Time Served (25 page)

“Because Fowler doesn’t know he’s dead. Bennett was ten minutes outside Pittsburgh at the time of the crash, pronounced dead in a Pittsburgh hospital and his family, all of whom reside in Pittsburgh, had him buried there. Fowler hadn’t agreed to the extended medical leave, so after a two-week absence, they fired him. He wasn’t working for the company when he died, and their contact information extended no further than Bennett’s Camden address. Assuming they even wanted to buy him off, they wouldn’t know who to get in touch with.”

“Why isn’t he in the BioShare files?”

“Skipped his appointment.”

“Can we prove that the Harco-99 exposure caused the seizure?”

Baxter pulls a second envelope out of his jacket and hands it over. “The Pittsburgh medical examiner can.”

My hands are shaking as I unfold the examiner’s report and read the results. Because Bennett had been killed by the crash, there was no reason for anyone to make an issue out of the elevated levels of perchlorodibenzene in his blood. Until now.

“This is huge,” I tell Baxter unnecessarily.

“Get thee to Pittsburgh.”

“I have to tell the partners.”

Baxter shrugs and purses his lips.

“What?” I demand. “What’s that look for?”

“If you take it to the partners, you know what will happen.”

“What? They’ll tell me to go to Pittsburgh to interview the family.”

“You?” he asks. “Or Caitlin?”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“This is amazing!” Parker crows for the thousandth time. “You’re so getting second chair.”

“What did Haines say?” Adrian asks. “You told him, right?”

“Of course. I called him as soon as I left the Bennetts’.”

“And?”

I slump a little, like a kid learning Christmas Day isn’t until tomorrow, no matter how much I want my gift now. “Voice mail.” It’s Tuesday afternoon, and I’d flown to Pittsburgh first thing this morning to interview the Bennetts. To my enormous surprise and delight, they were extremely wealthy, and though they had been estranged from their son for some time, they had been working toward reconciliation at the time of his death, and are much more interested in getting justice than compensation for their suffering. They’d signed up for the class action and are now our strongest case.

“Doesn’t matter,” Parker says dismissively. “The job is yours.”

We gossip awhile longer and eventually he and Adrian leave. I sit at my desk wishing I had a bottle of wine or a donut to celebrate. Instead I switch on my computer and tug my phone from my bag, checking for missed calls. There are two from Caitlin—
delete
—but that’s it. Still nothing from Dean. I haven’t heard from him since Friday. I can’t ignore the antsy feeling that comes over me at the lack of communication, but do my best to shake it off.

I open the email from Adrian and click on the attachment with the Ruthie Block transcript. A thirty-three page document opens and I sigh as the familiar questions fill the screen. Impatient, I minimize the window and click on the second file, which is Adrian’s summary of the meeting. My eyebrows inch up my forehead as I read, clicking back and forth between the transcript and Adrian’s notes.

According to Ruthie, she and Reginald had been happily married for three years, together for four, when she came home one day to find him waiting on the porch with a suitcase. She was thirty years old, two months pregnant and he was leaving. “Wasn’t ready for a family,” I read. “Pregnancy was unplanned. Block informed Howard of her intentions to keep the baby, but miscarried four weeks later.”

Reginald had abandoned his pregnant wife? Because he wasn’t
ready
?

At the time Ruthie was a struggling artist working various part-time jobs to contribute to the household income. Reginald managed boxers at the local gym and traveled to bouts around the country as part of his job. Ruthie had long suspected he was unfaithful, but put up with it both because she had no proof and because she loved him. After the miscarriage, she rededicated herself to work and found success.

I’ve been working for the wrong side. All Ruthie wants is that ever-elusive closure. A box of nails and a hammer to seal the lid on the coffin of what is probably the worst mistake of her life. A relationship that ended inevitably badly.

I glance at my phone. Still no word from Dean. I try to harden my heart and focus on the transcript, but I can’t shake the niggling feeling that something’s wrong. Why would he turn so cold so suddenly? After the best night we’d had to date? I know we don’t have a future, but surely the present isn’t so awful?

