Damaged (2 page)

H
er new client pushed herself to her feet when Kate approached.

“Mrs. MacAdam?” Kate asked, hoping she was wrong. She’d expected a middle-aged woman, but Marian MacAdam must have been well into her seventies. She wore a beautifully tailored camel overcoat that helped camouflage her stooped back. A pink-and-orange scarf was tied artfully around her neckline. Kate bet she drove either an Audi or a Mercedes. That was the car of choice for well-heeled Halifax matrons. The only thing that gave her away was her eyes. They looked anxious and tired.

“Yes,” Marian MacAdam replied, her gaze sweeping over Kate. Uncertainty flashed across her face.

Kate put on a reassuring smile. “I’m Kate Lange.” She held out her hand. Marian MacAdam grasped it, her fingers knobbed with arthritis but surprisingly soft and warm.

“My office is this way,” Kate added briskly, holding the glass reception door open for her. They walked down the hallway, Kate forcing herself to shorten her stride, making small talk about the weather and the tulips. Marian MacAdam nodded, but said little. Her breathing came in shallow puffs by the time they reached Kate’s office.

“Please, have a seat, Mrs. MacAdam.”
Before you collapse
.

Marian MacAdam sank onto the blue upholstered chair. She glanced around, her gaze taking in Kate’s stacks of legal books, the degrees mounted on the wall behind her, the picture of Kate’s dog. Her eyes lingered on Alaska’s goofy grin.

Kate sat down behind her desk. “I understand you have a custody issue you need some advice about?” She hoped maybe Randall had been wrong. Because if this lady did have a custody issue, it must be for a grandchild. And that was sure to be messy.

“Yes,” Marian MacAdam said with an air of defiance. “I am seeking custody of my granddaughter.”

Damn Randall Barrett. He really had it in for her. “I see. Does she live with one or both parents?”

Marian MacAdam hesitated. “She lives with my daughter-in-law. My son moved out two years ago, and they divorced a year later.”

Kate began jotting notes. “How old is your granddaughter?”

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen?” Kate stopped writing and looked at her client. “What does she want to do?”

“She wants to stay with her mother.”

Kate put her pen down. “Then why do you want custody?”

Marian MacAdam leaned forward. “Because her mother completely ignores her. She’s always working. She has no idea where Lisa is most of the time.” Disapproval tightened her mouth, puckering the loose flesh of her jaw. She was the picture of indignant outrage.

What Marian MacAdam didn’t realize was that she wore the same expression as three out of four of Kate’s
clients. The anger, the blame—each side in a custody battle nursed their grievances. Kate listened to the diatribes, defused the pain, steered them back to the legal issues and dreaded the next client.

Maybe Lisa’s mother needed to work to keep them going. Nova Scotia had a lot of deadbeat dads. Maybe Marian MacAdam’s son was one of them—and she didn’t want to admit it.

Kate knew how hard it was to swallow that truth. It had almost killed her twelve-year-old self to admit that her own dad had joined those ranks.

Kate knew her next words would not be welcome. “Mrs. MacAdam, the law does not like to take children from their parents. The parent has a prima facie right to custody unless you can prove the child is being neglected or emotionally harmed.” She practically had those words memorized. Now came the clincher. She held Marian MacAdam’s gaze. “Is Lisa being neglected or emotionally harmed?”

Marian MacAdam looked away. “She hasn’t been physically neglected. But you might say she has suffered emotional harm.”

“Mrs. MacAdam, there is a specific definition to that term. You would need to demonstrate that Lisa has severe anxiety, depression, withdrawal or self-destructive behavior—” And yet, as Kate knew only too well, emotional harm could be something far more insidious, far less obvious, something that spurred a teenage girl to ignore every warning her stressed-out mother ever gave her and allow the unthinkable to happen.

“I think she is using drugs,” Marian MacAdam said softly.

Kate leaned back in her chair. “Are you sure?”

Marian MacAdam shook her head. “I don’t have any proof…it’s just a suspicion. She’s unreliable, won’t come to supper when she says she will, that kind of thing.”

“Have you spoken to her parents about it?”

“Her mother keeps saying that Lisa doesn’t have a problem, and, of course, Lisa won’t admit to a thing.” Marian MacAdam’s voice hardened. “Which suits her mother just fine.”

Kate felt a sneaking sympathy for Marian MacAdam’s former daughter-in-law. It wouldn’t be easy facing a mother-in-law’s disapproval while trying to handle being a single parent.

“Have you tried speaking to your son about it? Maybe he can help.”

