Lost: A Counsel Novella Page 8

  I’m meeting with an Assistant DA called Tara Nichols. I’ve been told that, should I make it through this interview, I’d be asked to meet with Chief ADA Bill Watts next. He, I guess, will make the final decision.

  I leave the building an hour later, thankful that the interview went well. At least, that’s what I think. Tara had been easy to talk to. She reminded me a lot of Jenna, in fact—a younger version, but she’s as sharp and as forthright. I believe I answered her questions well, and our discussion, at times, felt a lot like the debates Jenna and I’d had. Tara’s parting words of, “We’ll be in touch,” didn’t give any indication of how well she thought I’d done, but I refuse to give in to doubt. I’m still in with a chance, I tell myself as get into my car.

  I suffered through two days; two days spent vacillating between bouts of hope and trying to prepare myself for the worst. ‘You have other options, and there’s always next year,’ I told myself over and over, until it sounded like an overplayed soundtrack in my head, before Bill Watt’s assistant called to arrange a meeting for the following day—today. And now, four hours since that interview, and I’m waiting once again. He, at least, said, “I’ll call you later today,” so I’m hoping I’ll be put out of my misery soon.

  Again, I thought, the interview had gone well. A former HLS graduate, Mr. Watts asked about my experience as a One L. He smiled, sometimes laughed, at my account of how, particularly in the first months, I struggled to cope. He congratulated me on what he called ‘excellent results’ and expressed particular interest in my reasons for wanting to become a prosecutor. When, without divulging details, I explained my epiphany about the premise of equality in the law and how I felt I could make a difference in the lives of victims of crime, he appeared satisfied.

  Finally, late in the afternoon, he calls himself to say the DA’s office would be delighted to have me as an intern. I’ll be assigned to Tara Nichol’s team, and she’ll provide details of my duties and supervise me, Mr. Watts informs me. “You start at eight-thirty on Monday morning, Adam. I’m sure you’ll do well,” he says before hanging up.

  Mom, home at the time, decides the family should go out for a celebratory dinner. The next morning, I call Judge Benton’s chambers and each of the court clerks to thank them for the opportunity to interview and to advise that I’ve been offered and accepted an internship with the DA’s office. Then, I call Matt to arrange to meet him and gang at the pub that night.

  On Saturday morning, I contact Libby and, given that she’s free, invite her out to dinner. We enjoy each other’s company just as we did before, and, after dinner, spend hours in her bedroom, enjoying ourselves some more.

  On Monday, I arrive at the DA’s office nearly half an hour before the designated time. I feel a bit sheepish when admitting to the receptionist just how early I am. “I’ll just sit here and wait,” I tell her. “Tara’s already in. I’ll let her know you’ve arrived,” she insists, and I’m grateful when Tara greets me warmly and tells me she likes an early starter. “I’m usually in at seven or seven-thirty,” she says, and I resolve to get in at that time each morning too.

  The rest of my summer break passes quickly, almost too quickly. I spend quality time with my family, most often over dinner, and see my friends often. Libby and I go out a couple more times, and sometimes, when I join the gang at the pub, she’s there with Lana. I make a point, no matter how tempting, not to sleep with her on each occasion we spend together. She’s disappointed, I can tell, but I’m determined not to fall into a dating pattern.

  My work at the DA’s office remains my focus, and I love every second. Even the sometimes tedious research, the reams of reading material, so reminiscent of the many hours, in the past year, I spent doing the same thing, fail to dampen my enthusiasm. And then, exceeding all my expectations, Tara invites me to observe a trial, which she’s second chairing for Bill Watts, a case I’d done a lot of research for. The defendants, a husband and wife, are charged with embezzling money and property from the mentally impaired man they were meant to care for and protect. I’m spellbound, watching Bill examine and then cross-examine witnesses and, finally, the defendants. I find myself anticipating his questions, thrilled whenever I’m proven correct.

  When, nearly two weeks later, they’re found guilty, I’m elated. One could be forgiven for thinking I’d prosecuted the case. When I congratulate Bill, he thanks me and says I played a role in securing the verdict. “Your research strengthened our case,” he assures me. He’s being polite and exaggerating, I know, but still, I’m pleased and replay his comment over and over in my mind.

