The Ex (9 page)

“Fine, I get it. He took some tough breaks. But again, not your fault.”

“Of course it is, Don. Simple cause and effect. A to B to C. Jack at our apartment. Jack calls Owen. Owen spends hours consoling him at a bar. Owen drives home and dies. Jack goes crazy.”

“And then Jack gets better, marries a woman, becomes a successful writer, has a child. He got a fresh start. You don’t owe him anything.”

According to profiles I had read, Molly had supported Jack so he could stop teaching and finish his first novel. Jack was so grateful that he dedicated the book to her and began volunteering to teach writing workshops to troubled kids as a tribute to his teacher wife. She was the supportive woman I had never been, and, with her, he thrived.

But he didn’t have Molly anymore. She was killed, and now Jack was accused of murdering the man he felt was responsible.

“Don, you’ve been telling me to get to the point. The point is, I’m taking this case. I’m a partner, not your employee. I choose my own clients—”

I heard a woman two tables over call out, “Hey, turn that up! It’s about the shooting.”

I watched as Melissa pointed the remote control at the television hanging in the corner above the bar. On the screen, the police commissioner took his place at the lectern while the mayor stood sternly at his side.

He delivered the kind of comforting preamble the public had come to expect after a mass shooting. There had been so many, I wondered if police departments shared notes.

“We know members of the public have been eager for details, and
we have asked for your patience as teams of officers and detectives have been working on multiple fronts, both to notify and to support victims’ families and also investigate the case and identify and capture the person or persons responsible. Tonight, I can report that, as we already stated earlier today, shots were fired shortly after seven
AM
. Three people were shot. Two of the victims were deceased by the time emergency vehicles arrived at the scene, and, unfortunately, just an hour ago, the third victim also succumbed to injuries. We can also release the names of the three victims: Tracy Frankel, age twenty; Clifton Hunter, age forty-one; and Malcolm Neeley, age fifty-seven.”

The commissioner cleared his throat as murmurs spread across the briefing room at the mention of Neeley’s name. “I can also report that we have arrested a suspect in connection with the fatal shootings. His name is Jackson Harris, he is forty-four years old, and is a resident of Manhattan. All evidence is that the perpetrator acted alone, and there is no remaining threat to the people of New York City.”

As the commissioner turned from the lectern, the press erupted into a barrage of questions. “Is that Jack Harris the writer?” “Was this retaliation for the Penn Station shooting?”

Around us in the restaurant, fellow diners expressed similar thoughts. I heard a woman behind me say, “Holy shit, guess that kid’s father should have paid up on the lawsuit.” Within moments, the consensus at the table next to us was that Jack “must have snapped.” There was that word again. There were
tsk
sounds, as if to say, “That poor guy, what a tragedy.”

A three-minute statement by the police commissioner, and already, I could feel its impact: the entire city was sure that Jack did it.

I downed the rest of my martini. “Are you going to say you told me so?”

Don’s wince was barely perceptible, but I could tell I had managed to hurt his feelings. “Of course not. You’re not my underling anymore,
and you’re an excellent defense lawyer. You’ve earned the right to make your own decisions.”

“Don, I’ll understand if you don’t want any part of it.”

“That’s not how we operate. Not ever.”

That wasn’t technically true. Three years ago, Don used a claim of battered woman syndrome to defend a woman accused of child neglect. I refused to help him, and never explained why.

“We’d be even if you want to back out on this one—”

“No. I won’t hear of it. If you’re taking the case, we’re taking the case. We stand by each other. We’re partners.”

No one had ever said that to me before.

RYAN TEXTED ME A LITTLE
after ten o’clock.
Where are you? Nightcap?

Bed,
I typed.

Not like you.

My thumb hovered over the screen. Who was Ryan to tell me what was like me?

Another message popped up.
Are you alone?

Great, the guy who was next to me in this bed eleven hours ago assumed it was more likely that I was here with someone else than hitting the sack at a reasonable hour on a weeknight.

Did your wife get home okay?
Bitchy, but I hit Send anyway.

Flight canceled. Not back until tomorrow.

At thirty-five, Ryan was eight years my junior. In what felt like a previous life, I was his supervising lawyer at Preston & Cartwright when he was a mere summer associate. I never gave him another thought once he flew the nest with all the other baby birds. Then two years ago, I got a voice mail. He wasn’t making partner and had no idea what he was supposed to do. “You probably don’t even remember me, but I just need someone to tell me it’s going to be okay.”

