The Advocate's Daughter (19 page)

“No, but the president wanted me to convey it. And he wanted me to tell you, and I'm quoting him here, ‘I meant what I said about next time.'”

Sean made no reply.

“You should know,” Gupta added, “I haven't been asked to convey that or any similar message to anyone else the president met with about the high court nomination.”

Sean's other line rang. “Again, I appreciate the call. Best of luck with—”

“There's one more thing, Mr. Serrat,” Gupta said quickly, sensing he was about to hang up.

“Yes?”

“This is a little awkward, but the president wanted me to ask you for a favor.”

What could the president want from him? He couldn't possibly expect Sean to publicly endorse Senator James? That wouldn't happen.

“What is it?”

“We hoped you could assist in the preparation of Senator James for his confirmation hearing. You're the leading expert on modern constitutional law, and we'd hoped you could give the senator a primer on con law. Help prep him for the hearing.”

“Forgive me, but I find it hard to believe that the president is dealing with the staffing of the murder boards.”

There was a sharp silence. Most lawyers, whatever their politics, would not reject an invitation from the White House to participate in the murder boards, the practice sessions held to get a nominee ready for the Judiciary Committee hearing. It was an honor and sought-after credential in Washington. Sean assumed the invitation served two purposes here: it would help prepare Senator James and further position Sean as a future nominee.

Gupta finally replied, “Actually, this came directly from the president. He personally approved every member of the murder … of the prep team. He wanted the leading experts in every area and, I'm not trying to flatter, no one came close to your expertise on con law.”

Sean's stomach twisted at the idea of assisting Senator James. Then again, a member of the team would be privy to inside information and possibly the FBI's file on the senator. As Sean kicked it around, a plump figure appeared in his doorway. Mable, his assistant. She looked flustered, conflicted about intruding.

He cupped the receiver. “Everything okay?”

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered, “but your son's school called on the other line. They need you to come pick up Ryan.”

He took that in, held up a finger, then said into the phone, “I've got to go, Abani, but okay, I'll do it.”

Gupta said, “That's great news. I'll be e-mailing you some encrypted files and—” Sean hung up.

“Is the school still on the other line?”

“No, I'm sorry. They said Ryan is okay, but there was a fight. They need you to come pick him up. They tried calling your wife, but couldn't reach her.”

Emily was volunteering in Jack's class today, so she must have turned off her phone. Sean sank back into his chair and studied Mable.

“All this drama isn't quite what you signed up for when I started at the firm, is it?”

“It's really my pleasure, Sean.”

“Between the press calls and my family situation, I really admire how you've handled things. I also appreciate you unpacking and arranging my office so nicely.” Sean looked about the room. Gone were the boxes and bare walls. The framed artist rendition of him arguing in the Supreme Court was hung alongside his many awards. Books were neatly stacked on the wooden shelves. And prominently displayed on a work table in the back of the office, the vase where he kept his fifty-two feather quill pens—one for each of his arguments at the high court—souvenirs that the court gives advocates arguing a case.

“It's been no problem, though the reporters are something else. One even called me at home.”

“I'm really sorry about that.”

“My husband grumbled, but then he saw you on the news talking about your daughter. We have a girl in college. And my Henry, who's not a very emotional guy, he says to me, ‘Mable, you help that man with whatever he needs.'”

“Thank Henry for me. My wife and I would love to take you both out to dinner once things return to—” he stopped himself. “Once things slow down.” Sean got up and walked to the coat hook near his door and removed his suit jacket from a hanger and slipped it on.

As he walked out of the office Mable said, “One more thing, Sean.”

“Yes?”

“Did the detective catch up with you this morning?”

Sean gave her a confused look.

“You must have missed my e-mail? A detective stopped by this morning when you were out.”

“No, did he say what it was about?”

“He was with the Montgomery County police and needed to talk with you about something. He said he was with the homicide section.”

