Lost: A Counsel Novella

by Shenda Paul

  “My sister is nothing like the girls you go around with. If I find out you’ve done any of the shit you usually get up to with her, I’ll take your fucking head off. I don’t give a shit about the consequences,” I tell him, and then with one last shove, turn away.

  It takes weeks before I can be in Tom and Justin’s company or even look at them without feeling anger, but things eventually return to normal. Well, as normal as they can be, given that they’ve both confirmed my initial observation—that we have little in common and that neither of them have accepted or are likely to view me as a true friend. Friends don’t treat each other so underhandedly. Tom, realizing the precarious nature of our truce and knowing that I’m watching like a hawk, is careful not to antagonize me.

  Cait and I make up the weekend following our argument. She promises she’ll be careful. “He’s fun to be with,” she says about Tom, and, then, when I start to warn her about his reputation, she cuts me off. “We’re just seeing each other casually, and I wouldn’t get intimate with someone I’m not in a serious relationship with,” she assures me, so I let it go because I trust my sister not to lie to me.

  When, about a month later, Cait tells me she’s no longer seeing Tom, I’m delighted and relieved. I stop monitoring his behavior, put my friendship with both him and Justin into perspective and concentrate even harder on my reason for being at Harvard.

  Chapter Eleven

  It’s been five months since I graduated, Summa Cum Laude. Justin also graduated with a distinction, Magna Cum Lauda. Tom didn’t; he earned a creditable pass and, as predicted, appeared more than satisfied. “At least I managed to maintain a decent social life,” he said at the time.

  Campus, on graduation night, had been rowdy, the air filled with the sounds of students breaking free from the chains of academia. I joined in the celebrations without restraint, the first time since entering law school that I allowed myself to let go.

  “We fucking made it!’ Tom shouted as he popped the cork on yet another bottle of champagne, the last in the case he’d managed to smuggle onto campus. He guzzled from the bottle before passing it to Justin. “To our future,’ he said and took a huge slug before handing it to me. I grinned, endorsing his comment. “May it be everything we hope for!” I raised the bottle to my mouth and drank deeply.

  I left the party in the early hours of the morning, again with Crystal, who’d been invited by someone else, not me, and we spent what little was left of the night in bed. I woke before her and hauled myself up, anxious to get back to my apartment to do the last of my packing and go home. Crystal didn’t stir when I tried to wake her, so I rummaged around until I found some paper and left a note wishing her luck because she, too, would soon be leaving Harvard.

  I ran into Justin in the hallway as he was taking out some garbage. He looked nearly as bad as I felt. “I made coffee; do you want some before I pack everything away?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said and followed him, grateful because, only moments before, I’d been cursing myself for not stopping off for some.

  “Tom isn’t back yet,” Justin said and handed me a mug. Their door slammed shut before I could reply, and Tom entered, looking the worse for wear.

  “You look like hell,” I said as he threw himself onto the sofa.

  “That’s what spending the night with three drunk, horny women will do to you,” he answered, grabbing Justin’s mug from the coffee table.

  I chose not to respond. I didn’t want to hear the details of Tom’s night that, with the slightest encouragement, would almost certainly follow. “I should go; I still have packing and cleaning to do,” I said instead. I shook hands with both, and we exchanged good wishes and promised to keep in touch. I knew it was nothing but platitudes; we all did. After all, none of us held illusions of a lasting friendship. Our only common interest, our experience at law school, had come to an end.

  Glad to be home on a permanent basis and grateful for the presence of my family, the comforts of home and my own bed, I allowed myself a week to unwind. I spent time with Mom, Dad, and Cait, collectively and as individuals, something I hadn’t done in ages. Mom and Dad were over the moon about my results, just as they’d been when Cait graduated the year before. Their pride filled me with a sense of accomplishment, but I wouldn’t allow myself to be complacent because I had one more hurdle to clear. Before I could become a prosecutor, in fact, practice as a lawyer in any capacity, I had to gain admission to the bar. And so, after a boozy night at the pub with Matt and the guys, I hunkered down to prepare for yet another exam.

