“He walked, there’s no proof if we can’t use the evidence,” I say and frustration coats every word. “Ross Brass got off. The press will fade. It’s not going to trial. It’s done.”
“It should have been done. The press can keep it alive and compare to any other case they want.” It surprises me that she’s letting it get to her.
“Do you want me to issue a statement?” I offer, feeling that insecurity creep up my spine. “I can’t be blamed for the PD’s errors.”
“No, no. …” Unfolding her arms, Claire looks past me and her gaze seems far away. There’s no anger, no fire blazing there. Defeat wades in the depths of her irises. It sends a chill down my spine.
Clearing my throat, I question her, “What is it that you want me to do? How are we handling this?” Although my voice is strong and I’m able to stand tall, crossing my arms at my belly and still gripping the paper, I feel anything but when Claire looks me in the eyes again.
“Someone’s looking into your background. We were alerted to the files being opened, including cold cases.”
Chills flow down my arms and I stand there breathless, expertly maintaining my composure.
“You can’t believe the press—” I didn’t read it all, but the first line suggests that I’m either incompetent or mishandling cases. I have no doubt that the journalist is good friends with Jill Brown.
“That report is nothing but the product of a wild imagination and a witch hunt,” Claire says confidently, cutting me off.
“Exactly.” Stress pushes down my shoulders as I respond. “They can just say whatever they want and we … what?”
She nods, continuing before I can make my own guess. “We assume someone is doing an exposé on a member of the Assistant Attorney General’s office. A member with an impeccable record, but whatever ghosts you’re hiding, I think you should prepare for them to come to light.”
“Is there really nothing else they have to write about? Especially given that I’ve closed how many cases? My reputation is solid and one of the best on this team.”
“It’s not just work,” Claire says then looks behind me at the two picture frames on my desk. “They will turn over every rock.”
“I don’t have anything to hide.” A tingling heat spreads over my skin, denying what I said. But I don’t have anything to hide. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve never mishandled anything.”
“I know. We can’t have that here.”
A bitter vein of offense laces my voice when I answer her, “I’m aware of that. They can write whatever article they’d like. They can drag me through the dirt. It’ll last for a moment until I win a trial and another. Or until they have something more interesting to write about.”
The cords in Claire’s thin neck tighten as she swallows. “Is there anything at all that they would find, Delilah? I’m asking as a friend.”
Hearing my boss call me by my first name is …. unsettling. The defenses I’d thrown up crumble at the tip-top and my composure slips for just a moment, the tiredness pulling my gaze down and the pain in my back and shoulders creeping to the surface.
“Being the enemy of the press is a vulnerable place to be,” she warns and when our gazes meet in the silence of the office, other than the ticking of the clock and my own racing heartbeat, she adds, “I should know.”
“There’s nothing for them to find. I’ve had a boring life and I’ve done everything by the book.”
Claire looks away, nodding. “Well then, it will be a boring piece and they won’t be able to find anything. Maybe there will be no article.”
No article. Please God, no article.
“Right,” I answer and that seems to be when Claire finally notices I’m in my coat. The thick fabric makes me feel that much hotter under her scrutiny.
“Early lunch?” she questions.
“Just need another coffee,” I comment and inwardly scold myself for lying. If only she picked up the thin cardboard cup on my desk, she’d know just how full it was.
Delilah
“Have a good night then,” I say and lift my glass in salute as Aaron leaves the high table in the corner of the bar, giving me a short wave before he slips the leather jacket around his broad shoulders and heads for the door.
“You too, Jones,” he answers but I barely hear him over the chatter in the packed place. It’s busy for a Saturday night and I focus on every face except for his. Every single one, taking them in, watching the way they speak, some of them a little too close as they whisper, some laughing so loud and genuinely that wrinkles form around their eyes.
I take them in like I took in the evidence of the case this morning, distracted and not seeing it at all.
Because Cody Walsh is right there, not even ten feet from me and he’s been there all night, but he hasn’t spared me a glance.
His phone has eaten up most of his attention and right now he’s having what looks to be a very interesting conversation with someone I’m unfamiliar with. He’s avoiding me. It’s plain as day. He hasn’t looked at me once. He doesn’t seem to have any intention of doing so either. What a prick. Sleeping with him was a mistake. A grave one for my ego but nonetheless, one that’s over. We’re nothing more than a man and a woman working closely together in a professional setting. Not a damn thing else as far as I’m concerned.
Wine… back to my wine I go because I desperately don’t like feeling that twist in my stomach and the tightness at the back of my throat.
Just a sip, and only two glasses tonight. I couldn’t focus at the office, so tonight will consist of sitting cross-legged on my bed with paperwork in front of me until I have every piece of evidence in line for the perfect prosecution.
Work is my comfort place and working will get me through whatever these emotions are that I’m warring with inside right now.
Trial is a dance. The steps are all taken carefully and meticulously to get to the twists and turns that wow and convince the room. It’s more than a back and forth of questions, there’s intention, there’s a necessity in every move and every angle. Even the wording of the questions is vital. Being able to focus and pivot is even more important.
I won’t sleep tonight until I know the pace and presentation that will be the most alluring and convincing. Some call the courtroom a circus, but that’s just a show for entertainment and distraction. I treat every courtroom like a ballet, with a spotlight on the details. Every single detail brought to light with a pirouette given enough time and pause to show the depth of what it means.
With a glimmer of confidence, I take another sip of my wine. Aaron and I went over the basics and in only hours I will figure out exactly how we nail this prick with first-degree murder and nothing else.
“Jones.” Patterson’s voice startles me, but not so much that I show it. Giving him a professional smile, I offer the experienced man a nod in greeting.
“How are you doing tonight?” he asks, but doesn’t give me a moment to respond before adding, “I heard you got a whopper of a case.”
A whopper. Patterson’s from somewhere in the Midwest, I think. Maybe he wants to know details, I’m not sure. But he should know better than to think I’d give him any. He’s a defense attorney and none of his clients have anything to do with any of mine. So this is … peculiar.