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.