  Then, more than ever, I felt vindicated that I’d ignored the advice of so many not to sit the MPRE early. Most of my fellow students, Justin and Tom included, opted to wait until after graduation to sit the exam designed to test the knowledge and understanding of the standards that govern lawyers’ professional conduct. Passing it is a prerequisite for sitting the bar exam. “What’s the rush,” Justin asked. “Why add unnecessary pressure? Take the bar exam in February like everyone else,” he said, but I didn’t want to wait.

  In Massachusetts, bar exams can only be sat in July or February, and it seemed senseless, given the years I’d already put in to drag out the process by nine months. So, I gave up what little free time I had, studied for and sat the MPRE and, thankfully, passed, which, after graduation, left me free to concentrate on the bar exam.

  I sat the test in July as planned, and, in the twelve weeks it took for me to get my results, I underwent the character assessment exam, another necessary step before applying for admission to the bar. In October, I received notification that I passed the bar.

  I have plans gain admission the New York bar also. It may come in useful, I rationalized when first hatching the plan. In truth, my decision had been more about making an imprint, small though it may be, in the place Adam Winston called home than any motivation I vocalized. But that plan can wait. Right now, I want to enjoy my achievements. It’s the first time, in a long while, that I’ve allowed myself the luxury of looking back rather than forward.

  I won’t lie; law school had been hell at times, particularly that first brutal year—those first few months, especially, when I wondered what the hell I’d taken on. But I made it; I got through the endless, endless hours of study. The second and third years were less stressful, not only because of the lessened workload but thanks, also, to the conditioning of our year as One L’s. Those years hadn’t exactly been a walk in the park either; there’d always been something more to learn, to understand, and another test to pass.

  Many took advantage of the flexible program to engage or re-engage in extracurricular activities. Like them, I welcomed the reprieve but chose to limit myself. I competed in moot court and, along with Justin, joined the debating team. I enjoyed the intellectual challenge of both, and, to me, the combination of the two seemed the perfect vehicles to test and hone my legal and oratory skills.

  I avoided the official sporting teams, and what free time I had, I devoted to fencing, something I discovered while and grew to love in college. I find it both physically and mentally testing, and I enjoy the company of Nick Burns, my instructor. He, along with my family and childhood friends provided me with the much-needed relief from anything law and campus related in those last years of law school.

  Justin and Tom returned to rowing and tried to convince me of its merits. “It won’t interfere with your studies; you’re pretty much on top of everything anyway,” Justin said, but I steadfastly refused, pointing out that I was managing because of the limited potential for distraction. That had been true, but there’d been another reason I refused.

  Before starting my undergrad degree, during a visit to Harvard, I was shown the Trophy Room. Among the victory regalia and team photographs, one, for some reason, drew my attention. A particular face stood out. I recognized the all-too-familiar jawline, the shape of the nose. His hair had been light brown, almost blond, his eyes gray or blue, nothing like mine, yet I knew. I knew before reading the
plaque that Adam Winston had once been a member of the heavyweight rowing team. The inscription was dated fifteen months before my birth, and I wondered whether he’d already met Eleanor. Had he already planned to take advantage of her? Rage and disgust burned through me at the sight of his carefree, smiling face. It took everything in me not to smash my fist into the glass.

  I chose Harvard, knowing it had been his alma mater. I wanted to prove myself his equal in the place he’d probably planned to graduate from; but I had no intention of replicating every facet of his time there; quite the opposite, in fact. I had, then, and still have no compulsion to participate in something he’d so obviously enjoyed. And that, other than not wanting to get sidetracked, had been why I refused Justin’s invitation.

