Chapter Eleven
Probation
Dane rolled back into Naughton at a minute to five, his blood speeding, still smelling her perfume on his collar, still sensing the feel of her arms around his back.
Brooke, Brooke, Brooke. She danced in his mind as he took the elevator up to the main offices of Tweed Law. How close she’d been to him, how nearly he’d come to kissing her again after all these months of yearning for her, sent his blood coursing hot through his veins.
She wants me. Bad.
But then he walked into his office, where a sickening memory of what had happened with Mrs. Jackson last night slammed him like a fully loaded freight train. A few files still lay askew on his desk and floor from when he’d exited so fast he probably left a jet trail behind him.
On his desk lay a note in Vonda’s handwriting. Why his secretary hadn’t messaged— or straightened his office, he didn’t know. Oh, yeah. Ignored texts.
Tweed wants to see you the second you get in.
Twice in two days? That partner board worked fast. Dane brightened, his step light as he covered the distance to the boss’s office.
“Mr. Tweed?” he said after Tweed’s secretary granted him access. “You wanted to see me? Because Ballard is progressing well. I’m nearly done with opening arguments, and I’ve got three ways to skewer Insura-Care.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Shish-kebabed opponents.” Tweed sat back and straightened his tie. “But what I don’t like to hear about is you screwing around with the partners’ wives.”
Dane peripheral vision went black, as if he’d been shot and started to bleed out instantly. “I’m sorry?”
“You should be,” Tweed said, willfully mistaking Dane’s meaning. “You might think that because you’re a rainmaker you have the right to take whatever you want around here.” Under his breath he muttered, “Moron.”
“Hey. Hey, now. That is absolutely not something that happened.” His face went from cold to hot to cold again. He had to find out exactly what he was being accused of. “Not in a million years. Did someone tell you something like that?” Even under extreme duress he tried to order his thoughts, dredge up his skills at deposition.
Tweed futzed around at his computer screen for a moment before swinging the monitor toward Dane, and there, in grainy black and white resolution from a security camera, there he was, Dane himself in blurry work mode.
He’d been on camera all this time? Maybe it shouldn’t surprise him, what with Ullman Tweed’s reputation for general paranoia.
The time-stamp read 12:38 a.m. And yep. There entered that barracuda in all her drunken majesty. It was painful to watch reenacted, even more painful than the experience itself, perhaps, as at the time he’d been too stunned to react emotionally.
Now he alternated between nausea and revulsion. The woman was even less appealing on camera.
“I categorically deny any guilt on that count.”
“The facts remain: an incident occurred late last night. Two parties alone remained in the office.” Tweed twisted his tie tack. “One a man, the other a woman of high standing in this organization.”
Ugh. Maybe she’d complained to her husband. Bile crept up from Dane’s gut, but he muscled it back down, frowning hard.
Tweed went on. “This report came from the woman herself.” And then Tweed made his first mistake: he let out a contemptuous sigh.
Dane narrowed his eyes. “And you listened.”
Tweed answered too quickly. “Of course I did. She’s a woman of high standing in this organization.” He used the same rote phrase; practiced and phony. Meanwhile, his tone betrayed his real opinion. He didn’t believe the woman’s assertion. Dane was on to him now and didn’t intend to let go of his line of argument.
“You gave it all the credence it deserved, naturally.”
“Naturally.”
Another glance told Dane all he needed to know about Tweed’s position in the matter, and he and Tweed were clearly of one mind. The boss’s hands were tied, but he’d probably seen effects of the Nastiness in the past— likely in far greater detail than Dane Rockwell would ever want to know.
Nevertheless, Dane’s skin crawled with worry. This was not going to go well for him. Punishment of some kind would have to be doled out, or the woman of high standing in this organization wouldn’t rest. Not while her husband was partner.
Dane steeled himself and said, “Someone is going to have to pay a price, I take it.”
Tweed walked around a bit, rubbing his hair into a mess, then returned to his chair and sat heavily in it. He glanced around the room, up at the security cameras, and then pointed at the centerpiece, looking a little paranoid. Did he think the room was bugged?
Taking the hint, Dane spoke carefully. “I can understand that,” he said, “but I’d like a chance to explain. Obviously.”
“Oh, you’ll get to explain, all right.” Tweed tugged at his shirt sleeves and twisted the cuff links. “Sometime in the next month or so, there will be a hearing at the county courthouse with a panel of ethics hearing officers from the Virginia Bar Ethics Commission.”
Who would pass judgment, he knew, probably without even listening to Dane’s side. Sexual harassment was a guilty until proven innocent game. And almost nobody was ever proven innocent.
“And until that hearing?” Dane asked.
“You’re suspended from Tweed Law.”
Suspended! Dane thought his peripheral vision had gone dark before, but now it was closing in on him all around. Only a pinpoint of light remained, and Tweed sat dead center in it. This was far worse than he’d imagined. Suspended. Or fired?
“But what about Ballard?” he choked out.
“I appreciate your dedication.” Oh. Dane heard the unspoken but there’s nothing we can do. “Most guys would be asking about what to do with all their free time in the interim, but not you. You’re focused.”
And suspended.
Suspended. Stopped. Left hanging. The word meant a lot of different things.
“What all does suspension entail, sir?”
Tweed leaned close and pitched his voice very low, too low for any bugging to pick up. Dane had to strain to hear it.
“I’m not stupid, Rockwell. I saw the tape. But I also know this Jackson woman— and the attorney she’ll hire. She’s vicious.”
Tweed twisted his tie-tack and then spoke in a normal tone again. “Suspension means for the next few weeks, maybe months, you’re to do everything in your power to stay off her radar.” He frowned. “You can practice law. I know you young bucks have loans to consider. Just keep it off Tweed Law campus. Go to the country— do some estate planning, keep it boring.”
Suspended. Or was it fired? It sounded like fired. It felt like fired.
Dane’s jaw ached from clenching.
“Boring. Right.” Dane nodded. Right. Out of Naughton, off the grid, and a hundred million miles from his career trajectory.
Brooke Chadwick would never take him seriously now.
Barely coherent, he brushed himself off and headed out to exit Tweed Law for the last time for a while.
“Oh, and one more thing, Rockwell.”
Dane turned back.
“No female clients,” Tweed said. “Whatsoever.”