by W Winters
Just like that, all the tension is gone and the smile I had for him when he first sat down comes back.
I tell myself that I’m not like my mother. I don’t forget. I don’t pretend. I’m aware of my reality.
I’m simply making the best with what I’ve got.
Right now, that’s a tall glass of chardonnay and a handsome man to keep me company. Even if I go home alone to an empty apartment and a too-hard mattress that makes the tight muscles in my back even tighter, I’m doing all right for what I’ve been through.
Delilah
Some days you’re the dog. Some days you’re the hydrant. My auntie Lindie told me that one when I was young. A student in my freshman high school class pulled my hair. So I pulled hers back. I was the one that the teacher saw and the only one who got in trouble. Both my mother and auntie had things to say about that, but when it came down to what my punishment would be back home, my mom told me to keep my hands to myself unless detention was worth it. My auntie said detention was always worth it and then she gave me that wise line about dogs and hydrants. That day I got in trouble I was the hydrant.
Today, I’m in that bitch of a position again.
“One thing after the other,” I whisper into my coffee. The steam flows around my cheeks. The sinful smell of caffeine addiction is the only thing that’s been comforting so far today.
My desk chair groans as I lean back in it, staring at the plaque to the left of my door then the framed news article beside it. My JD and a story about the first case I ever won, which was published in the town’s paper. Six years ago I had so much more energy than I do now.
My laptop is closed and I just simply can’t find the stamina to open it again. Instead, I find myself wishing I’d just stayed in bed all day and never answered my phone.
As a sigh leaves me, I chance a sip of coffee. It’s still too hot, but not scalding like it was when Aaron first brought it in. The shade of brown matches my walnut desk and I find myself smiling over the color of the coffee. I suppose in rough days it helps to be grateful for the little things. And then I catch sight of the bruise on my hand. The same shade as the grain in the desk. So long, gratitude. See you whenever I find that thing called patience.
Ignoring the bruise, I turn my attention to the case file laying open on my desk and read the first bit for what’s now the fourth time since I first sat in here. The constant ticking of the clock seems so loud today that I stare at it rather than the black and white words and inwardly curse myself.
I never should have gotten out of bed. I never should have answered my phone to deal with my mother. I sure as hell would have made it to the curb on time to move my car so I wouldn’t have gotten that ticket. If I hadn’t seen the ticket as I was getting into the car, I wouldn’t have slammed my hand in the door. And, most importantly, if I wasn’t pissed off and in pain, I wouldn’t have said what I said to the press when I was walking into the building.
I shouldn’t have said it and I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed. Tension twists my gut. It’s bad; today is a really, really bad day.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I do everything I can to calm myself down. To pretend like my boss isn’t going to walk in here and chew my ass out any minute now.
The parking garage is just across the street. Our building lies between an office complex and small commercial strip. The coffee shop is all the way on the other side, which is a six-minute walk, tried and true. So when I parked with fifteen minutes to spare and a hand that was throbbing just as hard as the headache my mother gave me, I knew I needed coffee.
What I didn’t need was the press waiting for anyone from the Assistant Attorney General’s department so they could ask questions about a case that slipped through my fingers.
Microphones and camera crews first thing in the morning get my adrenaline going in a way I used to crave. I can even admit that back when I first moved here, I loved the sight of them. The high of knowing information and having a voice that mattered meant so much to me. The fact that I worked on cases that were worthy of press was enough to keep a soft professional smile on my lips and a confident gleam in my eye as I strode along confidently with my simple black leather purse kept tight to my side. I paired a power walk with red lipstick and a skirt suit worth more than my first car.
I thought I had it all back then. This morning though, and lately with the way the press has turned, it was hard enough to keep my lips pressed into a thin red line. Lipstick courage or not, I sure as hell had better things to do with my time than be battered with questions about a conviction that’s been overruled.
I barely had a hand in the case. I gave my opinion and that was all.
“Anyone who helps a man do that to children, to little girls who were dead the moment he set their sights on them… a man who helps and does nothing to stop them deserves to rot in hell.”
Needless to say, I didn’t get my coffee. So I’m stuck here with Aaron’s choice of brew. Which is too hot to drink still and every second that passes, the headache gets worse.
My statement plays back in my head followed by the ticking of the incessant clock.
And then suddenly there’s a loud bang at my door. The knock, knock, knock hardly registers before the door is swung open.
“You said, ‘rot in hell.’” Claire Eastings mocks my tone as she swings the door closed behind her with a hard thump from the bottom of one of her flats. She stands taller than me without heels, and that’s saying something. Six feet tall and sixty years old, she towers over my desk with a scowl. Another thing Auntie Lindie used to say, your face will get stuck like that. … Yeah, well, Claire’s face is in a constant scowl. Despite her resting bitch face and all, she’s damn good at what she does. So when she repeats, “rot in hell,” drawing out the words with her dark brown eyes wide and full of disbelief, one hand on her wide hip with the other gripping a piece of paper so tight that she’s creased and crinkled it, my stomach drops.