  The night after seeing his photograph, more than a year after Charles Atkins handed them over, I asked Dad for the letters Adam Winston left me. I’m not sure what I hoped to find—some redeeming quality perhaps, or something to ease my hurt and anger. I found no such thing. All reading those letters did was add Eleanor’s pain and sense of rejection to my own. I hated the bastard even more.

  Each word is imprinted in my brain. Even now, seven years later, I recall every one.

  Dear Adam,

  I’m confused and hurt. I don’t understand why you left, why you refused to speak to me after my news, and why you didn’t leave a telephone number or address. I loved you; I still do, and I thought you loved me.

  I know my pregnancy came as a shock. Believe me; I was shocked too. I don’t know what happened, but surely you must accept that it wasn’t my fault? Not entirely. I was naïve and made a mistake. We both did, but I couldn’t do what you asked. I couldn’t kill our baby.

  So, in less than three months, I’ll give birth. I don’t know if it will be to a son or daughter, but I feel sure our baby’s a boy. I don’t know why; I just do.

  When I read your note, I was determined to do this on my own, and, so far, I’ve managed. But my doctor’s said I have to slow down. I can no longer work at two jobs, and I can’t work double shifts. If I do, I’ll harm my baby—our baby.

  I have no one else to turn to, so I’m asking you for help, Adam, please. Not for me, but for our child, just enough to see me through the birth and until I can work again. I’m not asking for anything else. Although, I can’t help hoping and praying you’ll change your mind; that you’ll want to be involved in his life in some way. I just know that if you see him, touch him, feel him, you’ll love him. I already do. I did from the moment I learned of his existence.

  I’m begging you, Adam, for our child’s sake, don’t abandon us. We need you.

  Yours,

  Eleanor.

  I hadn’t shed a tear for Eleanor in over a decade at the time of reading her words, but I admit to crying that night. Not for me, not for the photograph of the baby attached to the letter, one she must have sent after my birth, one she must have hoped would change his mind. I cried for her, for the pain I read between those lines. But I was also so fucking mad. How, having known what abandonment felt like, could she turn to drugs and leave me?

  His letter, though, made me put my fist through my bedroom wall.

  Adam, he wrote.

  I have no idea how old you’ll be by the time you read this, but I hope you’ll be old enough and man enough to understand. I wondered long and hard about what to tell you, what the right things to say would be, and frankly, I’m no closer to knowing, so I’ll just go with the truth.

  I’m a man of position, born into a family with enormous wealth, a family with status in society, a place that generations before me have strived to improve and uphold. It would be highly unacceptable for anyone in our family to marry outside of our social circle, and it would be unthinkable to father and admit to having a child out of wedlock.

  My relationship with your mother was never meant to be more than a brief affair, but, unfortunately, things got out of hand, and she fell pregnant. In hindsight, I realize that I should not have pursued her because I knew there would be no future for her with me. But Eleanor was extraordinarily lovely, and innocent, so different to any woman I knew. I succumbed to temptation, and when things imploded, I left. I hoped she’d take my advice and move on, but she didn’t.

  I was angry when I learned that she’d decided to go ahead with the pregnancy, and I refused to help when she all but begged. I was callous in my refusal, but it was best for everyone concerned. Eleanor would move on, marry someone, and she and her child would be taken care of. I would live the life I was meant to—one without complication. And I did; until some years ago, when watching my son, my daughters, I found myself wondering about my other child. Yes, there was never any doubt that you were mine; Eleanor hadn’t been with anyone before me.

  I paid an investigator to trace your birth. That’s all I wanted to know—when you were born, whether I had a son or daughter so that, one day, I could try to compensate for my actions.

  I wish you well, Adam and hope you live a productive life.

  Mom and Dad both rushed in when I hit the wall. I expected Dad to be angry, disappointed at the very least; but he took one look at me, at the crumpled letter on the floor and wrapped me in his arms. “It’s okay, Son; I’ve got you,” he said, over and over as I gulped for air, trying to contain the torrent of tears, to clear my head of the red haze of anger. Mom rubbed my back while Dad held me. “I fucking hate him; I hate him,” I said. Neither admonished me for cursing; and Mom, when I told her to throw out his letter, said she would. She took it and Eleanor’s letter and the photograph and returned a short while later.

