In Firm Pursuit (11 page)

I
drove home in a complete fog. I fumbled with my BlackBerry on the Santa Monica Freeway, desperate to reach Jefferson. The first time, my call went to his voice mail. When I called back five minutes later, LaKeesha answered and I hung up.

After nearly rear-ending a silver Jag at a red light south of Exposition, I pulled into the parking lot of the Albertsons at La Brea and Rodeo Road and tried to get myself together. I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel for a minute or so, then walked into the grocery store and bought a six-pack of pineapple-kiwi wine coolers, a party-size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and a can of Planters peanuts.

When I finally turned into my driveway, I thanked God for letting me get there safely. I had thrown open the door of my Land Cruiser and was about to jump out, when I heard the jovial whistle of my next-door neighbor, Mr. Robinson.

“How ya doin', counselor?” he said, waving as he walked over.

Luke Robinson was a retired bricklayer whose wife had died about a year ago. They had no children and Jefferson and I had somehow become his surrogate family. Whenever we were out of town, Mr. Robinson looked
after our house and we did the same for him. He frequently dropped by with a sample of some extravagant dessert he had baked. The other couples on the street considered him the neighborhood busybody, but he was just a lonely old man who had no one to talk to. But today, I was not in the mood.

When he got closer and saw my face, the glee left his. “Counselor, what's wrong?”

“Bad day at the office,” I mumbled, gripping my bag of snacks.

“I can definitely see that. Anything I can do to help?”

I tried to smile. “No, Mr. Robinson. But thank you.”

He was about to say something else, but I rudely plowed past him. I would apologize later.

Staggering inside, I dropped my purse and keys on the sofa table near the door and headed straight for the master bathroom. After filling up our Jacuzzi tub and stripping off my clothes, I slipped into the warm water and opened up a wine cooler.

I soaked for over an hour, then climbed into bed even though it wasn't even noon yet. I opened a second wine cooler and called Jefferson's cell again. “Hey,” I squeaked when I heard his voice.

“What's up?” Jefferson sounded like he was talking through his nose.

“You sound awful,” I said. “You okay?”

“Nope. My sinuses are really giving me hell. And I only got about three hours' sleep last night.”

I waited for him to ask how I was doing, but the question never came.

“Hold on a minute.” I heard Jefferson say something to someone, but I couldn't make out the words.

“Who're you talking to?” I asked.

“LaKeesha just brought me some Sudafed.” I could hear him take a gulp of water. “Man, I don't need this sinus crap right now. We're so far behind.”

Sudafed?
“Exactly what is she? Your secretary or your damn nurse?”

Jefferson exhaled. “Vernetta, I feel like crap and I don't have time for this right now. As long as I'm paying her, it's her job to do whatever I want her to do. So you need to stop trippin'.”

This was not the way this conversation was supposed to go. I had called my husband so I could cry on his shoulder, not argue with him.

“Well, I had a pretty messed-up day myself. Remember that sexual harassment case I told you about?” I didn't wait for his acknowledgment. “They took me off of it and I think there's a good chance I'm not going to make partner.” The flood of tears I had been holding in check was finally released.

“Hey, babe, I'm sorry,” Jefferson said, his voice much gentler now. “That's really messed up. What happened? Why'd they take you off the case?”

“They think I'm having an affair with the opposing counsel,” I sobbed.

“What? That's crazy. At least I hope it is. What's going on?”

“It's too unbelievable to even try to explain.”

“C'mon, babe, don't cry. If you don't make partner
there, you'll make it somewhere else. That ain't the only law firm in the world.”

“But it's not fair.”

“Well, life—”

“And don't tell me life isn't fair! That's not what I need to hear right now.”

“I know, babe. I'm sorry. I know how much this means to you.”

I could hear Stan's voice in the background. “I'll be just a minute,” Jefferson called out to him.

“I know you have to go,” I said, still teary. “I just needed to talk.”

“And I wanna be here for you,” he said, “but you caught me at a really bad time. Just let me run out and check on this job and I swear I'll call you right back.”

“Okay,” I said. “I hope you feel better.”

“You, too,” he said. “Everything will be okay. I promise. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Out of habit, I started to call Special, then realized I couldn't.

J
efferson called me twenty minutes later and we talked for over an hour. He said everything I needed to hear and I felt much better by the time we hung up. A couple of hours later, I decided to head over to my parents' place in Compton.

Returning to my childhood home always made me feel as if I had been wrapped in a blanket of complete acceptance. It did not surprise me to find the house empty. Only illness—serious illness, not just a cold or an attack of arthritis—could keep my parents away from their Monday afternoon Bible study at Community Baptist Church at 148th and Central.

