Chapter One
Claire
“Your honor...” I’m losing patience with the so-called wheels of justice. They always move slowly for my clients, but this is beyond the pale.
I lean forward, placing both palms flat on the table in front of me. “My client was in custody for as long as the county could hold him, then released on electronic home monitor for ninety days, then on regular home detention for the last two months. Now the prosecution wants another continuance of the trial date? If the prosecution is having difficulty putting its case together...”
I continue to direct my comments to the judge, but I can’t stop my eyes from flicking over toward the prosecutor. Steven, my ex-husband. “Perhaps that means the prosecution doesn’t...have...a case.”
My juvenile client makes a whispered “Oooooo,” and I squeeze his wrist to get him to shut up. This case is only hard because his snarky attitude makes everything worse. If he hadn’t been a dick and hadn’t told the officer who pulled him over that he was “pretty hot for a lesbian,” maybe his car wouldn’t have been searched. If he hadn’t been searched, they wouldn’t have found his buddy’s pipe, rolling papers, and ledger in the glove box...
I wiggle my foot inside my eBay Jimmy Choo. As a rule, I prefer flip-flops and jeans, but it’s pencil skirts, silk blouses, and heels in the courtroom. I’ve been on my feet all day.
“Mr. Benton? Your response to Ms. Sweeney?” asks Judge Washington.
“The prosecution’s primary witness has been called out of state to care for an elderly parent. We’re only asking for a week’s extension to give the witness time to set up in-home care.”
“Your Honor,” I butt in. “If the defense was in a similar pickle, we all know the trial would go on as planned without our witness.”
Steven holds his hands up in supplication. “A week is not an unreasonable request under the circumstances, Your Honor.”
“I’ll grant your request for a continuance,” Judge Washington says. “Reluctantly. And only because I have a sudden opening on my calendar. This is the last continuance the court will oblige you, Mr. Benton. Opposing counsel has a point. Be ready next Friday, eight thirty.”
I turn toward my client and give him an apologetic look. If the judge had made the prosecution go forward today, the case would have likely been dismissed on the basis of insufficient evidence. “Sorry, kid. I tried.”
He rolls his eyes. Sometimes I get the distinct impression that I care more about my clients’ fates than they do. He’ll probably be watching Netflix and chilling with his girlfriend all week, while I now have seven more days of prep.
Judge Washington stands from the bench. When he’s gone, I sense Steven moving toward me out of the corner of my eye.
“Claire.”
“Not now.”
I put my hand on my client’s shoulder and direct him to his parents in the front row. After a few words of instruction to them about next week, I march out of the courtroom and into the wide hallway.
My heels click quickly against the marble floor, and I close my eyes briefly when I hear the hard slap-slap-slap of Steven’s shoes running after me. Even though he’s remarried, he still insists on having my attention.
“Claire! Wait up.”
I stop. Exhale through my nose. Gather my wits. Then turn around.
Steven is what you might call a “pretty” man: thick, dark blond hair styled with plenty of product; sharply angled jaw; piercing blue eyes under salon-groomed brows. These days he even has a spray tan. In Minnesota. Christ, it’s ridiculous. His vanity was one of the reasons we never worked.
The other reasons had more to do with the fact we both had crazy busy legal careers, but I was the one who had to do everything once we got home. I don’t think he even knew how to start the dishwasher. Hence his quick remarriage. He probably ran out of clean plates.
The last straw was when I overheard him joke to his friends that it sucked to be prettier than his wife. While I’m not particularly vain, my pride had been wounded, for sure. Worse than that, it forever changed the way I saw him.
I wanted a real man, not a prima donna.
When I announced I was leaving, Steven told me I’d never do better than him. It had struck a nerve from my childhood, one that I thought had healed years and years ago.
That re-exposed nerve remains sensitive because it’s looking like Steven might have been right. I haven’t had sex in over two years, unless you’re counting the very deep and meaningful relationship I have with my vibrators. Based on the pitiful way my ex is looking at me right now, I suspect he knows that to be the sad state of affairs.
“What is it, Steven?” I ask with a tone of exasperation.
“I bought a table for The Green Light gala tonight. I had all the seats spoken for, but one of my colleagues backed out last minute.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I turn, and Steven grabs my elbow to stop me. I do stop, and my eyes trail down to his hand. “Let go of me.”
He releases his grip then slowly draws his hand away. “I thought you could take his seat.”
“Thank you, but I already have a ticket.”
“Oh!” He sounds surprised. He likely didn’t think I could afford my own.
His assumption isn’t wrong. The Green Light Foundation’s annual gala is a fundraiser for local social-justice issues. It’s held at the Wellington, the swankiest hotel in Minneapolis, and tickets are three hundred dollars a plate. They even roll out a red carpet, as if the entire legal community and local philanthropists were legit celebrities. I only have a ticket because I got it for free.
“Well, you could still join my table,” Steven says. “It would be sad to see one empty chair.”
“I’m sorry, no. I...um...have a date. I’ll be sitting with him.”
“A date?”
“That’s right.” Blood is rushing into my face because, actually, it’s a bald-faced lie. My unusual lack of impulse control now requires me to scrounge up a warm body, along with an extra ticket. Shit, I didn’t even think about the ticket! As if I needed more reason to be stressed about the gala.
“Well, that’s...great, Claire. Good for you. I’m glad you’re finally...getting on with it.”
“I am.”
“Maeve and I will see you there, then.”
Ugh. Of course Steven’s new wife will be there. And he invited me to sit at his table? With her? What game is he playing?
“Yeah, I’ll see you.” Actually, not if I can help it. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”
I hustle out of the courthouse and to my Mercedes. My car and the house (mortgage free) are the only things I got out of the divorce. I took a hard pass on any monthly obligations from Steven.
I slide behind the wheel and check the time. Three hours. I have three hours to rummage through my contact list, my high school yearbook, and maybe the white pages to find a date, then get dressed, do my makeup, and get to the Wellington before seven o’clock.
First things first. I call Chrystal.
“Hello?” she answers sounding as frazzled as she did when we were studying for the bar exam together. The sound of whining fills the background. All three of her kids have come down with the chicken pox at the exact same time.
“Hey, hon. How are the kiddos doing?”
“Itchy. Scabby. Miserable.”
“Oh, poor sweethearts.” I pull out of the parking garage and merge into downtown traffic.
“I’m up to my elbows in calamine lotion. What’s up, Claire?”
“Rumor has it you and John won’t be going to the gala tonight.”
“Oh my gosh. Is that tonight? I’ve completely lost track of where I am in the universe. But yeah, we’re not going. I can’t put this nightmare on a babysitter.”
“So you still have your tickets?”
“Do you know someone who needs one?”
“Me.”
“But you said...?”
“It’s not for me. I need to bring a plus-one after all.”
“You need to?”
“Long story.” If I bring up Steven, Chrystal will want to bitch about him for an hour. I don’t have time to relive all the law school animosity between them.
“Yeah, honey, I’ve got a ticket for you,” she says.
“I can pay you for it.”
Mentally, I calculate what I can cut out of my budget to pull that off, but Chrystal saves me from a month of ramen by saying, “Forget about it. It’s a charitable donation. I can write it off. Swing by. I’ll meet you on the sidewalk. Don’t get any closer to the house.”