We met for drinks, a lot of them. It wasn’t until the next morning, as he twirled my hair like it was the most fascinating substance he had ever encountered, that he told me about his wife, Anne. He said he’d known when he married her that they were making a mistake. “I just couldn’t bring myself to hurt her. She did nothing wrong. And then we had Brandon. And now I’ve done this. I’ve hurt all of us.”

I left him alone in my bed while he cried.

Six months later, a perky blond woman in a headband and cardigan sweater walked into Lissa’s, sat next to me at the bar, and introduced herself as Anne. I had been keeping Ryan at a distance for weeks. I assumed she was there to confront me, but I was wrong. “You don’t know me, but trust that I would never say this unless I absolutely meant it: Ryan needs you right now. You make him feel better. I can’t take him lying in bed all day. When he’s back on his feet, things will be different.”

Now Ryan was back on his feet as a solo practitioner, closing real estate deals and writing wills, but things weren’t so different. He and Anne had “an understanding.” He didn’t do anything to embarrass or endanger her. She visited her mother a little more frequently and understood when he had to work late.

My phone buzzed on the bed next to me with a new message.
Can I come over?

Jack’s bail hearing was tomorrow afternoon, and Don was helping, even though I knew he thought it was a terrible idea.

Go to sleep, Ryan.
I turned off the light and closed my eyes.

I
WAITED OUTSIDE
Jack’s apartment building for Buckley, fanning myself with my folded copy of the
New York Post.
This morning’s front page featured Jack’s booking photo. He looked strung out. Above his photograph:
FROM VICTIM TO VIGILANTE
.

A black SUV pulled to the curb, and an attractive blond woman in a driver’s uniform stepped from the front seat. She had to be close to six feet tall. Before she could reach the rear passenger door, Buckley hopped out, pulling her cross-slung messenger’s bag over her head in one swift move.

She greeted me with “Hey,” and began walking to the building entrance as she waved to the driver. “Thanks, Barbie. I’ll text you when we’re done.”

I planted myself in her path. “Your father’s bail hearing is this afternoon. Not a good time to leave his lawyer waiting on the sidewalk for twenty minutes.”

Her pale eyes stared up at me. They were nearly translucent. I saw a tear begin to pool, and she used the back of her hand to wipe it away.
“I’m sorry. I normally take the subway, and didn’t realize the car would take so much longer.”

“You know things aren’t exactly normal.” Last night, I had told Buckley to shut down all her social media accounts: Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, Vine, ask.fm. But it was only a matter of time before some enterprising online sleuth dug up an old yearbook photograph and went viral with it. She wouldn’t be riding the subway for a while.

Her shoulders started to shake, and before I realized what was happening, she was on the verge of sobbing. “I’m sorry. Honestly, of all people, I’m never late. I’m always on time. Always.”

I looked around to see if anyone was staring. I was annoyed about a teenager leaving me on the street, but I hadn’t expected her to have a meltdown. I should have realized that eventually the stress of her father’s arrest would get to her. I rested a hand on her shoulder, but then pulled it back. I wasn’t family. “Hey, it’s no big deal.”

Her gaze dropped to the concrete beneath her feet. “I see you looking at me like Dad raised a brat. Or maybe you think I’m spoiled or weird or something because of what happened to Mom. But I swear, I thought I’d be here early. Did I make it so you won’t be ready for the bail hearing?”

I shook my head. “No, of course not.”

“I should have at least apologized, I’m sorry. My dad says it’s generational. He blames it on text messaging—the way people just wait until they’re supposed to be somewhere and then type OMW, like it’s all okay. He likes to respond,
Oh my word?
to mess with people.” She looked up with a shy smile. I could tell there was something else she wanted to say.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She looked like she had a secret. “No, I can tell it’s something.”

“Just, the way you called me out. Charlotte said you could be—”

“Do I even want to know?”

She started to laugh. “You know, passive-aggressive. But that was straight-up aggressive-aggressive. It was actually pretty cool.”

Crisis averted.

THE DOORMAN ON DUTY GREETED
Buckley with a wide smile. “How’s my little rock and roller this morning?”

“Out all night with the band, Nick. You know how it is.”

When the building’s elevator dinged, a middle-aged couple stepped out. They kept their gaze locked straight ahead as we exchanged places. Just as the doors were about to close, I heard one of them say to the other, “That poor girl.”

I immediately changed the subject. “So . . . Barbie?”

“I know. Ridiculous, right? Charlotte says feminism gives her the same right to keep eye candy around as any rich guy. I doubt Betty Friedan would agree. I heard what those douche bags said, by the way, but thanks for trying.”

“It’s just two people,” I said.

“No it’s not. I’ve been ‘that poor girl’ for a long time now. I’m used to it.”

