Counsel (Counsel #1) (22 page)

"The idea materialized when I was thinking of ways to help a friend. Then, when I spoke to Mom, and she suggested ancillary services like counseling, it grew."

"Who’s this friend?" Dad asks, and I studiously avoid Mom and Cait’s knowing glances.

"Well…I only recently met her, but I'm hoping she'll become a friend. She was actually involved in the Wade case and lost her job because of it."

"Surely this is going too far to simply help someone find a job?" Dad questions at the same time Matt speaks.

"It's Angelique, isn't it? The prostitute…"

I lunge across the coffee table and grab hold of his collar. "Don't fucking call her that! Don't call her a prostitute," I say, lowering my voice when I realize I'd been guilty of doing that myself.

"Adam!" Dad pulls me back at the same time Mom admonishes me for using bad language and resorting to violence. She turns on Matt then.

"How can you say something so awful? You know nothing about the young woman!" He looks sheepish and then mortified, especially when he sees Cait’s livid expression.

"I was just surprised. She seems like a nice person, and not at all like a… well, what she's reported to be," he rewords hastily when I move toward him. "Don't get your panties in a twist, Adam. Are you
interested
in her?" he asks incredulously. The ensuing silence is deafening.

"Yes, I'm interested in her. I've been attracted to her from almost the very beginning," I admit to looks of disbelief from Dad and Matt.

"I have no idea where this will go, or even if she'll give me the time of day, but I want to be her friend…at the very least."

Dad’s about to protest again, but I continue. "She’s been taken advantage of and badly hurt in the process, and I get the feeling she needs help that she won't ask anyone for. Mostly, I don't want her to be desperate enough to go back to what she’d been doing."

"Surely, you could simply offer this young woman money to tide her over? From what I've just heard, I think she may be the woman involved with Justin? Is this
really
such a good idea, Son?" Dad asks.

"Yes, she was involved with Justin; and I hate that. I hate that he used her, and no, Dad, I honestly don't think there's a better way of helping her. She won't accept a handout, especially money, that much I'm sure of; now more than ever. It needs to be something she believes she's genuinely being offered because of her skills."

"I'm sorry, but what skills does she have to offer your center," Dad asks impatiently.

"She's a trained ballerina, and I intend including a ballet studio," I reply. He raises his brows but thankfully holds his tongue.

"If she taught, why did she…umm…work at that club?" Matt asks, and I can see by the expression on Dad's face that he wanted to ask the same thing.

"I don't know the answer to that, but there’s a valid reason, I just know it," I reply, my frustration at their attitude toward Angelique obvious.

"Sweetheart, tell us more about how you want to set up this foundation?" Mom brings reason to the discussion.

"I want to set it up as a private foundation rather than a public charity, and I’ll fund the center’s set-up, essential programs, and their ongoing costs. My plan, then, is to seek additional grants in cash or kind to expand our services. I’m meeting with my accountants next week to learn more about the rules and tax implications before starting the incorporation process.

"What I do know right now, Mom, is that I'd like you, Dad and Cait to sit on the board alongside me." They’re shocked, but I can tell they're also intrigued.

"I intend, eventually, to invite three other people to join us, but I'm not sure yet who they might be. Matt, I’d like to include you, but you’ve always said how much you detest the administration side of things, so if you're willing, I'd be thrilled if you’d consider getting involved in other ways. Perhaps mentoring teenage boys? You'd be good at it." His eyes light up with enthusiasm.

"And Mom, you've expressed frustration with the limitations of your job. As a qualified psychologist and social worker, I think you’d be perfect in the role of managing director. "

"Adam…." she protests, but I cut her off.

"
Are
you frustrated with your job?"

"Yes, but…"

"Do you think the center could be a viable proposition?"

"Yes, but…"

"Do you think you could add value as managing director?"

"Well…yes…"

"Then if you'd like the job, it's yours. There isn't anybody I'd trust more, Mom."

"I think you've just been counseled, Mom," Matt sniggers.

"I think you have too, darling," Dad adds with an encouraging smile. "What do you think?"

"I'd like to think about it some more, but it does sound perfect."

"Good, I'm glad that's settled; and Mom, I'd like you to offer Angelique the job of running the studio."

"I said I’d
think
about it, Adam," she reminds me, but her expression tells me she’s already decided.

"I think we should include a childcare center," Cait says excitedly, and I instantly agree. Her comment inspires Dad to suggest that we run skills workshops to help young people find employment. "I’m sure I can find a couple of tradesmen to volunteer," he adds.

