Time Served Page 25

  * * *

  I walk into my office at seven o’clock Monday morning to find Baxter lounging in one of the seats, eating a bagel and reading the newspaper. “You again.”

  “Happy Monday.”

  “Uh-huh. What brings you by?” I drop my bag on the desk and turn on the computer before sitting down to face him.

  “You look tense,” he observes.

  I wince inwardly, but keep my expression neutral. I hadn’t heard from Dean after the barbecue on Saturday. It’s not unusual for us to spend a night apart, but I was a little disappointed. When he didn’t call or text I’d spent the better part of the day forcing myself to ignore my phone, as though that would somehow compel it to ring. But it hadn’t. Before going to bed I’d finally reminded myself that women were allowed to contact the men they were sleeping with and sent Dean a quick text, asking what his plans were for the week. No response. And nothing this morning, either.

  I force my shoulders to relax a millimeter. “Better?”

  “Perfect.”

  “What’s up?”

  “You’re going to love me.”

  “Even more than I already do? Impossible.”

  Baxter pauses dramatically, then whips a white envelope out of the pocket of his denim jacket, extending it toward me like a magic elixir. I study the envelope, suitably intrigued, then take it between two fingers, lift the unsealed flap and pull out a blurry-but-still-legible fax. My mouth falls open as I scan it.

  “You’ve done the impossible,” I breathe.

  “The third note,” Baxter confirms. “Dr. Ash found it.”

  I read the paper again. It’s a copy of the doctor’s note Ash had written to the management at the Fowler plant in Camden, recommending that one Jason Bennett be given an extended sick leave. And there, plain as day, are the words we’ve been looking for: Symptoms attributed to exposure to harsh chemicals in the workplace, Harco-99 in particular.

  “Fowler?” I ask, looking at Baxter hopefully.

  “Nope.” He shakes his head. “Didn’t get to him.”

  “Do we have contact info for Bennett?”

  Now Baxter frowns. “He died about a month after this note was written. Car accident.”

  “You aren’t suggesting...?”

  “No, Fowler didn’t crash his car. But they did force him to use a cleaning product that affected his central nervous system so badly he had a seizure while driving to visit his family over the holidays and caused a six-car pileup.”

  “Why hasn’t Fowler bought them off?”

  “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.”
<
br />   “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.