Counsel (Counsel #1)

by Shenda Paul

  "I'm going, I'm going. Sheez!" She walks away laughing.

  I take a deep breath and exhale slowly before reaching for my phone.

  "Angelique, it's Adam." I sound remarkably calm, given the state of my thumping heart.

  "Hi," she answers and then falls silent.

  "How did you sleep?" I ask.

  "Remarkably well, thanks to you… and Jon, of course. I'm very grateful, Adam." I want to tell her that I don't want her gratitude, that I'd prefer her affection, but I don’t.

  "You're very welcome. Please remember, you can call me for anything."

  She’s silent again, and I just know she's blushing.

  "Jodi will meet you outside the John Moakley Courthouse at ten o'clock. Does that time suit you?"

  "It’s fine. Thank you again, and please thank Jodi for me."

  "No need for thanks, Angelique. Would you call me when you get home this evening? I'd like to know that you've gotten there safely."

  "I… I will," she replies before whispering goodbye.

  "Bye," I say, knowing I'll be counting the hours till I hear from her.

  Tess and I have another day of preparations for the start of tomorrow’s trial. I've written and checked my opening statement and will have a run-through and make any last minute changes at home. It’s six-forty, and I haven't had an opportunity to speak to Jodi to find out how she fared with Angelique, but she did, thankfully, send me a text to say the protection order’s been granted.

  "I’m about to head home unless there’s something else you need me to do," Tess says, popping her head into my office.

  "We’ve covered everything, thanks. I'll see you in the morning."

  "Okay then. Goodnight, Adam."

  "’Bye, Tess," I call out distractedly, my mind already on the call I need to make. Mom greets me cheerfully and asks about my day. When I tell her, she says I work too hard.

  "No harder than anyone else, including you and Dad. It's good you'll be giving up that job soon."

  "Good segue, darling, ever the prosecutor."

  "You know me too well." I laugh at her perceptiveness. "I called to let you know I've heard back from the realtor. He has three places he wants us to see, and I’d like you and Dad to be involved."

  "That sound wonderful, Adam, just let me know when. How did you go with setting up the foundation?"

  "It's all in hand. My accountant’s done the research, and it makes the most sense, in terms of tax regulations, to set it up as a private operating foundation. The paperwork’s ready for lodgment, I just need to finalize a name. I was hoping we could get together over the weekend."

  "That would be great, sweetheart. We’re all very excited."

  "I want to get Angelique involved as soon as possible too." There’s a long moment’s silence before Mom responds.

  "What are you thinking?" she asks.

  "It might be a good idea to introduce you, and then you and I could explain our plans. I'll leave you to make her the job offer."

  "Do you think she'd agree to meet me?"

  "I really don't know, Mom. I'm speaking to her tonight, and I'm thinking of raising the subject then, but I’m not sure."

  "It's something you need to discuss face-to-face, Adam. It's easy for miscommunication over the phone."

  "You're right. I'll think about it some more."

  We talk for some time before Mom says she needs to go. It's nearly eight by the time I hang up, so I decide to call it a night. I haven't heard from Angelique, and I'm starting to worry that she's changed her mind about talking to me, or that she may have run into trouble with Quandt. I consider calling her, but I know I need to let her take the lead about any continued contact.

  I shower when I get home and force myself to have something to eat before working on my opening address. I constantly check the time, though, growing more anxious by the minute. It’s after ten when my phone rings. I scramble to get to it, mentally castigating myself for behaving like an over-eager pubescent. I take a deep breath before answering

  "Adam?" she whispers.

  "Angelique, are you okay?" I try not to let my anxiety seep into my voice.

  "I'm fine. I'm sorry for calling so late, but Amy… umm, you know her, Amy Sanders… she came home with me. I hoped she would have left by now…"

  "It's fine," I say, relief flooding me. "I'm glad you have someone with you. Did you see Quandt today?"

  "No, but that may be because I wasn't alone."

