Lisa Scottoline - Everywhere That Mary Went

“My job?”

“Your life.”

I give his fist a quick squeeze. “Don’t be so dramatic, Brent. This is notCamille, Act Three. Nobody’s dead.”

“Not yet,” he says, and his glistening eyes bore into mine. “Not yet.”

Because of my discussion with Brent, which we resolve by agreeing to disagree, I’m ten minutes late to the Friday morning litigation meeting. Nobody seems to notice except Judy, who looks at me curiously as I take a seat along the wall and put the marked-upNoone brief face down in my lap. The meetings are held in Conference Room A, the only conference room large enough to accommodate the whole department. Conference Room A is on the sixth floor, Avarice, but the A doesn’t stand for Avarice. At least not officially.

I used to love these meetings, full of war stories about Actual Trials and Real Juries. I loved them even after I realized that their purpose was self-promotion, not self-education. I loved the meetings because this group of litigators-or alligators, as Judy calls us-was my own. I felt I belonged in their swamp. I believed, on faith, that they wouldn’t eat me; I was one of their young. But I believe this no longer. I’ve lost my religion.

I watch the alligators feed voraciously on delicatessen fish, Danish, and bagels. You’d think they haven’t eaten in years. I look around the room, seeing them as if for the first time. I scrutinize each freshly shaved or made-up face. Which alligator is sending me these terrible notes? Which one broke into my apartment-or maybe hired someone to do it?

Is it Berkowitz? He starts off the meeting, smoking profusely, telling everyone about the victory before Bitterman, which seems as if it happened a decade ago. He mentions my name in a familiar way and comes dangerously close to giving me some credit. Every head turns in my direction. I hear an undercurrent of snapping jaws.

Is it Jameson? Is his one of the jaws I heard?

Is it Martin? Is he the Guy Who Likes Owls But Hates Me?

Is it Lovell, a semiretired partner who still says Eye-talian?

Is it Ackerman, a supercharged woman partner who hates other women, a bizarre new hybrid in a permanent Man Suit?

There’s Ned, looking at me thoughtfully. Not him, I think.

And Judy, whose bright eyes are clear of makeup. Of course not Judy.

Then who? I look at each partner, all thirty of them in the department, racking my brain to see if any one has reason to dislike me. I look at each young associate, a nestful of hatchlings, sixty-two in all. They’re free of original sin. At least they look that way.

When the meeting’s over, I head straight for the library and grab one of its private study rooms. Each room is soundproof and contains only a desk and a computer. And the doors lock, a feature I hadn’t taken advantage of until now. I lock the door and skim the brief for Jameson’s bold-red comments.

He finds my sentencesTERRIBLE and the central argumentINCONSISTENT. Everywhere else he has scribbledCASE CITATION! At the risk of sounding arrogant, I’ll tell you there’s nothing wrong with this brief. Jameson’s going to make me rewrite it just because he can, even though it’ll cost Noone as much as a compact car. And I’ll do it because I need Jameson’s vote.

I flick on the computer and it buzzes to life. I log on to Lexis, a legal research program, and type in a search request for the cases I need. It finds no cases. I reformulate the search request, but still no cases. I change it again and again and finally start to pick up cases from a district court in Arizona. That’s what legal research is like-you dig and dig until you strike a line of cases, like a wiggly vein of precious minerals. Then you strip-mine as if it were the mother lode. I’m cheered by my unaccustomed good fortune when someone knocks on the glass window of the door.

It’s Brent, carrying a covered salad and a diet Coke. I unlock the door to let him in.

“You vacuum-sealed, Mare?” He sets down my lunch.

“Can you blame me?”

“No, I’m glad of it. Listen, I got them to change your extension. I told them we kept getting calls for Jacoby and Meyers-it was all they had to hear. You’ll have a new number by this afternoon. I already sent a letter to the clients.”

“Way to go. What about my home number? I’m still getting calls.”

“Shit. They wanted your authorization to unlist it, so I wrote a letter from you and faxed it over, okay?”

“Great.”

“The only problem is it will take three days to make the change, and weekends don’t count. It won’t be changed until Wednesday of next week.”

“That’s not good.”

“Did I say I told you so? I must have. I’m just that kind of guy.”

“All right, I hear you.”

“It’s not your fault, it’s theirs. The phone company is so much more efficient since they broke it up.” Brent rolls his eyes. “What a shame. They used to be my favorite monopoly, after Baltic and Mediterranean.”

“You can’t make any money on Baltic and Mediterranean.”

“I know, but I like the color. Eggplant,” he says, in a fake-gay voice. Brent does that sometimes to make the partners laugh. He says, The joke’s on them, Iam what a gay man sounds like. “The good news is, I got you a preferred phone number.”

“What’s that?”

“You know, where you pick your own four-letter word for the number,” he says, with a grin.

“Brent, you didn’t.”

“Not that, dear. Give me some credit.” He pulls a yellow message slip out of his pocket and hands it to me.

I laugh. “546-ARIA?”

“You like?”

“It’s cute.”

“This way, people will think you got culture.”

“Right.” I hand him back the slip. “Thanks. For lunch, too. I owe you.”

“Forget it. Somebody’s got to take care of you, don’t they?”

“I got a better idea. Let me buy you dinner tonight.”

“Deal. Just don’t try to get fresh later.” He ruffles the top of my head and is gone.

I lock the door and work through the afternoon, rewriting the brief and adding the new cases. By the time I rush the disk up to Brent to correct my typing, the papers are perfect for the second time. I remember to telephone Starankovic when I get back to my desk. 4:45. He sounds as if he’s still sore at the wounds inflicted by Bitter Man and is fighting like Matlock for the one plaintiff he still represents.

“I’m gonna depose the two supervisors in the Northeast store next week, Mr. Grayboyes and Mrs. Breslin,” he says. “Then I’m gonna interview each and every one of your staff employees.”

“Bernie-”

“If you don’t consent to the interviews, I’m gonna file a motion.”

“Wait a minute, Bernie.” Starankovic knows he has to send a notice to schedule a deposition. He’s trying to fuck me, so I fuck back. “No notices, no deps.”

“I sent the notices!”

“When? I didn’t get them.”

“I sent ’em to Martin. I had ’em hand-delivered. I paid extra.”

It takes me aback. Martin. “I didn’t know about the notices, Bernie. I haven’t scheduled the deps. I haven’t even called the witnesses.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Christ! Cooperate, would you?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’ll recommend to Harbison’s that they let you do the interviews. Then you won’t have to file a motion.”

“So?”

“Saves you money.”

“Savesyou money,” he retorts.

“You want to go see Bitterman again? Really, Bernie? You need thatacido in your life?”

There’s a short pause. “Okay, Mary. You talk to your client. You schedule the deps. But it’s gotta be soon. I want the interviews.”

I hang up, with the feeling I’ve dodged a bullet. But I don’t know when the next one is coming, or who’s doing the shooting. Why didn’t Martin tell me about the notices? What if the note writer is Martin?