Counsel (Counsel #1)

by Shenda Paul

  The Cordis’ attorneys asserted that Moretti and Barnes had, in an act of revenge, collaborated with former rivals of the Cordi family, and that, together, they’d capitalized on the family's old networks to build lucrative drug operations. Both counsels dismissed the seized evidence as forgeries, claiming that they formed part of an elaborate blackmail attempt. Their clients, they claimed, held onto the documents in the hope of discovering the identities of those plotting against them.

  They concentrated heavily on the Cordis’ efforts to distance the current generation from their family's criminal past. Their witness testimonies focused on Silvio and Enzo’s charitable works and their legitimate businesses. Silvio’s attorney, especially, argued that his client had, after the death of his father, been responsible for setting the family on its new and proper course.

  In a united bid to support their claims of attempted blackmail, they called to the stand and then each questioned Alicia Lucas, former wife of Vincent Rizzi, a member of a Las Vegas crime family. She testified to overhearing her ex-husband admit to forging documents and then sending them to the Cordis. Neither attorney counted on the detailed information that Moretti and Barnes had provided me, however. Through them, I’d learned that Alicia is the long-time lover of Aleksi, Enzo’s son. I used that information to discount her testimony.

  Neither counsel chose to redirect. That was yesterday. We’re due back in court in an hour to deliver closing arguments.

  My thoughts turn to Angelique, a much more pleasant topic. We speak on the phone almost every evening. At first, I called on the pretext of checking on her safety; now I feel comfortable simply admitting my desire to speak with her. I'm relieved, of course, that she hasn't seen or heard from Quandt, but I can't deny my satisfaction at the way, despite his continued absence, she welcomes my calls.

  I’m thrilled at how comfortable we’ve grown with each other. Our conversations remain light; she shares things like the latest news on Mandi and Samuel's family, particularly his son Flynn, also funny stories about rehearsals for her contemporary dance school’s upcoming repertory production. I, in turn, relate anecdotes about my fencing sessions with Nick, things I noticed on my runs, or inconsequential snippets about my family and work.

  On the Monday after her visit, she told me that Mom called to invite her to lunch the following day. I didn’t admit knowing about Mom’s plans; I simply enjoyed listening to her enthusiasm at the prospect of spending time with my mother. The following evening, she talked about how much she’d enjoyed Mom's company and seemed overwhelmed by the offer of employment. Mom proposed that Angelique assist her in getting the center off the ground before taking up position as dance mistress at the studio. "I promised I’d seriously consider it," Angelique said, much to my delight.

  By the Wednesday, I'd built up the courage to invite her to brunch on Saturday or Sunday. I was bitterly disappointed when she declined, but she quickly explained that she'd be visiting her mother. I then suggested lunch or dinner on the following Saturday. She explained that her repertory performance opens that night, so we agreed to lunch on Sunday. I, however, silently bemoaned the fact that I wouldn’t see her perform.

  When speaking to Mom on the Thursday, I discovered that Angelique had invited her to attend opening night. Mom had, predictably, mentioned it to Cait, who’d then spontaneously purchased tickets for the rest of the family. I felt grateful for my sister’s pushiness but insisted that I check with Angelique before we descend on her unannounced. I spoke to her about it that evening, and she seemed touched by the show of support. As for me, I was over the moon that she didn’t object to my attendance. I was equally thrilled about seeing her on the Saturday and Sunday.

  She left for New York the next day, and I didn’t speak with her again until Monday evening, two days ago, when we easily slipped back into conversation, swapping anecdotes about our days apart. I didn’t mention the trials, choosing, instead, to tell her about the progress on Cait and Matt’s renovations and providing updates on the foundation. I know we'll have to address the subject of Justin’s trial at some stage, but for now, in these early days of our budding relationship, it seems we've both subconsciously decided to delay those discussions.

  .

  .

  Just over two hours later, we’re listening to Silvio’s attorney, Lee Abson, deliver his closing argument.

