Time Served Page 26

  “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.

  I arrive in Camden in my work outfit, a striped shift dress with a fitted jacket and heels. I don’t exactly blend in when I enter the boxing gym, stopping suddenly when I encounter a wall of people. It’s more like a boxing arena in here tonight, with at least a hundred people—98 percent of them men—circling one of the three rings, cheering loudly.

  I hear the s
weaty, nauseating thud of flesh being pummeled and can just make out the top of Dean’s head. After a second I spot Oscar Hall’s blond hair, plastered to his skull with sweat. I don’t know much about boxing, but if they were starting when Reginald called and the trip out here took more than an hour, they’ve been going at this awhile.

  I don’t bother trying to get closer. I’m not sure what Reginald expects me to do, but I’m not about to climb through the ropes to get Dean’s attention. I don’t even know if I want his attention, despite the countless needy looks I’d shot my phone over the course of the week. Besides, while the room is ripe with male sweat and testosterone, there are a handful of scantily clad women clinging to the ropes, Jailbait among them, tasseled dress fitting snugly. Dean’s got all the spectators a man could want.

  I wedge my way through the throng of bodies, muttering the occasional apology as I step on a foot or bump an arm, but no one cares. They’re sufficiently enthralled with the battle in the ring and ignore me as I approach Reginald’s closed office door. I knock twice, hard enough to sting my knuckles, but there’s no answer. I try the knob and it turns easily.

  “There you are.”

  I jump as Reginald appears at my shoulder, urging me into the office and closing the door behind us. “I started to think you weren’t coming. You want a drink or something to eat?” Reginald is wearing his trademark green tracksuit, but now his weathered face is pulled tight with concern. He putters around the desk, picking up a half-empty box of cookies and putting it back down without taking one.

  “No,” I say. My tone is curt. “I’m fine. What did you think I would do when I got here?”

  He blinks. “I don’t know. Say something to him.”

  “Like what?”

  “You really hate him, Rachel?”

  “I’m not the one who hates people in this...situation. That’s all Dean. I don’t know what you expect me to say, Reginald. He’s an adult. If he wants to get his ass kicked, he can. And if he wants to beat the crap out of someone else—” literally or figuratively “—that’s his prerogative.”

  “You mad about something?”

  “I’ve had a rough day. Being here isn’t making it any better.”

  “Ruthie give you a hard time?”

  I laugh mirthlessly. “I didn’t talk to her. My associate did. I read the transcript.”

  “And?”

  “What do you think, Reginald? You think she painted you in a bright light?”

  “Is that an art joke?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what she said? And don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. Try the truth this time.”

  There’s something particularly sad about an old man’s face flickering with guilt. Like there’s no age at which you’re absolved of your sins, no matter how long ago they were committed. “I left,” he says simply, eyes dropping to the desk. “When she was pregnant.”

  A roar comes through the door, loud enough to make the filing cabinets tremble. “Is there a judge out there or something? A referee, whatever you call it?”

  “Yeah. You could say that.”

  I want to ask more, but don’t. Questions would imply that I care, which I don’t. Won’t. “Why’d you leave?” I say instead.

  Reginald strums his fingers on the desk, uncomfortable. “I made a mistake.”

  “You could have fixed it.”

  “The mistake was getting married. Leaving fixed it.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not saying it was the best solution, but we were never going to be happy. We were too different. We shouldn’t have gotten involved.”

  “You were together for four years.”

  “Three years too many. We weren’t going to last.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we were different. We wanted different things. I wanted this, she wanted that. I left and we both got what we wanted. Only now she’s back.”

  I think about the transcript. About Ruthie’s words. “She said she didn’t know you owned this gym.”

  Reginald gapes at me. “What?”

  “She needed a space and she found one. The fact that you’re neighbors is just a coincidence.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes you run into someone when you least expect it. She says you started causing problems and she just responded to them.” I think of Dean insisting we have lunch, finding me on that morning run. Keeping our chance meet and greet going.

  Reginald argues with me a bit more, but we both know who’s in the wrong here. More cheers sound from outside, deafening as we open the door and step through. We say goodbye and I pick my way through the crowd, determined this will be my last time in this gym, and hopefully in this town. Somewhere behind me a whistle blows, long, loud shrieks that make me wince. Despite my better judgment I pause and glance over my shoulder toward the ring, hoping against hope the whistles don’t mean someone’s been hurt or knocked out, and that that person isn’t Dean.