My fingers nervously pick at the edge of the case file as I meet her gaze. I have a lot to learn. I’ll be the first to admit it. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said it.”
“No,” she agrees then throws her head back and when she does I close my eyes, wishing the ground would swallow me up. I don’t react well to being scolded and especially not by someone I admire. Claire paved the way for women in this career, simply by being the best of the best. Today isn’t just a bad day, I think as I swallow the knot in my throat, it’s an awful day.
I know what I did. I know I messed up. Just tell me whether or not I’m going to have to sit out on cases and file paperwork as punishment. I have shit to do.
With my jaw clenched tight, I keep the words there at the back of my throat and give Claire’s rant the full attention she wants.
Her pencil skirt isn’t fitted and it rides up, bunching around her hips as she paces. “Are you kidding me?” she questions, her head tilted and her eyes narrowed at me. When she does that, the wrinkles around her eyes and her pursed lips deepen.
“First the mess that happened two days ago and now this? Are you—” She continues her tyrannical rage and I cut her off.
“What happened two days ago didn’t come out of my mouth.” Jill earns another dart thrown at her in my imaginary poster of her on the wall in my head. “That was a reporter trying to stay relevant.”
“Well, this morning, ‘rot in hell’ certainly came out of yours.”
“I apologize,” I say and my sincerity is there when I meet her gaze, refusing to break it even though I’m burning up inside.
“Is it because of what was said? Is it because Jill said you’re becoming infamous for serial murder cases going cold? Is that why you had to give your two cents this morning about Ross Brass?”
“You and I both know he did it.” As I speak, the emotion that creeps into my voice, cracking it, is something I didn’t count on. I know Claire hired me over seasoned lawyers well worth their weight because I’m hard; I keep my emotions in check.
That’s what she said. I have a hard edge and the emotion rarely gets to me. It’s evidence and precedence and getting to the point.
Emotion is a weakness to be exploited and preyed upon in this business. I don’t know if it’s my family issues or the case from five years ago, but today is hard. I’m struggling to remain unaffected.
“He played a part in four girls dying and he got off on a technicality.” I answer her as best I can without letting my voice crack again. It would be easy if all of this really was as simple as dogs and hydrants, but that’s not the world I live in. I chose a career with higher stakes and things that truly matter to me.
Sympathy isn’t something I anticipated. So when Claire’s gaze softens and she takes a seat in the leather wingback across from me, I’m truly surprised.
“Of course he did. But when the evidence is tainted while it’s in police custody…” she trails off then inhales slowly and shakes her head, shifting her curly auburn hair around her shoulders. With her hands thrown up in defeat, she adds, “It’s on the PD for the way they handled the evidence. Not on us.”
Leaning forward, I look my boss in the eye and remind her who she hired and who I am. “It’s bullshit that they mishandled evidence and now Brass gets to walk.” Taking in a deep breath, I make it known that I have more to say. “He does deserve to rot in hell, but I never should have said that to anyone other than you and our partners. I am sorry,” I add emphasis to the last statement, my voice firm and then sit back in my seat. “I shouldn’t have said it. Now I know why you say you don’t talk to press after six p.m.”
“If you aren’t on point . . .” she begins and I finish her line for her, “. . . then don’t say shit.”
Claire’s an early riser and gets into the office before everyone else. Claire practically lives at work and handles the press above everyone else, unless it’s past 6:00. That’s her cutoff. Now I know my limit: No coffee, no talking.
“I think my new rule should be no press before coffee.” My muttered statement as I run my hand along the back of my neck forces a small laugh from Claire. If it can even be called a laugh since the sound is just a tad longer than a huff. Her smile lasts though, thank God.
“Are you pulling me off my cases?” I ask her and she shakes her head.
“No, but I will be giving you the cold shoulder in front of Tanner and Shaw. I can’t let them think you got off easy.” They’re new to the prosecution team. Shaw used to handle defense and Tanner is fresh out of law school.
“I was serious when I asked you if Jill bringing up that case got to you,” Claire states although it’s meant to be a question.
Eating up time by hiding behind a sip of coffee, I deny the stomach drop and the pounding in my veins. “I’m fine,” I answer her and then give her a tight smile followed by a distraction. “My mother called this morning, I got a ticket, and I smashed my hand in the door.” Holding up my hand as evidence, Claire winces.
“All before coffee?”
With a nod and a click of my tongue, I answer, “Without a single sip.”
Within half an hour, she’s out the door, my coffee is gone and all of it goes to the back of my mind as I force myself to actually get work done and make today productive at the very least.
Time slips by as I catch up on a case that goes to trial next week. I’ll be looking over Tanner’s shoulder and he’ll be pissed because of it, but it should be an open-and-shut case. The evidence is damning. It would take one hell of a defense or one hell of a fuckup for Tanner to lose this one.
I was so wrapped up in it that I didn’t see the missed call from my mother. There’s not a chance in hell I’m calling her back until I talk to Cadence. They got into it again.
