Lost: A Counsel Novella Page 7

  They’re both smart and ambitious, understandably; otherwise, they wouldn’t have made it to HLS. But Tom’s not as driven as Justin, whose natural ability to succeed is heavily supplemented by his father’s expectations. Senator Joshua Wade, I learned, expects his son to take over his seat when he retires, which he plans to do as soon as Justin’s ready to run—or, as I read it, as soon as they’re certain Justin will win. He’s expected to move beyond state politics and onto the national stage because Joshua, ultimately, wants his son to run for President. While Justin shares his father’s ambitions, he doesn’t always agree with his ideas on how to achieve those goals. It’s obvious that their difference of opinion is a bone of contention. Justin, I’ve discovered, will often make a considered decision to rebel against his father’s wishes. That’s why, although he doesn’t party as hard as Tom, he does just enough to piss the senator off without risking his goals.

  Tom doesn’t face the same pressure. Sure, he’s expected to succeed, and he will, given his family’s wealth and influence. The fact that his grandfather’s a senior partner in a very successful law firm doesn’t hurt either. Tom can afford the lax approach to his studies he’s adopted. He hardly, if ever, refuses an invitation to a party and, by all accounts, indulges himself sexually at every given opportunity. I’ve rarely been present when Tom’s on the prowl, but I’m not impressed by what I’ve seen on the occasions I’ve witnessed him in action or by the way he speaks of his conquests after. He doesn’t treat women with respect, in my view; and he sure as hell doesn’t like being told no by any female he targets.

  “Well, I think you’re nuts—both of you—” he says in response to my comment, and then, as we round the corner to our dorm building, suddenly stops. “Fuck! Who’s that?” he exclaims, his attention riveted on the entrance.

  “That,” I say, my tone laced with warning, is my sister.

  “What are you doing here?” I greet Cait

  “I’ve come to help you pack,” she signs.

  “I can pack, Cait!” I answer, also signing.

  “Shut up, Adam; you always forget something!” she says, her violet-blue eyes flashing a challenge before she turns her back on me. “Hi,” she smiles at Justin and Tom with interest.

  “Sorry,” I address them. “This is Caitlin, my baby sister,” I say, emphasizing the word as payback for her dig at me.

  “You look very grown-up to me,” Tom replies, and, not liking his salacious tone, I narrow my eyes at him.

  “It’s good to meet you,” Justin steps forward. “I’m Justin.”

  “Hello, Justin,” Cait smiles at him, but Tom angles him out of the way.

  “Tom,” he says, offering his hand, and then, when she accepts, holds onto hers for much too long.

  “Let’s go,” I intervene and, taking hold of Cait’s elbow, quickly lead her away.

  “See you, Caitlin,” Tom calls out, and I turn to glare at him once more. I don’t want him anywhere near my sister and certainly not in the way his tone implied.

  Much to my annoyance, I forget to pack the food containers Mom specifically asked me to bring home.

  “See?” Cait says smugly after reminding me.

  “Shut up and grab that bag,” I tell her, playfully tugging at the ends of her hair.

  On Saturday, at a party at Ian’s place, Tess interrupts my conversation with Libby, another friend of Lana’s I’ve been chatting to for most of the night. “I’ve decided to study law,” she says, making herself comfortable on the sofa arm next to me.

  “I thought you wanted to work in finance?” I ask, moving my knee from beneath her hand. She smiles; feigning an apology for a seemingly unintended gesture, but I notice the irritation in her eyes at my rebuff.

  “Changed my mind, and my undergrad in economics will qualify me for law school, so it’s not wasted. How are you finding it?”

  “It’s a lot of work, but I’m enjoying it,” I say.

  “Have you applied anywhere yet?” Libby asks Tess.

  “I’d love to join Adam at Harvard, but that’s not possible. My dad doesn’t own his own business like his,” she smiles and strokes my arm. I ignore the reference to money and try, also, to ignore her hand, which she’s yet to remove from my bicep.

