John Lescroart (6 page)

I
n the women's room at Rand & Jackman Law Associates on Montgomery Street, Treya Ghent tried to fix her eyes, but she knew it was a losing fight. Between the horrible, senseless murder of her dear friend and boss Elaine Wager and the unrelenting demands of her wonderful but high-maintenance fourteen-year-old daughter Raney, she had averaged less than three hours of sleep for the past four nights.

She was at work this morning because she didn't want to use up any more sick days frivolously. She needed to keep a bank so that she would be available if her daughter absolutely needed to have her stay home to care for a real illness, or to counsel her during a real crisis. And Treya didn't kid herself. Raney was a teenager—she was desperately going to need her mother from time to time in the next couple of years, just as Treya had needed her own mom. And thank God Raney—like Treya had been—was the kind of child who would ask.

Certainly she wasn't going to waste any of those precious sick days on
herself
—she hadn't missed a day of work for anything related to herself in six years. They paid her to be here and contribute and she wasn't going to let her employers down. They counted on her.

But the eyes were going to betray the fact that this morning at least she was a functional zombie, and she hated to have anyone, much less Clarence Jackman, the firm's managing partner, see that. When she'd gotten the summons that Jackman wanted to see her in his office, she'd been sobbing quietly in her little cubicle.

And why not? How could somebody have killed Elaine? It had wrenched her heart when she'd first learned
of it, and the pain hadn't let up much since. Elaine had been a friend and confidante; they often joked that they were sisters separated at birth. She and her boss had been the same age—thirty-three. Both were smart, neither of them entirely black or white. Intuitively, they both understood that the sometimes vast differences between their social standing, their jobs and their prospects were merely the products of background, education and—that greatest of all variables—luck.

She threw a last splash of cold water over her eyes, blinked hard and patted them dry with a paper towel. She'd kept Mr. Jackman waiting long enough, too long really. Staring at herself in the mirror for one last second, she willed a tiny spark of life into her tired eyes, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin. “Okay, girl,” she whispered firmly to herself. “No whining.”

 

Sixty-three-year-old Clarence Jackman was a power player. The company he'd founded with Aaron Rand thirty years ago was the most successful majority-black law firm west of Chicago. Though Rand & Jackman represented perhaps fifteen percent of the Bay Area's minority-owned businesses, the rest of their receivables came from a mix of premier entities without any reference to ethnicity. The firm's client roster included banks, hotels, construction firms, HMOs, several Silicon Valley companies, dozens of sports and entertainment celebrities, and hundreds of other lower-profile but high-income individuals and corporations.

Imposing nearly to the point of intimidation, Jackman had been a star fullback at USC in the sixties. He carried nearly 250 pounds of muscle on his six-foot-three-inch frame. He favored Italian suits, double-breasted in browns and greens, white shirts, conservative ties. Intensely black-hued, with an oversized head capped now in tightly trimmed gray knots, just two months ago he'd had a middle-aged applicant for the firm's CFO position walk out of the job interview before a word had been
spoken while Jackman looked him over to see if he could take it.

Understandably, Jackman had not risen to his current eminence by having a soft heart. The law business was competitive enough if you weren't black. If you were, it could be startlingly brutal. Rand & Jackman had known this at the start. They'd felt that they had had to build their firm on the assumption that if things ever went wrong with a client or a case, they would
never
under any circumstances get the benefit of the doubt. They could afford no mistakes. They had to be the best. Not just the best black—the best, period.

And so, perhaps ironically, the firm was much more a meritocracy than most of its competitors. The younger associates worked endless hours like—well—slaves, so that they could become partners and keep working even harder. Mental or physical weakness, excuses, moral lapses, failure—all were grounds for termination.

Jackman, unhampered by any laws mandating sensitivity to race issues, ran what he thought was a good, old-fashioned firm. When he and Aaron had first started out, they'd set the tone immediately, getting rid of deadwood on sight. And soon enough the word got out and the stars came calling from the good law schools and from other firms—the diligent, the brilliant, the ambitious. Workers all. Here his attorneys could accomplish great things, could kick some real ass and make real money without anyone wondering whether they'd been hired to meet some quota or kept on because they couldn't be fired.

Now, saddened on many levels by the murder of one of his true stars, Elaine Wager, Clarence Jackman was going to have to deliver one of the tough messages to one of the good people. He had seated himself behind his desk—always an effective tool for reinforcing emotional distance—and was shuffling papers as the door opened. He kept at it for a few more seconds, then looked up. “Ah, Ms. Ghent. Thanks for coming up.”

“You're welcome.” She was standing in a classic
military at-ease position by the Empire chair that he'd placed in front of his desk.

“Please. Have a seat.”

Nodding briskly, all business, she thanked him and took the chair, sitting ramrod straight and managing to do it without appearing stiff or nervous. She looked at him expectantly, then surprised him by speaking up first. “What can I do for you, sir?”

In spite of the message he was about to deliver, Jackman found himself almost enjoying the moment. This was a woman with presence. A slight puffiness around her eyes in no way detracted from her appearance. If she was wearing any makeup, it was very subtle—she sat about ten feet from Jackman and he saw no sign of any, not even lipstick. Her face was handsome—Jackman decided that if she made it up it would be close to beautiful, which was probably why she didn't bother. It had an angular, almost exotic cast—some hint of an Asian bloodline in the racial mix. Conservatively dressed in a honey-colored silk blouse and knee-length skirt, she still managed to project a powerful physicality. There was no sign of any extra weight on her, but she wasn't petite. She came across, more than anything, as strong.

