Once A Liar

“What?”

“Never mind. What was he talking about?” Her tone was deliberate, knowing.

“He pointed at the rest of the lawyers in the room and told me that they were all there to fawn over me, and if I was serious about my career, I would call him instead. He asked me if I was ready to realize my talents and rise to the top.” I recalled the event with embarrassment. “All I had ever wanted to do was meet this guy and impress him, and when he was standing in front of me, I had no idea what to say.”

“So, what did you say?”

“I told him I was willing to take any opportunity he was willing to give me. Looking back, now I see why he was immediately turned off. He told me that I was still soft, and I should call him when I toughened up. He put his card on the corner of a cocktail table and walked out without saying another word to me.”

“Did you ever call him?” She had turned to face me and was studying my eyes.

“His card didn’t even have a number on it. It was just his name. Like he was leaving me a challenge to go and find him, like that would prove that I was ready to take him up on his offer.”

“And?” she asked excitedly.

“Well, truth be told—” I looked around us for eavesdroppers, then leaned in conspiratorially “—I tracked down his number months ago, and we’re opening a firm together. I’m keeping it hush-hush for now, don’t want to jinx myself before everything is finalized.”

Juliette and I ordered a last round of drinks. She congratulated me and toasted the news that I was about to open my own firm with my professional hero. As I paid the bill, I found myself uncharacteristically drawn to her, and I didn’t want the evening to end. I knew dragging it out beyond its natural conclusion would put a future encounter in jeopardy, so against my natural inclinations, I brought the evening to a close. She commended me again on my new business ventures and scooted her stool back.

“It has been a pleasure spending time with you, Miss Juliette, and I hope you will allow me to take you out again sometime.” I stood and held my hand out to help her from her seat.

“Thank you, Mr. Caine.” She bit her lower lip and smiled an unforgettable smile. As I guided her toward the door, she pulled a packet of matches from a bowl and scribbled her phone number inside. She raised her arm for a taxi on the corner and handed me the matchbook. “Call me,” she said as a taxi pulled up in front of us. “I’d love to hear how the business turns out.”

I watched the taxi heading uptown on Third Avenue until the rear lights blended in with the horizon. I called her the next day, and thus initiated the beginning of her end.

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

Everything feels status quo, not unlike any other day of my life, despite cremating my ex-wife and becoming the sole guardian to my estranged teenage son. But every person I pass looks at me a little closer, stays and chats a little longer, compassionately touches my shoulder, as if these changes were something drastic. Anna, my assistant, hands me my morning coffee as I pass her in the hallway, and a junior partner whose name I’ve forgotten blocks the path to my office.

“So sorry to hear about your wife, Peter,” he says to me. “I hear she was a wonderful woman.”

“Ex-wife,” I correct as I push past him and continue down the hall. As a man known to not need sympathy, let alone accept it, I can’t understand why my colleagues would still offer condolence for the loss of my ex-wife. I reach the door to my office, and I see Sinan walking toward me. I leave the door open for him to come in.

Sinan Khan, a Turkish lawyer from London, has been living in New York and making a killing as a defense attorney since the mid-1990s. Marcus brought him on to Rhodes & Caine almost as soon as we had formed. Sinan and I share the same moral flexibility, paired with a seemingly bottomless depth of knowledge of the law. He understands me.

“Got some stuff for you,” Sinan declares in his baritone British voice, sidling up to my desk. “I have the case files from that custody thing I tried last year. I think you can use the same case as precedent in your kidnapping trial. It’s a tiny loophole—I’m saying ants can’t squeeze through it—but you should be able to sell it.” He tosses the files onto my desk. “And Anna was about to walk in here with this stack of nonsense—” he flaps a bunch of envelopes in my face “—so I’ll just leave them on your bookcase next to the Oban.”

“Thanks. Sit, have a drink.” I wave at a large leather chair in the corner of my office.

“Drink? It’s 8:20 in the morning.” Sinan oozes sophistication.

I look up at him and smile. “You Muslims and your prohibitions.”

“Mmm,” he sneers. “I have something else for you, as well.” Sinan reclines in the leather chair and fiddles with a marble chessboard on the table next to him. “A blast from your past is on his way back out into the world.”

“Back out? When did I ever have a client who went in?” I run my fingers through my hair, knowing full well to whom Sinan is referring.

“You should know exactly who I’m talking about, especially since he stands pretty much alone in your guilty column.”

