Brad Meltzer - Dead Even

Fifteen minutes later, Sara and Jared were crammed in the middle of a packed-to-capacity subway car. Sara was dressed in her best navy-blue pantsuit, while Jared wore a frayed Columbia Law sweatshirt and a pair of jogging shorts. A long-distance runner since his early years in high school, Jared still had his athletic build, although a small bald spot on the back of his head made him feel far older than he looked. With his suit packed neatly in a trifolding backpack, he began every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday with a half-hour run. “That’s not a bad way to start the day,” Jared said, pressed tightly against his wife. “Your first day on the job and you already have a victory.”

“I don’t know,” Sara said as the train pulled away from the Fifty-ninth Street stop. “There’s a big difference between cranky piano teachers and actual criminals. And if past performance is any indication, this job is going to be an even bigger loser than the last one.”

“One stupid incident at one hotshot law firm means nothing about your value in the job market.”

“But six months of looking – c’mon, Jared.”

“I don’t care, you’re going to be great.” Sara rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me that look,” Jared added. “I know what you’re thinking and it’s not true.”

“Oh, so now you think you can read my mind?”

“I don’t think I can read your mind – I know I can read your mind.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay, then, lover boy, take your best shot. What’s going through my panicky little brain?”

Jared closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “I see great unrest. Great neurosis. No, wait – I see a handsome, brilliant, casually dressed husband. My, my, my, is he a good-looking one…”

“Jared…”

“That’s his name – Jared! My God, we’re sharing the same vision.”

“I’m serious. What if this job doesn’t work out? The article in the Times …”

“Forget about the Times . All it said was that the mayor was announcing budget cuts. Even if it leads to layoffs, that doesn’t mean you’re going to be fired. If you want to be safe, though, you can call Judge Flynn and-”

“I told you last night, I’m not calling him,” Sara interrupted. “If I’m going to stay here, I want it to be because I deserve it, not because someone called in a favor.”

Jared didn’t argue the point further. Since they had first met, Sara never wanted special treatment – no professional favors, no help. Her independent streak ran deep: When Jared’s uncle had offered to put in a good word so she could get an interview at his law firm, Sara had refused. To Jared, her logic was irrational and counterproductive. But Jared thrived on connections; Sara despised them. “I’m sorry I even brought it up,” he finally said. “Besides, if this job doesn’t work out, you can always find another.”

“No. No way,” she insisted. “My psyche’s taken enough of a beating.”

“That’s exactly what I was about to say,” Jared backpedaled. “No more psyche-beating for you. They’re going to love you here, and they’re going to realize you’re a genius, and unlike Winick and Trudeau, they’re never going to fire you. Starting today, they’re going to fan you with giant feathers and baby-fresh-scent perfumes. You’re not going to have to worry about the budget cuts and the butterflies will never swarm in your stomach.”

“Let me ask you something,” Sara said with an affectionate smile. “Do you really believe all the noise that comes out of your mouth?”

“I’m a defense attorney. That’s my job.”

“Yeah, well you’re making the rest of us lawyers look bad.”

“You’re not a lawyer anymore – starting today, you’re a DA.”

“And that means I’m not a lawyer?”

“Once you go to the district attorney’s office, you become a vampire. All you’ll care about is arresting and convicting innocent people.”

“Says the man who helps guilty criminals go free.”

“Says the self-righteous DA.”

“Says the man who will never again have sex with his wife.”

Jared laughed as the train pulled into the Fiftieth Street stop. “Says the woman who is always right and never wrong and should never again be doubted.”

“Thank you,” Sara said.

He kissed her then – a lingering kiss. “You’re going to miss your stop,” she said, pulling away. The doors of the train closed.

“Don’t worry,” Jared said. “Today I’m taking it downtown.”

“You have some work in court?”

“No,” he said with a grin. “I just want to check out a new jogging path. I figure I’ll start at the courthouse and work my way back to the office.”

“Wait a minute. You’re going to run an extra thirty blocks just so you can walk me to work?”

“It’s your first day, isn’t it?”

She couldn’t help but smile. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Jared said.

When the number nine train arrived at Franklin Street, Sara and Jared got off and joined the throngs of commuters who filled New York ’s overcrowded streets. The September morning was warm and bright and as close to sunny as the Manhattan skyline allowed. “All set?” Jared asked.

“All set,” Sara said. “They have no idea what they’re in for.”

“There we go – that’s what I like to hear.”

“In fact, if I get any more excited, I may get in another fight just for fun.”

“Okay, hon, but no more than two a day.”

“I promise,” she said. “That’s my limit.”

Jared gave his wife a quick kiss, then took one last look at the woman he loved. When they first met, he was captivated by her deep green eyes and expressive eyebrows – he thought they made her attractive in an understated way. He also loved the fact that she wore no makeup except for a stroke of blush. Remembering the moment, Jared turned away and started his jog to work. “Good luck!” he called out over his shoulder as he headed up West Broadway. “And don’t forget: You’re smarter than everyone!”

Watching her husband wave good-bye, Sara laughed at how goofy he was. And within a minute of leaving him, she also realized how wrong he was. Now Sara was alone. And the butterflies were swarming.

Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, Sara tried to get her bearings. She was the only still point in a flood of people, all in dark suits, all with briefcases, all in a hurry. All lawyers, she thought. Steeling herself with a tightened jaw, she headed forcefully toward Centre Street. “Kill the butterflies. Kill the butterflies. Kill the butterflies,” she whispered to herself.

At 80 Centre Street, the drab brick building that was home to the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office, Sara followed her mental map toward the elevators at the back of the building. As she headed down the dark marble hallway, what seemed like an army of men and women in navy-blue suits pushed past her at a frantic pace. A man carrying an armful of files bumped into her and continued on his way. A woman in a pin-striped suit chased him. “Don’t forget – we have the Schopf hearing at two!” she yelled. Another man, pushing a small cart full of files, wove his way through the morning crowd shouting, “Late for court! Late for court!” Frenzied and bleary-eyed, some of them looked like they hadn’t slept in days. But if there was any doubt that being an assistant DA was one of the most sought-after jobs in the city, one needed only to look at the six-month waiting list to interview for the position.

Watching each of the tiny operas that played out around her, Sara felt her panic give way to excitement. After six long months, the law was once again animated and alive. This was why she wanted to work in the DA’s office – her old law firm, with its rafts of blasé young associates in Italian suits, never had anything like this vitality. To some, it was chaos. But to Sara, it was the biggest lure of the job.