"That sounds great. We’ll have to think about skills in other sectors; perhaps we could find co-sponsors," Mom suggests.

Matt nominates himself to teach a carpentry class and then insists we add a basketball court, saying that Alan, who played during high school and college, would almost certainly volunteer to coach. Cate counters that we should have sporting activities for girls too. "We’ll have a ballet school," Matt argues, and a lively discussion ensues between him, Cait and Mom about ballet not only being for girls.

Dad screws up his face comically when Mom enthuses about the appeal of danseurs, naming Baryshnikov as an example, which causes Matt to laugh uproariously at his discomfort. Cait gushes about how sexy danseurs are, and Matt practically gags at the thought of his wife finding a ballerina sexy. Mom points out that males are called danseurs, not ballerinas.

"That doesn’t make them any manlier," he returns, and when Mom and Cait start extolling the virtues of danseurs’ physiques, even I feel like gagging. Dad, thankfully, steers talk back to the center.

I sit back, thrilled as I listen to their enthusiasm, sharing my thoughts whenever someone asks for my opinion, but mostly, I wonder about how soon I can get Mom to approach Angelique.

I spend most of what’s left of the weekend wondering; wondering whether Angelique visited the studio on Friday, wondering whether she liked the flowers, wondering whether I'd been too premature in making the gesture. Mostly, though, I wonder whether she'll give me the chance I’m so desperately hoping for.

On Sunday afternoon, I go for a run to clear my mind and rid myself of the feeling of restless anticipation. By late Sunday night, I’ve devised what I feel is a reasonable plan to approach Angelique and resolve to contact Mom the next day to discuss it.

On Monday morning, first thing, I call to advise Tom of our decision not to petition for a retrial. His response is predictably churlish, and I’m not at all surprised when he accuses me of deliberately withholding the information on Friday.

"You asked, no, you
insisted
, that I treat your client like any other defendant, and I have. Good luck, Tom; wish Justin well for me." I hang up before he can respond.

Jodi comes to see me later, and when she asks, I relate my conversation with Tom.

"Well, I’ll be watching what they do to resurrect his political fortunes with interest," she says.

"I’m sure they’ll spin a pretty line, but it’s no longer our problem." I shrug dismissively, meaning every word I said. I’m more than ready to move on. Any respect I held for Justin vanished while listening to his pathetic excuses in court.

"I actually came to tell you that Jon called to say Mike O'Flaherty’s been caught. He's arranging for his extradition," Jodi explains.

"Good, we'll finally be able to question him. I could be tied up with the Moretti trial, so you may have to do the initial questioning with Jon. We'll discuss the details later; I'm due at a witness conference with Tess in five minutes. Can we touch base when I'm through?"

"Sure thing, I've got more than enough to keep me busy."

.

.

"Mr. Ealy, let me get this straight. You say Fico Moretti
deliberately
injected you with cocaine?" I ask. Tess looks understandably horrified, and as accustomed as I've become to hearing about the atrocities human beings perpetrate against each other, I have to admit that even I'm momentarily taken aback by his revelation.

"Yes. I couldn’t pay my debt, so they dragged me to an old warehouse and kept me there for two weeks. He injected me with cocaine almost every day. By the time it was over, I needed it, you know? Then, he made me work for him to pay what I owed and to feed my habit."

"What kind of work?"

"Torching cars, smashing windows, sometimes breaking into people’s homes… stuff like that."

Gary Ealy is the third of six witnesses we’re interviewing for the Moretti, Barnes, and McGill co-defendant trial. In the process, we've learned more about just how widespread and insidious the Cordi reach has been. At Tess’s prompting, Gary explains how Moretti identified targets for him to 'do over'. He confesses that he torched Lorcan Walsh's car and caused damage to countless numbers of other properties. We didn’t expect him to admit to any misdemeanors when bringing him in, but now that he has, I'm duty-bound to advise him that he needs an attorney, and that the court will appoint one if he can't afford it. I ask Tess to make sure it happens as soon as possible. Unfortunately, this man, yet another of Joseph’s victims, will be charged; but we'll work out a plea bargain agreement with his attorney, who, I expect, will rightly claim duress.

The rest of our interviews go smoothly, but Tess and I have had a long and exhausting day. Not only have we interviewed six witnesses, but due to the imminent trial date, we also had to conduct a witness conference with the three we selected to testify.