I send the text before I can talk myself out of it. Brief, emotionless, to the point: Are you alive? I give it a minute, but no answer is forthcoming. Predictable. My desk phone lights up and Belinda’s voice comes through the speaker. “Lee Haines on line three for you, Rachel.”

“Thanks.” I shove my phone back into my bag so I don’t continue to ogle it desperately, and pick up the extension.

“Moser.” Haines’s cultured voice oozes through the receiver. “Is now a good time?”

I raise a brow. A senior partner asking a fourth-year if now is a good time? “Of course,” I reply levelly. “Did you get my messages?” I can hear traffic and voices in the background; he’s not in the office, which is why I’m not currently sitting across from him.

There’s a pause, and I wonder if he heard me. Just when I’m about to repeat myself he answers. “I did. Sounds promising.”

“I really think—”

“Who else knew about this?”

I hesitate, mouth open, and know instantly that he’s referring to Caitlin. If she wasn’t screwing him before this case, she is now. And she wants second chair. Still, I earned it and we both know it. “Parker knows,” I say. “We’ve been conducting the interviews together.”

“And you both went to Pittsburgh?”

“I went alone,” I tell him.

Another lengthy pause. “I see. Who approved this trip?”

“No one,” I say slowly. When the case started we were given carte blanche to review and find cases for the class action. Sure, the reason I kept my trip on the down low was to prevent Caitlin from snaking in and stealing the Bennetts out from under me, but while it may have been shady, it certainly wasn’t wrong.

“Caitlin Dufresne has been interviewing with you, hasn’t she?”

“She’s been working in Camden, yes.” She horned in on our Camden cases, to be more precise.

“But you didn’t tell her about the Bennetts?”

“What would that have changed?”

“I beg your pardon?”

I take a deep breath. “No, I didn’t tell her about the Bennetts. It didn’t seem necessary. We haven’t been running interviews by each other thus far, I don’t know why we’d start now.”

Haines sighs. “This could be the best case we find,” he says finally. “If Fowler—”

“They won’t,” I assure him. “The Bennetts don’t need the money. They want justice for their son. Fowler can’t help them with that. They won’t.”

“But we can.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, Moser. You...” He trails off and again I wonder if we’ve been disconnected. But then he speaks. “I’m just entering the courtroom. I’ve been here all day. We’ll... Let’s talk later this week.”

My heart is pounding. He was going to offer me second chair. I know it. And I’m desperate to insist he do it right now, but can’t muster up the nerve to utter the words. “Of course,” I say instead.Haines hangs up without saying goodbye and I replace the receiver and stare at it uneasily. I know the Fowler case lost some of its prestige with the payouts, but it’s still a good case Haines can win, especially with the Bennetts on our side. But Haines wasn’t as happy as he should have been. And he certainly wasn’t happy it was me who found the Bennetts.

My purse vibrates and I jerk at the movement, anxiety making my stomach clench. I’m unduly nervous as I unzip the bag and pull out my phone, staring at the glowing display. One new message. Number unknown.

Yeah. Just busy. I’ll call you.

But the words bring me no relief. I glance between the phone in my hand and the one on my desk and know with damning certainty that I have just been lied to by two men in as many minutes.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I hear from neither Dean nor Haines the next day. Or the day after that. By the time I show up to work at exactly seven o’clock on Friday morning, I’m ready to pull out my hair. Haines’s silence is a sign of a serious professional problem; Dean’s absence is personal.

A flash of movement catches my eye and I turn to stare down the hallway as Parker appears, hot on the trail of a fearful-looking delivery man holding a long black garment bag, Belinda leading the way.

“Your dress is here,” Belinda announces when I open the door.

“Thanks, Belinda. Thank you,” I tell the delivery man as I sign for the dress.