  "And so, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, I ask that you remember the extreme effort my client has made over the past two decades to rehabilitate himself and his brothers. Mr. Cordi has distanced himself and his remaining family from the indiscretions of past generations. He is one of the most generous benefactors of charities in this state. He has developed legitimate and reputable businesses. He has ensured that his children lead exemplary lives. He cannot be held responsible for the actions of former associates," he pronounces.

  I have great respect for defense attorneys, they play a crucial role in our justice system, but listening to Lee makes me appreciate my decision to become a prosecutor even more. He, just like Enzo’s attorney before him, has valiantly attempted to defend the indefensible. Both men concentrated on the farcical rehabilitation of the Cordi family; and who can blame them? They had little of substance on which to base an effective defense strategy.

  He appeals to the jury now, asserting, once again, that Moretti, Barnes and their co-conspirators seized upon the old Cordi reputation to implicate his client. "My client, is innocent of the charges brought against him, and your verdict, Ladies and Gentlemen, should reflect that," he finishes.

  In response, I argue that the Cordi brothers have not rehabilitated themselves, that they have, in fact, created a facade of change. What they’ve done, I point out, is pose as legitimate businessmen and upstanding citizens while decimating our society with their importation and trafficking of drugs. Moretti, Barnes and the other Cordi henchmen have no reason to lie, I say, and then restate Alicia Lucas’ testimony to substantiate this fact. And finally, I point out that the amount of money the Cordis donated to charities was but a drop in the ocean when compared to the vast sums their criminal activities netted.

  "There was nothing good or moral in their deliberately orchestrated acts of kindness; their benevolence was just another part of an elaborate plan to deceive us, Ladies and Gentlemen," I say. "Silvio and Enzo Cordi are guilty of the serious crimes of drug importation and trafficking, extortion and blackmail that resulted in the misery and the possible deaths of countless numbers of our fellow-citizens. They should be convicted on all charges."

  My pronouncement heralds the end of Silvio and Enzo’s trial; all that's left now is for Judge Bates to instruct the jury and release them to their deliberations. While waiting on their verdict, I’ll catch up on my ever-increasing backlog of paperwork and, with Jodi, focus on preparing for Joseph’s trial.

  The next day, I meet Dad and Mom to view potential properties for Eleanor’s Place. "How much space did you say we have here?" Dad asks as he paces the lower floor of the second building.

  "Approximately twenty thousand square feet."

  "Mmm, it could work," he mutters.

  The building is in an area rezoned to accommodate a mix of residential and commercial premises. Its neighbor on one side is an imposing new commercial building and on the other, a large complex of warehouses recently renovated to accommodate advertising agencies, design companies, and trendy apartments. Like David staring down Goliath, the building we’re in refuses to be intimidated. Dating back to the seventeen hundreds, it was erected to house the original owners' trading business. Its current owner, Mrs. Sedgwick, a lady in her early eighties, has steadfastly refused to sell to large developers. She claims their projects are displacing existing residents and forever changing the landscape and character of the area. Mom managed, somehow, to coax her into meeting last week and explained our vision for Eleanor’s Place. Mrs. Sedgwick liked the concept and agreed to sell to us.

  "What do
you think?" I ask Dad as we’re leaving.

  "I like it, but I can make both spaces work," he says, including the last property we’d visited in his statement. "What really matters is which one you prefer."

  "Mom?" I ask.

  "I like this place, Adam, but it's ultimately your decision."

  "Well, I like it too, and the lower purchase price should help to offset the renovation costs. I’ll call Toby to settle the deal."

  "I want to keep in touch with Mrs. Sedgwick. She's a lovely lady, and she's lonely," Mom announces. Dad and I exchange a knowing smile. She can't help herself; always finding strays as we affectionately refer to the people Mom takes under her wing. I’ll forever be thankful for that part of her character; I am, after all, the luckiest stray to have gained her attention. When saying goodbye, I hold her for a moment longer than I normally would.

