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God, Olivia.
Part of me wants to skulk off to Ireland without telling her why, but I can’t do that. I have to face this. I have to show her who I am, show her she’s wrong to have got involved with a guy like me. Wrong to have thought I was anything other than scum. I’ve laid down with dogs too often.
I don’t bother calling her. This isn’t a conversation for the phone. I need to see her.
I drive to her place, my mind already sifting through the case, the analytical side of my brain unable to resist shifting the case around in my mind, seeing it from all angles, exploiting possible weaknesses, and I’m disgusted at how easily I can do that. How I can list ten things that might allow my new client to have these charges thrown out of court at the arraignment. Guilty or not, it’s all a game of law.
I pull up in front of her flat and my body stills. I can see her in the kitchen; a glass of wine to one side of her, she’s leaning forward, writing in a notebook. I’d put my whole fortune on the fact she’s listening to a lecture. Studying.
Like the good girl she is.
My chest heaves.
I step out of the car and cross the street, knocking on the door before I can change my mind about doing this in person.
I jam my hands in the pockets of my jeans and I wait.
She jerks the door open and her beautiful face greets me. She smiles, but it’s a careful smile. Apologetic. Shy. Something. ‘Hey,’ she says, pulling the door wider. ‘Come in.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ve been trying to call you,’ she says, wiping her hands on a tea towel in the kitchen and waving towards a seat. ‘I saw the article, in the paper. I wanted to make sure you were okay.’
‘It’s just an opinion piece.’ I shrug, aware of the way she’s looking at me, seeing everything. I don’t even attempt a smile. ‘Most people would have considered it flattering.’
‘But you’re not most people.’
‘It’s not the first time I’ve been in the paper.’
She shakes her head and closes the distance between us. Damn it. I can’t have her right here, I can’t smell her sweetness and be within reach of her softness. ‘You’ve done a lot, professionally. And it’s unavoidable that you’ll be linked to Donovan from now on. It was a career-defining case.’
‘Most of my cases have been.’
‘This is different.’
‘Why?’ I challenge, needing to hear her say it.
She sighs softly and there’s sympathy in her expression. Sympathy I don’t want. ‘Because you won a bad case for a bad guy.’
I stiffen.
‘I know you can’t talk about it.’ She’s so beautiful. Her face is softened by the words she’s delivering. She’s afraid of hurting me. ‘You can’t tell me certain things, I get that. But I’m saying what I think. He’s guilty. He killed that poor girl, a girl just like I was, days away from setting off on a huge adventure. And I believe you took the case on for all the noble reasons you’ve espoused. Yes, he deserved a good defence. He deserved to have someone fight for him in court. You’re right. That’s how our justice system works and it’s important. But he didn’t deserve to be found not guilty. The system failed. You were too good at your job, and the prosecution wasn’t good enough. But innocent and guilty isn’t like a bad call in a game of football. This really matters.’
‘I’m aware of that.’ The words come out unintentionally cold.
She continues in the face of my rejection. ‘This will be like OJ. It’s not going to blow over. It’s not like hiding here in London, playing professor for a term, is going to wipe any of this from anyone’s memory. It’s a big deal. You’re a big deal. You and Donovan are linked. This case is a part of you. And you hate that.’
Her words are slicing into me, each syllable cutting deeper and deeper. She’s pouring her truth into my soul, but I can’t say with any clarity if it’s my truth, too. Or if it’s just what I wish were the case.
‘But it doesn’t have to define your future. If you don’t like the way winning Donovan felt, don’t win any more. Don’t fight those cases. Don’t be that guy.’
A laugh strangles my throat. I shake my head and then I cave, lifting my hand and cupping her cheek. ‘It’s so easy for you, Olivia.’ I don’t mean the words to sound patronising. It’s an anger that’s directed at myself, not her. ‘You, with your simple, happy outlook on life. With your “good is good and bad is bad” mentality. You think I should just change what I do? When what I do is who I am?’
Her eyes have softened with sympathy. I don’t want sympathy. ‘Who you are is a good man. What you do is practise law. You can do and be both those things without defending the Donovans of the world.’
‘It’s who I am,’ I repeat, the words heavy in the small living space of her run-down flat. ‘I thought fucking you could change that. I thought you could be a gateway to a new life. But leopards don’t change their spots. I’m sure as hell not capable of change.’
She blinks, her expression showing confusion.