Parker yanks the bag out of my hand as soon as we’re alone and undoes the zipper. “Let me see! Ooh—red, Caitlin’s color. You devil.” I’d picked out the dress months ago, on one of the rare occasions I’d walked home from work. It had been modeled on a store mannequin and I knew immediately that I wanted it for the party. I’d gone in, they’d taken measurements and I’d promptly forgotten all about it.

“What’s got you so excited this morning?”

“Just happy to be alive.”

I roll my eyes. “Get out.”

“Aren’t you going to put it on? How else can I advise you on accessories?”

“What does Moira see in you?”

“An excellent fashion consultant? Attentive lover? Gourmet cook?”

“Parker.”

“Fine, I can’t cook. But I do watch the Food Channel. Come on. Model for me.”

I slump into my seat. “I don’t want to.”

“Are you sick?” He drops into a chair opposite me, concern etched on his face.

“Just stressed.”

“Haines?”

“Uh-huh.”

It’s definitely not a good sign when Parker, my staunchest supporter and cheerleader, looks disheartened. “Maybe he’s...”

“Too busy banging Caitlin to name me second chair?”

Parker winces. “Yes?”

“This is awful. I wish I could say I didn’t care if he called, but...”

“You deserve this, Rachel. You found the Bennetts.”

“Well, Baxter did.”

“But you signed them up. And you’ve worked harder than Caitlin. Than anyone. Everyone knows you should be second chair.”

I nod halfheartedly and glance out the window again at the view I never bother to notice. Part of me recognizes its appeal, but another part of me just doesn’t care.

“What’s really going on?” Parker asks shrewdly.

I peek at him from the corner of my eye and he’s staring at me sharply, eyes narrowed. I open my mouth to lie and say there’s nothing more than Haines on my mind, but instead hear myself mumble, “He hasn’t called.”

He frowns. “I know. You just said—
Ohhhh
.” His eyes widen. “You mean Camden?”

I nod miserably. “I shouldn’t let it bother me, but...”

He leans forward, interested. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Friday.”

“A whole week?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you called?”

“Texted. He said he was busy and would call, but he hasn’t.”

“Is he coming to the party tomorrow?”

I cough out a laugh. “God, no!”

“Why is that funny?”

“Dean? Surrounded by these people? In a tux? Sipping champagne and eating jumbo shrimp?”

“Dean, huh?”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Can I tell Baxter?”

I sigh. “This is stupid. I have plenty of things to keep me occupied, I shouldn’t even be dwelling on this. If he calls, he calls. If he doesn’t, well, it’s not like I enjoy making the trip to Camden anyway.”

“Sure.”

“And if Haines doesn’t call...”

Parker’s supportive nod stalls. “Then...”

“Then there’s always the next case, right?”

“That’s right. You’ll get over them both. Onward and upward.”

“Onward and upward,” I echo. But even as I try to utter the words with conviction, they feel foreign and strange in my mouth, stumbling out and convincing no one.

Then the phone rings.

We jump in our seats and stare. It’s just an ordinary phone, black and heavy, with more buttons than any one person could possibly be expected to need. But right now we’re staring at it like it’s the phone call telling us our final appeal was turned down and they’ll be injecting me with poison any minute.

“You’ve got to answer,” Parker whispers after the fourth ring.

I press a cold finger to the blinking line. We both know it’s Haines.

“Rachel Moser,” I say when the call connects.

“Moser. Come to my office, please.”

I hang up without another word and look at Parker. “It’s happening.”

“You’re going to be second chair.”

“He’s going to fire me.”

“Why would he fire you? You’re awesome.”

“Nobody waits three days to deliver good news.” Just like no one waits seven days to call a girl they want to see again.

I see Parker’s Adam’s apple bob as he tries to appear confident. “Maybe he had to run it by the other partners. And buy you balloons. And a cake.”

I shake my head to rid myself of this foolish paranoia, then pull a compact and tube of lipstick from my desk and touch up my makeup before standing. “I’m sure you’re right,” I say unconvincingly.

