I finish my shitty drink. Alexa is still working on hers. Probably best I not get too far ahead of her on the drink count.
“Do you believe what you said in court?” she asks me.
I think about that. “That’s not a question I ask. I ask, can I sell it?”
“I know. But do you believe it?”
“I believe the cops saw this clean-cut white kid and thought he stuck out like a sore thumb in the Eagleton Housing Projects. They figured he had no business being there, except an illegal one. I’d have thought the same thing. I don’t blame that cop at all for what he thought. But the law says you can’t base probable cause solely on race, and the cop did. That’s the loose thread in their case, and my job is to find that loose thread, wind my finger around it, and yank and tug on it as hard as I possibly can.”
“Does it bother you?” she asks. “Getting guilty people off?”
I scrounge through the remnants of the truffled popcorn while I think that over. It’s a simple question, after all. The simplest ones are often the hardest. I go with the stock answer.
“I’m part of a system. A system that would be very scary indeed if someone didn’t stand up for the accused. If we just took the government’s word that someone is a criminal. .” I raise my hand. “Someone’s gotta stand post at the wall.”
She watches me, like she’s waiting for more. But she doesn’t push. She smiles, nods, sips her drink, enjoys the breeze across her face.
Sometimes, I do not say. Sometimes it bothers me.
“So you’re an only child,” I say, changing the subject.
She nods. “My parents married late. My mom was forty when she had me. Back then, forty was considered ancient to have kids. She said she didn’t want to push her luck and try for more kids.” She looks down, runs her finger over the rim of her glass. “They retired to Florida and died within a year of each other. Cancer, both of them.”
“I’m sorry.”
The waiter comes by and asks me if I’m having another. My eyes pass to Alexa’s.
“Well, we’ve had our one non-date drink,” I say. “Are you game for another?”
A pause. A momentary appraisal. I don’t know if she’s debating or if she’s just feigning reluctance to keep me guessing. I used to watch a suspect react to a question during an interrogation and I knew, I knew whether he was lying before he even spoke. I can look a client or a witness in the eye today and, nine times out of ten, I can read everything he’s thinking. But stick me at a table with a beautiful woman and it’s like I’m trying to decipher hieroglyphics.
“Give us a second,” I say to the waiter. “She’s trying to decide if I’m worthy.”
She laughs. The waiter leaves.
“You’re not trying to get me drunk,” she says. Part question, part flirtation. A certain part of my anatomy takes note. Jesus, how long since that happened?
“The thought never crossed my mind, Ms. Himmel.”
A smile appears and evaporates. “I should warn you that I’m an old-fashioned girl.”
“Good,” I answer. “Perfect. We’ll shake hands good-bye. I’ll let you in on the secret lawyer’s handshake.”
The smile returns. Sincere, I think, not just polite. But again-like translating an ancient Chinese scroll. For all I know, she thinks I’m a complete asswipe.
“Seriously, no pressure either way,” I say. “This has been fun. I’d love to keep hanging out, but either way, I’m good.”
I catch the waiter’s eye. He returns, the question still lingering.
“I think we’ll just take the check,” Alexa says.
“Please,” I say to the waiter, not skipping a beat, with as upbeat a tone as I can manage, like my chest isn’t burning. Have I been rejected or is this a See you again, take it slow thing?
“This was fun,” I manage. “Here.” I slide a business card across the table. “You probably already have one of these, but here’s another one, my cell is on it. I’d love to get together again sometime, but no pressure. The ball’s in your court. Okay?”
“Okay. Thanks, Jason. You’re a really interesting guy.”
Great. I’m interesting.
She’s better off. She’s making the smart move.
Run, Alexa, run.
The check comes. I already have my card out for him. Alexa digs into her purse and pulls out her cell phone. Already making arrangements for the rest of her evening? She’s actually making a call, or checking her messages, right here in front of me?
Then my phone buzzes in my pocket. I look down, then back up at her. I reach for the phone and answer it. “Hello?” I say, my voice playing back through Alexa’s phone as well.
“Hello, Jason?” she says.
“Yes?”
“This is Alexa Himmel. You remember, from the drink?”
“Oh, sure. The non-date. I’m really interesting, and you’re old-fashioned.”
“That’s right. Hey, I was wondering what you’re doing tonight for dinner?”
“Oh, I’d love to, Alexa. But unfortunately, you’re not a lawyer, so you’re probably not smart enough to hang out with me. I’d have to keep explaining things to you.”
“But I thought you’d like being the dominant person in the relationship. Smarter and more successful. Isn’t that what all men want?”
I punch out my phone and make a face, mock injury. “That’s cold, woman. That is arctic.”
She bursts into laughter. “You should have seen the look on your face when I asked for the check. You should have seen it. I’m sorry.” She puts a hand over her mouth but is still giggling. “I’m so sorry, that was rude.”
I’m here to entertain.
“I mean, you’re obviously this really nice guy and super impressive. I’ll bet-I’ll bet nobody’s ever done that to you. Turned you down like that.”
I’m blushing, of all things. She got me.
“Jason Kolarich,” she says, clearing her throat and addressing me with mock formality, “I would be very grateful if you’d join me for dinner tonight.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I should warn you that I’m very old-fashioned.”
“Then I’ll let you pay.”
This woman matches me jab for jab. That’s probably going to be a problem for my ego. But she looks so casually elegant in her summer dress, and that edge to her, that sarcasm, that challenge, is much too much to resist.
“I’m powerless to say no,” I answer.
14
Jason
Wednesday, June 12
I handle a couple of court appearances in the morning, a bond hearing on a cannabis possession-the brother of a law school classmate whom I’m representing as a favor-and a status hearing on an armed robbery, a kid who was whacked out on meth who held up a strip club and got as far as the front door before the gun discharged into his foot.
Afterward, I return to the office and look at the stack of files in the corner that Shauna has given me for the Arangold trial. She identified a particular aspect of the trial-a fight over the flooring that was put in the civic auditorium-for me to handle. I need to read some depositions and go over some architectural drawings with the client, but my mind starts to wander on page one. I hate working on this case, and I haven’t even started yet.
I light a match, hold it upright, and run through the words again:
I’ve got tar on my feet and I can’t see.
All the birds look down and laugh at me.
Miss again-this time my index finger getting in on the fun with my thumb, the flesh near the knuckle. The match goes into the Styrofoam cup with the others.
I’m thinking about this meth-head client, whom I got through the public defender program-the PD outsources its overflow; the hourly rate sucks, but it keeps you busy and sharp. This kid has been in and out of rehab twice, done two stints inside, and is undoubtedly looking at a third stay in both. He’ll fail rehab almost assuredly and find himself back under the spell of that drug, and next time he might shoot somebody else instead of his own foot. There are so many clients like that, especially in the drug world, for whom you have the feeling you’re just a temporary stop on a merry-go-round that will end only when they’re dead or sentenced to serious time.