In Firm Pursuit (8 page)

T
he foyer outside the main ballroom of the Century Plaza Hotel was packed with most of the city's black elite. I spotted several politicians and judges, a couple of local TV newspeople and, of course, hoards of lawyers.

As I was about to head over to the bar for a Diet Coke, I heard a familiar voice from the rear. “Can a brother get a hug?”

I turned around to find James Willoughby, my best friend from law school, standing in front of me with open arms. We embraced like old friends happy to see each other, which we were. Despite being inseparable all through law school, our respective jobs made it difficult to find time to connect. James worked as a public defender out of East L.A.

“Where's your boy, Jefferson?” James asked.

I smiled to myself. James always tried to sound extra hip when he was around other black folks. He was raised in South Central, but was the nerdiest black man I'd ever met. Over the years, he'd blossomed quite a bit in the looks department. A nice suit and a law degree could make even the blandest man alive look a whole lot better in the eyes of some women. Tonight, James was quite debonair in his black Hugo Boss suit.

“Jefferson's working on a big project in San Diego,” I said. “Is Melissa here?” I asked, knowing that she was not. James never brought his white wife to black functions.

“Nah, she starts a new trial on Monday and had to work late.” A tall, dark-skinned woman in a tight red dress sashayed by and James was practically wagging his tongue. I wondered sometimes if he regretted crossing the tracks.

All through law school, I had painfully watched as James dated one vicious, self-centered woman—all black—after another. When I suggested that he might have better luck if he looked beyond a pretty face and a big behind, he had angrily warned me to mind my own business. Each woman he dated took his kindness for weakness and squandered what little money he had, wiping her feet on his heart on the way out the door. After a stewardess who was a dead ringer for Alicia Keys used his credit card to buy her real boyfriend a new suit, James declared a permanent moratorium on black women.

That decision had set off a heated, unlawyerly like debate that almost ended our friendship.

“You're just a coward,” I had argued, feeling personally maligned by his vow to never date another black woman. “You don't see black women giving up on black men just because a couple of brothers dogged them out.”

“That's because they're too busy looking for the next guy to screw over.”

“Well, white women aren't necessarily the answer.” I was determined to change his mind. “I know plenty of white boys with broken hearts.”

“They don't have to be white,” James said, “just anything but black.”

“So what're you saying about your mama?” I asked.

“I ain't saying a thing about my mama,” James shot back. “And I hope you ain't either.”

Two months passed before we spoke again, but James stuck with his decision and never looked back. A few years out of law school, James met and married Melissa Feldman, an anorexic-looking Jewish woman from Manhattan. She was an assistant U.S. attorney who prosecuted white-collar criminals. Melissa worked only because she wanted to. She was the first person I had ever met who had a trust fund—a seven-figure trust fund. Her great-grandfather had bought tons of prime real estate in Manhattan and Los Angeles in the forties and fifties and parlayed it into a variety of successful business ventures that would support his offspring for decades to come. Once I had gotten to know Melissa, I had to admit that she was a perfect match for James.

In the midst of giving me a recap of one of his latest trial victories, a devious smile eased across James's lips. “Uh-oh,” he said, “here comes trouble.”

“What are you talking about?” I glanced over my shoulder to see what James was smiling at.

“That dude who broke your heart right before you met Jefferson is on his way over here.”

Before I could remind James that
I
dumped Bradley Davis, not the other way around, the man sidled up to me. He slid his arm around my waist and pulled me to him at the same time he leaned in to kiss me on the cheek.

“Hey, baby,” he whispered in my ear. “You look even finer than you did the last time I saw you.”

I was a happily married woman, but having Bradley Davis so close still caused me to swoon inside. He was tall and muscular with a shaved head and full, luscious lips. The fresh smell of his cologne stirred up memories I felt guilty recollecting.

I was about to say something cute and flirty when I saw his black Bambi standing off to the side. “Aren't you going to introduce us to your date?” I said instead.

Bradley swept his hand in Bambi's direction but kept his eyes fixed on me. “This is my friend, Briana.”

“Hi!” Briana said excitedly, as if someone had pulled a string at the back of her neck.

The girl was a stunning, chestnut brown, with long, shiny hair that was probably her own. I pegged her at twenty-five tops, and she couldn't have been bigger than a size two. But Bambi had a vacant look in her eyes that told me long division without a calculator might be a challenge for her.