  “I want to stay in Boston, so BU, Boston College, Northeastern… you know,” she says, looking at me, disregarding the fact that Libby asked the question. “I thought we could get together later tonight or perhaps tomorrow so I can pick your brains, Adam.”

  “I wish I could, but I’m taking Libby home, and I promised to spend tomorrow with my family.”

  “What about next weekend?”

  “I need to prepare for my fall exam,” I say, and then, suffer a twinge of guilt for not being more helpful. The thing is, I can’t be sure about Tess’ motives because she’s come on to me before, and, although I like her, I’m not interested in her in that way. Besides, she’s been involved with Ian, then Alan, and she’s even had a brief fling with Matt—in fact, both she and Lana have, at some stage, dated each of my friends. Not that I’m judging any of them, but I’m not into sharing women with my friends, and I’m certainly not keen to participate in whatever complicated shit their behavior has, at times, caused within our group. They’ve always resolved it, but, damn, things have been awkward at times.

  “Ian and the other guys have my email address; just send me any questions you have, and I’ll provide as much information as I can.”

  “Thanks,” Tess says, her voice noticeably cooler as she takes in Libby’s hand—her nails slowly raking up and down my thigh because, yes, we’ve already decided we’re both up for a good time.

  “I’m ready to leave if you are, Adam?” she suggests.

  “Sure, just let me say goodbye to the guys, and I’ll meet you back here,” I tell her. “Take care, Tess,” I turn to smile goodbye.

  “You too,” she answers, barely raising one in return.

  The next morning, well, it’s nearly midday when I walk into the kitchen, I find Dad and Cait sitting at the table, chatting while Mom bustles around.

  “Did you have a good time last night? I didn’t hear you come in,” Dad asks after I’ve greeted everyone.

  “Ummm, I did, and I’m not sure what time I got in,” I tell him despite knowing it was after four. At around one-thirty, when I started to dress and suggested to Libby that I should be going, she straddled me and provocatively asked whether I was sure. Libby, it turns out, can be very persuasive, and the lure of her hot, moist flesh proved to bee too much of a temptation. Nearly two hours later, when I finally left her bed, she asked when she could see me again. “I’m not sure,” I said, “I have a heavy workload. It’s best I don’t make promises or that you don’t count on anything.”

  “You’ve already explained that you don’t want to get involved, Adam. I understand that, but I had a great time tonight, and I’d like to see you again. No ties, of course—”

  “I enjoyed your company too, Libby. I’ll call sometime, and if you’re free and still want to, I’d like to catch up,” I told her and made sure to get her number. I meant it because Libby had been good company, and the sex had been great too.

  “It was quarter past four,” Cait says, her tone accusatory. “You woke me when you went to the bathroom.

  “Why does he get to come home at all hours?” she challenges our parents.

  “Because Adam’s no longer a teenager and you are,” Mom says.

  “I’m nearly twenty!” she protests.

  “In eight months, Caitlin, and we’ll discuss your curfew again when you turn twenty-one,” Dad tells her, his tone inviting no argument. She huffs before turning back to me.

  “Were you at Ian’s till that time? Who else was there?”

  “There were lots of people; I didn’t know them all,” I reply, deliberately ignoring her first question.

  “Was …never mind; I’m not interested in your boring friends,” she says and flounces out.

  “Are you
hungry, sweetheart?” Mom asks, placing a cup of coffee in front of me. “I saved you some waffles and sausages, and I can fry you an egg.”

  “Please, Mom,” I smile my appreciation, and when she kisses my cheek, I wrap my arm around her waist to hug her.

  While Mom gets my breakfast, Dad and I chat about my upcoming exam and how prepared I feel for it, and I ask about his latest projects. Later, I take Cait out and, over a late lunch, listen to stories about her experiences at MIT, where she’s studying strategic marketing and management. I ask about her friends, relieved to learn she doesn’t have a steady boyfriend and that she’s dated, but as part of a group. “Keep it that way, and promise you’ll be careful,” I warn.

