In Her Defense Read online

I pinch the bridge of my nose and will myself to stay calm. “Why are you doing this? Everyone works a lot. Everyone works hard. Why me? Because of last night?”

  “Because I asked the head of IT to monitor your network usage and found that even when you weren’t in the office, you were still accessing the network.”

  “I was doing my job.”

  “And we appreciate that. But even when you’re not at work, you’re still working. And it shows.”

  The partners exchange yet another weighted look.

  I sigh. “What now?”

  “You don’t look well,” Haines ventures, sounding, for the first time, a bit unsure of himself.

  My brows shoot up. “I beg your pardon?” It’s conceited for me to say it out loud, but I am by far the best-looking person in this firm, male or female. Hell, I’m the hottest person in the building.

  “You’re too thin,” he continues. “You’re pale. You have circles under your eyes that weren’t there...before.”

  Before, I think, when you were fucking me? Because it didn’t seem to bother you then. But even though I’m irate, I know that saying what we’re all thinking would be crossing a line. “I’ll get a tan,” I say through my teeth.

  “Two weeks,” Sterling says, “to assist with transferring your cases. Then a holiday for the month of August. You can take a preliminary trip to LA if you like, find an apartment, a neighborhood that suits you. And of course, you can still attend the company party at the end of the summer.”

  I dig my heels into the hardwood as though anchoring myself. “No.”

  He arches a brow. “No?”

  “No,” I repeat, firmly. “You can reassign all of my cases, but Teller is mine. I brought them here. Not the firm, not the firm’s reputation, me. No one knows this case the way I do, and Maxwell Teller won’t let it go to trial. I know I can wrap this up before I leave, but not if I’m stuck at home for the month of August.”

  The room is silent for a long moment as the men realize how unfair they’re being. “Are they willing to settle?” Sterling finally asks.

  “No.” I’d been pulling out my hair trying to convince Teller to settle, but they staunchly refuse. And I understand. Laurel Frances is just another nutjob looking for an easy payday. But juries see pictures of severed fingers and tend to side with the maimed party. “They won’t settle, and they don’t want to go to trial. I need to be on this 24/7 if I’m going to get it thrown out.”

  They exchange another weighty look. “One case,” Sterling says eventually.

  “Ten,” I counter.

  “One. Teller. And you’ll assist Arthur, not the other way around. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to show us your ability to work as part of a team.”

  As if. “Fine,” I lie. “And no holiday.”

  “Two weeks’ holiday,” Haines interrupts firmly. “Ending July thirty-first. Arthur can handle things during that time. We’ll assist as needed.”

  “And holiday hours,” Morgan pipes up. We all turn to look at him. “Holiday hours,” he repeats. “Seven to seven, for the rest of the summer. Since you’ll be sharing the workload, there’ll be no need for you to stay longer. I’ll have IT restrict your network access and your elevator key to those times. You’ll be locked out before and after. You won’t be able to log into the network from home, and if you’re in the building after seven, you’ll have a thirty-two-floor hike down to ground level.”

  Sterling and Haines look ready to high-five. I want to claw their eyes out, but I know when to play my cards and when to fold, so I tip my head in acquiescence. “Fine,” I say. “It sounds like I have a lot to do to get ready, so I’d better get to work.”

  “Well,” Morgan says, his small smile the only warning that he’s about to kick me in the ribs. “What kind of holiday hours require you to work on the weekend?”

  I freeze, half out of my seat. “What?”

  “Seven to seven,” he says, eyes steady on mine. “Monday to Friday.”

  I have to remind myself to breathe as I straighten. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Take it or leave it,” Sterling says as they all stand.

  I ball my hands into fists, then force them to relax. “Fine.”

  “Great,” says Haines. “I’ll show you out.”

  “I’ll call IT,” Morgan adds.

  “And we’ll see you on Monday,” Sterling chimes in. “At seven.”

  I stalk to my office, back ramrod straight. Around me desks are occupied, phones are ringing and people are working. We pass the break room and the smell of fresh pastries wafts out, making my stomach clench. If I’d had just a little more time to prepare, I’d have found some way around their ridiculously paternal, condescending, unfounded—

  “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Haines says, crossing his arms and propping himself up in the doorway as I collect my things.

  “I’m not,” I mutter.

  “I can hear the wheels turning. Regular hours will be good for you.”

  “Spare me, please.” Lee Haines and I dated for a year; without anyone else around to overhear, it’s safe for us to speak informally. Our relationship was more than sex, but never quite veered into love. Still, I consider him something of a friend—well, more than an acquaintance—and his complicity in this dreadful little venture stings.

  “You can relax a bit,” he continues. “Find a hobby. Something that interests you—besides the law.”

  I scowl and snatch up my purse. “My ‘interest’ in the law is what bought your wife a second summer home,” I snap.

  His gaze narrows, but he does nothing more than gesture for me to walk ahead to the elevator. I glare at his reflection, mirrored in the shiny steel doors as we wait for the car to arrive. “I can’t believe you sided with them,” I say.

  “It’s for the best.”

  “It’s not. I’m a good lawyer—I need to be here.”