I smiled as I inspected my parents' tiny living room. The tan leather couch was a fairly recent addition, but the antique coffee table was the same one they had purchased my senior year of college. The carpet only recently changed from eighties mauve to all-purpose beige, but the walls had never known any color other than Swiss Coffee.

Change of any kind came hard for my parents. ATM machines, e-mail and TiVo had yet to become necessities in their lives. Whenever I brought up the subject of them moving closer to my area, they quickly found something else to talk about. It would take a forklift and a truckload
of National Guardsmen to force them from the only piece of property they had ever owned.

I walked into the den and sat down in my father's leather recliner, positioned squarely in front of his Sony big screen. Since their simultaneous retirement from the Post Office a year earlier, my parents spent most of their day glued to the television set.

I pulled the lever on the side of the recliner, sending the chair into a horizontal position. I was sound asleep in no time.

An hour later, I opened my eyes to find my parents peering down at me. Identical, worry-stricken expressions plagued their faces.

“Netta, are you okay?” my mother asked, moving her hand from my forehead to my cheek, then back to my forehead again. “You don't seem to have a fever.”

“I'm fine,” I said, maneuvering the recliner upright. I hugged them both in a single embrace. Time definitely was not slowing for them. With every visit, I noticed a new patch of gray or a hitch in their step that I had not detected the month before.

They remained frozen in place, staring at me as if I were some late-night intruder.

“I'm fine,” I said, laughing. “I just dropped by to spend some time with my wonderful parents.”

“Oh, I know something's wrong now.” My mother took a step back to get a better look at me. “Just tell us what's wrong. Did you and Jefferson have a fight?”

“Mama, please. Jefferson's fine and I'm fine, too.” I plopped back down into the chair and pretended to
sulk. “If this is the kind of reception I get, then I'm going home.”

My father took off his sports jacket and folded it over his forearm. He was still inspecting my face as if he might have missed some important clue.

“Daddy, will you please stop staring at me.”

“I'm sorry, Netta. If you say you're okay, then fine. But those dark circles under your eyes are telling a different story.”

“Why don't you just go change clothes?” I ordered.

My father stalked into the bedroom, while my mother began busying herself in the kitchen.

“How's work?” my mother asked as she pulled plates from the cabinet. She was still fishing.

“Okay,” I said.

“Do you have another trial coming up anytime soon?”

Her question filled me with regret. “Nope,” I said softly. My parents loved it when one of my trials received media attention. They bragged so much it was embarrassing. After my big murder case, they had been interviewed by the
Compton Bulletin,
which ran a front-page profile on me.

I got up from the recliner and tried to open the back door, then remembered that I needed a key to get through the steel bars nearly everyone in my parents' neighborhood had barricaded themselves behind. I took the key from underneath the sugar dish on the kitchen table and unlocked the door. Once I was outside, I sat down on the cement steps. The backyard bordered a busy boulevard and I could see the cars whizzing by through the worn fence.

A bird's nest at the top of my father's prized peach tree
caught my attention. I watched as the mother bird went back and forth, fortifying the nest, one twig at a time. After a few minutes, my father joined me outside, crouching down next to me on the top step. It took a few seconds for him to get settled.

“Look,” I said, pointing up at the tree. “That bird's building a nest.”

“I just hope they don't mess up my tree,” he muttered.

We continued to watch in silence as the bird went about its work.

“You know you can talk to us about anything, right?” my father said after a long while.

“Daddy, please. I told you, I'm—”

“Shhhh.” He pressed a heavy finger to my lips. “I don't have a bunch of college degrees like you, but I know when something's wrong with my only child.”

He wrapped both of his arms around me and hugged me tight. I tried, but failed, to hold back my tears.

“I don't know what's going on and I'm not going to pressure you to tell me if you don't want to, but my gut says it's got something to do with that darn job. Otherwise, you'd be at work today.”

“Daddy, I—”

“You just listen for a second,” he said, pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket. “Just pretend you're in my courtroom now.”

I smiled as he dabbed at my eyes with his handkerchief.

“You want to know what I think?” he said, not bothering to wait for my answer. “I think you're pushing yourself too hard. You always did.” He pulled me closer.

“Remember when you were in the second grade and you got that
S
in Science?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Every other grade on your report card was an
E
for excellent but all you could focus on was that
S
for satisfactory. I think you must've cried for a straight week. And me and your Mama were just scratching our heads, trying to figure out why.”

He repositioned himself on the step. “Netta, I know being a lawyer is very important to you. You've been talking about making partner from the day you finished law school. But if for some reason it don't happen, don't let it worry you.”

He took my chin between his thumb and index finger. “Whatever's going on down there at that law firm, it's not the end of the world. It's not a big deal if you've messed up some case. It's not a big deal if you've lost some client. And it's not a big deal if you don't make partner. And I know you've explained it to me a thousand times, but I'm still not quite sure what that partnership stuff is all about anyway.”

