Small Mercies (17 page)

Or like when he told Gina Giordano that she had the language and bearing of a stevedore, on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, which had led to Gina’s coming into Peter’s office at seven o’clock that night for his advice, closing the door behind her, sitting in the chair across from him, and promptly dissolving into tears.

Exactly what he needed.

Peter had survived the SEC’s investigation into the Dover Trust and Savings Bank. He’d spent fifteen to twenty hours in close contact with Gina, reviewing documents, prepping witnesses, and explaining his strategy. They’d gone to Philadelphia twice—both day trips, nothing overnight—and brought three witnesses in to be interviewed. Everything had gone well, better than expected. The insider trading issue turned out to be isolated to the one employee. The bank needed better internal controls and more training, but the SEC was being, for once, reasonable. Peter had persuaded them that this was an aberration, an unscrupulous employee taking advantage of a situation that the bank would address. The SEC wanted Peter to keep them informed of the bank’s progress with respect to the new policies, but, basically, they were closing the investigation. Wilson Temple was pleased “as punch” and Peter even got a complimentary e-mail from Kevin McCoury for doing a good job and resuscitating business with an old client, one that had the potential for growth.

Gina had proved to be more competent than the average first-year. Her writing needed some work, but she was good with witnesses. That was a difficult skill to learn and she was already better than some senior associates. Besides, his crush—if you could call it that—had settled into something manageable and, with the one exception, there had been no physical manifestations in Gina’s presence or at the office generally.

And things with Lindsay had picked up in that department. He didn’t like to think too much about the reason for the renaissance, but who really cared? Maybe there was a twenty-eight-year-old trainer from the gym kicking around the back of Lindsay’s mind, stirring things up. Would that be such a crime? Of course not.

He looked across his desk at Gina. He hadn’t seen her since the SEC called to inform him that they were closing the case, a week ago. Her face looked a bit thin, her cheeks had lost a bit of their meat. He hoped she wasn’t moving toward the skeletal look. She wore a gray cashmere cardigan over a black blouse and pinstriped pants. Maybe someone had spoken to her. Didn’t matter; she still looked beautiful.

She was quite upset. She’d tried to compose herself twice but couldn’t. Garrett may have been the spark, but he’d ignited some hidden reservoir. Peter handed her a box of tissues. She plucked two tissues from the box and wiped her eyes.

“I’m sorry, this is so unprofessional.”

“No worries. It happens more than you’d think. This job is not easy. And assholes like Garrett Holworth don’t make it any easier.”

She sniffled a laugh and a bubble of snot appeared out of one nostril. Christ, even when she was a mess, she was beautiful.

“So what exactly did you say?”

“I’m helping him on one of his pro bono cases for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. One of their employees—his job was to solicit donations, pieces of art, not money, from patrons. This particular guy was working the very wealthy widows of the Upper West Side. And he convinced a few of them to donate some pieces to the museum. He also convinced a few of them to donate some smaller pieces to him personally. Now, the museum’s embroiled in this mess and Garrett’s helping them sort through it. Allegations are starting to surface that this guy, uhh, may have played on the affections of these lonely older ladies.”

She took a breath, looked up at Peter. She’d regained her composure.

“So I said, ‘Sounds like a real scumbag.’”

Peter laughed and Gina giggled nervously. He ran a hand through his hair, scratched his earlobe. He adopted a completely casual air.

“This is nothing, Gina. Don’t worry about it. Not for another second.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“I am. Trust me. Garrett’s senile, Gina. Has been for years. When I was your age, I spent two hours in his office listening to a rant about FDR. Don’t worry about this. Go home, have a nice bottle of wine, and forget about it, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you, Peter.”

She stayed in her seat. The tears had stopped, but the troubled look remained on her face.

“Something else on your mind?”

A disobedient tear scurried down her left cheek. She opened her mouth and the tear slipped into the corner. She was working herself up to say something. She took a few exaggerated breaths.

“I feel like I don’t belong. Like I’m not good enough for this place. Like I’m fooling myself that I can cut it here. My father keeps telling me that he has a friend in the Staten Island D.A.’s office, that I should go to work there, forget the crazy hours and the stuck-up assholes.”