  The elevator arrives and I step in, holding the door, praying frantically that Haines will change his mind. He watches me for a moment, then shakes his head. “You’re a good lawyer,” he agrees, stepping back as the doors slide closed. The look he gives me implies that there’s some profound subtext in the words, but whatever point he’s trying to make eludes me.

  Chapter Three

  I get home at seven o’clock. In the morning.

  I’m still trembling with rage, but now something else is setting in. Something I refuse to call panic, but can’t find another name for. How will my clients take the news of my mandatory summer hours? And my unheard-of vacation time? Does that sound like code for “couldn’t take the pressure, find a new lawyer?” And perhaps more importantly, I wonder as I stand in the center of my spacious top-floor apartment and gaze around the room, what the hell will I do all day?

  I start by tracking down some food, which, since I haven’t been home in a while, is a grapefruit and a chocolate bar. Not bad. I take a shower, as though that might rinse away last night’s mistake and this morning’s injustice, but it doesn’t help. I pace back and forth in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows and stare bitterly at the sun and the bustling city, people going about their business without unwelcome interruptions.

  A yawn creeps up on me, and while that would normally be my cue to reach for an energy drink or cup of coffee, it dawns on me that I have the perfect solution to passing the rest of the day. It’s been approximately twenty-five years since I last did this, but today I’m going to take a nap.

  I was pretty sure the nap idea would fail, or last twenty unsatisfying minutes, but when I wake up there’s a hazy glow peeking around the edges of the blinds, and a glance at the alarm clock tells me it’s almost 7:00 p.m. I slept for eleven hours.

  I make my way into the bathroom to splash icy water on my puffy face, catching a glimpse o
f the dark circles Haines had unkindly pointed out. I tug up the hem of my tank top and frown when I see the faint ridges of my ribs straining against too-thin skin. I’m proud of my figure, but bones aren’t attractive, and mine are becoming a little too prominent. Is this really the result of a few missed meals? My stomach gurgles in the affirmative, and a lightbulb goes off. This is perfect. I’ll go get something to eat. There’s a pizza place down the street I haven’t been to in eons—

  “Caitlin?”

  My heart leaps at the unexpected sound, then calms as I recognize the squeaky little voice. “Hang on a second, Dorrie.”

  I slather on blush and mascara, then toss on jeans and a blouse and head into the kitchen where my ten-year-old niece spins on one of the stools at the marble island. At this age she’s all frizzy auburn hair and knobby knees, perpetually scabbed over or covered with grass stains. Right now she’s wearing a tank top, shorts and four strands of Mardi Gras beads.

  “What have you been doing?” I ask, nodding at the jewelry.

  “Softball team party at Layla’s house. We just got back.”

  “Is your mom home?”

  “No, Esperanza.” Esperanza is Dorrie’s nanny, a nice older lady who lives across the hall with Dorrie and her mom—my sister, Dr. Susan Jones—who, as one of the city’s top neurosurgeons, works even crazier hours than me. Nine months ago they moved here from Cleveland when Susan and her husband split up and Susan was headhunted by a local hospital. I hadn’t seen much of Dorrie up until that point, but now she spends more time here than she does at home.

  Her posture changes as she takes in my clothing, sitting up to peer at me. “What are you wearing?” she asks. “Where’s your suit?” Then she glances at the time blinking on the microwave. “And why are you home?”

  “I had the day off,” I tell her. The words could have been in Urdu, they feel so foreign coming out. If the look on Dorrie’s face is any indication, they didn’t make much more sense.

  “The day off from work?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “No. Have you had dinner?”

  Dorrie peppers me with questions all the way down the block, then loses interest in the subject when presented with a menu that contains both garlic bread and ice cream floats. I’m absolutely ravenous when the deep-dish pepperoni pizza arrives at the table, and we eat in blessed silence for several minutes.

  “This is weird,” Dorrie announces.

  “The pizza?”

  “You. Being here. When it’s light out.”

  “No argument there.”

  “So you have to be out of the office every day by seven o’clock?”

  I’d explained the partners’ stupid holiday hours several times, and it still sounds wrong. “Yes.”

  “Want to come to my softball game on Wednesday, then? It starts at seven.”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you lose all the time, and I don’t want to.”

  “That’s rude,” she says, chewing with her mouth open. “What are you going to do instead?”

  It’s been a long time since I came up empty when faced with a legitimate question, but my mind goes completely blank. “I’m not sure,” I answer finally.

  “You’re going to go crazy. You’re like my mom. And Grandpa. None of you ever stop working.”

  “We have important jobs.”

  She shrugs, like that’s doubtful. “Well, you’re still invited. Layla’s mom normally drives us, but you can come to my games anytime you want. They’re always on Wednesday, and it’s still fun, even if we lose.”

  “Thanks for the offer, Dorrie.”

  “Maybe you’ll even get a tan.”

  I kick her under the table.

  * * *

  Shortly after nine I leave Dorrie with Esperanza, then cross the hall to my empty apartment, looking around with the same sense of loss and confusion I had this morning. Except now I’m not tired. I’m not even angry. Fifteen hours into this ridiculous punishment and I’m adrift.

