Brad Meltzer - Dead Even

Slowly, Sara’s expression turned from hostile to distressed.

“Isn’t it frustrating when everyone knows your business?”

“What do you want?” Sara asked, in a slow, deliberate monotone.

“Not much. You see, I know you stole this case from Victor. So all I want is for you to live up to that responsibility. More importantly, I want you to know that if you truly love your husband, you’ll do everything you can to win this case.”

“What do you mean?” When the man didn’t reply, Sara said, “Answer me.”

“Don’t play stupid, Sara. You know exactly what I’m saying. He’s not hard to get ahold of. So keep your head down, keep an eye on your husband, and do your job.”

Before Sara could say a word, her phone started ringing. She didn’t pick it up.

“I wouldn’t ignore that,” he warned. “It could be an important call.”

The phone rang again. Sara stared coldly at her visitor.

“I’m serious,” he said.

As Sara reached across the desk to pick up the phone, the stranger grabbed the legal pad from her free hand. She tried to pull it back, but it was no use. He was too fast and his grip was too strong. Wresting it away from her, he ripped off the top sheet, which contained Sara’s sketch. “Nice picture,” he said, admiring the likeness. Then he crumpled it into a ball.

“ADA Tate,” Sara said into the phone. The man pulled out a lighter. With a quick flick, he set the ball of paper on fire and threw the small burning mass on Sara’s desk. Jumping from her seat, Sara grabbed her statute book and slammed it down on top of the paper, smothering the fire.

“Ms. Tate, are you there?” a voice squawked from the phone. “This is Arthur Monaghan.”

As soon as Sara heard the name of New York’s district attorney, her heart sank. Oh, God, she thought. Not now. “Hello, sir,” she stuttered. “How can I help you?” As she watched the stranger walk toward the door, she covered the mouthpiece on the phone and yelled, “Don’t go anywhere!”

“Are you talking to me?” Monaghan asked.

“No, not you, sir,” Sara said, turning back to the phone. Without a word, her visitor left the office. “I was just talking to my assistant. Now what can I do for you?”

“I have some personnel matters I’d like to discuss with you. I want you to come over to my office.”

“Right now, sir? Because I-”

“Yes,” Monaghan said. “Now.”

“Yes, sir,” Sara said. “I’ll be there right away.” Throwing down the phone, Sara ran into the hallway, hoping to catch the stranger. But he was gone. On her left, at the far end of the hallway, she saw Guff. “Have you seen an ugly-looking guy in a gray suit run by?” she called out.

“No. Why?” Guff asked.

Without giving an answer, Sara looked to her right and ran up the hallway. Maybe he went the long way around, she thought as she flew past Conrad’s office. “Has anyone seen a guy in a gray suit run by?” she yelled. Of the dozens of ADAs, police officers, and assistants scattered throughout the hallway, no one answered in the affirmative. By the time she reached the elevators at the end of the corridor, Sara realized he had disappeared. “Damn,” she said, catching her breath.

When Sara got back to her office, Guff was waiting. “What’s going on?” he asked, sniffing the air. “Smells like a campfire.”

“Come in, but don’t touch the doorknob,” Sara said as she stepped inside. After throwing away the charred remains of her sketch, she pulled her accordion file from her bookshelf and opened it to the letter G. Pulling out a pair of latex gloves, she added, “I assume these were put in here to handle evidence?”

“Yeah,” Guff said as Sara put on the gloves. “But what’re you…”

Sara gingerly took hold of both doorknobs and twisted them in opposite directions. Eventually the rusty knobs gave way and she was able to unscrew them from the door. “Give me the evidence bag from the travel kit,” she said to Guff.

Guff pulled out a plastic bag and opened it. Sara dumped the knobs in the bag and took off her gloves. “Take those over to Crime Scene. I want them dusted for fingerprints.”

“You think someone was in your office?”

“I know someone was in here. Now I want to know who it was.”

Five minutes later, Sara arrived on the eighth floor at One Hogan Place, the office of District Attorney Arthur Monaghan. After passing through security, she walked up the long hallway until she reached a visitor’s waiting area. Two other new ADAs from her orientation class were already there. As Sara remembered, the woman with the oval glasses had just graduated from NYU, while the blond man with pale freckles was a fellow Columbia grad. Both of them looked uncomfortable. When Sara got closer to her coworkers, she shot them a weak smile. “I take it we’re in trouble,” she said.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” the woman from NYU said. “This city is the worst-run organi-”

“Are you Sara Tate?” a woman’s voice asked from the far right side of the waiting area.

Turning, Sara saw the DA’s secretary, a thin woman with an outdated feathered hairstyle.

“Yes, I am.”

“Go right in,” the secretary said. “He’ll explain.”

“Good luck,” the man from Columbia called out.

Unnerved both by the ease of her entry and the looks on her colleagues’ faces, Sara slowly walked past the secretary. In her stomach, the butterflies were again swarming. As she stuck her head in the doorway of Monaghan’s office, she saw that the long room was centered on an enormous mahogany conference table. And although the rest of the office furniture was hardly top of the line, she also noticed it was clearly nicer than the government-issue wares of the ADAs: a shiny oak desk instead of an ugly metal one, a leather chair instead of a squeaky vinyl one, and new filing cabinets instead of the standard rusty ones.

“What took so long? All you had to do was cross the street,” Monaghan said, inviting her into the office. With a bright smile and an obvious toupee, District Attorney Monaghan looked like he was trying to please. But as office rumors suggested, he rarely achieved his goal.

“So how are you doing today, sir?” Sara asked as she took a seat in front of Monaghan’s desk.

“Every day’s a bear. Now let’s talk about these budget cuts. Got an opinion?”

“Looks like an election ploy to me,” she answered, forcing confidence into her voice even as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Of course they’re a ploy – but they work. And that’s exactly why the mayor loves them. These days, everyone loves gritty budget-cutting reality. Fuck moderation, let’s get back to the raw, real basics. The more it hurts, the more people think it’s good for them. We’ve become a city of masochists. Destroy welfare, lose the entitlements, cut it all. People see it as tough love. If something good is taken away, it must be because it wasn’t good for us – otherwise, the politicians wouldn’t be taking such risky stands. It’s the ultimate reverse psychology: We keep the things we don’t want and slash the things we love.”

“I guess, sir. Although I think-”

“Y’know what, though? None of that matters.” Laying his hands flat on his desk, he said, “Let’s talk about your future in this office.”

Sara’s hands filled with sweat. Without thinking, she blurted, “I have five cases, and I just got an indictment. I pled out two of them, but if you want, I can do extra work, or take another case-”

“Don’t take any more cases,” Monaghan interrupted. “If you leave, that’s another trial we’ll have to replace you on. Just stick with the ones you have and do your best work on them. In the next thirty days, you’re going to be judged against your peers, so if you can prove you’re worth having around, we might be able to keep you on board.”