“Not surprising.”
“We have a trial date in May.”
“That should work out well.” Paul picked at a roll on his plate. “Just as you’re about to pick a jury, the feds will have to round up the bad guys. There will be headlines about drug-dealing cops just before the trial starts, and you tell them about one particular drug-dealing cop.”
She nodded.
“I gather you already thought of that,” he added.
She smiled. “Hopefully, Morphew won’t know what hit him.”
“Danny’s a good guy.” Paul waved to someone across the room.
“He sure speaks highly of you.”
“He’s top brass now,” Paul said. “Third, fourth in command. They brought in a heavy hitter.”
“Wonderful.” She sighed. “My problem is, I’m having a reliability problem with my own client. And his brother.”
“How so?”
“They’re holding back, I think. They both seem to be protecting each other. I think the feds are, too.”
“Hate it when people hold back.” Paul held his stare on Shelly. “Hate that.”
She put a hand on her chest. “Am I being accused?”
He sat back against the cushion and gave her a playfully scolding look. “I remember a case I had a few years back. Had a real fireball on the other side. A tough, solid lawyer. Tells me her name is Michelle Trotter. I say, ‘Oh, any relation to our new governor?’ She says, ‘No.’”
Paul winked at her. No doubt he had read the papers, the stories of the governor’s daughter defending the accused cop killer.
“Did I do that?” She didn’t remember. But she didn’t doubt the veracity of the story; it was her standard routine. That case with Paul, she recalled, headed to trial just as Attorney General Langdon Trotter was being sworn in as governor.
“First time I met you. First court appearance on the school case.”
Her face colored. “Old habit.”
“Silly,” Paul said. “If you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Why should I tell you that my dad is the governor?”
“Why shouldn’t you?” he answered. “I mean, you don’t have to wear a sign around your neck, but you lied when I asked.”
“Well, why did you ask?”
Paul shrugged. “Just making small talk.”
She shook her head. “It would have made a difference.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No, Paul-really. If I had told you I was Lang Trotter’s daughter, it would have bought me something with you. Right?”
“Of course not. I still would have thought you were a whiny public-interest lawyer.”
“Funny,” she said. “That’s very amusing. Really, though-it makes me a commodity. I can help you. I can hurt you. At a minimum, I have a bit of celebrity. It would change how you interact with me. Maybe something subtle, maybe something overt. But it’s there.”
“Hm.” Paul pursed his lips. “Maybe.”
“I don’t need that. I don’t want that. I didn’t ask for that.”
“Okay, okay.” He raised his hands. “Tough, independent, get-there-without-using-the-name. I get it.” He grabbed his glass of water. “Want me to throw this in your face to show you it doesn’t matter to me who your dad is?”
“Enough abuse.”
He laughed. “You certainly are refreshing, Ms. Trotter.”
“I’m here for your amusement.” She was enjoying herself. The vegetables arrived at the table and were delicious, mixed with olive oil and garlic.
“So tell me why you think the U.S. Attorney’s holding out on you,” Paul said.
“Oh, in part I think it’s just their nature. They’re protecting their investigation. They don’t want me to know any more than I have to.”
“Sounds about right.”
“But with Miroballi-they don’t want to concede anything. To listen to them, you’d think Miroballi was clean.”
“Maybe he is.” Paul could be so matter-of-fact about topics of importance.
“That can’t be,” she said.
“Sure it could.”
“No, I mean, it can’t be.” Because that would mean she had no case.
“Right.” Paul put down his fork. His halibut was half-eaten. “Listen, if one of their snitches gets mixed up in a shoot-out with one of the bad guys, they have egg on their face. Right?”
“Right.”
“And they can’t deny that Alex was one of their snitches.”
“Right.”
“So they deny that Miroballi was one of the bad guys.”
“And given his untimely death, they don’t really care about him anymore. Which is why it’s so hard to cut the deal with them.”
“Oh, you’ll get your deal. He’ll give you a walk for your silence.” Paul brought a napkin to his mouth. “Alex doesn’t mean anything to them anymore, Shelly, except that he can expose them. They were looking at a cop who’s dead now, and even if Alex could connect them to other bad cops-”
“That’s a big if.”
“-but even if he could, he can’t now, not in jail. So what do they care about him? He had, what, seventy-four grams of coke, you said? We’re talking about maybe a year in prison if it’s a first offense.”
“Eight to fourteen months,” she said, having reviewed the federal sentencing guidelines. “Probably a Level Sixteen.”
Paul waved a hand. “Judge would probably give him three hundred sixty-six days so he could get good time off.” For any sentence that exceeded one year, federal prisoners could receive a percentage reduction for good behavior. Shelly had figured that Alex would probably get either eight months or a year-and-a-day for his crime, which ended up almost equivalent with good time.
“The point being, they’ll take it,” said Shelly.
Paul stared at her, in that thoughtful, discerning way he had. She wondered if he had even heard what she said. He took a moment to poke his food, as if he were debating, then looked back up at her.
“Do you like men?” he asked.
“Do I-like men?”
“Yeah. I mean, a lot of you public-interest lawyers are lesbians, right?”
Shelly laughed, threw her head back, clapped her hands together. It felt good, such a welcome release. “Oh, God.” She caught her breath, her body still trembling, tears forming in her eyes. “I should be really pissed off at you for saying that.”
“I have a problem with being direct.” Paul was enjoying her enjoyment. “Have you answered my question?”
Shelly took a deep breath and expelled one last burst of laughter. “I really couldn’t tell you if the majority of my colleagues are gay or straight.”
“No, not that question.” Paul held his smile but with some effort.
“Yes, Paul, I like men. How about you?”
He cleared his throat. “I’ve been divorced for years. Haven’t gotten around too much since then.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know that.”
“How about you? Ever married? Kids?”
“No,” she said quickly. “And no.” It felt like a needle was piercing her heart.
“Are you serious with anyone?”
“Are you asking me out, Paul?”
“Well-” His face colored. Paul Riley was blushing. “Why don’t you answer my question first?”
“Okay.” Shelly placed her hands together. “The best answer I can give you is that I’m not ready for a relationship right now.”
“I understand perfectly-”
“No, wait, Paul. Let me explain.” Wasn’t she ready for a relationship? Did she really intend to spend her life alone? And she couldn’t deny her attraction to this man. Paul Riley, tall and distinguished-handsome, yes, broad-shouldered, the first signs of thickening of the torso but still well-built, his thick, sandy hair flecked with gray, rough, lined skin and a strong jaw. A man who represented wealthy clients who lied and cheated and stole to make and keep their money, who provided every legal maneuver to protect the most powerful, provided that they could pay. A man she would stereotype as shallow, arrogant, materialistic. But a man who provided her counsel, an office, hope during a time of need. Oh, it didn’t make sense, but these kinds of things didn’t make sense, did they?
Stop. No. She couldn’t be foolish. It was no time for frivolous behavior. She was playing too many cards too close to her vest. Story of her life.