“Nice to meet you, Briana,” I said. I introduced James, who nearly salivated over the woman.

Bradley's use of the word
friend
to introduce Briana hit a distant nerve. I could still recall him introducing me as his
friend.
Never
girlfriend.
Bradley was a successful patent attorney who knew how to put the
r
in romance. When he was with you, Bradley had a way of making you feel like nobody and nothing else in the world could possibly matter. And the sex was incredible. Rose petals in bed, massage oils in every fragrance and slow, super-
sensual lovemaking. But after an intense weekend of his undivided attention, it could be days before Bradley might bother to call or even favor you with a return call. I soon wised-up and moved on, despite the slamming sex.

The three of us chatted for a few more minutes, while black Bambi had every guy in the vicinity doing a double take. When we made our way inside, Bradley invited me to sit at his law firm's table, but I declined. It bugged me that just looking at the man could still get me all hot and bothered.

After a predictably bland dinner of roasted chicken and scalloped potatoes, O'Reilly graciously accepted the award for
Pro Bono
Lawyer of the Year. The Langston Bar Association's president explained how O'Reilly and a team of attorneys from our firm had assisted a group of homeowners in South Central whose property had been seized through eminent domain. Thanks to O'Reilly & Finney, the homeowners ultimately received fair market value for their houses as well as hefty relocation allowances.

Dressed in his finest Armani, O'Reilly smiled big and occasionally scratched his head. I had seen him go through the same well-rehearsed motions many times. To the crowd, he looked humble and slightly nervous. But it was all an act. He was as cool and collected as the powerful, successful lawyer his résumé proclaimed him to be.

After thanking the association for honoring him, he launched into the altruistic part of his acceptance speech.

“While it's great for our firm and other firms like ours to provide free legal help to those who can't afford it, we know that's not enough,” O'Reilly declared. “Despite the
rise in minority enrollment in law schools across the country, the partnership ranks at most firms, including ours, remain essentially white and male.” O'Reilly paused to glance around the room.

“At O'Reilly & Finney, we're committed to recruiting bright young minority attorneys. And we fully recognize that getting them through the door isn't enough. We must mentor them so that they can successfully make it to partnership.” A chorus of applause caused him to take another brief pause.

“I'd like to take a moment to introduce one of our senior associates whom I've been lucky enough to mentor.” O'Reilly stopped and looked around the room again, although he knew exactly where the firm's table was located. “Vernetta, could you please stand?”

I rose from my seat, modestly acknowledged all the looks that came my way and quickly sat back down.

“Vernetta Henderson is one of the best young trial attorneys we have, and I hope to be calling her a fellow partner pretty soon. She was raised in Compton and is also an active member of your organization. It's our hope to recruit more dynamic young attorneys like Vernetta so that our firm begins to reflect the full diversity of this community. Thanks again for this honor.”

O'Reilly smiled, exchanged handshakes with the emcee, then lingered at the podium, lapping up the applause.

I smiled over at James, sitting two tables away. I was lapping it up, too.

A
cross town, Hamilton pulled to a stop in front of Crustacean in Beverly Hills and eased out of the driver's side of his silver Mercedes-Benz S600. He watched with pride as the parking attendants drooled at the sight of Special gracefully gliding out of the passenger door.

She had really outdone herself tonight, Hamilton thought, staring over at her. Her leather skirt was both short and tight enough to double as a tube top and her beige fishnet stockings hugged her legs like the skin on a snake. He was a leg man and Special had a pair that would make Tina Turner turn a mean green. Her low-cut Lycra top was so tight he could calculate the diameter of her nipples.

“What're you staring at?” Special said, smiling at him as they walked arm in arm toward the entrance of the restaurant.

“The beautiful lady I have on my arm,” Hamilton replied, opening the door for her.

Special leaned over and parted his lips with hers and gently sucked on the tip of his tongue.

Damn, that turns me on!
Hamilton loved being with a woman who did not mind public displays of affection.
Denise, his ex-wife, was always worried about appearances. He glanced over Special's shoulder and spotted two guys at the bar staring at her ass.
Sorry, fellas, all mine tonight.

