Once A Liar

I couldn’t choke out a word, watching Harrison and Eric Gordon explode with excitement as cheers rose from the crowd. My head felt stuffy and faraway, like I was watching the verdict on an old television through layers of static. Everything felt like it was moving quickly around me, but I was trapped in some slow-motion underwater world where I couldn’t move or react.

The bailiff put Stu in handcuffs and court officers led him away while I stood, disoriented and confused, wondering if what was unfolding around me was really happening.

Stu struggled as the officers opened the door to exit the courtroom, and he screamed accusations and profanities my way. “You’re a fucking fraud, Caine! You’ll never succeed in this town, mark my words!” The door slammed behind him as Harrison and Eric walked across the aisle to gloat in my face, unable to contain their satisfaction.

Eric, smirking at me, extended his hand, clearly a faux-professional gesture.

“Can’t win ’em all, eh, Peter?” He laughed.

I gathered up my papers and briefcase, nodded his way and muttered, “Well played.”

Harrison, for his part, didn’t even attempt to shake my hand or show any dignity. He just slapped his ADA on the back and led him away, looking at me with judgment plastered all over his face.

The reporters waiting outside the courthouse were merciless. Shoving cameras and microphones in my face, hollering questions as I shielded myself from their torments, walking quickly to the curb and jumping into the back of a cab.

Once home, my mind finally cleared, and the realization of what just happened began to sink in. The sickening taste of defeat didn’t sit well with me. I poured myself two fingers of scotch to wash down the bitterness in my throat and turned on CNN to find Eric and Harrison on-screen. Harrison stood larger than life behind his ADA, and Eric took the microphone to speak. Before I could hear what he had to say, my phone rang, and I snatched it up immediately.

“Angry?” Marcus asked me from the other side of the line.

“Furious,” I responded, though I was still more bewildered than angry.

“Good. That’s the kind of fuel you need.” He drew in a deep drag of his cigarette and I could almost hear him grin.

Just as I was about to respond, I suddenly understood what was happening. “You did this...you did this on purpose? You knew we would lose?”

“Of course we would lose, Peter. This was a completely unwinnable case. I’ve always known what you were capable of, and I’m not talking about legal skills.” He sucked in another drag. “You needed to get your ego in check and you needed to access the useful parts of yourself.”

“The useful parts?” A rapid succession of visuals passed through my head, and I remembered watching Marcus Rhodes, my legal hero, a god to my classmates in law school, gutting his opponents in courts without mercy or pity.

“The useful parts are the cold ones, Peter. The unsentimental, remorseless, brutal parts. That’s what you need in your career. Put that sympathetic bullshit behind you and embrace the fury you feel right now.” He was a monster, and I had sold my soul. Juliette’s warning that afternoon in Central Park flashed like a neon sign in my head.

As Marcus instructed me to accept my spite and anger, I struggled to reconcile my thoughts. I couldn’t accept that Marcus would set me up to fail and damage my pristine reputation, the one thing I wanted so badly to maintain. I looked up to him, and for me to learn from him and achieve his levels of success, I couldn’t turn against him—I couldn’t start to hate him.

“Why would you put me through this, Marcus? I did everything you asked of me. Why humiliate me like this?” I didn’t want to whine or appear unappreciative, but I couldn’t understand what we could possibly gain through failure.

“I didn’t do this to you—Harrison Doyle did. Don’t be mad at me, Peter. Get mad at him.” I focused in on Harrison’s pixelated face on the television. It wasn’t Marcus who would be on the receiving end of my hate; it was Harrison Doyle.

I hung up the phone, in need of a distraction. I headed to Bull & Bear at the Waldorf, assured I was far enough uptown to avoid anyone involved in the Bogovian case. But, of course, with the luck I was having that day, Harrison was there, holding court at the bar. I dreaded speaking with him, though I wanted to hear exactly what he had to say. I craned my neck to listen.

“Peter Caine is an ineffective upstart, lacking the singular ability it takes to win cases—heart. Even his client called him a fraud.”

Harrison went on to slander Stu Bogovian, spurred on by the gasps and guffaws of the rest of the lawyers. My ears filled with a burning heat, and the word ineffective blared in my head over and over again. Harrison Doyle said I was a feeble attorney, that I couldn’t do my job. He trashed my reputation in front of colleagues and peers.

