CHAPTER 2
Emma
The Pit is buzzing with energy this morning. One of our best civil litigation attorneys, Leary Michaels, left for the courthouse about an hour ago where she’ll be giving closing arguments in a wrongful death lawsuit. This particular case has captured the hearts of almost everyone here at Knight & Payne, as Leary represents the estate of a four-year-old little girl who was killed by a drunk driver.
Who happens to be the mayor of our city.
Well, former mayor actually. He’d been indicted on a host of criminal charges, including bribery, and was awaiting trial when he tied on one too many at a local bar one night and made the terrible and stupid mistake of trying to drive home. He blew through a red light and hit the car being driven by sweet little Caroline Allen’s mom.
Mom made it out with a broken femur. Caroline died in her car seat.
Last I heard, the former mayor’s insurance company had offered seven million last night at the close of court, and Leary told them to go to hell. She’s got some serious lady balls, which while I admire her tenacity, sometimes I think she could tone down the way in which she does things. Telling them to go to hell? Well, that’s not seemly… or professional… or how an attorney should act.
At least, that’s my opinion, but I know it’s not one shared by probably anyone else in this firm other than me. Not even my dad would have my back on this one.
I look across The Pit to my dad’s office. He’s a partner here at Knight & Payne and rates one of the coveted perimeter offices made of glass. I can see the charismatic Cary Peterson sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair and talking on the phone with his hands moving animatedly. I have this job for no other reason than my dad is a partner, and I wasn’t offered a job anywhere else after I passed the bar exam. This is a fact that has gotten me a bit down, as when you get rejection after rejection, you start to doubt your abilities. But my dad assures me the market is flooded and there are plenty of new attorneys who aren’t getting offers, and that perhaps I should just give Knight & Payne an honest try since no other options are presenting.
My dad’s a great attorney and a wonderful father. It’s no wonder I wanted to follow in his footsteps to become a lawyer, but I didn’t exactly want to be the type of lawyer he is. No, I get my passion for legal prose, research, and a knack for reading the fine print of contracts from my mother. She was an attorney too, but a much different type of attorney than my dad.
My dad is filled with this fiery need to work with people. He likes being in the middle of a scrappy fight, and he defends the common man with a vengeance that’s almost surreal. He’s a free spirit, a bit kooky—just like this firm—and is a huge risk taker.
My mom was his exact opposite, and yet they loved each other deeply. I had a special bond with my mom, definitely deeper than what I had with my dad, and that only strengthened as I got older and started really paying attention to what my parents did for a living. Early on, I was fascinated by the law… whatever type of law. I listened to both my parents tell their own personal war stories. But as I got older, through college and finally law school, I realized my passion was identical to my mom’s. We had an appreciation for the written legal word. We had a knack for interpreting it. We had a special ability to wade through lines and lines of legalese and be able to make sense of it all.
I shared that with her throughout almost my entire time in law school. I’d call her up after having read a particularly difficult case, and I’d pick her brain. She’d give me advice, and then we’d argue some of the finer points, just to be sure I understood everything. We did that several times a week, and that was my most special time with her.
She died almost a year and a half ago, just a few months before I finished law school. She didn’t get to see me graduate. She didn’t get to see me pass the bar.
She didn’t see me land a job that I just don’t like. I can’t talk to her about the fact I’m completely unhappy with my career at this point. I really can’t talk to my dad about it either, because he loves it here at Knight & Payne and thinks I should too.
My gaze travels around The Pit, which is a classic example of how very different I am from the core being of this law firm. Knight & Payne is probably the most watched law firm in the state of North Carolina. Currently up to sixty-eight lawyers, the tagline “Come any poor soul needing help” pretty much says it all. This is a firm that gets down in the trenches and helps the common man.
I find that to be very brave, very inspiring and it’s what I respect most about this firm.
But in taking that stance, Midge Payne, the only surviving original partner, decided that her firm would be as unique as her open arms policy. The firm takes up the twenty-seventh and twenty-eight floors of the Watts Building, also owned in its entirety by Midge. I’m on the twenty-seventh floor in the civil division, and I work in what’s called The Pit. It’s a large open area taking up the very center of the floor with nothing but rows of desks grouped in sections of four with no dividing panels or cubicles. This is a collaborative design, with the intent to foster discussion and promote teamwork. Lawyers work right alongside secretaries, with nothing to distinguish the two from each other except the educational degrees earned. You certainly wouldn’t be able to tell people apart by the state of their dress because Midge Payne has no dress code. People are allowed to wear whatever they want, which means most people dress uber casual.
I look down at my own crisply tailored Anne Klein black crepe suit with silk stockings and sensible black pumps. This is what an attorney should wear in my opinion.
To my right, Krystal Nichols, who is an attorney, is wearing a pair of green camouflage spandex pants with bright red heels and a gauzy, cream-colored top. It screams redneck tramp. She’s currently talking on the phone to an insurance adjuster and threatening to eat his balls for lunch. She graduated at the top of her law school class from Duke.