  "Well, that's good then. Is Amy staying the night?"

  "No, she'll go…when she's talked herself out," she giggles delightfully.

  "I remember just how loquacious Ms.Sanders can be," I say with some amusement. I’m also enjoying her lightheartedness.

  "Adam, I'm sorry, but she's waiting for me, and I should probably get back. I just wanted to let you know I got home safely, and mostly, I wanted to thank you for arranging for Jodi’s help today. She was wonderful."

  "You're more than welcome, and please… remember you can call me at any time," I reply, pushing down my feeling of disappointment at having to end our conversation.

  "Angelique?" I ask nervously. "Would you like to meet for coffee or even breakfast on Saturday morning?"

  "That would be nice," she says after a short, agonizing pause.

  "Thank you." I finally breathe. "I'll call you on Friday evening to confirm. Enjoy your night."

  .

  .

  I woke this morning feeling excited, not only because the day heralds the end of a grueling week and, hopefully, the penultimate day of the Moretti, Barnes, and McGill trial, but also because it’s Friday. I get to speak to Angelique tonight, better still; I get to see her tomorrow. I've never had a woman affect me the way she does. The nervousness about how she views me, the anticipation of speaking to her… seeing her, the constant, aching hope that she'll return my feelings; they're all new and unsettling. I've always felt in control, but now it seems that this beautiful, and at present, emotionally fragile woman, has robbed me of that control. It's like being on a runaway rollercoaster; all I can do is hang on and hope I survive.

  The voice of the court officer calling order rouses me from my thoughts, and soon after, defense is invited to make closing arguments.

  Attorneys for Moretti, Barnes, and McGill take the floor in turn. They argue eloquently, but the only defense each presents is that their clients were doing the bidding of the Cordi brothers. None of them have, throughout the course of this trial, produced evidence, compelling witnesses or a sound legal premise on which to base their arguments; not through ineptitude, but simply because none exists to outweigh the irrefutable evidence and witness testimonies pointing to their clients’ guilt.

  When the last attorney returns to his table, Judge Eagon asks if the Commonwealth is ready.

  "We are, Your Honor," I say, getting to my feet. I thank the court, counsels and members of the jury for their time and attention before making my argument.

  "The three men before you, Your Honor, Ladies, and Gentlemen, have been responsible for trafficking cocaine and heroin on our streets. They acted collectively and as individuals to blackmail, entrap fellow citizens and in one instance that we know of, they kidnapped and tortured a man.

  "Together, they have destroyed an unknown number of lives; not only the lives of the witnesses we have heard testimonies from, but also countless numbers of unknown victims. You have seen the indisputable, documented evidence of their crimes. You have heard how Mr. Walsh, a man who strived for most of his life to build an honest living, was blackmailed and threatened with violence and then forced to pay extortionate sums of money to the defendants’ masters. His sorry tale is but one of many.

  "Mr. Ealy testified how Fico Moretti threatened the safety of his family, and how he forcibly took him captive, injected him with cocaine until he became addicted. You heard how he was then forced to perpetr
ate crimes in exchange for his family's safety and to feed his drug habit.

  "Witnesses told about seeing the defendants traffic drugs and systematically terrorize and victimize their community. The defendants destroyed not only the lives of their victims; they also destroyed the lives of their families and friends. Wives and children suffered the loss of husbands and fathers, parents lost children in what should have been the prime of their lives, and friends lost meaningful relationships; all because of the drugs the defendants sold on the streets of our city.

  "We have no idea how many victims of their crimes there are, victims such as the witnesses whose testimonies we’ve listened to. We have no idea how many people have died as a result of the drugs they distributed. All we know is that many people do die as a result of illegal drugs and that the defendants made them readily available. Through their callous and often brutal acts, Fico Moretti, Nathaniel Barnes and John McGill have cost our community greatly. They should be held responsible for their crimes of drug trafficking, blackmail, extortion and kidnapping.