Parker rises too, squeezing my hand in a split-second show of support. “I always am.”

Everybody knows
, I realize as I walk down the gleaming hallway that leads to Haines’s office. I feel like the death row inmate of my earlier analogy as heads turn to watch me. These are the last steps I’ll take. He’s in there, waiting to strap me down and take away everything I’ve worked for.

Yasmin, Haines’s secretary, smiles politely as I approach, then picks up the phone to tell Haines I’m here. He tells her to send me in and I wave her off and open the door myself.

Haines sits behind his enormous ebony desk, the sun rising behind his left shoulder. I’m sure he planned it that way. As though the sun rises just to give him this hefty silhouette. “Thanks for coming, Rachel.”

I don’t know how to interpret his sudden use of my first name. On the rare occasions he’s spoken to me it’s always been Moser this or Moser that.

My voice, when I find it, is composed and reasonable. “Of course.”

“Have a seat.”

I sit stiffly in one of the two overstuffed chairs closest to me, taking in the faint whiff of cigar smoke. I picture Haines in here, kicking back after a long day in court, patting himself on the back for earning one of the best offices on one of the best floors in one of the best buildings in the city. His close-cropped dark hair is only now starting to go gray, his smooth brown skin shows no signs of age. If I had to guess I’d place him just this side of fifty.
Twenty more years and this could all be mine.
Just twenty more years of my life doing this job, in this way, and I, too, could have a bigger desk.

Haines folds his hands together and I notice his fingernails are buffed and even. He gets manicures. I wonder if he grew up wanting manicures. If that’s what success means to him. Shiny fingertips.

“You know why you’re here.” It’s a statement, not a question, and even if I didn’t already know, I’d never admit it.

“The Fowler case.”

He nods and looks down at a closed folder resting on the desk. “That’s right.”

“Have you spoken to the Bennetts?”

“I have. They’re on board.”

“That’s great.”

“Fowler paid off about 90 percent of the big cases—deaths, permanent disabilities. We’ve still got three hundred showing lesser side effects, but it’s enough to win.”

“I’m sure we will.”

Haines pauses then at my use of the word “we,” and rolls his lips together. I make him uncomfortable, I realize. It’s his name on the door, but he’s the one who’s nervous. Well, more nervous. Equally nervous.

“I’ve been putting together a team,” he says at length. “It’s been a long process.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve been reviewing everybody’s contribution to the case over the past several months, and while everyone has done a tremendous amount of work, there are some who stand out more than others.”

My toes are numb and I recross my legs to get the blood moving. It doesn’t help. It’s as if my heart has stopped, my pulse has faded to a barely discernable murmur, and I’m losing sensation everywhere.

“You’re near the top of that list, Rachel.”

I force myself to nod. “That’s good to hear.”
Name me second chair.
Name me second chair.
I’ve earned it.
You know I have.

“I’ve decided to offer Caitlin second chair.”

Even though I knew it was a strong possibility, hearing the words is like a knife to the heart. Still, my eyes remain dry, even as my throat tightens. “Why?” I manage.

“Her overall contribution...”

The room starts to spin as Haines’s lame-ass explanation filters in and out of my whirling consciousness.
What’s the point?
I wonder.

“...keeping up with her other cases...”

There’s nowhere to go after the thirty-second floor.

“...developing key relationships...”

Do I
need
a
bigger desk?

“...solid track record...”

Hector Nunes.
Jason Bennett.
Pilar Castillo.
Sonia Wheeler.
They’re just names to him.
People to buy off.
People to profit from.

“...you listening?”

I blink and struggle to bring Haines’s concerned face back into focus. “I’m listening.”

“I know this is a disappointment, but I’m sure you understand,” he says, standing and extending a hand. I take the cue and rise as well, feeling those smooth fingers wrap around mine, watching our hands lift in some phony show of sportsmanship.

“I’m sure I do.”

There’s no inflection behind the words, but Haines blinks, searching for hidden meaning.

