myself.
"Adam!" Dad pulls me back at the same time Mom admonishes me for using bad language and resorting to violence. She turns on Matt then.
"How can you say something so awful? You know nothing about the young woman!" He looks sheepish and then mortified, especially when he sees Cait’s livid expression.
"I was just surprised. She seems like a nice person, and not at all like a… well, what she's reported to be," he rewords hastily when I move toward him. "Don't get your panties in a twist, Adam. Are you interested in her?" he asks incredulously. The ensuing silence is deafening.
"Yes, I'm interested in her. I've been attracted to her from almost the very beginning," I admit to looks of disbelief from Dad and Matt.
"I have no idea where this will go, or even if she'll give me the time of day, but I want to be her friend…at the very least."
Dad’s about to protest again, but I continue. "She’s been taken advantage of and badly hurt in the process, and I get the feeling she needs help that she won't ask anyone for. Mostly, I don't want her to be desperate enough to go back to what she’d been doing."
"Surely, you could simply offer this young woman money to tide her over? From what I've just heard, I think she may be the woman involved with Justin? Is this really such a good idea, Son?" Dad asks.
"Yes, she was involved with Justin; and I hate that. I hate that he used her, and no, Dad, I honestly don't think there's a better way of helping her. She won't accept a handout, especially money, that much I'm sure of; now more than ever. It needs to be something she believes she's genuinely being offered because of her skills."
"I'm sorry, but what skills does she have to offer your center," Dad asks impatiently.
"She's a trained ballerina, and I intend including a ballet studio," I reply. He raises his brows but thankfully holds his tongue.
"If she taught, why did she…umm…work at that club?" Matt asks, and I can see by the expression on Dad's face that he wanted to ask the same thing.
"I don't know the answer to that, but there’s a valid reason, I just know it," I reply, my frustration at their attitude toward Angelique obvious.
"Sweetheart, tell us more about how you want to set up this foundation?" Mom brings reason to the discussion.
"I want to set it up as a private foundation rather than a public charity, and I’ll fund the center’s set-up, essential programs, and their ongoing costs. My plan, then, is to seek additional grants in cash or kind to expand our services. I’m meeting with my accountants next week to learn more about the rules and tax implications before starting the incorporation process.
"What I do know right now, Mom, is that I'd like you, Dad and Cait to sit on the board alongside me." They’re shocked, but I can tell they're also intrigued.
"I intend, eventually, to invite three other people to join us, but I'm not sure yet who they might be. Matt, I’d like to include you, but you’ve always said how much you detest the administration side of things, so if you're willing, I'd be thrilled if you’d consider getting involved in other ways. Perhaps mentoring teenage boys? You'd be good at it." His eyes light up with enthusiasm.
"And Mom, you've expressed frustration with the limitations of your job. As a qualified psychologist and social worker, I think you’d be perfect in the role of managing director. "
"Adam…." she protests, but I cut her off.
"Are you frustrated with your job?"
"Yes, but…"
"Do you think the center could be a viable proposition?"
"Yes, but…"
"Do you think you could add value as managing director?"
"Well…yes…"
"Then if you'd like the job, it's yours. There isn't anybody I'd trust more, Mom."
"I think you've just been counseled, Mom," Matt sniggers.
"I think you have too, darling," Dad adds with an encouraging smile. "What do you think?"
"I'd like to think about it some more, but it does sound perfect."
"Good, I'm glad that's settled; and Mom, I'd like you to offer Angelique the job of running the studio."
"I said I’d think about it, Adam," she reminds me, but her expression tells me she’s already decided.
"I think we should include a childcare center," Cait says excitedly, and I instantly agree. Her comment inspires Dad to suggest that we run skills workshops to help young people find employment. "I’m sure I can find a couple of tradesmen to volunteer," he adds.
"That sounds great. We’ll have to think about skills in other sectors; perhaps we could find co-sponsors," Mom suggests.
Matt nominates himself to teach a carpentry class and then insists we add a basketball court, saying that Alan, who played during high school and college, would almost certainly volunteer to coach. Cate counters that we should have sporting activities for girls too. "We’ll have a ballet school," Matt argues, and a lively discussion ensues between him, Cait and Mom about ballet not only being for girls.
Dad screws up his face comically when Mom enthuses about the appeal of danseurs, naming Baryshnikov as an example, which causes Matt to laugh uproariously at his discomfort. Cait gushes about how sexy danseurs are, and Matt practically gags at the thought of his wife finding a ballerina sexy. Mom points out that males are called danseurs, not ballerinas.
"That doesn’t make them any manlier," he returns, and when Mom and Cait start extolling the virtues of danseurs’ physiques, even I feel like gagging. Dad, thankfully, steers talk back to the center.
I sit back, thrilled as I listen to their enthusiasm, sharing my thoughts whenever someone asks for my opinion, but mostly, I wonder about how soon I can get Mom to approach Angelique.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I spend most of what’s left of the weekend wondering; wondering whether Angelique visited the studio on Friday, wonderi
ng whether she liked the flowers, wondering whether I'd been too premature in making the gesture. Mostly, though, I wonder whether she'll give me the chance I’m so desperately hoping for.
On Sunday afternoon, I go for a run to clear my mind and rid myself of the feeling of restless anticipation. By late Sunday night, I’ve devised what I feel is a reasonable plan to approach Angelique and resolve to contact Mom the next day to discuss it.
On Monday morning, first thing, I call to advise Tom of our decision not to petition for a retrial. His response is predictably churlish, and I’m not at all surprised when he accuses me of deliberately withholding the information on Friday.
"You asked, no, you insisted, that I treat your client like any other defendant, and I have. Good luck, Tom; wish Justin well for me." I hang up before he can respond.
Jodi comes to see me later, and when she asks, I relate my conversation with Tom.
"Well, I’ll be watching what they do to resurrect his political fortunes with interest," she says.
"I’m sure they’ll spin a pretty line, but it’s no longer our problem." I shrug dismissively, meaning every word I said. I’m more than ready to move on. Any respect I held for Justin vanished while listening to his pathetic excuses in court.
"I actually came to tell you that Jon called to say Mike O'Flaherty’s been caught. He's arranging for his extradition," Jodi explains.
"Good, we'll finally be able to question him. I could be tied up with the Moretti trial, so you may have to do the initial questioning with Jon. We'll discuss the details later; I'm due at a witness conference with Tess in five minutes. Can we touch base when I'm through?"
"Sure thing, I've got more than enough to keep me busy."
.
.
"Mr. Ealy, let me get this straight. You say Fico Moretti deliberately injected you with cocaine?" I ask. Tess looks understandably horrified, and as accustomed as I've become to hearing about the atrocities human beings perpetrate against each other, I have to admit that even I'm momentarily taken aback by his revelation.
"Yes. I couldn’t pay my debt, so they dragged me to an old warehouse and kept me there for two weeks. He injected me with cocaine almost every day. By the time it was over, I needed it, you know? Then, he made me work for him to pay what I owed and to feed my habit."