  "Defense Counsels assert that their clients were doing the bidding of their masters, but that is not a valid defense. The defendants knew what they were doing was not only illegal but that it was immoral, downright evil. These men were not victims, they chose to work for the Cordi brothers, they enjoyed their work, and they are guilty.

  "Victims have related their suffering, witnesses have testified to what they have seen and heard, and you have heard both sides argue their case; the decision now lies in your very capable hands, Ladies and Gentlemen. The defendants’ victims now look to you for justice, and the Commonwealth asks that you find Fico Moretti, Nathaniel Barnes, and John McGill guilty of all charges," I conclude.

  Judge Eagon instructs the jury, and they depart for however long they’ll need to deliberate.

  .

  .

  It’s Saturday morning, and I’m early because I don’t want her waiting on me. Primarily, though, it’s because I’m anxious to see her. I offered to pick her up, of course, but she insisted on meeting me. She obviously doesn’t view this as a date, but I’ve tamped down my disappointment with a reminder that I’m making progress and to take it one step at a time.

  I called Angelique last night and suggested brunch instead of coffee and felt like I’d won the lottery when she readily agreed to both it and South End Buttery where I’d optimistically booked a table.

  I sense her presence before I see her and turn eagerly. My heart skips a beat at the sight of her. She's wearing dark navy pants and a silky top in a matching shade. They're not jeans, I can tell, but whatever the hell they are, they showcase her body perfectly. I could watch this woman move forever and never tire of the sight; it's like watching something fluid and graceful in motion.

  She smiles tentatively when catching sight of me, and I hurry to meet her. We stop within arms reach of each other. I'm dying to kiss her pouty mouth but settle for extending my hand instead. She clasps mine and, as I close my fingers around hers, I experience the same sensation I did when touching her before. She stares at our joined hands, and I wonder, once again, whether she feels it too.

  "It's good to see you; you look lovely," I greet her.

  "Hi…." She blushes when she looks up at me. I force myself to release her hand, but hungry to keep touching her, I cup her elbow to usher her inside.

  "I've never been here before," she says, glancing around the restaurant. We're tucked away in a corner near the back, not exactly hidden, but secluded enough so we won’t immediately be spotted and gawked at by anyone who may recognize either of us.

  "I don't come often, but it's one of my mother's favorite haunts. She loves their organic menu. Personally, though, I'm a sucker for their huevos rancheros."

  She smiles widely. "You know, my dad was such a traditionalist and adored all things Irish, but that's the one foreign food, as he called it, that he allowed himself to admit is good."

  "Then your dad was a man of good taste," I say, looking at her meaningfully and then delight in her blush. It's so easy, when in Angelique’s company, to forget that she worked as an escort. Despite what she's experienced, there's an air of freshness, almost innocence, about her. It angers me even more to think of the men who trampled over and tried to destroy that part of her.

  The waiter arrives to take our orders. She decides on orange juice and eggs Benedict with grilled zucchini and tomato, and I choose a Virgin Mary and the huevos rancheros. We both decline tea or coffee until after we've eaten.

  "You should at least try some of mine to see what the fuss is about," I challenge when our food arrives.

  "Perhaps, but I'll have you know I was five or six years old the last time I tried it. I spat it out into a napkin," she responds playfully, but then her eyes turn sad.

  "Angelique? Did I say something to upset you?"

  "No… I… I just realized that was the last time I remember Dad, Mom and I being out together. It was before he got sick."

  "I'm so sorry; tell me a happy story about him," I ask in an attempt to lighten her mood.

  She smiles wanly and takes a deep breath. "The Bains, well our branch anyway, were originally from Scotland, but Dad refused to acknowledge he was anything other than Irish. He was a proud, fifth generation Irishman and the reason I chose Boston." A pained expression crosses her face before she looks up at me with a tiny smile.

  "Boston is the most Irish city in the U.S. of A, A Stór," I remember him saying."

  I laugh at her attempt to deepen her voice to emulate a male’s. "A Stór?"