 

CHAPTER 47

Sean approached the entrance to Ryan's middle school. He thought about the last call from the school over Ryan's Facebook messages. He marveled at how his perspective had changed. His parental problems from
Before
now seemed almost silly.

He entered the building and headed to the main office. The woman at the front desk gave Sean a sympathetic gaze. She said that the principal would be right with him. And he was.

“This is starting to become an unpleasant routine,” Sean said, shaking the principal's hand.

The principal blew out a long sigh. “Ryan and two boys had a scuffle,” he said. “Ryan was clearly just defending himself, but county policy requires us to suspend everyone involved—it doesn't matter who started the fight.”

“I understand,” Sean said. “Do you know what—”

“We're making an exception this time and not suspending any of the boys,” the principal interrupted. “I had a chance to speak to some of the kids who saw what happened. It seems that the two other boys involved said unkind things about your daughter. Much of it racist. Ryan apparently tried to walk away, but they blocked his path and there was some shoving. Some of the things these boys said, well, between you and me, they had it coming…”

Sean felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. What kind of kids would taunt a boy about his murdered sister?

“I also spoke with the parents of the other boys. All agree, if it is acceptable to you, that we keep this in-house. The parents of the other boys were reluctant at first, since Ryan apparently got the better of both kids. But once they heard the circumstances, the parents were appalled. They assured me that there would be consequences at home for their sons. Given county policy, it's the best I thought I could do.” He looked to Sean for concurrence.

“Is Ryan okay?”

“His eye doesn't look much better than yours,” the principal said. “But he's okay, and the other kids fared worse. Ryan took them both down.”

“I think you handled this just right, Jeff. As you know, this has been a hard time for my family, so your support means a lot to us. I can't condone what he did, but…”

“Like I said,” the principal replied, “I would have loved to suspend only the other boys. Go see your son, Mr. Serrat.” The principal gestured toward a small conference room.

Sean opened the door and Ryan stood quickly. His eye was swollen. “I'm sorry, Dad,” his voice broke. “I tried to walk away. But they called Abby a whore and said that she wouldn't have gotten killed if she didn't have Jungle Fever. They called her ‘Abby Kardashian' and they—”

“Shhh,”
Sean said. He put a hand on Ryan's chin and examined his eye.

“You're okay?”

A nod.

“Then that's all that matters.”

 

CHAPTER 48

Emily and Jack greeted them at the door. Emily inspected Ryan's eye and retrieved some frozen peas. Jack was all questions. What happened to your eye? Did you get in a fight? Did you win? Does it hurt? How much? More than a bee sting? More than the flu shot? Are you in trouble? Whose eye is worse, yours or Dad's?

Ryan finally managed to escape to his room for a bit. Emily said they all needed to get out of the house, to do something normal. So they decided to tempt fate and go out to dinner. Not to any of their usual haunts in Bethesda where they might run into people they knew. They chose downtown, a place called Central Michel Richard.

Sean parked the SUV, and they walked on F Street past Honest Abe's Tourist Shop, tackily located on the same block as Ford's Theatre where John Wilkes Booth shot Lincoln. The rain was coming down again, and the brisk wind felt good on Sean's face. He took pleasure in the anonymity among the crowds of tourists with their wrinkled maps and rain ponchos, the Serrats hidden under their umbrellas.

As they fast-walked to the restaurant, Jack said, “Hey, Daddy, want to hear a joke?”

“I'd love to hear a joke.”

“Knock knock.”

“No, no, no, I've heard all your knock-knock jokes. No interrupting cows or boo-whos, give me something new,” Sean said.

Jack thought about this as they walked. Then: “Okay, my friend told me a new one. Why'd the man get fired from the orange juice factory?”

Sean was surprised—it actually was a new joke. “Please tell me, why did the man get fired from the orange juice factory?”

“He couldn't concentrate,” Jack said.

Sean barked a laugh.

Jack said, “I don't get it.”