  But Dean isn’t down-and-out. He’s standing in the center of the ring, staring at me, shock mingling with the sweat and blood that gleams on his face. Next to him is Reginald, whistle clamped between his lips, shouting that the fight is over, cursing out the complaining crowd. Oscar Hall has his back to us, towel slung over his shoulder, apparently uninterested in the drama.

  I can’t look away. A man in a polo shirt approaches Dean with a towel, dabbing at the blood dripping from the reopened cut above his eyebrow. Dean spits out his mouth guard and tolerates the attention, watching me the whole time. With the exception of his obvious surprise, no other emotions register on his face. I don’t know what he wants until finally he cocks his head to the left. I follow the movement until I spot a glowing red exit sign on the far wall, presumably leading out back.

  I know I should shake my head, turn around and exit through the front, climb into a cab and never look back, but I feel myself nod and start the long process of working my way through the rowdy crowd. It takes a couple of minutes, and when I next glance up at the ring, both Oscar and Dean are gone. I reach the exit door and push through, finding myself outside in a narrow, dimly lit strip between the building and a long row of Dumpsters. It’s after nine now, and the sky is growing dark, the new moon hidden behind inky clouds. Dean is about ten feet away, pacing, his back to me. He’s topless, shoulders broad and glistening with sweat. He wears shiny black shorts and boxing shoes, and he’s peeling the tape off his hands when he turns at the sound of the door thudding closed.

  He stares at me for a long moment, but doesn’t come any closer.

  “Reginald called me,” I say at length.

  Dean looks away, jaw flexing, and nods. He’s wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth but there’s a dark line where his lip split open. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  The words sting. In a day of painful news, this entirely predictable statement still manages to hurt the most. My eyes fill with tears that I blink away, refusing to cry anymore. “I know.”

  “So why did you?”

  “You told me to tell you when I wanted out,” I reply instead. “You couldn’t do the same for me?”

  “You got the message.”

  “You said you were done with the revenge stuff too. You think I need to spend the rest of my life apologizing for something I did when I was seventeen?”

  Dean opens his mouth to respond but I cut him off.

  “You did your time, right? You got out. You’re forgiven. How long am I supposed to pay?”

  He purses his lips and looks angry, but doesn’t speak.

  “Caitlin got second chair,” I say suddenly.

  “What?”

  “They named Caitlin second chair today. On the Fowler case. It’ll be official tomorrow. I have to go to a party to watch them make it official.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you want me to be hurt. You dumped me, they passed me over and now I’m standing in an alley
listening to someone tell me they don’t want me, like I can’t take a hint. Is this enough for you?”

  Dean stares at me, but it’s too dark to discern his expression. “No,” he says finally.

  “No, what?”

  “I can’t go there with you, Rachel.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You don’t belong here, and I don’t belong in your world. I should’ve walked away when I saw you that first day, then none of this would’ve happened.”

  Dean has pulled the tape off his hands and takes a few steps toward me to toss it into one of the Dumpsters. “Fucking you out of my head didn’t work,” he says finally. I lift my eyes to his and find nothing there but truth. “You’re in there. I don’t like it, but you’re there.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but this time he cuts me off.

  “I can’t let you in anywhere else. I won’t survive, you got it? Next time you walk away...” His eyes drift off and he shakes his head slightly. “I won’t make it.”

  I feel sick. I hate knowing I hurt somebody so much that ten years later they’re still feeling the burn. That that last night in my apartment, when I called the shots, however briefly, reminded him that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—trust me.

  I force myself to nod.

  “You need somebody to take you home?”

  I shake my head, not sure I can speak.

  “All right, then.” Dean brushes past me. I don’t turn around when I hear the fire door open and close. I fist my hands at my sides and dig my nails into my palms, making it hurt. I take deep breaths until the nausea abates, then turn to go inside just as the door opens. I halt as Oscar Hall steps out. He’s freshly showered and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, a butterfly bandage on one cheekbone.

  “Surprise, surprise,” he says, smiling when he spots me.

  I feel myself smile back. “They told me this is where the groupies wait.”

  “I think the guy you’re looking for is in the showers.”

  My smile turns rueful. “The guy I’m looking for is driving a cab.”

  “Where’s he taking you?”

  “Home.”

  “You watch the fight?”

  I shake my head. “Who won?”