Page 52 of License to Kill

I came up with one answer: I lived because my ma had wanted me to die.

I would make it be enough until I had time to figure out the rest.

When I showed up for work the next day, dressed in my usual black slacks, blazer, and white shirt, my boss was waiting for me at my desk, a full half-hour before he was supposed to arrive at the office. For an attorney, I liked Mr. Desjardins, although he made the other lawyers in the firm seem like harmless guppies compared to his shark.

Behind his flint-gray eyes was a steel trap of a mind, and winning meant everything to him, second only to his daughter.

“Miss Thomas,” he greeted, patting a manila folder sitting on the corner of my desk. “I trust you’re feeling better this morning?”

“Yes, thank you,” I murmured, scooping up the folder on my way to my chair. After dumping my purse on the floor near my feet, I set it in front of my keyboard and flipped it open. “You’re in early.”

“An issue has come up with the Hemshaw case. I wanted to pick your brain. You’re familiar with FBI investigations, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. While I knew the Hemshaw case was scheduled to open in court in the afternoon, I hadn’t thought there would be issues with it; unlike a lot of the cases through the firm, from my understanding of the situation, it should have been an open-and-closed divorce trial. “I’m under the impression the Hemshaw case is a divorce settlement?”

“It has become complicated. Our client wishes to file criminal charges against his wife in addition to the divorce proceedings.”

“Doesn’t the trial begin today?”

“Mrs. Hemshaw assaulted our client last night. Mr. Hemshaw sustained minor injuries. Their daughter is in critical condition in ICU. I wanted to find out how the FBI would be involved in the case.”

“They won’t be; the local police department would handle the investigation. Domestic violence cases are under standard police jurisdiction, sir.”

“Mrs. Hemshaw took their daughter across state lines.”

I grimaced. CARD would have become involved, then. The law firm I worked with rarely handled full criminal proceedings, instead handling civil and familial law issues. “I see. The first appearance in court should happen within seventy-two hours following arrest, at which point the judge will determine if there is sufficient evidence to order the case to proceed. During this time, the FBI will gather all relevant evidence and present it to the attorneys for use in court. If Mr. Hemshaw wishes for you to try the civil elements of the case, the evidence will be submitted to you and the courts for your use during the trial. You and your client will also be responsible for submitting any additional evidence regarding the case. The length of time it’ll take to gather evidence and proceed to the arraignment phase of the trial varies on the case’s complexity. If a plea bargain isn’t submitted and agreed upon, the case will move on to the discovery and motion portions of trial. The discovery portion will be where more evidence and information is gathered. The FBI will attempt to, within reason, provide any information available during the discovery phase. You know the rest of the system far better than I do.”

“Will the department in the FBI handling the case cooperate?”

“While I would assume so, it wasn’t something I directly had experience with.”

Handling paperwork as an anchor hadn’t put me in position to work with the attorneys; that had fallen under the umbrella of the field agents with direct exposure to the case. I had scheduled the appointments in court and the joint meetings with the attorneys with the defense and prosecution.

“Would you be willing to attend the opening portions of this trial to advise us on anything we may need to know to help our case?”

I clenched my teeth, sucked in a breath, and fought the tightening in my chest and throat. “Of course, sir.”

“Excellent. Work with Zenza. I’ve already discussed the situation with her. She volunteered to help handle your duties while you’re handling the sessions.”

At least I wouldn’t have any problems figuring out which woman Zenza was. She was the only African in the office, born and raised in Zimbabwe before her parents had immigrated to the United States. Zenza wasn’t her real name, but when she discovered most people in New York had trouble with spelling her real name, she had come up with it to ease her transition. “Okay, sir. I’ll speak with her.”

“I’ll pick you up in forty-five minutes.”

Forty-five minutes wasn’t enough time to get my necessary work done, but I handled the critical scheduling work, forwarded the emails of the important tasks to Zenza, and dropped into the paralegal’s office to discuss what needed to be handled while I was gone. The woman’s brows arched as I briefed her on what the next few hours of my day should have looked like.

“I seem to have underestimated the amount of work you manage to cram into half a day,” she confessed.

I understood. Without any distractions, I could get a lot done, and since I had nothing to distract me at all, I lived and breathed my work. If she found out about the make-work I did during the lulls, she’d probably have a heart attack. “That’s what happens when managing ten people.”

Smiling bothered me, but I did it anyway.

“True enough. I’ll make sure this gets done before you’re back, and I’ll email you if there are any issues.”

“Text me if there’s any serious problems. I’ll take an office laptop just in case.”

Making off with one of the laptops would cost me ten minutes, and I bailed from Zenza’s office, ambushed one of the tech guys, and pleaded for a temporary system to take to the trial in case I needed it.

Instead of a laptop, I got an oversized tablet with a stylus and a portable keyboard. I made it back to my desk with two minutes to spare, giving me enough time to snag my purse. Neither the keyboard nor tablet fit, and I was glaring at the useless leather bag in disgust when Mr. Desjardins showed up.