Marian MacAdam’s lip curled. “My son has no influence over his ex-wife. And besides, he travels all over the place. He’s a partner in one of those big consulting firms.”

“So Lisa lives with her mother?”

Marian MacAdam nodded. “Yes. Her mother works even more than my son.” That sounded familiar. Kate’s mother had worked two jobs to keep them going after her father’s downfall.

“What does she do?”

Then Marian MacAdam dropped the bomb.

“She’s a judge.”

“A judge?” Kate tried to keep the shock from her voice. She’d created a picture in her mind of a down-at-heel single mother. Not a judge. “Which court?”

“She’s a criminal court judge. You may know her. Her name is Hope Carson. She deals with all the scum.” Her client’s voice was edged with contempt. Kate smothered an inward flinch. Her father had been one of those scum. He’d brought them all down to that level. And Kate had spent the next eighteen years of her life trying to claw her way back up. Back to a place where people treated her with respect.

Respect wasn’t something she’d gotten from Judge
Carson. Known by the criminal bar as the Faint Hope judge, Kate had only appeared once before her, just after she was admitted, when she handled anything that came through her previous firm’s door. It hadn’t been pleasant. Judge Carson was curt, impatient and had a sarcastic tongue. It didn’t matter if you were a prosecutor or criminal defense, she doled it out to everyone.

And Judge Carson’s mother-in-law wanted to engage in a battle to the death with her. The optics were a reporter’s wet dream: they’d need to call in experts to provide evidence of Lisa’s drug abuse and self-destructive behaviors. They would need to show that Lisa’s parents—and, in particular, her mother—were failing to take any action.
What an unholy battle that would be.
It would be the talk of the bar, the media and her firm.

She’d be jumping with both feet into quicksand and dragging LMB with her. Goodbye career. They wouldn’t want to engage in mudslinging against a respected criminal court judge.

She studied her client. There was an option.

One she’d never had to invoke before. But it was an option she was legally bound to discuss with this client.

“Mrs. MacAdam, if you are truly concerned that Lisa may be endangering herself, I have a statutory obligation to report Lisa’s case to Child Protection Services.”

Marian MacAdam jerked back. “No. This is family business. That’s why I came to you. I want to deal with this privately.”

“It’s not a private matter when a child’s welfare is at stake.”

“You cannot go to Child Protection Services!” She spoke in the commanding tone of a woman used to getting her own way. But Kate could smell her desperation.

“Then you could.”

Dismay flashed through Marian MacAdam’s eyes. “No, I can’t.” Then she added, with a telltale bristle of defensiveness, “I’m not sure if I’m right about my suspicions.”

Kate leaned forward. They both knew Marian MacAdam had just lied. “Why do you think you have a case for custody?”

Marian MacAdam shifted in her chair. “I’m not sure I have a case…”

Her client was a sharp lady. She realized she was on thin ice. If she admitted that Lisa’s self-endangerment was grounds for custody, then she knew Kate would feel compelled to involve the authorities. Kate glanced at the little silver clock by her phone. It was 6:05 p.m. The meeting was now dead. She had no doubt that any question she asked her client would be hedged with
maybe
and
I’m not sure
, rather than a frank discussion of the facts as Marian MacAdam knew them. “…I just want Hope to take my concerns seriously.”

Bull
. It was time to take the gloves off. “Mrs. MacAdam, do you have any proof that Lisa is doing drugs?”

Marian MacAdam’s gaze fell on the photo of Kate’s dog. “No. I’ve never found any drugs or evidence of paraphernalia in her belongings. And she’s never been…‘high’ when she’s been to my house.”

“Has she stolen money?”

“No.”

“Disappeared at night?”

“I wouldn’t know. She doesn’t sleep over.”

“What are her friends like? Are they the type to do drugs?”

“I’m not sure. Lisa doesn’t have a gang of girlfriends.”

“So why exactly do you suspect she’s doing drugs?”

Marian MacAdam twisted her diamond-studded wedding band. It couldn’t move very far. Her knuckles were
too swollen. She dropped her hands to her lap. “She doesn’t show up for supper when she’s supposed to.”

That was hardly an earth-shattering event for a teenager. “Does she have a good reason?”

“She claims she’s at the library or some such thing. But I just have this feeling she’s not telling the truth.”

Kate put down her pen. “Mrs. MacAdam, you have a difficult case. First of all, the courts don’t like to take children from their mothers. Secondly, the court would be wondering why your son isn’t intervening.”

Marian MacAdam glanced at the photo of Alaska again. Kate couldn’t tell whether the picture of her dog was a comfort or a distraction to her elderly client. Finally, Marian MacAdam said, “Can I start a proceeding for custody?”

