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“You’re looking in the wrong places.”
“What do you mean?”
Signaling behind me with my head, I say, “You’re not going to find something real in your courtroom. There’s no real opportunity to get to know someone. And this, summoning attorneys to your office, won’t make them stick it out in the long term.”
“What do you suggest?” Preying on her courtroom doesn’t seem to cross her mind as unethical.
I sigh.
He will kill me, but I feel like they might get along. “I know someone you might find interesting. Great guy. Steady job. Up for a good time.”
Sitting forward, she smiles, revealing her intrigue. “Do tell.”
I’m not an idiot. I’m willing to win this trial fair and square, but I have to get her to announce the verdict. “First, there’s a matter of this trial.”
“Right.” She stands and starts on the zipper of the robe, tugging it up. “Let’s get this case closed.”
Forty-five minutes later, I push out the courthouse doors and start walking back to the office. With the phone to my ear, I hear my dad answer, “Hello?”
“We won.”
“Way to get it done, son. How did it wrap?”
“The other side offered a settlement behind closed doors to cut the losses and not spend the next year battling over money they know they’ll lose anyway. The Reinhold Group accepted.”
“Fantastic news. A hard-fought battle you can be proud of winning. But promise me something.”
“What?” I stop off to the side in the doorway of a building to hear him better.
“When the competition comes around to offer some ludicrous amount of money at another firm, stick with family.”
“Guess it depends on the offer.” I’m joking. I have more money than I know how to spend now. It stopped being about that a few years ago. I’m building a firm and a legacy of my own. I can do that with Westcott Law. “Joking, Dad. Why go anywhere else when the firm already bears my name.”
“My name,” he corrects with a lot less humor than seconds earlier. “But maybe it’s time to talk about your future when you’re here for Thanksgiving. You’re still coming to Beacon, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“And you’re bringing Tuesday?”
“I’ll ask her tonight.”
“Good, and job well done on this case, Lochlan.”
“Thanks, Dad. Talk soon.”
When we hang up, I start walking again. I’ve traveled this way a million times, but it feels different this time. I stop when I near the coffee shop where the attack on Tuesday happened, seeing the wall and the concrete with a stained blood spot. And I know what needs to happen. It’s time to get Tuesday some answers.
I call Leisa and have her contact a few private investigators our law firm uses on occasion while I stop into a local restaurant to place a catering order for our office party. And as I make my way back into my workplace, moods are high and victory evident.
I stand in the corner of the conference room and stare out at this incredible view, a view that I took for granted before Tuesday taught me to take a minute to appreciate our surroundings, when I hear Leisa call me. “You have a call, Loch.” Turning to her tapping her phone, she adds, “Line one in your office.”
“Thanks.” Here we go.
“Loch Westcott.”
After a productive call that lasted more than twenty minutes, I hang up the phone, justified in my actions. I had to do it.
For Tuesday.
The call with the investigator doesn’t make me feel better even though it should. She deserves answers. But what will happen to us once she finds out who she is? My gut fills with dread that any moment she could be taken away from me or, worse, willingly leave me.
I set my selfish needs aside and look at it through the long-range lens. She needs to know. She deserves to know who she is and make decisions based on what is best for her in life.
Her happiness is all that matters.
“I owe you one, Brady.”
“You owe me more than one and a raise for this.” He straightens his tie, then asks, “How did I get talked into this?” The shaking of his head counters the amusement in his voice.
“Because I distinctly remember you asking me if I knew any women to set you up on a date with. Voilà.”
“That was like three years ago.”
“Better late than never.”
“She better be hot.”
Hot. Check. Also slightly stalkerish. Check. But equally sexually explorative. Check.
“The Kitty Kat Club over on Staten Island.”
“Nice place. High end.”
Resting against the back of the couch, I say, “Leave it for the Yelp review. Remember, she’s wearing a mask so no one will recognize her.” I try to hide my laughter behind my hand but fail miserably and burst out.
“Sounds like the judge has a wild side.”
“She does, and a penchant for the gavel.”
He looks at me; his eyes set harder than usual. “What does she do with the gavel?”