“YOU’VE
GOT
TO BE KIDDING
me.” Buckley stood motionless in the middle of her living room.

I had warned Buckley to prepare herself to see the only home she had ever known redecorated by a search warrant.

I stepped over a tipped stack of books on the floor. “Believe it or not, this is restrained. I had a client your age who was suspected of selling prescription Tylenol at school, and the police tore open the upholstery on the family sofa.”

“That’s bullshit. Sorry. I cuss. Dad says I must get it from Charlotte, because he’s like Flanders on
The Simpsons
. Totally G rated—he
actually says ‘pluck a duck’ when he’s mad. Mom was, too. They started a swear jar when I was nine, but gave up when it was clear I didn’t have that many quarters.”

Jack and his fake cuss words.
Cheese and crackers. Monkey flunker.
And, yes,
Pluck a duck.
I thought it was endearing when we first got together. By the end, I wanted to stab him in the hand every time he’d dismiss my “cursing” as an “uncreative vocabulary.” I think being able to use one little four-letter word to convey a hundred different thoughts is pretty fucking creative.

Buckley used the toe of her hot pink Doc Marten boot to gather the shards of a vase that had fallen from the media table onto the hardwood floor. “So where should I start?”

We were here so Buckley could give me a better idea of what police had seized from the apartment yesterday. They were required by law to file an inventory, but they also had a skill for vagueness. Bloody clothing matching the precise description of the clothes worn by an assailant became “three items of apparel.” A drug dealer’s journal, filled with customer names, numbers, and quantities, was a “spiral notebook.”

“Just try to picture the way things were and fill in what’s missing.” Chances are, I wouldn’t get trial discovery for months. The GSR on Jack’s shirt was bad enough. I didn’t want any other bombshells at this afternoon’s bail hearing.

“The only problem will be Dad’s room. Like, I don’t really go in there other than to put laundry on the bed.”

“What about his office?”

“We sort of share it.”

“Good, start there. If it’s okay with you, I’ll look around, too. Sometimes it also helps to know what police have left behind.”

“You said that like you expect to find something, like Dad’s guilty.”

“That’s not what I meant, Buckley.” Or hadn’t it been? I’d been thinking about cases where police tore apart a living room only to miss the loose floorboard beneath the sofa. Or, more commonly, they
overlooked evidence if they didn’t realize its significance. So, yes, I must have entertained the possibility that there might be something to find. I told myself this was a good sign; I was letting my instincts as an attorney take over, even though I was dealing with Jack. But that’s not what I told Buckley. “If I can compare what they took to what they left behind, it can help me figure out what the police might be thinking.”

I wasn’t sure the lie made any sense, but she seemed placated and began reshelving books, one by one.

I LEFT BUCKLEY TO HER
work in the living room and gave myself a tour of the apartment. Prewar. Three bedrooms. Probably close to eighteen hundred square feet. A palace by Greenwich Village standards. A console table in the hallway was identical to one I’d bought for our offices two years earlier.

When I reached Jack’s bedroom, I closed the door behind me. The half of the bed closer to the door was more rumpled than the other. That was Jack’s side when we were together.

Dresser drawers had been left open. I picked up some socks and T-shirts from the floor and tossed them on the bed. I moved on to the closet. Clothes on hangers, shoes neatly arranged on the floor.

Scanning the two-page property receipt again, I confirmed that no apparel had been taken.

The shelf above the hanging rod was too high to reach, but it looked like items had been pulled off and then shoved back into place haphazardly. I recognized a white square in the middle as a bread machine, the kind of storage that made sense only in New York City.

In the far corner of the room, a nightstand drawer was partially open. Half tubes of night creams and lip balms, an old bottle of Chanel No. 5 layered in dust. How do you throw out your dead wife’s perfume? On the other side of the bed, Jack’s nightstand was close to empty—reading glasses, loose change.

I found a small step stool in the back corner of the closet, stepped up cautiously, and began pulling down bins and boxes, placing them on the bed. I even checked inside the bread machine. Empty.

A canvas bin contained nothing but baseball hats and T-shirts—a crab shack on the Cape, “NOLA Proud,” Mickey Mouse. Most of them were tiny, probably Buckley’s souvenirs from before she talked like a sailor. I felt like I was watching Jack’s life on fast-forward.