If Cadence implied that she dates men who hit her because of what we saw when we were children, then my sister crossed a line. And that’s exactly what my mother said she told her. I’m not her psychiatrist, but I don’t understand why she’d say that. Mom said Cadence was drunk, but I just can’t see that and it was hard enough to decipher it all through my mother’s tears.
Intent on getting a cup of coffee from Brew House down the block, I head off, checking my phone and noting that my question to her from this morning asking if she’s okay has gone unanswered.
I have two more cases to prepare for and one of them is first-degree murder.
This … tension between my mother and my sister can wait until tonight. That thought is what’s on my mind when I’m aware of the familiar prick. The feeling like someone’s watching me. The same one I felt last night. A glance over my shoulder proves no one’s there as I pass under the awning of a bookstore. That doesn’t change my gut feeling though and that fear lingers the entire walk down the block.
I make it there in under four minutes, the insecurity forcing my pace to be fast enough to get my heart racing.
Ordering the flavor of the day with cream and sugar, two of each, I convince myself it’s just the case being mentioned. The case from five years ago has never left me.
It should have stayed in the past. It did stay in the past. One little blonde reporter with a camera behind her can’t bring back ghosts long dead.
I slip the change the barista gives me into the glass jar for tips and listen to it clink as she thanks me and then I make that decision firm—the case is long over with and long gone—and that decision is not to be overturned.
The cold case is dead and there’s no one watching me. All the confidence of that statement vanishes about halfway back to the office, when I swear I feel eyes on me again.
Cody
I know there’s a pile of letters in that locked file cabinet by my feet. Creased from the mail and some crumpled from anger, they stare at me from beyond the thin old metal that keeps them locked away.
What haunts me isn’t the past when they were first mailed to me, it’s the fact that I got another today. A crisp new letter to join the others.
How long has it been since I last knew he existed? Years, I know, but almost five years ago I sent him one after the next and our tenuous relationship became one sided. For a year, we exchanged information. He stopped returning the letters, he stopped giving me hints that started as a taunt and changed into a mutual decision of execution.
Rumors on the street suggested he hadn’t died. When the letters stopped, I had nothing left to go on but the fear of kids and a name people spoke of as if they were naming the devil.
A part of me wished it had all ended, but a piece of me that’s far too truthful, too primitive and brutal knew one day he’d reach out again.
One day the story we started would pick back up … I simply don’t know how it will end.
The metal goes thunk when I kick it, staring at the old dent in the side. The memory flashes in front of my eyes, prompted by the sound. A vision of me kicking the cabinet that held the only pieces of Marcus I had when he didn’t respond.
For days. For weeks. Months passed with no word as the case went cold and I lost it. But hadn’t I lost everything long before then? Who was I to feel anything at all but relief when Marcus stopped interfering, stopped taunting me, stopped the long-held conversation we had between right and wrong and who was next on the list.
Whiskey licks my lips and the empty glass on my desk suggests that thoughts of the angel of death serial killer will beg me to fill the glass to the brim once again.
I’ve picked apart the letter, every word and the unique cadence in his writing. I used to think his poetic nature meant he felt highly of himself. But when I realized who he really was, everything made so much more sense.
Knock, knock, knock, the door bangs in time with a friendly rap.
“Yeah?” I question.
“We’re going to Bar 44, you coming?” Steve’s voice is boisterous. As far as everyone else knows, the case is still cold. They don’t know there’s been another murder with the same MO.
I can’t give them one letter without letting on about the others. And in those, I’m just as guilty
as he was. Not in the beginning. Not until I realized…
“Be there right behind you. Just wrapping up something,” I call through the door. Feeling far too sober than I’d like, but grateful that I haven’t reverted back to the raving lunatic I felt like years ago when Marcus left me all alone to dwell on what we’d done.
Steven is off with an “all right, see you soon,” and it doesn’t take me long to follow. Getting ahold of myself and convincing myself that this letter doesn’t change anything.
After all, there are no bodies. No list of names that he’s given me.
There isn’t even a riddle.
He only gave me a simple message and it’s one I agree with. Ghosts come back and I wish they didn’t. He started again.
Maybe he’s gotten as lonely as I have. Maybe he’s simply using me again. Although I can’t blame my part on him.
A deep inhale then a slow exhale makes my chest rise and fall before I take off my jacket and change shirts to go out to the bar tonight, all while pretending those letters don’t exist.
What would they do if they knew?
What would she do? The beautiful woman with deep eyes and a smile she holds just for me, what would she do if she knew I played a part in a case that nearly destroyed her before her career had truly begun?
The thoughts plague me the entire walk to the bar. Even the drum of laughter as I open the heavy doors doesn’t stop it.
She wouldn’t look at me like she does if she knew. I’m far too aware. Far too stung by the truth that she’d see me as a monster if only the letters were in her hands and not mine.
She’d hate me. I let him get away with his bidding and she would hate me more for it.
The certainty greets me at the same time as she does, with her beautiful smile that makes her high cheekbones appear even more feminine. Her tawny gaze and gentle sway of her delicate shoulders let me know she’s more than a few glasses deep.