  Then, at the sentencing hearing a week later, when the judge orders the defendants to pay restitution to the victim and imposes the harshest penalties allowable under the law, my decision to become a prosecutor is solidified. Nothing can sway me from my course, I decide. This—this is what I want to do, what I’m meant to do.

  Chapter Ten

  “You’re nuts,” Tom snorts. “Corporate transactions, litigation, and defense, that’s how you get rich.”

  “I’m not interested in getting rich,” I say, struggling to hold my temper. It would be pointless explaining my motivation. Neither Tom nor Justin would understand, and they know nothing about my wealth or my history with the Winstons, a family that surpasses either of theirs for money and status. I have no intention of enlightening them either.

  “With your results, you could have your pick of law firms. Do you even know how intense the competition for the best graduates is and just how much the top guys are prepared to pay?” he asks, unaffected by my response.

  “I’m aware, and it doesn’t make any difference. I won’t change my mind, Tom, so drop it!” I tell him, pissed off because, since learning about my internship, Tom’s been trying to convince me to change my career path. Justin, I’m sure, shares his views, but he, at least, keeps his thoughts to himself. How the fuck Tom thinks it’s any concern of his, I don’t know. I, sure as hell, have never questioned what they want to do.

  Different things drive us; I accept that. Justin’s motivated by political ambition—his own and his father’s for him. Me, I’m impelled by a desire to represent victims of crime. Tom appears to have no driving force other than the wish to amass even more wealth. To each his own, I say, but it’s a good thing we don’t see each other as often as we used to. If we did, Tom would have more opportunity to regurgitate this futile discussion, and I’d probably give in to the desire to punch him.

  Our second year is markedly different from the first. As One L’s we had a set curriculum. Other than a couple of elective courses, we spent most of our time with our fellow group members. So, given that we’d been assigned to the same section and the fact that we housed at North, Japer, Tom, and I spent a lot of time together.

  That’s not the case now. As second and third-year students we’re able to tailor a curriculum to suit our personal goals. Other than the stipulation that we take a course in personal responsibility and the need to complete a significant piece of written work, known as the third-year paper, we’re free to choose from the broad range of law courses offered. Justin, Tom, and I share some classes, but we’ve each decided to include subjects suited to our ambitions. So, while we remain friends and continue to spend a good deal of our free time together, we’re no longer joined at the hip, so to speak.

  “Well, I think—” Tom, who doesn’t know when to quit, continues.

  “What are we doing tonight?” Justin, sensing my escalating irritation, interjects.

  Tom’s eyes light up. “The med guys are having a party. Are you guys up for it?”

  “I’m in,” Justin replies immediately.

  “I can’t; I have plans with Cait,” I say.

  “Bring her,” Tom suggests.

  “No way! I don’t want her exposed to the shit that goes down at those parties.”

  “What? She’s at college—you don’t think she’s seen anything like that before?” Tom scoffs.

  “She bet
ter not have,” I snap. He’s about to respond, but Justin, again, intervenes.

  “It’s better that you don’t invite her. You’d be watching her all night and never relax.”

  “You can’t act like a guard dog; she’s an adult,” Tom chimes in.

  “Mind your own fucking business,” I tell him, not liking his tone or the fact that he thinks he can tell me how to behave with my sister.

  “Just saying,” he tries to make light of his comment, but I know better.

  “Stay away from her,” I warn him.

  “She’s stunning, but I wouldn’t dream of pissing you off,” he says. “There’s plenty of fish in the sea—I may even go after that little doctor friend of yours. She has a thing for you, but I’m sure I could persuade her to forget about you.”

  “What? You don’t think I can?” he challenges at my wry smile.

  “I’m not interested in Brooke in that way. I value our friendship too much, and I’m sure you won’t succeed. She’s too smart to fall for your line of bullshit.”

  “He’s right. Perhaps you need a new approach?” Justin jokes.