As the hostess showed them down a narrow aisle to a staircase in the far corner of the restaurant, every man in the place, and most of the women, too, turned to watch Special prance by. Hamilton had never met a tall woman who was as comfortable with her height as Special. He purposefully lagged behind so he could observe the reaction on everyone's face.

The hostess showed them to a table on the second level, handed them menus and left.

“You look gorgeous tonight,” he said as they settled in.

“Thank you, counselor.” This time she gave him a full tongue kiss.

A male waiter with blond streaks throughout his black buzz cut walked up to their table. Special ordered a Long Island iced tea and two appetizers—the coconut prawns and the California rolls. Hamilton settled for just a cognac.

Staring at the mounds of flesh bubbling up out of Special's top, Hamilton imagined the feel of his lips brushing across her breasts. He definitely could not wait much longer to get with her. Tonight would have to be the night.

“Hey, sweetie,” Special said softly, running her hand along his forearm. “Are you listening to me?”

“I'm sorry,” Hamilton said apologetically. “It's hard to concentrate sitting here with somebody as fine as you. What did you say?”

“I was asking how your day went.”

“Not bad,” he said. He paused as the waiter set their drinks on the table. “Just rescuing my clients from themselves.”

Special snuggled up closer to him. “I have something I wanted to talk to you about.” Her voice was now extra soft and feminine.

Hamilton's shoulders tensed. He hated it when women wanted to
talk.
Whenever Denise had mentioned that word, it usually meant she had something to bitch about. Hamilton hoped Special was not about to corner him about making a commitment this early in the game.

“Sounds serious.” He took a swallow of his drink.

“I'm a pretty good cook,” Special said. “I was hoping you'd let me prepare a gourmet meal for you some time soon.”

Hamilton smiled. A freak
and
a good cook. He had definitely hit the jackpot. “You name the time and the place, baby, and I'll be there.”

Special kissed him again, letting her hand rest on his thigh, dangerously close to his trigger point. He glanced at his Rolex and tried to think of something other than Special's beautiful, naked body. It took every ounce of control he had not to guide her hand to his groin and have her jack him off right there. The waiter reappeared and set the appetizers on the table.

“Can I take your order now?”

“Sure,” Special said. She picked up the menu with both hands, holding it so close to her chest that it blocked Hamilton's view of her cleavage. “I'll have the Asian
Caesar salad and the lobster for my main course. And can you bring us some more California rolls? And I think I'm about ready for another Long Island iced tea.”

Hamilton scratched his forearm.
She had the appetite of a horse!

“And what can I get for you, sir?”

“I'll have the shrimp, but hold the garlic noodles.”

“You must be doing the no-carb thing,” Special said, once the waiter left. “That must be how you stay in such good shape.” She playfully fingered the chest area of his V-neck sweater.

He took a quick sip of his cognac. Everything about the woman excited him. Nothing in the world could match the thrill of new pussy. Absolutely nothing. He wrapped his arm around Special's shoulder and kissed her neck. Even her scent turned him on. “Why don't you tell me about your day?”

Hamilton zoned out while Special babbled on and on about the headaches of being a supervisor at Telecredit. He had purposely refrained from asking her anything about Vernetta on their first two dates. Now seemed like an appropriate time to find out if she had any worthwhile information to share.

“How does my competition feel about us hooking up?” he asked.

“She ain't exactly happy about it. But like I told her,
she
works for O'Reilly & Finney, not me.”

“Now that's what I like. A woman who runs her own show.” He leaned over and kissed her on the neck again.

Hamilton emptied his drink and signaled the waiter for
a refill. “I'm really looking forward to going up against your girl in the Randle case,” he said.

“Whoooaaa, cowboy,” Special said, holding up her hands and forming a cross with her index fingers. “I've been given specific instructions to avoid any discussion of that case.”

“Then you do know something,” Hamilton teased.

“I don't know a thing. And my girl is hella paranoid, so let's just change the subject.”

The waiter appeared with their dishes and began arranging them on the crowded table.

“Do you guys still serve that chocolate lava cake?” Special asked eagerly.

“Sure do,” the waiter replied.

Special turned to Hamilton. “Hey, sweetie, you have to save some room for dessert. The chocolate cake here is absolutely incredible!”

“Okay,” Hamilton said, grinning.
You eat up, baby girl. 'Cause I want you strong and sturdy for the workout I've got planned for you tonight.