“You can start one, if you choose, Mrs. MacAdam. I just don’t think your chances are very good.”

Marian MacAdam’s face tightened. “I thought you’d be able to help me. But it’s obvious you are unwilling to do so.” She picked up her purse and pushed herself to her feet. Her ankles swelled over the tight edges of her patent shoes.

“Mrs. MacAdam, please. I would like to help you. But you don’t have a strong case unless you have proof of Lisa’s drug use. Child Protection could help you.”

“No. I’ll find proof myself.” She turned toward the door. Kate hurried around her desk and held the door open for her. It was after-hours, so she escorted Marian MacAdam to the elevators, her client’s disappointment so palpable Kate felt a chill on her skin. Worse, though, was her own uneasiness about Lisa MacAdam. Kate knew how secretive teenagers could be.

They reached the lobby. Kate watched the elevator climb toward their floor. Fifteenth floor, sixteenth floor. She took a deep breath. She couldn’t let Marian MacAdam
go without trying one last time. “Mrs. MacAdam, Child Protection would be very discreet.”

Marian MacAdam stiffened. “I don’t want Lisa to be traumatized by some social worker nosing around in family business. She’d never want to live with me after that. And besides, she’d lie about it, anyway.” Twenty-first floor. The elevator doors slid open. Marian MacAdam walked into its mirrored interior, then turned. “That’s why I came to you, Ms. Lange. I thought we could keep it private this way.”

The last thing Kate saw before the doors closed were tears blurring her client’s watery blue eyes.

K
ate watched the elevator carrying Marian MacAdam slowly descend. And with it, her spirits. What a crappy way to end the week. She strode quickly out of the reception area. Damn. Now she was left with a niggling doubt. It threatened to bring to the surface something she’d been trying to bury for the past two weeks. Something that had been surging in her memory like a slowly rolling ocean swell, gaining momentum as each day passed, threatening to swamp the even keel of her mind.

She breathed deeply. She wouldn’t let it. She couldn’t let it.

Damn. Maybe she should call Child Protection. But that was a big step to take. A very big step. One she didn’t want to take when there was no tangible evidence of wrongdoing. Reporting that Lisa wasn’t showing up on time to her grandmother’s house for supper would become the office joke. They’d need a whole lot more proof that Lisa was being endangered before any judge would give an order removing Judge Carson’s daughter from her care.

No. Kate would end up with egg on her face and Randall Barrett ready to scramble it for her.

She hurried down the long hallway to her office. The
corridors were hushed, the lighting muted. The workday was officially over. Except for all the worker bees who knew that the longer they stayed in the hive, the sweeter the honey would be.

Kate took one glance at the pile of paperwork left untended on her desk and headed to the snack station opposite her office. The coffee had been on the burner since at least 3:00 p.m., but what she needed was energy. Flavor, with several hours of work left to do, was a luxury.

She returned to her desk, settling into the chair, and kicked off her shoes. She tried to focus on the separation agreement she’d been working on before Randall Barrett had shown up at her door. But Marian MacAdam’s tear-blurred eyes kept staring at her from the page.

The phone rang, shrill in the silence. She glanced at her watch: 6:56 p.m. Once upon a time, someone calling on a Friday night would have been a date.

She grabbed the receiver before it could ring again.

“Kate?” The cultured voice of John Lyons warmed her ear. She straightened. She hadn’t heard from John for weeks. He’d checked on her a few times, but she hadn’t worked on any files with him yet. And that rankled.

“Hi, John.” She gripped the receiver.

“I realize it’s late.” John had such a pleasant voice. Warm, yet polite. Gentlemanly. Her hand relaxed on the phone. “Do you have any plans or can you come to my office?”

She hadn’t had any plans since she’d ended things with Ethan on New Year’s Eve. At 12:34 a.m. to be precise. Seven days and three hours after he slipped a ring on her finger with a kiss. One hundred and seventeen days ago. Every one of those days was carved into the wall of her heart.

Did John Lyons know about her failed engagement? “I can come up.”

She placed the phone down. Reaching into her side drawer, she took a few swigs from her bottle of Maalox, wrinkling her nose. It should tide her over until supper. She pulled out a compact and brushed powder over her nose. Her face looked tired. More tired than a thirty-one-year-old should look. It was thanks to Alaska. That damned dog had taken over her heart in less than a week…and was waiting for her at home. Guilt ate at her. She snapped her compact closed and pushed down the guilt. She was still on probation. She couldn’t turn down a partner, no matter it was Friday and Alaska hadn’t been out for hours. When her probationary period finished and she was hired at LMB she would be able to ask if this could wait until Monday. But not yet.