  “Why? It’s worked so far, and I haven’t even tried with her yet. How about a wager?” Tom goads Justin this time. “A thousand says I’ll get her into bed. Double if you want some skin in the game; I’ll even give you a head start.”

  “Justin!” a female voice calls out before he can respond. Cynthia Buchanan, his sometimes girlfriend, makes her way over.

  “Well, there goes my plans for tonight,” Justin mutters under his breath. He gets up to greet her, barely struggling to mask his disgruntlement.

  “I knew I’d find you here,” she says, kissing his cheek. She’s referring to Café Pamplona, a coffee shop near Harvard Square we frequent, but I have no doubt that she would have tracked Justin down to almost anywhere. She’s that determined to hang onto him. His interest in her, though, can best be described as tepid. He once confessed that he continues their on again-off again relationship only to appease his father. ‘To get him off my damned back,’ he’d said.

  “Tom,” Cynthia gushes and leans down to kiss his cheek also. “Hi, gorgeous,” he returns, making her smile even wider. It leaves her face, however, as she turns to me. “Adam,” she says coolly.

  “Cynthia,” I match her tone. There’s no love lost between us. She’s snubbed me from the moment Justin introduced us, and I, admittedly, refuse to fawn over her the way Tom does. I have no idea what her problem with me is, and, frankly, I don’t care—Cynthia epitomizes everything I detest about people like her.

  The Buchanans rival the Wade family’s political history, and Justin’s father is determined to merge the two families through Justin and Cynthia’s marriage. The alliance would, in his view, significantly improve Justin’s chances when he makes his bid for the presidency. I say when, not if, because Joshua Wade, from what I’ve learned about the man since befriending his son, will stop at nothing to realize his family’s ambition to see a Wade in the White House. It’s not Cynthia’s political pedigree that I hold against her, nor is it her family’s wealth, though. What I abhor is her sense of superiority, the fact that she considers everyone who isn’t part of the social elite or who doesn’t have obscene wealth as being beneath her. It’s her sense of entitlement that fuels my dislike—the same attitude, probably, that resulted in Adam Winston casting Eleanor and me aside as easily as he would used clothing.

  Pulling some notes from my wallet, I place it on the table before rising. “I’ll see you Monday,” I tell Justin and Tom before leaving.

  It’s the last day of my semester break, and Matt and I are having a quiet drink at a pub. Not the one where Ian works; we were there two nights ago. It’s rare that Matt and I get to spend time alone these days, so we’ve made the most of catching up on what’s happening in each other’s lives. He wants to leave the company he’s working for. “I’d like to interact with clients more, feel like I’m making a real difference,” he says. “I’ve enjoyed the large-scale projects, but I’m only one of many contributing.”

  “What kind of company?”

  “A small to medium construction or architectural firm; a place that does domestic as well as commercial work.”

  “Why don’t you speak to my dad? He could probably point you in the right direction,” I suggest.

  “Do you think he’d talk to me?” he asks, eyes gleaming with excitement.

  “I’m sure he’d be happy to. I’ll mention it to him,” I promise, and, then, when he thanks me, shrug it off, telling him it’s no problem.

  “I saw Cait yesterday,” he says.

  “Where?”

  “On the Waterfront. She was with some guy, coming out of Strega.”

  “What guy?” I ask.

  “His name’s Tom. He looked a bit jumpy when Cait introduced me as your best friend—“

  “That fucker! I’m going to kill him…”

  “Adam; what the hell? Matt grabs my arm, and it takes some moments before I’m calm enough to describe Tom. He confirms the description matches the guy he met. When he asks what my problem is, I tell him about Tom and the way he treats women.

  “If you need any help kicking his ass, let me know,” he says, angry too, but that’s hardly surprising. Matt’s almost as protective of Cait as I am since we caught those kids harassing her at school.

  She isn’t home when I get there, and the thought that she could be with Tom infuriates me more. “What’s wrong?” Mom asks when, unable to settle down, I get up and pace around the living room.

  “Nothing,” I answer because Cait and I never snitch on each other. Instead, I make some excuse about needing to catch up on reading and go upstairs to wait.

