Lisa Scottoline: Legal Tender

“But that’s why you want to give her special treatment, isn’t it? Where does that leave the other women? Or the men? She doesn’t have the talent, period. No matter who she’s sleeping with.”

He shook his head. I shook mine. Silence fell between us as we both fumed.

“I’ll take my clients,” Mark said quietly. “Wellroth and the other drug companies. You take your practice, the defamation clients and the excessive force cases. We divide the assets and the receivables down the middle. I made copies of the computer files, on disk. Also the standard form file, since we wrote it together, and the billing system. Eve photocopied the case files for the drug clients.”

He’d had it all planned out. All of it with Eve, behind my back.

“We split up the associates. Whoever wants to come with me and Eve can, and whoever wants to come with you can. I found some new office space on Twentieth Street. It’s sunny and bright. The lease starts in two weeks.”

“You’re moving in two weeks? Good. Go.”

Mark stood stock still. The picture came suddenly into focus, and I went ballistic.

“No, I’m moving? You’re throwing me out? Fucking Mark! You own the building, so you’re taking my firm! I sanded these floors, you asshole!”

“Bennie-”

“Is there anything else I should know? Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

“You brought it on yourself.”

“Fuck you!” I shouted, without caring whether the associates heard. “Where the fuck do you get off?”

“Where do I get off? Okay, so since when do you represent animal rights activists, Bennie?”

“What’s that have to do with it? You’ve been planning this for months, you hypocrite!”

“Today was the last straw. Do you care that Furstmann Dunn and Wellroth are owned by the same parent? You didn’t do the conflict check, did you, before you rode off to save the day!”

I was so mad I could scream, and I did. “I defended that kid against criminal charges! His brutality suit will be filed against the police department and the city! There’s no conflict of interest, Furstmann’s just the location!”

“Of course you didn’t check it, you didn’t care. Dr. Haupt told me after lunch, he got a fax during the trial. They fucking messengered it down to him, Bennie! You were representing the group that was picketing his company! My partner ! How do you think that looked?” Mark raked his hair back with a furious swipe. “It’s a fucking miracle we got those new cases! Whether you want to believe it or not, it was because they like Eve!”

“But where’s the conflict? My client has no interest adverse to them!”

“Don’t be so fucking technical, would you? He’s ruining their image! It’s a public relations nightmare. They’re a quiet German company. They play it low profile. They don’t want the attention.”

“Christ, that doesn’t make it a conflict! You do whatever they say, whether it’s right or wrong? March to their tune?”

“So there! That’s your attitude and I’m supposed to keep you?”

Keep me? It knocked the wind out of me, like a jackboot to the diaphragm. “ Keep me?” I said, my voice hushed. “I pull my own weight here. My billings are equal to yours. Better , last year.”

He rubbed his chin and sighed. “I have to look to the future, Bennie. I want to develop this drug company business. Look what’s happening with Wellroth and their joint venture. There’s money in it.”

“Money, again.”

“Is money a dirty word? I shouldn’t make more than a hundred grand?”

“You used to say you didn’t need even fifty grand.”

“That was then, this is now. You may not want a future, but I do. You may not want kids, but I do.”

I took another deep breath. I knew this fight, every punch and counterpunch. I did want kids, just not yet. I couldn’t, not with my mother getting worse. I looked away, out the window. The sun was going down. People were walking home after work. The day was over. R amp; B was over. I thought of the river, running through the city, not two miles from where I stood.

“Bennie?”

I turned and went for the door. I wasn’t going to fight anymore. All that was left between Mark and me was a business deal, and he had a right to end it. Let him go, let it all go. I’d do it on my own. I walked out of the library, closing the door behind me.

My oars cut the water with a chop. I reached out and pulled them into my stomach with one slow, fluid stroke, as controlled and even as I could make it. Gliding back on the hard wooden seat with its greasy rollers, knees flattening against the oily rails.

The black water resisted but only slightly. There were no whitecaps. The wind had died down and everything had gone still. I was rowing on a mirror of smoked glass.

The surface of the water reflected the decorative lights outlining the boathouses along the east bank, then the streetlamps along the drives as I pulled away from civilization. There were no lights at all in the middle of the river, where it was pitch-dark.

The oars hit the water with a splash, and I pulled them through it, imagining its sleek blackness as tar, making me slow down each stroke and concentrate. Feeling the scull lurch forward slightly with the next stroke, and the next. Keeping it slow, and languid, and black. Right down the dark water, suspended there. The only thing connecting me to the river, connecting me to anything, was the handle of the oar, rough and splintery under my calloused hands. I was holding on to the stick that held on to the world.

I feathered the oars and took another long stroke. Scooted under the arch of the craggy stone bridge, where it felt cooler, shadier, even now at midnight. Moving through the widest part of the river so the few cars on either side seemed far away, their headlamps like pinpoints, not strong enough to cast any brightness down the road.

I heard another splash and felt a spray of cold water on my forearm as I hit the stroke too hard. Easy, girl. I reached far out and over my toes for the next stroke, stretching, extending every inch of my body. A powerful stroke but still controlled, always controlled. I tried stroking like that for the next ten.

One, two, three, not power strokes, just for technique. Not thinking about anything but technique. The stroke, the control, the timing. The speed of the scull and the slip -sound it made as it sliced through the water. The creak of the rigging. The fishy rankness of the water and the green freshness of the trees. The shock of the cold spray, the jolt of the lurch forward. The city was far away. The city was gone. Four, five, six strokes.

Soon the sound of my own breath, coming in short, quick pants, and the slickness of the sweat as it sluiced down between my breasts and under my arms. I was working hard and I wasn’t a college kid anymore. There were beads of sweat on my knees, but they evaporated as the boat picked up speed, floating just high enough in the water because the stroke was working so well. I’d finally found the rhythm and I couldn’t go wrong. Seven, eight, nine, ten.

In the middle of the river, in the middle of the night.

I decided against crying when I got home. It never did any good and my eyes puffed up like pet-store goldfish. Instead, I showered, toweled off, and got ready for bed. Bear, my golden retriever, lay on the floor, watching me pad from bathroom to bedroom and back again. Her wavy coat was the exact color of a square of light caramel, and she was big-boned, like me.

“Bedtime, girl,” I said, and she jumped onto the mattress, circled twice, and settled on a spot in the middle. It had always driven Mark crazy. Now it wouldn’t. Things were looking up.