  “If you’re worried that I’m sleeping around, then you can stop, Adam. Although, I don’t see how it’s any of your business. You’ve hardly saved yourself for that someone special like you’re always telling me to. You, Matt, and the rest of your gang—who did you sleep with last night?” she asks caustically.

  “Cait—”

  “I don’t want to hear your excuses,” she tells me, her expression a mixture of anger and hurt.

  “Cait, it’s different. You’re different,” I say, holding up my hand when she’s about to interrupt. “You’re my sister, and I love you. I don’t want anyone to take advantage of you, and I don’t want you to be hurt.”

  “Why? Because I’m deaf?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Because you’re young and beautiful, and you’re still innocent.”

  “How old were you when you started sleeping around? Do you take advantage of girls—is that why you worry about me?”

  “I don’t take advantage of anyone, especially not innocent girls—the girls I see know what they’re getting into, and I don’t ever lie to them.”

  “But you do sleep around—you and your friends—”

  “I don’t sleep around—well, not as much as you think I do,” I correct myself when she glares at me. “And what’s my friends’ habits got to do with anything?” I ask.

  “Never mind… let’s just forget this conversation,” she decides, and because I’m being a bit of a hypocrite and don’t feel comfortable discussing my sex life with my sister, I do as she suggests. Our disagreement is soon forgotten, as always, and we spend the rest of our time chatting, teasing, just enjoying each other’s company like we always do.

  That night, we join Mom and Dad for a night of watching movies in front of the television like we did when we were kids. I spend most of Sunday studying, stopping only to join the family for meals, and on Monday, I return to campus to repeat the hectic routine of the last three months.

  Chapter Nine

  I’ve made it through the first year of law school, and the feeling of relief is almost indescribable. I feel as if the weight of the world’s been lifted from my shoulders. I’ve not only passed, I’ve done well, better than I’d hoped to do. I’d aimed for a place in the top five percent of students; that, I thought, would help me secure one of the few, highly coveted summer internships the DA’s office offers each year. I, in fact, managed a place in the top one percent, an achievement, I hope, will give me an edge, if not in there, then at one of the district courts or clerking for a judge—anything that will get me courtroom experience.

  Waiting for my results had been nerve-wracking; honestly, the suspense and self-doubt almost crippled me. I hadn’t been the only one on tenterhooks, though. Everywhere around me, it seemed, conversations started with the phrase, “have you heard?”

  Our misery ended two days ago, and, judging from the almost immediate lifting of the pall of anxiety that hung in the air, I could tell the majority of One L’s had received good news. In section three, nearly all of my fellow students passed. The few who failed had been and, I’m sure, remain devastated. I truly sympathize. The thought of having to repeat the ordeal of the last year is just too daunting to contemplate. “At least you’ll know what to expect,” I told those I had the opportunity to commiserate with. Empty words, I know, but what the hell else was there to say?

  Justin also ranked among the top students, and Tom received an above average passing grade. So, on the night of our results, we celebrated—hard. Festivities started in our dorm lounge where we met up with a bunch of fellow students. From there, at Tom’s suggestion, we moved on to the apartment of a friend of his, George, who was hosting a party. George, a second-year MBA student, has a seemingly endless supply of money, which he throws around liberally and a reputation for being a party animal. “There’ll be lots of willing women there,” Tom promised the guys he invited. I’d always avoided George’s parties, which I’d heard could get pretty wild. But, free from studying for a while, I could afford to indulge myself, I rationalized.

  And I did. That night, for the first time in a long while, I drank copiously and left the party with a young woman, Crystal. I left her bed at some ungodly hour in the morning and flagged down a passing cab. At home, I tore my clothes off and fell into bed. It felt like my head had only just hit the pillow when loud, incessant banging woke me.

  “What the hell…” I irritably muttered as I stumbled to the door, a bed sheet clutched around my waist. A very irate Caitlin confronted me.

  “We were supposed to meet over an hour ago,” she snapped, pushing past me.

  “I said I’d meet you at one,” I answered, equally annoyed.

  “It’s after two, Adam!” she shot back.