I reached the final container: a faded Cole Hahn shoe box. Two different kinds of packing tape hung loosely from the box top. Inside were old birthday cards, ticket stubs, a cardboard coaster from a Parisian café. I pulled out all the photographs mixed into the pile and began flipping through them. I paused three pictures in. Owen and Jack, windblown hair and tanned faces, their matching green eyes smiling at the camera, sun-sparkled ocean water in the background. It was Montauk. Junior year for me and Jack. First year on the job for Owen. Things were still good then, before the engagement. We were happy, and everything seemed easy. That, to me, was the first time I felt anything I was willing to call love. They surfed. I picked up lobster rolls to go from Cyril’s Fish House. And I took this picture.

Owen and Jack, mirror images of each other. So alike in appearance, but reversed on closer inspection. A stranger looking at the picture would probably think Owen and I were the couple. He was edgier and more confident than his brother. As far as I could tell, Jack was like his mother, and Owen was like their father. From what I heard, their father was the patriarch who loved his wife and sons, but had a temper, often set off by having to make ends meet as a caretaker for a family as wealthy as Charlotte’s. Their mother learned to tiptoe around her husband’s pride. Like his mom, Jack learned not to make waves. He liked music and books. He was quiet. Owen, though not an angry person like their father, was determined not to be a doormat. Never a pushover, he stood enough ground for both himself and his little brother. He’d been a high school jock and student body
president, and seemed perfectly comfortable wielding the authority that came with a badge.

Or maybe that was all a bunch of psychobabble because I had a tendency to trace people’s baggage to their parents.

I forced myself to place the picture at the bottom of the stack and continued shuffling. The images were all old, pre-Buckley, pre-Molly. The newer Harris family photos were somewhere else. These were separate. These were of Charlotte, Owen, Jack’s parents.

I tucked the photos back into the box and removed a white mailing envelope that had been torn open. More photos. I had seen only the first three—all of Jack and me—when the bedroom door opened.

I dropped the envelope into the box, but Buckley had already seen. “Are those the infamous ‘perfect Olivia’ pictures? That was the worst fight my parents ever had.”

“People keep memories from college, Buckley. You’ll see.”

“That’s what Dad said. But it’s not just that he had pictures. He had them all together, like a collection. And they were hidden, or at least that’s how Mom saw it. I could hear everything. I think it’s the only time I remember them really screaming. Mom found them when she was reorganizing the closets, then taped them all over the bedroom so Dad would find them when he got home. Kind of weird to know your mom can be cray-cray jealous, huh? ‘
You want a shrine to your perfect Olivia?’”
Buckley imitated an outraged voice.
“‘Here you go!’
Anyway, he promised to get rid of them. Guess he didn’t. He must’ve hidden them better when Mom was alive.”

“I’m not sure what to say.”

“That woman he saw on the pier—he said she had long dark hair. He was talking about you. That’s why he liked her.”

I looked down at my lap. “Don’t make too much of something so superficial. Everyone has old memories. It was the book that made him remember your mother. He told me how much they loved each other.”

She shrugged. “So does it look like they took anything from here?”

And just like that, we were back to work. I was beginning to envy teenage resilience. “Your dad’s nightstand’s nearly empty. Is that normal?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said a little too quickly. “I don’t look in there.”

I didn’t know much about kids, but I used to be one. “Can you take a quick look and tell me what you think?”

She touched the drawer pull nervously and took a peek. “That seems like what Dad would have,” she said. Yep, she was a normal, snooping kid after all. “The main stuff they took from the office were his computer and his files.”

I looked at the police inventory: “17 file folders containing paper.”

“Can you tell which files?” I asked Buckley.

“About the lawsuit.”

As one of the plaintiffs suing Malcolm Neeley, Jack would likely receive all important filings—the complaint, motions, the dismissal order. Some clients barely paid attention to their own cases. Others kept meticulous copies of every single document. If Jack was thorough and kept each document in a different file folder, I suppose it could add up to seventeen files.

Buckley added, “It would have been easier for them to just take the entire file cabinet.”

“You mean one file drawer, right?”

“No, like the whole cabinet. It was all his research on Neeley—newspaper articles, that kind of stuff.”

“What newspaper articles?”

“You know, about Neeley. Our research and everything—all that stuff we saw on his laptop. The police left the cabinet, but took everything in it.”

I walked to Jack’s office and saw a four-drawer metal file cabinet.

“That was
full
?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, crammed. I was telling him to buy another one, but there’s no room.”

I had wandered into fuzzy ethical territory by leaving Jack’s laptop at Charlotte’s apartment the previous night. Now it turned out there was no point. The evidence of Jack’s Web-surfing habits was already with the police. Jack—retro Jack, lover of traditional paper—had printed it out, organized it, and kept it in its own metal file cabinet. I knew precisely how it would look to the police.