“Bogovian?” I blurt when Sinan substantiates my fears. “You’re telling me Stu Bogovian is getting out? Has it been that long already?” Stu Bogovian was a New York congressman with a penchant for sexual assault. He came from an outrageously wealthy family who paid his victims for their silence, leaving Stu to never learn any self-control. I can’t believe he could be released so soon. Seems like yesterday he went to prison, not the nearly twenty years it’s really been.

“Yes, love. Stu Bogovian is getting paroled next Thursday. Mark your calendar!” Sinan holds up his hands and twinkles his fingers in mock celebration. “You think he still hates you after all this time?”

“Back off, Sinan.” I feel the ugly anger rising in my stomach. “Who’s representing him now?”

“Some Harvard prat. But don’t fret, darling,” Sinan teases, “no one remembers that you were the one who couldn’t get Stu off, and from the trial transcripts, it sounds like Stu had no problem getting off!” Sinan laughs and knocks over the white marble queen with a thin black bishop shaped like an obelisk.

“He doesn’t hate me—no one hates me.” I swallow the acrid taste of defeat. “He hates Harrison Doyle. And he hates that ADA twerp who put him away, whatever his name was.”

“You remember the assistant district attorney’s name,” Sinan sighs, knowing I wouldn’t dare forget.

“Someone who cared would remember his name.” I try to focus my attention on anything other than the Bogovian trial and the birth of my vendetta against Harrison Doyle. Sinan grins at me and emits a low grumbling laugh, amused to know I still get flustered. I draw in a deep breath and wrangle my irritation.

“Are you coming to this cocktail thing tonight?” Sinan probes, changing the subject. “I’m bringing a very beautiful young man from St. Louis.”

“You don’t even know where St. Louis is,” I say. Sinan, brilliant though he may be, is hopelessly elitist and thinks America is made up of Manhattan and Los Angeles.

“This is true. He’s dead from the neck up, but gorgeous. You should come tonight and bring Claire. She’s kind enough to talk to my beautiful St. Louis boy, so I won’t have to.” Sinan smiles and blinks his long eyelashes, trying to convince me.

“Sorry, my friend, I won’t be able to get Claire to butter up your plaything for you. I’m not going to the party. I have drinks with Harrison tonight.”

“Why do you continue to spend time with that terminally classless man?”

“He’s useful,” I say. “We should have him in our pocket.” My nerves settle as I remind myself that I am in control, and Harrison’s time at the top is limited. “And you should be facilitating these kinds of relationships, too.” I wave a gold pen in Sinan’s direction. “Not just lapping up the affections of impressionable Missourians.”

“I bet he’s going to rub the Bogovian thing right in your face tonight. Try not to lose your temper and knock him out.”

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

Juliette and I went on four dates before I found out who her father was. Each time I picked her up at her apartment, she was already waiting for me in the lobby, so I never had to announce myself to her doorman and ask for her last name. It was over brunch at Union Square Cafe that I finally made the connection while I told Juliette of the first major case I was working on at my new firm.

“We were hired to represent Congressman Stuart Bogovian,” I began. “It’s just the kind of case we need to get noticed quickly.” I explained to Juliette that since the firm was still new, having such a high-profile case right off the bat would get us the notoriety we were looking for. My partner, Marcus Rhodes, had been working for himself for decades, so he brought along a caseload as well as his reputation. I wasn’t able to bring any of my clients from my previous firm, so when we were called about Bogovian, Marcus encouraged me to take on the case.

Bogovian was rich, slippery and completely unaffected by the expected behavior of decent society. Entitled to the degree that he viewed people as property, he never encountered a problem he couldn’t pay his way out of. He had been charged with assault and attempted rape in the first degree. Allegedly, he pinned an intern between his desk and bookcase, tied her arms and stripped her of her clothes, intending to rape her, but she broke free and escaped.

I didn’t want to share too much information about the case with Juliette, even though it was already in the news. I worried that she would get the wrong impression of me and the work I was doing if she saw the people I represented as monsters who didn’t deserve freedom. I wanted her to see that they were people who required the best defense just like anyone else, and I was hired to uphold the law, plain and simple.

She already seemed to be getting uncomfortable when I talked about work; leaning away from me, responding with one-word answers and not really engaging. I wanted to assure her that I was one of the good guys, despite my profession’s reputation.

“You’re going to be the congressman’s defense attorney?” she asked, not making eye contact.

“Yes,” I said cheerfully. “Marcus and I agreed that I should take the lead on Mr. Bogovian’s case.”

“Your partner’s name is Marcus?” She looked at me curiously, a forkful of salad balanced in front of her mouth.

“Yes, Marcus Rhodes. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

Juliette let out a single burst of laughter. “Yes, I’ve heard of him,” she snorted. “Marcus Rhodes is my father.”