  On Friday mid-morning, we receive news that the jury has returned. Silvio and Enzo are found guilty on all charges, and sentencing is set for three weeks from now.

  .

  .

  On Saturday night, our family gathers in the foyer of a small community theater packed with people enjoying pre-show drinks. Mom, who sounds almost proud, reports that it was Angelique’s spectacular appearance in La Bayadere, her contemporary dance school’s first adaptation of a classical ballet, that drove up audience numbers for this performance.

  "I can't believe I'm at the ballet," Matt moans. "They don't even have my favorite beer."

  "This is a theater, not a pub," Cait admonishes him lightheartedly.

  I'm only half-listening to their conversation. I’m thinking of Angelique instead, wondering if she's nervous, whether she's received my flowers, and excited about seeing her perform. A bell sounds, alerting audience members to take their seats, and I hurriedly assist Dad in disposing of our glasses before joining the rest of our group in line.

  "Relax," Cait teases. "Our seats aren’t going anywhere."

  The wait until Angelique made her appearance onstage seemed interminable; but now, watching her, I’m spellbound, oblivious to anyone or anything else. My heart, I swear has stopped beating, caught somewhere in my throat as I follow her every movement, every expression. She's otherworldly, beauty and grace personified.

  I let out a long, shuddering breath as the performance comes to an end. I think I hear Mom sniff beside me, but I can't tear my eyes from the stage to check. I curse the curtains when they’re lowered, cutting off my vision of Angelique. The audience, silent and rooted to their seats, comes to life, applauding thunderously when the curtains rise to reveal her and the male lead. Fellow cast members join them, and after taking several bows, the rest of the cast steps back, allowing Angelique the spotlight. Clapping reaches a new crescendo and calls of bravo ring out as she beckons her partner, and he and the other performers step forward once more.

  Mom, Cait, Dad, even Matt, extoll the virtues of the performances, but their highest praise, like those of everyone around us, is reserved for Angelique. Adjectives such as glorious, stunning and superlative are used. I can't help the heartache I feel at the thought of such beauty and talent having been cut short by Dieter fucking Quandt.

  I want to squeeze the very life out of him. She should be on the world stage, not confined to productions in community theaters, charming as they may be. I listen to talk around me; my eyes, however, remain fixed on the doorway where several performers have already exited to join audience members in the foyer.

  My body tingles mere seconds before soft applause breaks out; and there she is, eyes meeting mine across the room. In a simple black dress, her hair framing her face and falling almost to her waist, she’s the most beautiful being to me.

  People surge forward to congratulate her. Angelique turns to greet them, breaking our gaze and allowing me to breathe again. "Oh my!" Mom whispers beside me, "I think she’s as smitten as you are, sweetheart."

  "I hope so," I reply absently, wishing harm on the man trying to monopolize her attention. She answers whatever he’s said, and then smiling politely, excuses herself.

  She stops to speak to eager well-wishers, and it takes her an endlessly long fifteen minutes to reach us. Cait hugs her, gushing praise while I stay back, allowing my family to congratulate her first. She finally turns to look up at me.

  "Hi," she says shyly.

  "You were wonderful." I bend to kiss her cheek and unable to help myself, I brush my lips lingeringly across her skin. "Exquisite," I whisper in her ear. Her blush deepens, making her even more beautiful.

  "Thank you, and for the flowers. I love them," she tells me before turning her attention to the rest of our group. "Thank you all for being here, it means so much to me," she says, her voice breaking with emotion. I wish I didn’t have to second-guess, that I could just pull her into my arms to comfort her. Mom leans in to hug her instead.

  Angelique’s eyes glisten. "Thank you," she mouths at me over Mom’s shoulder.

  "The production was fantastic, but you, you really are a sublime dancer, and an equally talented choreographer. Mom explained that you’re also responsible for the classical choreography," I tell her when we’re finally alone. Her cheeks turn a delicate shade of pink, a reaction I’ve truly come to love.

  "The credit should really go to Jeanette for being open to experimentation."