*   *   *

The bistro was all earth tones, light wood, and glass. Comfort food in style. The place was filled with the downtown after-work crowd—groups of three or four men and women with overly polite manners, client dinners, probably—and couples in their early thirties.

None of the Serrats, particularly Emily, was ready for a dinner out that meant a table for four, not five. But Emily was trying mightily for the boys. And for the briefest of moments, the scene resembled something from their former life. Jack—in a collared shirt, ironed!—slathered too much butter on a chunk of fresh bread. Ryan let the napkin sit rolled up on the table and not on his lap. And Emily studied the menu. She had the Loup de Mer with mushrooms. Just water, thanks, no wine. Sean and the boys ordered the homemade fried chicken, an unhealthy main course Emily normally would have shut down (Popeye's and KFC were forbidden in the Serrat home), but tonight she said nothing about the high-end version.

Sean devoured his food. He realized it was the first time in recent memory he'd eaten anything substantial. He looked over at Emily, who likewise was on a mission to consume her entire plate.

It was an hour of peace, of normalcy. But the asylum wouldn't last.

As the boys clinked their silverware, finishing their Chocolate Lava Cake dessert, and Sean sipped a cappuccino, he saw Emily's shoulders slump. A quiet gasp. What—

Then he saw them. A group of eight leaving Central's private room. The four men wore suits, shirts open at the collar. Their companions, women in their late twenties, cute and tipsy, stepping carefully in their tall heels. They tottered around the diners as they left the place. Sean found himself standing, staring at the last couple, a black man and his date. Sean and the man locked eyes, neither moving. The man's companions seemed to notice Sean. One of the men doubled back and touched his friend's arm, guiding him out.

A flashbulb lit up the room. A waiter quickly shooed away the man with the camera—a photog who'd caught the stare down between Sean Serrat and Malik Montgomery.

 

CHAPTER 49

“It's already on CNN's website,” Emily said. She gripped the humming laptop with a single hand and carried it to Sean, who was seated at the kitchen counter scrolling through the hundreds of work e-mails on his phone. With the boys upstairs in bed, the house was quiet save the sound of rain whipping against the windows.

Sean glanced at the laptop's screen and read the headline:
SHOWDOWN BETWEEN ACCUSED KILLER AND VICTIM'S FATHER
. He had to hand it to the photog. The guy not only trailed them to the restaurant unnoticed, but the shot was perfect. Sean's tense jaw, cold stare; Malik's glare back. The photograph was deceiving because that was not how Sean remembered the scene. To him, Malik had just looked surprised, maybe embarrassed and regretful, but no menace in his face. And Sean, too, did not recall feeling the icy hatred depicted in the photo. He and Emily in fact shared doubts about Malik's guilt. They were just taken aback seeing him there, living his life. Sean could imagine Blake Hellstrom sitting his client down and giving an exasperated lecture.
You can't be seen out having some grand old time when there's a young girl who will never have another night out. And what were you thinking glowering at her father that way?
Malik would protest:
We were in a private room. I had no idea her family would be there. I didn't glower at him.
And, until trial, Malik would never again be seen in public living the life Abby would not have, much less having fun. Maybe the Serrats should follow suit.

“I told you not to read this stuff,” Sean said.

“I don't know how you can just avoid all the news and ignore what they're saying about our family,” Emily challenged. “Just bury your head in the sand.”

Sean didn't take the bait. This fight had no winner. Emily was right, though. In some weird form of denial or avoidance, he'd shunned all news. He understood that Abby's murder had sparked (another) national discussion about race and justice. And to some extent, having reporters focused on her case could help uncover the truth. But he just couldn't stomach watching the media try to fill a twenty-four-hour news cycle by stretching out the twenty minutes of information they had. He turned back to his phone, but could feel Emily's eyes on him.

“Did the files on the senator arrive yet?” Emily asked.

“I'm still making my way through work e-mails. I'm starting to feel guilty. I get asked several times a day to help with a business pitch or to read someone's brief, and I just ignore them.”