It's seven p.m. when I finally catch up with Jodi for a short meeting to discuss outstanding events. I leave the office at around eight-thirty, hungry and feeling grateful for the food that Mom and Cait stockpiled.

I've only just finished dinner when my phone rings. "Adam Thorne?" a vaguely familiar baritone enquires.

"It is," I answer expectantly.

"It's Samuel Beauvais, Angelique’s friend."

"Hi Samuel; I'm sorry I didn't immediately recognize your voice."

"No need to apologize. I'm sorry to call so late, but I couldn't think of anyone else."

"You're back home, aren't you? Is there something wrong?" I ask, my mind immediately leaping to Angelique.

"Angelique needs help," he says, making my blood freeze.

"Is she hurt?"

"She's fine right now, but I worry that she won’t be for long."

"What do you mean?" I practically shout.

"There's a man who’s been preying on her…."

"Fuck! Has he…"

"No," he cuts in, "but he
is
responsible for her not being able to dance. That's all I'll say; it's Angelique’s decision who, other than the police, she wants to tell."

"The police are aware of this man?"

"We took out a protection order against him in Florida, and he’s the reason she left New York."

"And now? Is he in Boston
now
?" I ask impatiently.

"He followed her home tonight."

"Did she call the police?"

"She's a bit rattled and not thinking straight, but she did call. They said there was nothing they could do and advised her to get a protection order. I’m worried about her until she gets it; the guy’s a real creep. I should’ve made sure he'd never walk again when I had a chance," he mutters, anger and frustration clear in his voice.

"You've met him?"

"In Florida. The guy’s obsessed with her…"

"I'll help her file for the order in the morning," I cut in, "…but I’m worried about her tonight, and I can't just turn up…" I expel an exasperated breath.

"I was hoping you’d say that," Samuel replies.

"Do you think she'll let me in? What if I can get Jon to go with me in his capacity as a detective?"

"That sounds good. I'll call to warn her if you like."

"That would be great. I just don't want to do anything that will jeopardize…." I break off, not knowing how to express myself to this man who’s so obviously protective of her.

"What are you trying to say, Adam?" he asks, his voice laden with warning.

"I want to get to know her. I want to be her friend…."

"Is that
all
?" he presses.

"No, I'd like to be more; if she'll let me," I confess.

"Angelique’s a grown woman, so I can’t speak for her. She’ll make up her own mind about you, but I warn you; in her own, quiet way, she's more stubborn than almost anyone I know. It's what helped her through all the shit she’s had to endure. Just don't use her or hurt her, or I promise, the fact you're a district attorney won't help you."

"I've already told you. I have no intention of hurting her; I give you my word. Now, I should get off the phone and call Jon. Will you call Angelique, please?"

"I will… And Adam?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks, I really appreciate it."

"Anytime, Samuel. Would you text me your details so I can keep in touch?"

I call Jon as I'm changing into a pair of jeans. "I need a favor," I say before he's properly answered.

"What's up? You sound agitated."

"I need you to meet me at Angelique’s."

"Angelique?"

"Angelique Bain!" I snap and then rattle off her address, thankful that I've memorized it.

"Why do we need to go there?"

"She needs our help,
that's
why. I don't have time to explain, I’ll be outside her place in fifteen minutes." I gather my keys and leave a second later.

I stare up at the building, housing no more than eight, maybe ten, apartments and note with concern that it’s a walk-up. I have no idea what this creep looks like, but I scan the deserted area anyway, trying to spot anyone or anything that looks out of place; but the most conspicuous thing in the street right now, happens to be my car.

A dark sedan pulls up behind me, and I watch in my rearview mirror as Jon alights. I meet him on the sidewalk where I give him a quick rundown of my conversation with Samuel. I realize I'm being transparent about my feelings, but right now, I don't care. All I care about is Angelique’s safety.

"Are you ready to do this?" he asks almost solicitously.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I mutter.

Her apartment lies behind the second door on the third floor. I draw a deep breath before raising my hand to knock. We wait for long moments while no one answers. I send up a silent prayer, asking that she trust me enough to allow us in.

Finally, the sound of two latches being slipped and when the door slowly opens, I’m momentarily dumbstruck by those wide, honey-colored eyes. I can tell she's nervous… and scared.

"Angelique? Did Samuel call you?" I ask, and she nods.

"Can we come in, please? Jon and I are here to see if we can help."