  The minute I hear the front door slam shut, I make my way to Cait’s room. I’m sitting on her bed when she opens the door.

  “Where’ve you been?” I sign, not wanting Mom to hear us argue because I have no doubt we’re about to.

  “Out,” she says.

  “Who with?”

  “A friend. Why are you so mad?” she asks, turning to hang up her jacket.

  “Tom?” I demand, getting up to block her path.

  “Does it matter?” she snaps, elbowing past me.

  “Yes, it matters!” I snarl right back.

  Cait, her anger almost matching mine now, juts her chin out; her violet-blue eyes narrow in warning. “I’m not a child, Adam; you can’t stop me from seeing him. And you were out of line by telling him to stay away from me—“

  That prick! I can well imagine how he manipulated that piece of information to ingratiate himself with Cait. “He’s a jerk, who treats women like objects!”

  “Don’t you?” she demands. “The only reason you want me to stay away from Tom is to stop me from finding out what you get up to.”

  “No, I fucking don’t! And that’s not why—”

  “What’s going on in here?” Mom asks, and I realize I’ve been shouting. “Adam, watch your temper and stop cursing, especially at your sister. I don’t bother telling Mom that Caitlin has, on many occasions, outsworn me.

  “He’s being ridiculous,” Cait scowls at me. I glare back, challenging her to be reasonable, but it’s clear she’s determined to ignore anything I say.

  “Sorry,” I apologize to Mom before turning on my heel. In my room, I start packing.

  “What are you doing?” Mom asks, stepping inside.

  “I have a lot of work to do to prepare for tomorrow, so I’m going back to my apartment,” I say to appease her.

  “But we agreed you’d leave in the morning—” she protests and then, stepping close, touches my arm.

  “What were you arguing about?”

  “Nothing, Mom. You know how we are. It’s just a disagreement; it’ll blow over,” I assure her.

  “Are you sure you have to go?” she appeals. I hate disappointing Mom, but I’ve decided what I need to do, so tell her yes and return to stuffing clothes into my bag before she can question me further. />
  “I’ll get your food ready,” Mom says and kisses my cheek.

  At Mass Avenue, I stop only to dump my bag on my bed and place the food in the kitchen before making my way to Justin and Tom’s apartment. Justin opens the door and is about to greet me, but I brush past him.

  Tom’s leaning in the doorway to their living area. The bastard smiles as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. “I thought you weren’t back until the morning,” he says. “Want a beer?”

  I grab him by his collar. His shock does little to douse my anger; it stokes it because he’d apparently thought he’d get away with messing around with Cait behind my back. I pin him to the wall, my forearm pressed against his throat. “You fucking stay away from my sister!” I tell him. I’m so mad; I feel myself vibrating. Thoughts of how Tom behaves with women, how he talks about them after, memories of Eleanor crying out as some man hurts her, the helplessness I felt then, all flood through my brain. Fuck that; I’m no longer a helpless kid. No one’s going to harm any of my family ever again.

  “Hey, I like her…” Tom tries to protest.

  I increase the pressure on his throat. “I don’t give a shit! I’m not having you treat my sister like some easy lay.” His face turns red, his eyes wide and panicked in his struggle to breathe.

  “Adam—” Justin intervenes, but his placating tone only pisses me off more—ever the politician, pretending to take the high ground when, in fact, he condones Tom’s behavior. He probably does the same shit, except he’s much smarter and more subtle.

  “You knew, and you didn’t tell me?” I accuse him.

  “It really isn’t any of my business,” he says, raising his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “Well, it’s my fucking business. You should have told me,” I glare at him. A look of acknowledgment, or perhaps appeasement, crosses his face. I can’t tell; I’m too mad to think straight.

  “A…Adam, hear me out, okay?” Tom chokes. “I haven’t f… had sex… with Cait—” I tighten my hold, bringing myself almost nose to nose with him, silently warning that I don’t want to hear any of his usual bullshit. “I won’t,” he says and then assures me that he respects Cait. I ease off, not quite releasing my hold.