She strode down the long hallway packed tightly with cubicles on the inner wall and spacious offices on the outer wall, relieved to see that Rebecca Manning had already gone home.
“People are saying that John Lyons only hired you so he could screw you,”
Rebecca had told her three weeks ago in the ladies’ room. Kate had ignored her gossip, chalking it up to the disgruntlement the herd feels when the ranks are stirred up. But every time she got another family law file, Rebecca’s words played in her head a little louder. Maybe she was getting those files because Randall believed John had hired her for purely personal reasons. And that would really get under Randall’s skin, if there was any truth to the rumors about the way his own marriage had ended.

She straightened. She hadn’t worked her tail off to be dragged down by two men who had no claim to her. To be found lacking because of her own inabilities was one thing; to be judged unworthy because of Randall Barrett’s grudges against Ethan Drake and John Lyons was another. She’d show Randall that she was deserving of her position. Better yet, she’d make him glad she was at LMB.

She jogged up the stairs separating the associates’ floor from the partners’, her determination renewed and her anticipation rising. John Lyons’ door was partly open. Kate knocked lightly. He cleared his throat, then called, “Come in.”

His corner office was meant to impress, and it did. Ceiling-to-floor windows boasted an arresting view of the Halifax Harbour. The water was a dark, fathomless pool under the heavy sky. Two Queen Anne chairs sat on a Persian rug in front of a massive mahogany desk. It was a fitting accessory for LMB’s senior civil litigation partner. He sat behind its broad expanse, his pale blue shirt immaculately crisp despite the lateness of the day. A plum-and-pewter-striped tie shimmered with subtle richness against his shirtfront. Kate was once again struck by John’s gleaming head of silvery hair. Not too many men in their fifties could boast that. It had just the right amount of wave to brush smoothly off his high, academic forehead.

She darted a glance at the open folder on John’s desk. One of the documents had a pale blue triangle stapled to the corner. A sure sign that a civil action had been started. Her skin tingled.

“Hi, Kate,” John said, rising to his feet with his habitual courtliness. He waved a hand toward one of the chairs. “Please sit down.”

“Thanks.” She flashed him a smile.

He waited until she lowered herself in the chair, and resumed his seat. “So, how are things going for you? We haven’t touched base for a while.” John leaned back in his leather chair, his gray gaze solicitous.

She crossed her legs. “Randall’s keeping me busy.”

John nodded. “Has he given you some interesting files?”

She shrugged. “If you like family law.” She wasn’t going to pretend with him. She just hoped he couldn’t see
how the mention of Randall Barrett’s name made her stomach tighten. The Maalox churned.

He gave her an assessing look. “I know it’s not your cup of tea, but sometimes we have to do things we don’t really care for to get ahead.”

She searched his face. Did he realize how patronizing he sounded? He obviously had no clue about all the crummy minimum-wage jobs she’d done to get through university. “I couldn’t agree more. But I thought we had a deal when you offered me a position here.”

John nodded. “We still do. But the other first-year associates require delicate handling. The ones who articled with us.” Kate’s stomach sank but she kept her gaze steady. “Randall feels that after all the extra hours they put in during their articles, we owe it to them to make their career development needs our first priority.”

The message was loud and clear: Randall believed that Kate hadn’t earned her stripes at LMB yet. There was an even more subtle message, one she’d picked up from the cool smiles at the coffee station and the muted conversations in the elevators. LMB was an exclusive club. Entry to this club for junior associates was usually gained in law school, by possession of a high-octane combination of attitude, background and marks.

She hadn’t made the cut in law school. Her marks fell in the critical second year when the large firms recruited their clerks, thanks to working extra hours to pay her way while dealing with her ill mother. Her mother finally succumbed to too many years of grief compounded by double shifts and heart disease.

But Kate managed to keep it together. She graduated with decent, but not stellar, marks. By then the only articling positions left were with poorly paid small practices.
Although they offered a wealth of hands-on experience, the salary was peanuts and career advancement was a new ergonomic chair. She wanted complex, challenging files. Something to sink her teeth into that would pave the way to a career with a six-figure paycheck and a seat on the bench.

Taking a position at Marshall & Associates was definitely going about it the long way. Crammed with overlarge antique furniture Madelyn Marshall had a passion for buying on weekend jaunts to Mahone Bay, the firm had a homey feel that reassured its walk-in everyday-joe clients. Kate’s articling office had been converted from an old bathroom. It had borne the slight must of its previous functions. She’d kept the window open, even in the winter, promising herself that by next year she would not be at a firm where she had to hide long johns under her suit.