She slips the chain and let us in. Stopping just inside the door, I take in the small living room with its high ceiling and bay window. I smile at the sight of the vase of peonies in pride of place on the coffee table. She sees me looking and blushes, her flushed cheeks as soft and delicate as the flower petals.

"Would you like to sit?" she invites shyly.

"Thank you." I step into the room, Jon close on my heels. We wait until she’s seated in the worn leather armchair before sitting on the edge of the sofa. After a moment’s silence, I lean forward, angling my body toward her. "So…Samuel said you were having trouble with a stalker. Would you like to tell us about it?"

"Umm... I called the police, but they said they couldn't do anything…" She sounds almost apologetic as she glances at Jon.

"Angelique," he intervenes, "why don't you start at the beginning. Like Adam’s said, we're here to help."

"Okay…Thank you." She lets out a tiny, relieved sigh. I'm so grateful that Samuel thought to call me and then paved the way for this visit.

"It's a long story," she warns.

"We're in no hurry," I assure her, and then listen intently as she tells of the perverted bastard who followed her to a park when she was a child and then managed to convince her mother to let her attend his ballet school. I wonder briefly what her father had to say about the matter, but get caught up as she continues. She tells how he always made her feel uncomfortable, but that he never actually did anything wrong until he followed her to Leipzig where he threatened her in her dressing room and then appeared in the wings during her performance, causing the accident that ended her career. She noticeably glosses over her relationship with her dance partner.

She tells how this man, Quandt, hired a private investigator and traced her to Florida. When she relates what had happened in the garage before Samuel's arrival, I understand just why he's kicking himself for not beating the shit of the pervert. She relates how she later saw Quandt in New York and how, after that sighting, she didn’t felt safe and decided to move to Boston. I wonder why, of all the places, she chose my city, but thank whatever hand fate played in her ending up here.

She ends with tonight’s events, telling how his car pulled up behind her when she arrived home from work, how she managed to hail down a passing vehicle, and how he then hurriedly left. She says she called first the police and then Samuel. I notice her trembling hands and the fear in her eyes and sense that she's not revealed everything about her exchange with Quandt. That bastard really scared her.

My anger has escalated throughout her revelations, and I fight hard to contain what feels like a seething mass of red-hot lava in my gut, rising steadily, threatening to erupt in a violent explosion. I've never felt such an overwhelming need to protect, not even in my wild and angry teenage years when I fought to defend Cait. I remind myself that I can't give in to my baser instincts; I'd scare Angelique. With supreme effort, I force myself to be calm before speaking. "Thank you for confiding in us, I know that must have been hard to relive."

She looks so fragile and vulnerable, and I want so desperately to comfort her, to touch her. To stop myself, I get to my feet and move across the room to stand in front of the bay window. "Is there anything the police can do?" I ask Jon.

"They couldn't arrest him. He was on a public street…"

I’m about to rudely remind him that I know the law, but he addresses Angelique. "I'll pull in some favors and get a couple of guys to patrol this area and outside your work until you can organize a protective order."

"Thanks, that would be great," I reply. "What about tonight? Can you arrange for them to sit outside when we leave? To set Angelique’s mind at ease," I add at his knowing expression.

"I'm sure I can call in enough favors to set
everyone's
mind at ease,’ he responds dryly. I choose to ignore his little dig. I guess I had it coming after giving him a hard time about Jodi.

He allows himself a tiny smirk. "Angelique, if you'll excuse me, I'll go and make those arrangements." He gets up and extends his hand to her. "It was lovely to see you again; I'm sorry about the circumstances, though. Do you still have my number?"

"I do." She gives him a genuine smile, and I feel an unwarranted pang of jealousy.

"Call me anytime you feel worried about Quandt or anything else; if you can't get hold of Adam, that is," he says, casting a glance my way.

"Thanks, Jon," I say as he turns to leave. Angelique returns to her seat after seeing him out, and I take up residence on the sofa once more, the air between us filled with awkward expectation.

"Would… can I get you something? I'm afraid I don't have any alcohol, but I could make coffee or tea," she offers, making my heart flutter hopefully at the thought of her not wanting me to leave.

"Would it help calm you to have something?" I ask, trying to act naturally.

"I'd like some tea. I’m not English, but tea seems to be my go-to remedy. It must be my Dad's Irish influence," she rambles nervously.

"Then I'd love a cup of tea, thank you." She seems relieved to have something to do and jumps up, making her to the kitchen. I pace the tiny room, listening to her rummaging around.