  They left when I calmed down. “We’ll talk when you’re ready,” Mom said and kissed me on the forehead. We did talk, the next day. Both my parents reminded me that they loved me, that I’m a Thorne. “I hate that I have his name. Why did she name me after him?” I asked.

  “The fact that you share a name doesn’t diminish who you are, Adam. It’s Eleanor’s legacy to you. It was her way of nullifying his rejection,” Mom said.

  “Make it count; make it stand for more than he did. Be a better man than he was; than he ever could have been,” Dad added.

  “Screw him,” Cait said when she heard.

  And now, without knowing exactly how smart Adam Winston had been, I feel I’ve equaled or, at the very least, come close to matching his academic achievements. I’ve proven that the child he wanted aborted is as good as he was, the equal to anyone from his privileged background. That, for now, is enough for me. I’m within spitting distance of realizing another desire motivated by my abhorrence for him—becoming a prosecutor—and I’ll spend my life ensuring that I’m nothing like him.

  My summers of internship have paid off because, when hearing that I’d passed the bar exam, Bill Watts invited me to interview to fill one of two ADA vacancies. ‘You understand that, despite your history with us, we’re compelled to go through the process, don’t you, Adam? It wouldn’t be fair to the other candidates otherwise. That said, your academic results, coupled with your track record here, should stand you in good stead,’ he said. I thanked him for the opportunity and in the days leading up to my appointment, tried to quell my excitement, reminding myself not to become over-confident.

  I was surprised and momentarily confused when, on the day, I entered the meeting room, both Bill Watts and the DA, Mr. Beazley, were present. “Adam, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve invited myself. I make it a practice to sit in on final interviews whenever I’m able,” he said before I could apologize for interrupting.

  “Of course not, Sir,” I answered, trying not to look too awestruck. Gerard Beazley, known as ‘Bristly’ in the office because of his bushy eyebrows, is an imposing man. Tall and thickset with dark brown, almost black hair and piercing blue eyes, he has an impressive prosecutorial record. I should know; I read up on every one of his cases when joining as an intern. I’d seen him around the office, of course; he’s hard to miss, but I’d never had the opportunity, before that interview, t
o speak with him.

  I took a calming breath when Bill Watts indicated I should sit and waited for the first question. Mr. Beazley didn’t say much. He listened and, occasionally, asked me to elaborate on a response, but I remained keenly aware of his presence. I tried not to let it distract me and concentrated hard not to think about how my answers would shape the DA’s impression of me. I told myself to draw on my knowledge and to answer frankly. It took me some minutes to settle, but I did and, in the end, I felt I did well.

  “Thank you, Adam; it was interesting,” Mr. Beazley said. I thanked them both and left, wondering what his cryptic comment had meant. Was ‘interesting’ a good or bad thing?

  Eight days passed before Bill Watts called to say my I’d been successful, and, contingent on my admission to the bar, they’d like me to start at the beginning of December. I quickly assured him that I could and would be happy to start sooner, but he stopped me.

  “You’ve just spent seven years studying, and I doubt you’ve had much time in the last three to truly relax. Forget about law for a while and do something completely different. It will benefit both you and the department in the long term,” he said.

  I was disappointed at the time, but now, days later, I acknowledge that he’s right; the law had consumed my life. When Mom and Dad heard about my job offer, she suggested we travel to Europe, something we’d spoken about doing for ages.

  “You and Cait have both finished your studies, so the timing’s perfect, and neither of you have to spend the entire time with us. You could go off on your own whenever you choose,” Dad added without question, which led me to believe that he had Mom had already discussed the holiday. Cait immediately started planning, of course