It lifted her spirits to joke like this, but the truth was, a lot was riding on the meeting she was about to have—and whatever she said, it had better be good. I need a lawyer, she told herself. And not just any lawyer, but a trial lawyer—Johnny Cochran, or Racehorse Haynes. A real advocate. But she didn’t have one. Which put her in the awkward position of having to fall back on the truth.
It wasn’t her fault, after all. On the contrary, she’d risked her life to go to work last week, and it had almost gotten her killed. And it wasn’t as if she’d taken a lot of time off before her sister died. On the contrary, she’d worked sixty-hour weeks for nearly a year, with no vacation or sick-days, coming in on weekends and holidays. Admittedly, she’d blown the deposition, but hey—depositions could be rescheduled. At most, she’d inconvenienced people—for which she was sorry, but it wasn’t as if she’d had any choice.
So it went, from 7 to 8 and 8 to 9, rehearsing her spiel through farmland, suburbs and, finally, the Beltway and city traffic—by which time, she had her story down pat.
Curtis Slough’s house was a million-dollar pile in Spring Valley, an Edenic woodland in the heart of the city, just off Rock Creek Park. Adrienne had only been there once before, and that was on an errand, bringing Slough his briefcase from the office. She didn’t remember the number, but there weren’t that many homes in this most expensive of Washington subdivisions—and Slough’s house was an eyeful that one didn’t forget.
According to Jiri Kovac, who worked in the firm’s L.A. office and came to Washington once a month for meetings, the house was a dead ringer for Marshall Tito’s villa at Lake Bled. Three stories tall, with stucco walls and Palladian windows, it sat on a low rise behind boxwood hedges and a circular drive with a small fountain at its center. Parking behind Slough’s 700-series Bimmer, Adrienne got out and crossed the driveway to the front door, feeling like a kid at the top of the drop on the Rebel Yell at King’s Dominion.
Yikes, she thought, as she knocked softly on the hard, wooden door. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea, maybe—
“Adrienne!” Slough appeared in the doorway—in brown cords and an olive sweater—with a look of emphatic surprise. “What the… ? Come on in—it’s freezing out there!” Holding the door open, he let her in and led her down the hall to the living room, where a pair of wing chairs faced each other across a sprawling Chinese rug in front of a limestone fireplace. “Is everything all right? Hang on a minute, and I’ll have Amorita bring us some coffee…”
She waited nervously, studying Slough’s collection of Russian icons, until a pretty Latina came in with a silver tray and a coffee service. Adrienne poured herself a cup, and was sipping it when Slough returned, fastening his huge Breitling wristwatch.
“Whut up?” he asked, in a crazed attempt to be one of the boys (or something).
“Well, it’s complicated,” she told him, “but I think I’m going to need a leave of absence.”
Slough dropped into a wing chair, and frowned. “‘A leave of… ‘ Isn’t this something we could talk about at the office?”
“Well,” Adrienne replied, “that’s the point. We really can’t.”
Slough’s face contorted into a kind of skeptical and puzzled grimace. “What!?”
“I can’t go there. If you’ll let me explain…”
And so she did. She told the story as economically as possible, reprising her childhood in thirty seconds, then segueing into her sister’s illness in Europe. Slough listened thoughtfully beneath furrowed brows, sipping his coffee and wincing sympathetically as Adrienne recounted the discovery of her sister’s body. He was clearly fascinated. But lest he jump to the conclusion that she wanted time off to grieve (which, she knew, would be “unlawyerly”), she went on to recount her sister’s sinister relationship to Duran, Bonilla’s retainer, his subsequent murder, the skepticism of the police and… well, the whole nine yards, including the incident at the Comfort Inn and Duran’s impending surgery. When she was done, she set her cup down and said, “So you see: I really need to stay away from work for a while. Because—I know how melodramatic it sounds, but—someone’s trying to kill me.”
Slough sat back in his chair, nodding his head and looking thoughtful. Finally, he set his cup and saucer down, leaned forward, and said, “So… you’re shacked up with this guy?”
Adrienne’s jaw dropped.
“Is that what you’re saying?” Slough asked.
“No,” she protested, “that’s not it at all. That’s—”
The lawyer grunted. “Let me explain something: I don’t think there’s a law firm in this town that’s more considerate of the people who work for it than Slough, Hawley. If someone’s going through the grieving process, we don’t take a backseat to anyone: we’ll cut you all the slack you need. But this… this goes way beyond ‘slack.’ The police? The ‘Comfort Inn’? My God, woman—what’s next? A trailer park?” Slough shook his head in a regretful and disbelieving way, then got to his feet.
“But,” Adrienne began, “you don’t understand—”
“Oh, I think I do,” Slough told her. “Details aside, you’re ‘accident-prone.’“ He wagged a finger at her to emphasize a point. “Not a good trait in a lawyer.” He paused. “I’ve got some thinking to do,” he told her, and clapped his hands, signaling the conversation was at an end.
And not just the conversation, she sensed. Despite herself, she was afraid she was going to cry. Fighting back the tears, she followed her boss to the front door, where he turned to her as he opened it.
“Maybe a leave of absence is a good idea,” he suggested. “Take a little time to sort things out. Get your ducks in a row. After that… we’ll see where we stand.”
Adrienne nodded, sinking her eyeteeth into her lower lip, suppressing a tidal wave of candor with a burst of well-timed pain. “Thanks,” she said, bathing him in a bright smile.
“I’ll have Bette take over the asphalt brief. She’s not the sharpest pin in the cushion, but… she’s there. And right now, I’ll settle for that.”
Adrienne’s dry eyes and smile survived to the end of the driveway, at which point she burst into tears. She’d worked so hard, for so long. And now, she was… what? What had he called it? Beyond slack.
Like someone dangling at the end of a rope.
She followed Rock Creek Park down to P Street, and exited into Georgetown. Parking in the lot next to Dean & DeLuca’s, she stopped for a latte, drinking it at one of the little tables in the long, glass room that runs beside the grocery. As depressed as she was from the meeting with Slough—she was obviously not going to be at the firm next year—she was relieved to have it over with, and out of the way. Relieved, too, not to have to think about asphalt anymore, or covering for Curtis Slough. In fact, when you thought about it, maybe she was better off. There were other jobs, she told herself.
When she’d finished her coffee, she went inside and bought a bag of hardwood charcoal and a couple of strip steaks, which the butcher packed in ice. She stowed the groceries in the back of her car, and walked to her sister’s apartment, two blocks away.
Ramon was standing in the foyer in his doorman’s uniform, hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. Seeing Adrienne, he broke into a broad smile and held open the door. “Heyyy,” he exclaimed, “it’s good to see you. You come for the mail?”