Her eyes widened as she remembered who she was talking to.

“Not you, Peter. I didn’t mean you. Jesus, I can’t even talk anymore.”

Peter put a hand up.

“Gina, relax. I understand. I took no offense. Go on.”

She waited a few beats. He recognized her bewildered expression. He’d seen it on a few witnesses over the years, been the cause once or twice during his better cross-examinations. The look of someone who no longer trusts her own tongue. He could see her gears grinding.

“Gina, whatever you say stays in this office. So, relax and tell me what’s going on.”

Her eyes shone with gratitude and maybe something else.

“It’s just that everyone here seems so certain they should be here. It’s like they’ve been given a script that I wasn’t given. About what to do and say and not to say. Like,
Don’t use the word scumbag
. So, I go home every night and cry and David is sick of it and it’s only been two months and I don’t know if I can make it another month, let alone another few years. The only thing I’ve enjoyed here is working with you.”

His heart soared a little, despite himself. He understood exactly how she felt.

“And here I am, crying in your office, keeping you from getting home.”

She threw up her hands in exasperation and stood to go.

“Gina, sit down, please.”

She did as he asked.

Peter brought his hands to his forehead, palms facing in, and dragged them down across his face until they came to rest under his chin. A lawyer’s trick, something to buy a few seconds while his thoughts coalesced. He hadn’t told this story in years, because Lindsay had tired of it and rolled her eyes every time he started telling it.

“Do you know the word
umbrage
?”

Gina nodded, a little confused.

“Okay, notice how I pronounced it.
Ummm-bridge
. That’s the proper way to pronounce the word.”

He stood and took a few meaningless steps, like he might have in court.

“Now, growing up, my father used that word all the time. But he pronounced it OHM-braj, like
braciole;
OHM-braj, like a bastardized Italian word. ‘Hey, he took OHM-braj.’”

A smile crept onto Gina’s face.

“So, my whole life, that’s how I say it. OHM-braj. Through college. OHM-braj. Law school. OHM-braj. No one corrects me, maybe because I’m mispronouncing it so badly they probably think I’m saying a different word entirely. I don’t use it often, but I like it. Saying it my way, my father’s way, it’s one of those words that sounds like it should. It conveys exactly what it should.”

He sat back down, reclined into the cushy black leather.

“So, I land here, at the venerable Lonigan Brown firm, and it’s my second week and I’ve been assigned to a case with Ned Stone, an old-timer, genteel and soft-spoken. Real gentleman lawyer, belonged to a different era but, unlike your friend Garrett, a genuinely nice guy.”

He swiveled back toward her, leaned over the desk. He brought his voice down, sprinkled a bit of the confessional into his demeanor.

“I don’t remember what the case was about, but we were in his office, talking about it. And I say it. OHM-braj. Ned gives me this quizzical look—he had these horn-rimmed glasses and his eyes kinda winced behind them—but he lets it go. But then I say it again. OHM-braj. And he puts his hand up and asks, ‘Peter, what is that word you keep saying, OHM-braj? I’m not familiar with that word,’

“And I say, with confidence, ‘OHM-braj, it means to take offense.’ This wry little smile breaks across his face and he says, as kind as can be, ‘I think the word you’re looking for is
umbrage
.’”

Gina laughed. Her eyes had regained their twinkle. Dried tears glistened on her cheeks.

“Bad, right? It gets worse. I say to Ned Stone, who I later learn went to Exeter, Harvard, and Harvard Law, who majored in English at fucking Harvard, I say, ‘I’m pretty sure it’s pronounced OHM-braj.’ And Ned Stone, may he rest in peace, God bless him, says, ‘Perhaps you’re right, Peter.’ And then I know, I know that I’m wrong, and Gina, I swear to God, it was like a stitch of me had been ripped away. Like the word was everything that I thought was solid and reliable in the world and it had been pulled away from me. I went back to my office and I sat there and I felt like you feel right now—out of place, over my head, unqualified.”

Her lips quivered in appreciation. He heard a final whisper from the banished voice, muffled and impotent.

The desk,
it pleaded,
keep the desk between you
.