  "It's what he called me; it means treasure or beloved in Gaelic."

  "Very fitting," I say pointedly and then watch as color suffuses her face.

  "He used to call me A Stór or Angel; in fact, Mom calls me either of those too at times."

  "I heard Mandi call you Angel."

  "She got it from my parents when we were little. Tell me something about your family?" she asks, and I oblige because it’s obvious she wants to avoid becoming emotional.

  "Well, Thorne is supposedly an English name, but my family originated in Scotland too. They moved to Ireland in the sixteenth century, according to my dad so, realistically, I can claim a much longer Irish heritage than you."

  "Ah, but does your family like colcannon? According to my Dad, one isn’t truly Irish unless you like colcannon," she challenges.

  "Colcannon?"

  "It's potato mashed with cabbage," she says, giggling at my expression of distaste.

  "I've never liked cabbage," I admit.

  "If you don’t like colcannon, you're not really Irish."

  "I’m not; not really," I concede, feeling a pang of regret at the memory of my true heritage.

  "What's the matter?" she asks, and as much as I hate talking about Adam Winston, I want to be honest and open with her.

  "My mother was a Mannering, that's the name I was born with; it’s English. My biological father was a Winston, also English, I've been told. Not that I've personally checked," I add disdainfully.

  "You don't like your biological father?"

  "I didn't know him. He abandoned my mother when she was pregnant with me," I say matter-of-factly.

  "Adam, I'm so sorry."

  "Don't be; I'm not. He wasn't half the man Callum Thorne is. I consider myself lucky not to have known him. Anyway, let's talk about brighter things. Did you have a good time with your friend the other night?" I ask.

  "I did," she says, "Amy’s very entertaining."

  Angelique relates stories about Amy’s exploits at the community dance school where, she tells me, she met her and Sarah Warne. She does try some of my huevos rancheros and offers me a taste of her eggs Benedict in return. We laughingly agree to disagree about which is better. I'm thrilled that she’s relaxed so easily, and it appears that she enjoys my company almost as much as I do hers. I decide to take the bull by the horns then
.

  Here goes nothing, I think, taking a deep breath. "There's something I'd like to discuss with you, and I ask that you keep an open mind."

  Her smile drops instantly, and I hasten to reassure her. "It's nothing bad; in fact, I fervently hope you decide it’s a good thing." She doesn't respond; she simply pins me with those damned expressive eyes as I continue.

  "My family and I are setting up a charity focused on a community center for underprivileged children. I’ll be on the board, but I won't be involved in the day-to-day management. My mother, Emma, will be in charge," I stop, allowing her time to absorb what I’ve said.

  "That sounds wonderful, but why are you telling me this?" she asks, that endearing furrow back between her brows.

  "Well..." I pause in an attempt to steady my suddenly jangling nerves. "I want to include a ballet studio, and I'd like you to be involved."

  "I was just starting to believe you were different…" she accuses, looking visibly upset.

  I reach for her wrist as she moves to get up. "Please… please just hear me out. I would never proposition you in that way; I've already told you this." I will her to see my sincerity. She stares at me for long moments before settling back in her seat. I'm still not sure she won’t run.

  "You're a trained ballerina, you teach, and we need a teacher for the studio. You’d be working for my mother, not me; she’s a respected psychologist and social worker, Angelique. Do you really think I'd involve my mother in a nefarious proposition?" I ask, lowering my tone to avoid being overheard.

  "Why me, why would you, or your mother for that matter, want to employ me. Does she know my background?" she asks, shame marring her beautiful face.

  "She does," I say, and she covers her trembling lip with her hand.

  "Angelique…" I grasp her wrist lightly. "Don't be ashamed. That's all in the past; don't let it define you. My mother’s the most understanding and compassionate person I know; she doesn’t and wouldn’t judge you, ever."

  "You did," she says, and when she withdraws her hand, the stab of disappointment I feel is like a knife to my chest.

  "I was an ass. Forgive me."