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“What’s a palisade?”
Jonah looks ridiculously good today, settled into my passenger seat. He’s slowly learning how to hold himself in a suit, his tie knotted only slightly crooked, and he shaved so closely this morning that his cheeks are still a little red. “A defensive wall made of logs.” I change lanes to pass a camper van, looking forward to the countryside near Oliver’s house, where I can give the car its head. “Why?”
He points out the window at the buildings whipping past. “There was a sign that saidPalisades.”
“Ah. That’s a set of basalt cliffs overlooking the Hudson River.”
“Wait, really?” He twists eagerly, even though they’re long gone. “Can we stop and look at them?”
“I’m going to let you think for a moment, then answer that question yourself.” He slides mournfully down in his seat. “Take a cab and go see them tomorrow.”
“Will you come with me?” It spills out of his mouth so easily, the most natural thing in the world. I hit the accelerator and queue up a file of voice notes I want to refresh myself on before the meeting.
“I’ll be working. Ask Elliott if he wants to go.” I wonder if he still has that crush on Elliott. They’d make a much less strange-looking couple than we would. Not that I’ve spent time thinking about it.
Jonah listens solemnly to my recording with his eyes closed, sinking further and further into his seat until I’m certain he’s just sleeping. When we’re five minutes out, I prod his knee and he jumps awake, mumbling apologies before arching his back and sticking his tongue out in a huge, unselfconscious yawn, like a sleepy cat.
“Oliver and I are finalizing the last pieces of information I need from him before the trial begins.” I watch him try to fix his tie in the side mirror. “This is the first time you’re representing me in front of a client. Your job is to keep quiet, do what I ask, and offer him anything he needs, while also observing and learning from the interview. Understood?”
He blows out a huff of air. “Yes, sir.”
“And whatever you do, donotmention Jackson Moreno.”
He glances at me. “The other guy from the cave-in. The one who’s in jail.”
“The situation between them is very complicated. No one is sure what they went through together down there, but he doesn’t like to talk about it.”
Jonah doesn’t answer. When I look over, he’s fiddling with the seam of his trousers.
“What?”
“I just…that sounds like hell. For all you know, you’re trapped underground for the rest of your life and the only person you’ll talk to or touch before you die is some complete stranger.”
“Indeed.” I’ve thought about it, of course, but when he says it like that, the slightest break in his voice, I’m struck with a mental image of Jonah waking up alone and utterly terrified in the dark. I have to slam the door on that thought immediately. “Oliver is dealing with a tremendous amount of trauma, so treat him sensitively.”
We pull up to a white, two-story house with a wraparound porch on a wooded road. The place is well kept except for the overgrown garden that’s threatening to devour the front path. “Can I mow his lawn while you talk?” Jonah asks, climbing out of the car. I realize he’s completely serious.
“Jonah.” It’s a reprimand, and he knows it. His eyes find me over the top of the car. “Until you can learn to maintain professional distance, it would be best if you keep quiet.” It’s a shitty thing to say, but he makes me feel shitty. The absolute simplicity of his frank, unpretentious kindness. Why the fuck do I have to be the one to teach him that the world doesn’t work that way?
Oliver opens the front door as we climb the steps to the porch. “Welcome. Come in.” He still hasn’t fleshed out since the incident, slim enough to drown in his thick, cable-knit sweater. His tired blue eyes examine Jonah uneasily.
“This is my intern.” Jonah offers his hand, and Oliver relaxes a little and ushers us inside.
“Can I get you some tea?”
“Thank you.”
As instructed, Jonah stays quiet as we make our way down a dark-paneled hall hung with watercolor landscapes into a cozy living room. While Oliver goes to the kitchen, I arrange my paperwork and recorder on the coffee table. Jonah perches next to me, his hand between his knees, chewing on the inside of his cheek. I’m about to apologize for being harsh when a little girl with twin braids over her shoulders appears in the doorway, staring with wide eyes. I haven’t seen Oliver’s daughter in so long I forgot she existed as anything more than a line item in the list of personal and emotional damages from the accident.
Oliver appears behind her, balancing two cups of tea. “Honey, I told you to go play while Mr. Freeman’s here.”
She wraps an arm around his leg, whimpering. “Don’t make me go.” When he tries to extricate his thigh from her grip, she bursts into tears. Oliver shoots me a strained, apologetic glance.
“Hey there.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jonah slide cross-legged onto the floor and scoot into the middle of the room. “I’m Jonah. What’s your name?”
She stares at him, stuffing half of her fist into her mouth. “Megan,” her father chides. “What did we say about not chewing your fingers? She started doing this since the accident,” he tells me, like he expects me to judge his parenting.