My humiliation turned to anger and was then replaced with a burning, malicious drive. Marcus was right—it was Harrison who put me in this position, not Marcus. Marcus was teaching me how to be the best, and I was going to get there. All I needed to do was follow Marcus’s path, coldhearted as it may be.

Ineffective? Never. I vowed to make Harrison regret those words. And oh, how the tables would turn.

NOW (#u6589a2b9-2b55-5642-ba4f-7e0824597b39)

This morning, Claire rises early, catching me as I put on my suit in my dressing room. It’s rare that Claire and I wake up together, and even more infrequent that we share a morning coffee or breakfast. Even on the weekends, I always have something to do that takes me out of the house and away from her. She’s used to living with a ghost; an indent in the other side of the bed, a whiff of aftershave as opposed to a real human being.

“Good morning,” she calls, her voice foggy.

I pop my head through the doorway to look at her. “What are you doing up so early?” I cinch my tie tightly up to my throat.

“I wanted to make sure I was awake to send Jamie off to school before I go to work. Give him a nice breakfast.” Claire yawns and stretches her thin limbs across the whole bed.

“That kid kept me up half the night traipsing around. Floorboards creaking down there—it was deafening.” I scrutinize my reflection.

“I didn’t hear a thing. You’re probably just imagining it.” She takes a long sip of water and rubs the sleep from her eyes. “He’s living here now. You have no more excuses to avoid developing a relationship with him. It’s important—he’s been through so much. He needs his father.”

I don’t respond. After their clandestine conversation yesterday, dancing on the edge of insulting me, I don’t feel inclined to take parenting advice from someone who doesn’t have faith in me.

Claire plods gently into her bathroom to brush her teeth. As soon as she shuts the water off, I close the bedroom door and quickly head down the stairs.

“What am I going to cook for this kid?” she says aloud when she walks into the kitchen. She’s not speaking to me, instead posing her question to the inside of the fridge. I don’t respond. She pulls out a package of bacon and starts laying strips in a frying pan. “All teenagers love bacon, right?” she asks into the pan.

The smell instantly fills the kitchen, and Claire inhales deeply while chopping vegetables for a quick frittata. She punches the button on the espresso machine and makes herself a coffee while she works. I keep my nose in the paper, making sure my presence stills her ability to return to a discussion about me once Jamie comes down.

Jamie appears in the doorway with his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Morning,” he says. He drops his bag on the ground and pulls up a seat at the round table.

“Good morning, Jamie.” Claire smiles. “Did you sleep well?”

“Not really. I think I need to get used to my new room.” He looks nervously in my direction. “Sorry if I was loud. I was wandering around a bit.”

“No problem,” I lie.

“Bacon and eggs okay?”

“Great, thanks, Claire.” Jamie stands and takes the plates from the cabinets and sets the table for breakfast. “It was good to talk to you yesterday,” he begins but immediately stops himself.

“Yes,” she agrees. She sips her coffee, and I think I see her shoot a wink his way.

“I walked around the house last night.” Jamie fiddles with the knife by his plate, changing the subject from yesterday’s conversation that I wasn’t supposed to hear. “I couldn’t fall asleep, so I went exploring.”

“Where did you explore?” I ask, wondering if he’d been snooping in my things.

“Just around my floor and down here. There aren’t any pictures of me in this house,” Jamie says. “I mean, I don’t want to be an egomaniac or anything, it’s just there used to be so many pictures of me at home. And now I’m in a house with none. It’s noticeable. There aren’t any pictures of you, either,” he says to Claire.

Claire frowns. Both of them look to me for explanation, but I’ve turned my attention back to the paper.

“No,” she sighs. “No, there aren’t. The framed photographs throughout the house were mostly gifts. Prints of Peter and whatever client he just successfully defended. He gets a lot of those as thank-you presents. It’s just part of what he does for a living.” She slices the cake-like frittata and brings Jamie two big pieces flanked by crispy strips of bacon.

Claire holds up the spatula in my direction and asks me if I would like a slice. She is looking at me as if she’d like me to leave. Like she has things to say to Jamie she doesn’t want me to hear.

“No, thanks.” I smile. “I’ve got to make a quick call in the other room before I head to the office.” I hold up my cell phone and walk to the parlor again. I make a show of loudly speaking into the phone to no one and pacing the floor. Just as I expected, Jamie starts back in on the conversation, but I can’t quite hear the beginning of what he says. I mumble a loud “mmm-hmm” into the phone and pull it away from my ear so I can listen to my son.