Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

Exactly what he needed.

Peter had survived the SEC’s investigation into the Dover Trust and Savings Bank. He’d spent fifteen to twenty hours in close contact with Gina, reviewing documents, prepping witnesses, and explaining his strategy. They’d gone to Philadelphia twice — both day trips, nothing overnight — and brought three witnesses in to be interviewed. Everything had gone well, better than expected. The insider trading issue turned out to be isolated to the one employee. The bank needed better internal controls and more training, but the SEC was being, for once, reasonable. Peter had persuaded them that this was an aberration, an unscrupulous employee taking advantage of a situation that the bank would address. The SEC wanted Peter to keep them informed of the bank’s progress with respect to the new policies, but, basically, they were closing the investigation. Wilson Temple was pleased “as punch” and Peter even got a complimentary e-mail from Kevin McCoury for doing a good job and resuscitating business with an old client, one that had the potential for growth.

Gina had proved to be more competent than the average first-year. Her writing needed some work, but she was good with witnesses. That was a difficult skill to learn and she was already better than some senior associates. Besides, his crush — if you could call it that — had settled into something manageable and, with the one exception, there had been no physical manifestations in Gina’s presence or at the office generally.

And things with Lindsay had picked up in that department. He didn’t like to think too much about the reason for the renaissance, but who really cared? Maybe there was a twenty-eight-year-old trainer from the gym kicking around the back of Lindsay’s mind, stirring things up. Would that be such a crime? Of course not.

He looked across his desk at Gina. He hadn’t seen her since the SEC called to inform him that they were closing the case, a week ago. Her face looked a bit thin, her cheeks had lost a bit of their meat. He hoped she wasn’t moving toward the skeletal look. She wore a gray cashmere cardigan over a black blouse and pinstriped pants. Maybe someone had spoken to her. Didn’t matter; she still looked beautiful.

She was quite upset. She’d tried to compose herself twice but couldn’t. Garrett may have been the spark, but he’d ignited some hidden reservoir. Peter handed her a box of tissues. She plucked two tissues from the box and wiped her eyes.

“I’m sorry, this is so unprofessional.”

“No worries. It happens more than you’d think. This job is not easy. And assholes like Garrett Holworth don’t make it any easier.”

She sniffled a laugh and a bubble of snot appeared out of one nostril. Christ, even when she was a mess, she was beautiful.

“So what exactly did you say?”

“I’m helping him on one of his pro bono cases for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. One of their employees — his job was to solicit donations, pieces of art, not money, from patrons. This particular guy was working the very wealthy widows of the Upper West Side. And he convinced a few of them to donate some pieces to the museum. He also convinced a few of them to donate some smaller pieces to him personally. Now, the museum’s embroiled in this mess and Garrett’s helping them sort through it. Allegations are starting to surface that this guy, uhh, may have played on the affections of these lonely older ladies.”

She took a breath, looked up at Peter. She’d regained her composure.

“So I said, ‘Sounds like a real scumbag.’”

Peter laughed and Gina giggled nervously. He ran a hand through his hair, scratched his earlobe. He adopted a completely casual air.

“This is nothing, Gina. Don’t worry about it. Not for another second.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“I am. Trust me. Garrett’s senile, Gina. Has been for years. When I was your age, I spent two hours in his office listening to a rant about FDR. Don’t worry about this. Go home, have a nice bottle of wine, and forget about it, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you, Peter.”

She stayed in her seat. The tears had stopped, but the troubled look remained on her face.

“Something else on your mind?”

A disobedient tear scurried down her left cheek. She opened her mouth and the tear slipped into the corner. She was working herself up to say something. She took a few exaggerated breaths.

“I feel like I don’t belong. Like I’m not good enough for this place. Like I’m fooling myself that I can cut it here. My father keeps telling me that he has a friend in the Staten Island D.A.’s office, that I should go to work there, forget the crazy hours and the stuck-up assholes.”

Her eyes widened as she remembered who she was talking to.

“Not you, Peter. I didn’t mean you. Jesus, I can’t even talk anymore.”

Peter put a hand up.

“Gina, relax. I understand. I took no offense. Go on.”

She waited a few beats. He recognized her bewildered expression. He’d seen it on a few witnesses over the years, been the cause once or twice during his better cross-examinations. The look of someone who no longer trusts her own tongue. He could see her gears grinding.

“Gina, whatever you say stays in this office. So, relax and tell me what’s going on.”

Her eyes shone with gratitude and maybe something else.

“It’s just that everyone here seems so certain they should be here. It’s like they’ve been given a script that I wasn’t given. About what to do and say and not to say. Like, Don’t use the word scumbag . So, I go home every night and cry and David is sick of it and it’s only been two months and I don’t know if I can make it another month, let alone another few years. The only thing I’ve enjoyed here is working with you.”

His heart soared a little, despite himself. He understood exactly how she felt.

“And here I am, crying in your office, keeping you from getting home.”

She threw up her hands in exasperation and stood to go.

“Gina, sit down, please.”

She did as he asked.

Peter brought his hands to his forehead, palms facing in, and dragged them down across his face until they came to rest under his chin. A lawyer’s trick, something to buy a few seconds while his thoughts coalesced. He hadn’t told this story in years, because Lindsay had tired of it and rolled her eyes every time he started telling it.

“Do you know the word umbrage ?”

Gina nodded, a little confused.

“Okay, notice how I pronounced it. Ummm-bridge . That’s the proper way to pronounce the word.”

He stood and took a few meaningless steps, like he might have in court.

“Now, growing up, my father used that word all the time. But he pronounced it OHM-braj, like braciole; OHM-braj, like a bastardized Italian word. ‘Hey, he took OHM-braj.’”

A smile crept onto Gina’s face.

“So, my whole life, that’s how I say it. OHM-braj. Through college. OHM-braj. Law school. OHM-braj. No one corrects me, maybe because I’m mispronouncing it so badly they probably think I’m saying a different word entirely. I don’t use it often, but I like it. Saying it my way, my father’s way, it’s one of those words that sounds like it should. It conveys exactly what it should.”

He sat back down, reclined into the cushy black leather.

“So, I land here, at the venerable Lonigan Brown firm, and it’s my second week and I’ve been assigned to a case with Ned Stone, an old-timer, genteel and soft-spoken. Real gentleman lawyer, belonged to a different era but, unlike your friend Garrett, a genuinely nice guy.”

He swiveled back toward her, leaned over the desk. He brought his voice down, sprinkled a bit of the confessional into his demeanor.