He stood and walked around his desk. He sat in the empty chair next to her. She shifted to face him. He waved to his closed door to indicate the rest of the firm.

“Everyone here isn’t sure they belong here. I’m not sure I belong here and I’m a partner. And the other first-years, your colleagues, believe me, they’re as scared and uncertain and insecure as you are. They might not be showing it, but they are. Trust me.”

He leaned in, lowered his voice. Their faces were closer than they’d ever been. He could see the raw, jagged capillaries in the whites of her eyes, the tiny, inevitable imperfections of her skin. He could smell her.

“The thing is, Gina, some of these kids do have an advantage over you. They grew up with this, their parents did this, they know this world. You don’t, not yet. Your father was a firefighter, same as mine. And your mom, what did your mom do?”

“She worked part-time as a secretary at a dentist’s office. But mostly she raised us.”

Peter nods.

“Exactly. My mom stayed home until Bobby was in high school and then she started teaching. These kids”—he waves his hand toward the door—“their parents were lawyers and bankers and God knows what else. They seem like they belong because they’ve been in this world their whole lives. You haven’t. But you’re just as smart as they are, if not smarter. You just haven’t been prepared for this like some of them have.”

She’d started crying while he spoke. He reached across and took one of her hands between his two. It was warm and soft, he could feel the heat leeching into his own cold, stiff palms.

“But you belong here. You deserve this.”

“Thank you,” she said. She looked down at their conjoined hands. He heard a muffled voice out in the hallway. He realized he’d crossed a line. A handful of lines. But he couldn’t move his hands. He could sense the possible moving toward the preordained, could feel her anticipation matching his, surpassing it even. Her face inched toward his. Over Gina’s right shoulder, he glimpsed the picture of Bobby, head tilted down, almost a nod, and he had the strangest thought, one that settled his mind and cleared his conscience.

We owe the dead our sins.

“Your hands are freezing,” she whispered and she was close now, close enough that he could feel the breath behind her words.

“Cold hands, warm heart,” he said and then he kissed her.

* * *

Peter sits in the back of a yellow cab on the FDR, stuck in the traffic that leads to the Brooklyn Bridge exit. He’s asked the cabbie to get out of the right lane—the sucker’s lane—twice, but the guy won’t budge. He got a ticket last week, he tells Peter, and he won’t risk it. Half the reason you get into cabs is so that they can drive like assholes while you sit guiltless in the back and Peter’s found the one cabbie in the city with a conscience. The cherry on top of a perfect Monday.

All he wants is to revive his fading buzz with a bottle of red wine and then sleep for twelve hours. He’s not going into the office tomorrow. Fuck them.

His cell phone vibrates in his pants pocket. Home.

“Hello,” he manages.

“Hello, Peter.”

She sounds sad, not angry. He can’t decide which is worse.

“Everything okay? Are the kids okay?”

“Fine. Listen, your mom called. She wanted to know if you were still on for lunch on Wednesday, something about collecting your sheets for some pool.”

“Oh, shit. I forgot. I’ll take care of it.”

“She also wanted to remind me that Bobby Jr.’s birthday party is this Sunday.”

“Oh, right, right.”

A long pause, one that Peter is reluctant to fill. Even his gentlest attempts at reconciliation raise her ire lately.

“She doesn’t know, does she?”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Well, you should probably tell her.”

“Why?”

“Because I still don’t know how things will end up, Peter, and she should be prepared. Besides, she might be happy. She always wanted you to end up with a Staten Island girl.”

Peter exhales.

“Okay, Linds, I deserved that. I will tell her. Just not right now.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because Tina . . . Jesus, I don’t even know where to begin. Do you remember last spring when Wade came to the house?”

“Yes, vaguely.”

“He was really depressed, felt like he would never get over Morgan. Couldn’t bring himself to move out of their place. Couldn’t date. Couldn’t take vacations because he had no one to vacation with. I think it was right around the second anniversary of her death.”

“I remember.”

“Well, I gave him Tina’s number. I said she might be able to help with the mourning, the grief. I thought it might be helpful.”

“That was kind of you.”

She sounds sincere but who knows.