  “It can’t be—” I said, cut off by a snort from the doorway. Only then, did I notice Tom, still in the clothes he’d worn the night before. I glared at him but spoke to Cait.

  “What the hell are you doing with him?” I demanded, the visual of him last night—the last I’d seen—groping the breast of one girl while another, also naked, knelt between his legs instantly springing to mind. I’d mistakenly wandered into the wrong room when looking for a bathroom. The girl on her knees appeared quite drunk and smiled up at me lopsidedly. Tom had been unabashed; in fact, he blatantly challenged me by asking whether I wanted to join the fun. “Rachel sucks like a Hoover,” he said crassly, bunching her hair in his hand before ramming himself down her throat.

  “Are you okay,” I asked the girl who’s breast he was still tugging at, the one still able to speak. She nodded and, satisfied that they weren’t there under duress, I turned to him. “Lock the fucking door,” I snarled before slamming it shut behind me. I’m not a prude; I mean, I love a blowjob as much as any man. I’ve even, at times, been demanding—with the woman’s consent and if it’s what she wanted, of course. But what the hell? Being sexually uninhibited is one thing; being so blatantly demeaning to women is quite another.

  I’d been struggling to rid myself of that memory when he spoke from his position outside my door. “Relax; I was just making sure your sister got in safely,” he said before, with a wave and wink at Cait, he sauntered down the hallway.

  I wanted to race after him to physically warn him against messing around with Cait. I wanted to interrogate her and demand she never speak to him again, but I’d been practically naked, and she turned on me first.

  “You stink like a brewery and woman,” she said her face scrunched in distaste. “Shower! I’ll make coffee; then I’ll help you to pack so we can get out of here.”

  I chose not to argue. I felt guilty and ashamed—for standing Cait up and, mostly, for having her find me in the state I’d been in. It had not been the best example to set; especially after the last conversation we’d had about my sexual habits.

  That was a week and a half ago. I spent some of the intervening time catching up with my family and friends. Libby, having heard that I was around, called, and I invited her to join us at the pub one evening. I drove her home but declined her invitation to go up. “I’m not expecting anything from you, Adam,” she assured me. “I’m glad because nothing’s changed. I’ll call you next week, and if you’re not doing anything and you still want to, I’d like to get together,” I said.

  Most of m
y time, as I’d intended, was spent applying for summer internships. I managed to line up a few appointments; one is with Judge Benton’s senior clerk, who one of my professors, had informed me, may be looking for an intern. Clerking for a judge is a great opportunity because it provides a chance to see trials or appellate actions from the other side of the bench, something, which, unless appointed to the bench, one may never experience. I also have interviews for two other positions—one, interning at a trial court, the other, at an appeals court.

  But it’s my first meeting, the one I’m just about to walk into, that most excites me. It’s also the one I’m most anxious about. From the day I decided to become a prosecutor, I’ve dreamed of working in this place, Number One Bullfinch Place, home of the largest and busiest DA’s offices in Massachusetts. As a first-year law graduate, if I’m lucky enough to be accepted, I’d be assigned to one or more of the superior court trial and appellate units to assist in legal research, writing, and case preparation. I’ll be able to visit the courthouse and observe criminal trials and motions. I may even have the opportunity to argue in court. Nothing crucial, naturally, but first-year graduate interns often get the chance to present precedent or points of law. The very thought has me tingling with both anticipation and apprehension.

  And, once I’ve completed my second year at law school, and if I’m invited back as an intern, I’ll be able to work in any of the district courts as a student prosecutor. I’d have to qualify under the special Judicial Court ruling that grants approval to upper-year law students of an accredited law school, of course, but I don’t see any reason, if I continue to do well academically, why I’d be refused. Student prosecutors don’t get paid, but those who need financial assistance can apply for a grant. The experience is invaluable to any would-be prosecutor, so competition to gain an internship in the DA’s office, despite financial pressure, is fierce. Money isn’t an issue for me, but it doesn’t mean I can take anything for granted because applications are bound to outnumber the positions on offer. So, it’s crucial that I perform well during today’s interview.