I chuckled quietly through my tears.

“The only thing you need to be worried about is being happy with you,” he said, tapping my chest with his finger. “You need to stop using everybody else's measuring stick to judge yourself by and find your own darn stick. If you can be happy with yourself, and I mean really happy, it don't matter what nobody else has to say about you, good or bad. And there's no reason in the world for you not to be happy. You got a good job, a hard-working husband and we raised you to have faith in God. And you don't
need much more than that. And I almost forgot, you inherited my good looks.”

I smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Daddy.”

“Don't be thanking me. I haven't done nothing. Y'all young people go and get all them darn degrees and make all that money, but don't have no idea how to be happy. They need to have a college course called Common Sense 101. I can teach it with my eyes closed.

“C'mon,” he said, pulling me up by both hands. “Let's go inside before your nosey Mama comes out here and starts bothering us.”

A
s hard as it was to do, I marched into the office Tuesday morning with my head held high. I had not done anything wrong and I refused to walk around acting as if I had.

I kept my office door closed for most of the day and only left once to grab some lunch and three times to use the restroom. The day seemed to zoom by. Just before six, the telephone rang.

“Ms. Henderson, the delivery guy's here with your food.” I glanced at the phone. The call was coming from the lobby.

“You've got the wrong office. I didn't order dinner,” I said, though I wished I had. I was planning to work another couple of hours and I could have used a bite to eat.

I heard the muffled voice of the guard talking to someone else, then he came back on the line. “Ms. Henderson, this guy swears the food is for you. He's insisting that you come down here and pay for it.”

I slipped on my pumps, hopped on an elevator and charged into the lobby. I was highly annoyed by the unnecessary interruption and I planned to make that perfectly clear to the insistent deliveryman.

When I spotted my husband leaning against the black
marble reception desk carrying two white plastic bags, a torrent of happiness engulfed me. He was wearing black sweatpants, a white T-shirt and a big, goofy grin.

I rushed over to him and threw my arms around his neck. “What're you doing here?”

He set the bags down on the counter, pulled me into his arms and held me tight. “I've got some business to take care of around here,” Jefferson said, his voice hoarse from his clogged sinuses. “Where's the dude who claims you're having an affair? I'm here to kick his ass.”

I laughed. “Just what I need, a knight in shining armor.”

“Damn straight,” Jefferson said.

“Well, I don't think I'll be needing you to punch anybody out,” I said. “You sound awful. Please tell me you didn't drive up.”

“Nah. I flew into LAX, then took a cab to the house and picked up my car. I was gonna wait and surprise you when you got home, but I couldn't wait to see you. And don't be mad, but I have to head back in the morning.”

“There's no way I could be mad. You have no idea how happy I am that you're here.”

I looped my arm through his and guided him toward the elevators. “What's in the bags?”

“All of your favorites. Yang Chow's slippery shrimp, spicy wonton soup and shrimp fried rice,” Jefferson said, quite satisfied with himself.

“I can't believe you went all the way to Chinatown for Yang Chow's. You definitely get the award for Husband of the Year.”

An elevator opened and we stepped inside. As soon as
the doors closed, Jefferson set the bags on the floor, pressed me against the wall and kissed me.

“Jefferson, I think they have cameras in here,” I said, trying to dodge his kisses.

“Good. Then the little geek who's watching can get his rocks off.”

I laughingly squirmed away from him just as the elevator doors opened. When we got to my office, Jefferson placed the bags on the table across from my desk, then walked over to the window. “Every time I come here, I can never get over this incredible view.”

“I'm usually too busy working to notice it,” I said. I closed the door and began clearing papers and books from the table to make room for us to eat.

Jefferson pointed up at the ceiling. “We just finished installing some recessed lighting just like this in a section of the project we're working on.”

I followed his gaze upward. I had never even noticed the lighting before. I was busy opening cartons of food when Jefferson walked up behind me and kissed me on the back of the neck.

“All right,” I warned, “don't start fires you can't put out.”

“Hey, babe, just show me where the fire is.” He grabbed me around the waist, pulling me back against him. “My fire hose is working just fine. Can't you feel it?”

I turned around to face him and we kissed again, softly at first, then voraciously, as if we'd been starving for each other. Several seconds elapsed before we came up for air.

“C'mon, boy, let's eat before our food gets cold.” I
reached for his hand and directed him to a seat at the table. “I'll fix a plate for you.”

Jefferson sat down while I began piling food onto a plastic plate. He pulled two Sudafed capsules from his pocket and popped them into his mouth, then chased them down with a swig of Coke.

“You really think this thing is going to keep you from making partner?” Jefferson asked.

I shrugged. “I don't know.”

“You going to be okay if you don't make it?”