Getting her foot in the door in LMB was the first step. But it wasn’t enough. She’d played the good girl for four months. She’d worked diligently on all those family files. It was time to let them know she wasn’t going to take a backseat to the other first-year associates. “You haven’t given me any other files except family law cases. How can I show you that I can handle the files if you won’t give me any?”

John steepled his fingers together. Kate had the feeling he knew exactly how frustrated she was. “That’s the point I made with Randall,” he said finally. “I agree with you, Kate. You’ve worked here for four months and, so far, the reports have been good.” He lowered his voice. “I had it out with Randall today. It’s time to give you some litigation files.”

Yes
.

Triumph flushed her cheeks. But on its heels was unease. She didn’t want the partners arguing over her. She wanted to be part of the team. She wanted to be cushioned
by the corporate safety net that a firm like LMB offered. The last thing she wanted was to be the hot potato in a power play.

There’d been whispers leaked from the partners’ floor that both John and Randall had been up for managing partner last year. Randall had won the vote. Handily. Judging from Randall’s relaxed arrogance in her office earlier, it was probably true. She studied John again. Strain marked his suave features, making him look all of his fifty-odd years. It must be galling for the lion who’d founded the firm to be in a winner-take-all fight with the bullish Randall.

John leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Kate, I want you to help me out on a file. You are probably aware that TransTissue, Inc., is one of my clients.”

Her heart accelerated. Here it was. A chance to prove herself. She flipped open her notebook. “TransTissue makes surgical products, right?” She wanted to let John know she’d done her research on LMB’s clients before she joined. She may be the protégée of a lion whose supremacy was on the wane, but right now he was the only partner who was willing to back her. She’d do her best for him. And hope that neither of them got gored by the bull in the process.

His lips curved in a small smile, acknowledging her efforts. “Correct. They are based in Toronto, but eighteen months ago they opened a plant—if you wish to call it that—in Halifax.”

Kate nodded. “It was on the front page of the paper.”

“It provided two hundred high-tech jobs, with the promise of more opportunities as their product lines develop.” John spoke like a proud father. He picked up the legal-size document with the pale blue triangle. “This is a statement of claim filed against TransTissue this morning.
The plaintiff is a young man named Brad Gallivant, twenty-three years old, who claims he contracted hepatitis C from one of their products.”

He handed the document to her. Kate skimmed it eagerly. According to the plaintiff, the defendant had negligently processed a tissue product that resulted in grievous personal injuries to him. “What exactly happened to Mr. Gallivant?”

John drummed his fingers on his desk. “He had arthroscopic surgery on his knee. The orthopedic surgeon used a tissue filler product to plug a hole in the cartilage. Several months later he tested positive for hep C.”

“So the plaintiff is accusing TransTissue of supplying an infected product?” Kate asked.

“Yes.” John closed the folder. “Of course, our client vigorously maintains that their products are up to standard.”

“It couldn’t be the filler, could it? Isn’t it inert matter?” She tapped her pen against her lip. The defense was already taking shape in her head. God, she’d missed the fun of crafting an argument that wasn’t an endless variation on custody support. “Wouldn’t it be more likely that the disease was contracted either through a blood transfusion or from the plaintiff’s lifestyle?”

“That’s what our client says. But it’s a little more complicated than that, Kate.” There was a hint of amusement in John’s eyes. “The products are not manufactured from inert matter.”

Her mind raced. She knew she should know the answer to this. “Right. They make the products from live cells.” She weighed the implications for the defense: they’d have to fight accusations of substandard laboratory procedures, infection transmitted by lab technicians—

“They don’t use live cells,” John said. “The tissue filler
products are made from—” a small smile curved his lips “—cadavers.”

“Cadavers?” She stared at him. “They use dead tissue in surgical procedures?”

It was clear John had enjoyed shocking her. He nodded. “Yes. It’s processed at TransTissue and then used in dental surgery, neurosurgical procedures and many orthopedic procedures. You know, hip replacements, ACL repairs, the list goes on.”

“Ugh.” Kate grimaced. She’d be a lot more careful about her joints from now on. Time for new running shoes. “Where does it come from?” At John’s wry look, she added quickly, “I mean, where does TransTissue get the cadaveric tissue?”

“There are suppliers who harvest the tissue from bodies. Kind of like organ donors. The harvested tissue is sent to TransTissue to make into surgical products.” His voice became thoughtful. “One body can go a long way to help a lot of people.” He walked around his desk and handed her the file. “Here. Have a look at these notes and tell me what you think about this claim.”