  "Would you tell me about learning to dance… if it's not too painful?" I add, realizing that I might have touched on an upsetting subject.

  She smiles reassuringly before telling me about her introduction to ballet, her dance mistress who’d been like an older sister to her, and finally, about her debut in Leipzig. She's animated when describing the long, tiring rehearsals and smiles nostalgically when describing how a disparate group of dancers from around the world had been melded into a cohesive company through a sense of camaraderie and the skill and dedication of their instructors. The excitement suddenly dies from her eyes. "And well, you know what happened after that," she finishes awkwardly.

  "I've read some of the reviews; you were lauded as the next big thing, you and your boyfriend."

  "You did?"

  "Jon uncovered it as part of his investigations," I admit to the half-truth.

  "Are you still in contact with Luke Grantham?" I can't help asking.

  "I haven't seen or spoken to Luke since leaving Germany." A pang of jealousy hits me at her expression of regret, but she smiles reassuringly as if sensing my reaction.

  "He's living up to predictions of his success and was dating his new dance partner, last I read. I'm happy for him," she says, steadily holding my gaze.

  "I'm glad," I readily confess. We're so caught up in our private bubble that we're both startled when Mom announces their departure.

  "I should be going too," Angelique says once they’ve left.

  "Did you drive," I ask.

  "No, Sarah picked me up," she replies, to my relief.

  "Allow me to drive you home, please?"

  "I'd like that." She smiles shyly before excusing herself to gather her things and returns holding a duffle bag in one hand and her flowers in the other. She stops at a small group, and I recognize both Amy Sanders and Sarah Warne.

  Amy waves at me excitedly before turning back to Angelique with a cheeky grin. "The hot ass?" she questions. Angelique blushes a deep red and without responding, turns to speak to the rest of the small group. I rush over to meet her when she walks away and take the large bag from her hand.

  "Hot ass?" I ask in the car.

  She turns, her eyes wide with astonishment. "You should know that I lip-read, Miss Bain," I inform her lightly.

  "I'll remember that, Mr. Thorne; and for the record, I called you an ass. Amy’s the one who added the descriptor." She giggles, and how I love that sound.

  "I was an ass," I apologize.

  "A hot one apparently." She’s still smiling as she turns her head to stare out of the windo
w.

  "Thank you, Adam," Angelique says at her door. I bend down and place my mouth as close to hers as possible without actually touching her lips. She inhales sharply but doesn’t withdraw. I do; reluctantly. It takes every ounce of self-control to step back.

  "It's been my very great pleasure," I say, watching as her, thick long lashes slowly sweep open to reveal her eyes. I wonder whether it’s my befuddled brain that’s tricked me into seeing longing in her eyes; the same yearning she must surely see reflected in mine.

  I place a soft kiss on her forehead. "I’ll pick you up at around twelve-fifteen. Please don’t forget to bolt the door," I remind her before tearing myself away to relive an almost perfect night.

  Chapter Thirty

  Angelique, thank you for the most perfect night. I'm counting down the hours until tomorrow. Wear something comfortable.

  Adam.

  I hit send. I agonized for nearly half an hour about the wording for a simple text message, which is ridiculous. I'm a grown man, and I've been with many women, but every experience with Angelique, no matter how mundane, seems new and different…more intense, somehow. And now that I'm beginning to believe that I might have a chance with her, all I can think about is how much more I want.

  .

  .

  I knock, anticipation curling in my gut as I wait for her to open the door. When she does, she stares up at me with softly flushed cheeks. Wearing almost no makeup, her ivory skin appears flawless, and with her hair pulled up high into a ponytail and eyes shining with warmth, holding me spellbound as always, I find her utterly irresistible. And those lips… I groan inwardly. How the fuck am I supposed control myself?

  "Hi," I say, my voice sounding hoarse.

  "Hi," she replies, and then tears her eyes from mine to cast an uncertain glance down her body. "Umm, I wasn't sure what to wear," she says, giving me the opportunity to unashamedly stare.

  "You're perfect."