I chuckled. “If you're asking if I'm going to jump out of that window over there, then yes, I'm going to be just fine.”

“Can I ask you something?”

I smiled at him warily. “Go ahead.”

“Why do you want to be a partner?”

Jefferson's question caught me off guard and no immediate answer came to me. “I just do,” I said.

“Okay, but why? I'm only asking 'cause as hard as you work, I don't get the impression that you actually like practicing law.”

“That's not true,” I said defensively. “I do like practicing law. Do you like what you do?”

“Nope.” Jefferson reached across the table and picked up a large shrimp between his thumb and index finger and tossed it into his mouth. “I
love
what I do.”

My husband's response surprised me. “And exactly what's so lovable about it?”

“Everything,” he said, talking and chewing at the same time. “I get to call my own shots instead of having somebody else tell me what to do. I like watching a
building develop from the ground up and seeing all the electrical components come together. I love it when I get to work outdoors. And when somebody needs me to figure out a complicated electrical problem, that's when I really get off.”

I laughed, but I quietly envied my husband's enthusiasm for his work. He stuffed a big forkful of shrimp fried rice into his mouth. “I already know you'll make a boatload of money,” Jefferson said. “But I still can't figure out what else is so good about being a partner?”

“O'Reilly & Finney is a very prestigious law firm,” I said. “And they've never had a black partner before. It would be an incredible achievement if I were the first, okay?”

“But is that going to make you happy?”

I wished Jefferson would stop asking stupid questions.

“Yes,” I lied. “Yes.”

But in reality I did not know the answer to Jefferson's question. He was forcing me to think about something that I had not carefully thought through. Like the fact that most of the attorneys I knew hated their jobs. There were times when I found my cases intellectually stimulating, but I was often exhausted from the long hours. Although I had no close personal relationships with anyone at O'Reilly & Finney, I still wanted to be part of their elite little fraternity.

“You know what I think?” Jefferson said, talking with his mouth full. “I think you give this firm more props than it deserves. Since these white boys haven't allowed anybody with your skin color to make partner, you interpret that as them saying black folks aren't good enough.
But you listen to me.” He set his fork down and waited until my eyes met his. “You
are
good enough. One thing I never let anybody do is define how I feel about myself. And you shouldn't either.”

Jefferson's words sounded so much like my father's they gave me an eerie feeling.

“I need to take a leak,” he said, hopping up from his chair. “I've been here enough times to know, but which way is the john again?”

“Make a right out of the door and then a left at the end of the hallway.”

I searched the bottom of the bags for more soy sauce as Jefferson headed out. After about five minutes, I heard loud muffled voices outside my door.

When I peered outside, I saw Jefferson standing face-to-face with a pimply faced white man who barely looked old enough to be out of high school. His navy blue security guard jacket hung off his narrow, hunched shoulders and his run-over shoes needed a good shine.

I rushed over to them. “What's going on?”

“Ms. Henderson, is this man your guest?” the guard asked, his eyes tracking Jefferson's every move.

Jefferson took a single step forward and the security guard flinched. “I already told you, you little—”

“Jefferson, please!” I grabbed him by the wrist and stepped in front of him. “Yes. He's my husband.”

“Visitors in the building after hours must be escorted at all times,” the guard said.

“I'm sorry,” I replied. “It won't happen again.”

I pulled Jefferson inside my office and closed the door.

“That little punk didn't have to come at me like that,” Jefferson said, still fuming.

“If a guard sees somebody in the building he doesn't recognize, he's supposed to approach them,” I said.

“You mean if he sees somebody
black
he doesn't recognize. If I were a white boy, he wouldn't have said shit to me. I can't believe you're actually defending him!”

“Jefferson, please keep your voice down,” I whispered.

“You're overreacting.”

He folded his arms. “I have no idea why you would even wanna work here. They don't want you up in here no more than they want me in here. The fact that we're in the goddamn twenty-first century and they've never had a black partner ought to tell you that.”

“You don't have to be mean, Jefferson.”

“I'm not being mean, I'm being real. You need to stop running behind these white folks banging on their door, begging them to let you in. If you wanna be a partner then start your own damn firm.”

I walked over to the table, picked up my plate and scraped the food back into the container. “I'm not hungry anymore.”

“Me neither,” Jefferson said. He stayed put as I closed up the containers of food.

“Maybe I should just leave?” he said.

I didn't want him to go, but my lips refused to form the words to tell him to stay. “If this is how you're going to act, then maybe you should.”

When Jefferson took a step toward the door, I had a change of heart. “Jefferson, wait. You're overreacting. Just—”

“I'm not overreacting,” he said, actually shouting now. “I fly up here to see about you even though I'm sick as a dog and this is the thanks I get?” He snatched the door open. “I'm outta here.”