It’s not hidden at all
,
you asshole
, I think suddenly.

“We’ll see you at the party tomorrow.”

It takes every ounce of my willpower not to toss my head back and laugh hysterically. “You bet.”

“We’ll make the formal announcement then.”

Way to poor acid on my wounded ego
,
you dick.

“Terrific.”

“This will give you time to rededicate yourself to your current backlog of cases.”I’m edging toward the door, willing my body not to give in to the tremors it’s so desperately trying to let out. “Looking forward to it.”

“Thank you, Moser.”

I automatically start to reply with
thank you
, but cut myself off. I’m not grateful for this opportunity to “rededicate” myself. To have a few more minutes to decide which shoes to wear with my red dress. To make this firm that much richer.

There’s a lot I’d like to say in this moment, but I merely nod and open the door, stepping through and ignoring Yasmin’s sympathetic stare as I stride calmly down the hall and into the elevator.

I maintain the cool and collected facade all the way up to the roof, where I promptly burst into tears.

* * *

I spend the rest of the day in my office, ignoring everybody. At six o’clock Belinda knocks and pushes open the door to tell me I have a phone call. The movement makes my red dress, visible through the unzipped garment bag hanging behind the door, sway, catching my eye.
Why did I choose red?
I wonder, mentally banging my head against the wall. There’s no way to be invisible in a red dress. It’ll make me a beacon for sympathetic stares and insincere “get ’em next times.”

“You going to take it?” Belinda asks.

I blink and realize I haven’t acknowledged her. “Sorry, Belinda. I’ll get it.”

“No problem.” Her normally stern face is still stern, dark eyes bland. I find her lack of pity comforting, but I need to get out of here. I need to be surrounded by a bunch of strangers who don’t know that I got the Bennetts and Caitlin got second chair.

What I really want to do is pick up my bag and walk out of the office without looking back, but I feel bad about ignoring Belinda so I smile and press the button for the flashing extension.

“Rachel Moser,” I say into the speaker.

Belinda nods and leaves.

“Rachel Moser, this is Reginald Howard.”

I roll my eyes and lean back in my chair. I am not in the mood for Reginald and his side of the story. However, what I say is, “We interviewed Ruthie. I’ll get back to you early next week with the next steps.”

“What?” A door slams and a muted roar comes through the phone, making me frown in confusion. Another slam and the sound disappears. “Sorry. You still there?”

“Yeah. Where are you?”

“I’m at the gym. Where else?”

“Okay, well, anyway, I’ll call you next week, Reginald.”

“I’m not calling about Ruthie.”

“Then I really don’t have time—”

“I’m calling about Dean.”

My teeth clench. “I haven’t seen him.”

“I know.”

“Then you know I can’t help you.”

“You’ve gotta come down here, Rachel.”

“To Camden?”

“Yes. Right now.”

“I’ll pass.” The only thing that could make this day worse than a trip to Camden would be getting stabbed in the face.

“He’s in the ring again.”

My pulse kicks up a notch, but my voice is firm. “I don’t care.”

“With Oscar Hall.”

My fingers close around the arm of the chair, concerned in spite of myself. Dean is big, but Oscar Hall is bigger. And he’s got a pocket protector.

“So get him out.”

“I think we both know I’m not why he’s in there.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“He’s not talking to anybody.”

“Yeah, well, I’m included in that group. Coming to Camden isn’t going to make a difference.” And it’ll make me look like a stupid, needy idiot. I’ve had enough of that for one day.

“I know you two have your issues—”

I rasp out a harsh laugh. “You think?”

“But I wouldn’t call if it weren’t serious.”

“It’s your gym, Reginald. Just...shut it down or something. Get in there and end it.”

“You ever try to get between Dean and something he wants, Rachel?”

I sigh and feel a headache start to form as I tell Reginald I’m coming, then hang up and head for the elevator bank. I make the short trip downstairs and hail a cab, just another terrible choice in a day full of bad judgments and crushed expectations.