  On impulse, I hurry to my office and switch on the computer, calling up the company website and punching in my login information. ACCESS DENIED joyfully flashes across the screen in large red letters. They really did it. They locked me out of the network. The punishment seems more than a little extreme, given the fact that Wexler’s tromping through the Brazilian rain forest, getting the papers signed right now, something I offered to do.

  Except, a shrewd voice reminds me as I stare at the screen, it wasn’t just the forgotten POA attachment. What was it Morgan said? Someone in accounting pointed out that my billables were too high? As though anyone complained about that when it came time to hand out Christmas bonuses. Who did he say it was? Which one of those pale, scrawny, little losers told on me?

  I call up the company profiles page and scroll past a hundred smiling faces until I get to the support staff. I find the accounting department and scan the names: Roberts, Chan, Langdon, Gupta, Varner—Aha! Todd Varner. A blandly handsome blond in a blue blazer. He looks like he should be captaining a yacht, not moonlighting as a spy. Morgan also mentioned the head of IT would be responsible for limiting my network access and deactivating my elevator key, but the IT staff is just pictures and names, no titles, so I can’t tell which one of the pasty-faced Dungeons & Dragons aficionados is in charge.

  Well, it doesn’t matter. The longer I sit here, staring at their stupid, grinning faces, the more my earlier aggravation starts to return. For whatever reason, Todd Varner and the head of IT have made the mistake of interfering in something that is none of their business. Sometime tomorrow, between the hours of seven and seven, they’ll find out exactly why they’re ensconced in dingy little cubicles on the seventeenth floor, and I have a corner office on thirty-two.

  * * *

  I get to work at 6:58 a.m. and, true to their word, my elevator key doesn’t work. I linger in the lobby for two minutes then ride, seething, to the thirty-second floor. I’d worked myself into a pretty decent rage last night, and, with the help of my nap, lay awake for hours planning what I’d say when I arrived this morning.

  The support staff doesn’t come in until nine, so I pass the time drafting a letter to my clients, explaining my move to LA and introducing them to their new lawyers. Normally it’s no effort to ignore the commotion around me and focus on my work, but the offices are walled in glass and today I’m all too aware of the whispers and stares. Word spreads like wildfire around here, and the other lawyers are no doubt thrilled by my “holiday hours.” They’ll see. I can accomplish more in twelve hours than they can in a week. And after I ream out the morons in accounting and IT, I’ll have my network access restored to full-time and it will be business as usual, with the partners none the wiser. They’ll think I’m following their ridiculous rules, I’ll do exactly what I want to do and everybody wins. Who says I can’t compromise?

  I check the time and smile. It’s 9:06. The support staff should be in now, playing with calculators and repairing hard drives, or whatever it is they do down there. Heads turn as I stride toward the elevator, but I ignore them and punch the button for seventeen.

  In an office of drab blacks, grays and navy blues, I like to stand out. And today the drones on seventeen are going to remember me. I’ve dressed in my favorite red suit, with a pencil skirt, fitted jacket and strappy black heels. My blond hair is gleaming and a swipe of blood-red lipstick finishes the look.

  The doors slide open and I step into a reception area that mimics our own. Apart from that, however, the atmosphere down here is completely different. Gone are the glass-enclosed offices and expensive artwork, business suits and self-important airs. The receptionist looks like a twelve-year-old, the walls are standard plaster and the floor is divided into two distinct halves, one for
accounting and one for IT

  “Can I help you?” the receptionist asks.

  “Where can I find Todd Varner?”

  “I’ll call him for you.”

  I shoot her a cold smile. “I didn’t ask you to call him. I asked where he was.”

  Her hand freezes halfway to the phone. “Um, at his desk, probably.”

  “It’s this way, I presume?” I nod at the sign on the left that says Accounting.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Thanks.” I ignore her and stalk toward my prey. A short hallway divides two larger rooms. These rooms have glass walls, though it’s cheaper stuff than upstairs and marked with handprints. I peer through and immediately spot Todd Varner, just as bland and blond as his picture promised.

  More heads turn as I enter. There are no cubicles here, just a series of desks and computers. Todd’s got a seat in the corner near the window, and he looks up from his work at the last second, eyes widening when he spots me.

  “Good morning.”

  He blinks. He knows me, as he should. “Good morning.”

  I drop a folder on his desk, papers sliding out. “Do you recognize this?”

  “I...do.” He’s startled but not afraid. Not yet.

  Still he pushes his chair back so it butts up against the window, putting about three feet of space between us. Not that it does much good. I’m five foot nine in heels, and now I glare down at him, lips pursed in disappointment. “What is it?”

  He swallows audibly. “They’re your billables for the current year. I gave the reports to Joseph Morgan.”

  “That’s right, Todd. You did. Do you know why that was a mistake?”

  A tiny shake of the head. “No.”

  Everybody’s watching, and I love it. If they hear this now, it’ll save me a return trip. “It’s because it’s your job to take the money I make and put it in the bank. It’s your job to make sure everybody gets their paycheck on time. And at the end of every year, it’s your job to tell the partners that this company made a lot of money. Do you know how we do that?”