To my left is Fletch Stiles. He’s a big, burly dude who has been a secretary here at the firm for the past fifteen years. He’s probably in his mid-forties and does bodybuilding competitions. His fashion sense is still stuck in the 80s as evidenced by the acid-washed jeans he’s wearing that barely fit over his bulging thighs. His Led Zeppelin t-shirt is equally stretched over biceps that are roughly the size of hams. Fletch is snarky and slightly abusive, even to the attorneys who work here, and he intimidates the hell out of me. Thank God he doesn’t do any work for me.
In the seven months I’ve been here at Knight & Payne, I’ve not been able to get used to this work environment. It’s noisy and I can’t concentrate. I don’t like people being able to listen in on my conversations, and I can’t stand the laughing and joking that goes on throughout the day. It’s not how I envisioned the way I would practice law.
I thought I’d have my own office like my mom did, complete with wood-paneled walls, a lustrous mahogany desk, and shelves lined with law books just begging me to read them. I imagined I’d work hours upon hours poring over legal documents and trying to figure out loopholes so I could impress my clients. I’d have fancy lunches in the Capital Club with my peers, and we’d discuss the law and politics. I’d call my mom up at night, so we could argue and debate. I’d be looked upon with respect and eventually, I’d meet a nice man with similar interests and ambitions, we’d get married and have three kids, and maybe a dog.
At least, that was the game plan.
Instead, I accepted a job here at my father’s law firm because I wasn’t given an offer anywhere else. Instead of pursuing corporate law, I’m doing grunt work for Leary, who’s always off crusading to save some poor schmuck’s dignity.
Not to say there’s anything wrong with her practice of law. It’s admirable, no doubt.
It’s just not what I wanted.
I look around The Pit again.
I don’t want any of this, and I’m biding my time until a better opportunity comes along.
My phone chimes on my desk, jolting me out of my thoughts. I look around guiltily to see if anyone noticed I’d been daydreaming a bit, but everyone’s busy with either their own work or discussing cases. While Midge gives a ton of personal freedom to the people who work for her, no one ever takes advantage of it. I will have to say this is the hardest-working group of people I’ve ever encountered in my life.
I reach out and pick up my phone. Pulling the receiver to my ear, I say, “Emma Peterson.”
“Emma.” At the silky smooth woman’s voice coming through, I immediately go on hyper alert. While I don’t get much interaction with her, I would recognize Midge Payne’s voice anywhere. I’m stunned because she doesn’t ever deal with the associate attorneys, and my heart starts an erratic beat.
“Um… yes, Miss Payne… what can I do for you?” I ask, my voice trembling.
“It’s Midge,” she says curtly but not unkindly, a quick reminder we are all on a first-name basis here. This is another example of how this law firm is not meshing with my ideals of what a law practice should look like.
For example, Fletch should call me Miss Peterson, not Squirt, which is apparently the nickname he’d pinned on me due to my diminutive size. I dare not correct him.
“Yes, of course, Midge,” I stumble in apology. “How can I help you?”
“I need to see you,” she says. “In my office. Now.”
And then she hangs up.
I stare dumbfounded at my phone for about three seconds, then lift my head so my gaze focuses on Midge’s office door in the eastern corner of the twenty-seventh floor. Probably at least twenty Pit desks are lined up between Midge and me right now, yet I feel I need more protection for some reason.
The massive wooden door swings open slowly, revealing the reclusive yet beautiful woman known as Midge Payne. She’s the only attorney in this firm who rates an actual office with real walls that give her complete privacy. All other offices are bordered by glass walls. She stares at me directly with the silent message of, “Get your ass up and get in my office.”
I’m surprised my legs can even hold my weight as I slowly stand up from my desk and walk her way. Past the other Pit desks, the noise of people talking and laughing and debating. Past her cool-as-a-cucumber secretary who looks like she stepped out of the pages of Vogue and I realize I have no clue what her name is.
Midge steps backward into her office, motions me inside, and closes the door behind me.
It’s an ominous sound, and I wipe my sweaty hands on the crepe material of my skirt.
Without a word to me, Midge walks around her desk and takes a seat in a feminine high-backed, executive chair done in cream leather and cherry wood. I take one of the guest chairs opposite her, thankful for the desk separating us. I can’t remember ever being this intimidated before, and that even includes Professor Loughlin standing me up in Contracts class my first year of law school and grilling me for three days straight on a case.
She stares at me now, her blue eyes not unfriendly but still on the cool side. I’ve always thought Midge Payne was a beautiful woman. I have no clue her age, probably in her mid-sixties, but you’d never guess that. I swear she looks like she could pass for late forties. This is only the second time I’ve talked to her—the first being at the firm’s Christmas party a few months ago. She wished me Merry Christmas as she handed me a bonus check.
“I have a case for you,” she says.
Her voice cracking the silence startles me so much, I practically jump in my chair. I wipe my sweaty hands again.
“Um… sure,” I say, my voice almost squeaking with unease. To my knowledge, Midge Payne has never handed a case down to a lowly first-year associate. To my knowledge, Midge Payne has never even talked to a lowly first-year associate outside of handing out Christmas bonuses.