These impressions coalesced in the seconds it took Jackman to frame his response. His own expression was grave, his body language sympathetic as he came forward, his arms on his desk. “Well, first,” he began in his deep, soothing voice, “I wanted to see how you're holding up in the wake of . . . Elaine.”

“I've tried to do most of my crying at home.” He admired the self-deprecating way she phrased it, meeting his eye. “I haven't always been successful.”

“It's a tragedy,” Jackman declared. “A terrible tragedy.”

“Yes, sir, it is.” She inhaled deeply and waited. Jackman might be both sympathetic and sincere, but he hadn't called her up here to share condolences.

It didn't take any time at all for the managing partner to get to it. Jackman pulled himself up straight in his chair and cleared his throat. “On another note, a bit unpleasant
I'm afraid, I wanted to make sure that your situation over the next few weeks isn't any cause for awkwardness.” He paused. “I understand that you worked for Elaine pretty much exclusively.”

Treya nodded in acknowledgment. Jackman, of course, wasn't guessing. He knew that Treya and Elaine had evolved a working relationship that was unique in the firm. All of the other paralegals “floated” between loosely defined teams of three to five attorneys, taking assignments from any of them. Treya, on the other hand, got all of her hours assisting Elaine. Though it was an unusual arrangement, Jackman had allowed it to continue because it had worked. Elaine had been a workhorse with a case and business load of incredible diversity, and Treya was organized and efficient enough to keep up with her.

But now, the arrangement loomed as a liability. Jackman drove home the point. “I assume that over the next six weeks you'll be helping out with the distribution of Elaine's caseload and that should keep your utilization high.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“Good. Beyond that, I'd like to recommend, if I may, that during that transition you also begin taking assignments from some of the other attorneys if they are offered to you.”

“Yes, sir. I was hoping to do just that, too.”

“Splendid.” Jackman didn't have to issue the warning any more clearly. Left unspoken was the hard truth that if Treya could not find enough work with one of the teams to keep her fully utilized, Jackman wouldn't be able to justify keeping her on. “You've been with the firm quite a while now, haven't you?”

“Almost seven years. I came with Elaine when she moved over from the city.”

Jackman had his fingers intertwined on the desk. He was rolling his thumbs ponderously. Something was going on in his brain, though his face didn't show it. “Well,” he said with resignation, “your good work hasn't gone unnoticed.” He paused again, offered an avuncular smile.
“Let's call it a soft six weeks, shall we? If you need a little extra time, please come up and see me.”

“I will,” she said.

The discussion was over, though they both sat unmoving for a long moment. Then, as though on cue, they both nodded, and Treya stood. She said “Thank you” without inflection and headed for the door.

 

As she walked down the hallway back to her cubicle, the knife kept turning in her stomach. Whatever sympathetic spin Jackman might put on it, she knew the reality behind his words—she had just been politely, regretfully, fired if she couldn't find another attorney in the firm who'd want to use her.

Six soft weeks.

She knew that Jackman meant he might give her seven weeks, maybe as many as nine if he let her continue to work through her two weeks' notice.

My God, she was thinking, what am I going to do?

Six weeks!

She knew there was little chance she would get anywhere near full utilization in that amount of time. First, her fellow paralegals were under the same pressure as she was to keep working. Nonattorney staff at Rand & Jackman would “bank” their overtime so that they could apply the hours to their utilization during slack periods—though technically illegal in California, the firm winked at the common practice. Too many weeks of low utilization—the exact number was unknown but low—you were gone. And everyone at the firm knew it.

Beyond that Treya was aware that her special relationship with Elaine had been a source of jealousy among her peers. She had done nothing purposeful to make this happen. She was unfailingly polite and friendly. She bent over backwards, to tell the truth. But there was no denying that she enjoyed a slightly exalted status that some of the other paralegals resented. A few lawyers might have harbored even more negative thoughts—Treya was a mere paralegal who on some level must have thought she
was equal to someone who'd passed the bar. A ridiculous notion if ever there was one.

No one was going to throw her a bone, and several people she could mention might even be glad to see her laid low.

So unless a miracle occurred, and she had long since stopped counting on them, she was going to be unemployed before springtime. She couldn't let that happen, not to herself and not to Raney. She had to whip her résumé into shape, get out there at lunchtime and start interviewing.

If only Elaine . . . oh, poor Elaine . . .

Blinking back the unexpected new flash flood of tears, Treya hurried the last few steps to her cubicle. She would be damned if she'd let anyone see her crying. If she could just make it back to the safety of her workstation, she could get herself back under control.

These sudden attacks of crying had to stop. Before the beginning of this week, Treya couldn't remember the last time she had cried. It must have been just after Tom's death, when Raney was two. Twelve years, so long ago.

Tom.

She couldn't let herself think about him, not now, about what they could have had if . . . It would all be so different now if it hadn't been for the stupid red light, the stupid truck . . .

Her awful, awful luck . . .

The floodgates threatened to open. Nearly bursting with the effort to hold back tears, she finally turned the corner into her cubicle.

A hard-looking man was leaning against her desk, his arms crossed, impatience etched on his face. He had a hatchet nose and a scar through his lips. “Treya Ghent?” he said brusquely, straightening up and holding out a badge. “I'm Lieutenant Glitsky, homicide. I'd like to talk to you about Elaine Wager.”

She collapsed into tears.

***

“I thought you'd already arrested somebody.”

Nearly ten minutes had passed, during which time Glitsky waited at the workstation, allowing Treya to go to the bathroom to regain her composure. Now she was back with him, her emotions clamped down. If anything, she exuded a kind of cold fury he'd seen before, which he interpreted as self-loathing and anger that she'd lost control.