I know most young attorneys would be thrilled to catch the eye of the senior partner of their law firm, but all I can think at this moment is she’s going to give me something I can’t handle. I don’t fit in with this group of forward thinking, radicalized, and eclectic attorneys who push the boundaries of the law and wear shredded jeans while doing it.
I don’t fit in.
Maybe I’m not even worthy to fit in, and that’s something that’s actually been weighing my conscience down.
“I need you to get over to the Raleigh Police Station. They’re bringing in Evan Scott for questioning in an alleged homicide case,” she says, tone matter of fact.
My jaw drops.
Evan Scott?
Homicide?
I can’t help it. My head swivels slowly around, my body shifting slightly until I can see behind me. I have to make sure she’s not talking to someone else.
Another attorney.
Someone better than me. Someone with more experience, which would be just about any attorney out there in The Pit. Someone who likes people better than lengthy contracts.
Even better than that, she should choose someone in one of the outer offices. Like my dad, for Pete’s sake. He’s an amazing attorney, and this is Evan Scott we’re talking about.
Sexy indie rocker with a voice that hypnotizes.
Not that it’s ever happened to me before.
But he’s like a really big deal and has risen to mega-star fame this past year. I have his first and only album and I’m dying for the next one.
“I don’t understand,” I say, my voice so clogged it comes out in a rasp. I give a cough to clear it. “Why me? This case is way too big for someone like me.”
Midge merely cocks her eyebrow at me, leans back in her chair, and crosses her arms over her chest. “Emma… I don’t allow anyone to work here who can’t handle any case thrown at them.”
“I work here because my dad’s a partner here,” I point out softly. Because it’s true… he got me the job.
“No, you work here because I gave the okay to hire you,” she counters. “I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t think you could cut it.”
For the first time since I started here, I feel a tiny measure of belonging. Granted, it’s minute… almost infinitesimal. I have a hard time believing it as I look at this stunning woman in designer jeans with the body of a Victoria’s Secret model and the face of one as well, who is so brilliant and fierce that she has personally shaped many of the current laws in our state.
There’s no way.
But Midge appears to think otherwise. She uncrosses her arms, stands up from her desk, and says, “You need to head over there now. He’s probably already there and the longer they have him alone, the more chance he’ll talk.”
“But wait,” I blurt out as I stand up, completely wigged out by the prospect of this case. I even hold my hands out to her in a defensive posture. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never even handled a criminal case before.”
“Did you take Criminal Law in school?” she asks.
“Yes, but—”
“Criminal Practice and Procedure?”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you have immediate access to some of the best legal minds in this state if you were to call back here with questions?”
“Well, of course—”
“Then what’s the problem?” she asks in exasperation.
“It’s just… Evan Scott… I mean, this is huge. The media repercussions alone…”
“I understand that,” she says, and I almost detect a hint of empathy, but not an ounce of reluctance to send me. “But what’s the first rule of thumb in any criminal case when a suspect is being interrogated by the police?”
“Don’t talk without an attorney,” I say automatically.
“Exactly,” she praises as she walks around her desk toward me. “And would you ever let a client talk to the police?”
“Not until I found out what happened from the client,” I say.
“Well, there you go,” she says with a nod. “Get over there and talk to Evan. Find out what happened. Find out what the police have in the way of evidence. If you feel confident to let him talk, do so, but be prepared to jump in if anything sounds fishy. I’m quite sure they have nothing at this point to make an arrest, so he should be walking out with you.”
I nod, my head spinning with her advice and also a strange tingling low in my belly that is either nerves, indigestion, or perhaps it’s the prospect of meeting Evan Scott.
I’m actually going over to the police station where I’ll be given an officious visitor’s badge and sit in an interrogation room with an observation window that looks like a mirror, but every suspect and attorney knows it’s see through so they can watch and judge body language.
Midge gives a subtle nod toward the door, my cue that I need to get going. I turn away from her, but she stops me. “Oh, and Emma…”
I turn to look at her with raised eyebrows.
“I’m also going to make you point of contact for all media inquiries. I expect there will be a circus if he gets arrested,” she tells me.
“But…”
“No ‘buts’,” she admonishes and turns her back on me as she walks to her chair. “When you get done today, have Evan call me.”
“Call you?” I ask, confused as to why she would ever request such a thing.
She reaches her chair, turns, and sits down, leveling me a grim smile. “He’s my nephew. I want to talk to him and make sure he’s okay.”
“Your nephew?” I ask—okay, practically screech.
She chuckles, and wow… she’s even more beautiful when she laughs. “Yes, my nephew. My very dear nephew who I’m exceptionally close to.”
Is that a warning not to fuck this up?
That tingling in my stomach turns to nausea. “But… why aren’t you representing him? You’re like the best attorney in the state.”
“At this point, I believe you can handle this,” she says calmly, and then picks up a file from the corner of her desk. I watch as she lays it before her, opens it and starts reading a document.
She doesn’t say anything else to me either.
In essence, I’ve been dismissed.