Practice Makes Perfect (11 page)

The elevator was packed during J.D.’s ride up to the twenty-third floor. He waited until the last minute to slip his jacket back on, doing so right before he walked into the courtroom. He immediately headed to the front and took a seat in the galley while he waited for his case to be called.

J.D. had never before felt self-conscious about his appearance in court (or ever really, come to think of it) and he hated feeling that way now. He had an image to uphold, after all: he was a corporate defense attorney—he got paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to defend multimillion-dollar corporations. His clients expected, and paid for, perfection. They did not pay to have their uber-important opposition to class certification motions argued by some jackass who looked like he’d spilled his Dunkin’ Donuts Coffee Coolatta all over himself while driving in from the suburbs in his Ford Taurus.

J.D. shuddered at the mere image.

His case was third on the docket. When the clerk called the case, he stood up, straightened his tie, and forgot about everything else. He had a job to do.

He got up to the podium and nodded to his opposing counsel, who approached from the other side of the courtroom. If the plaintiffs’ attorney noticed the stain on his jacket, he didn’t acknowledge it, and J.D. was immediately grateful for the courtroom’s softer lighting.

The plaintiffs’ attorney argued first. J.D. listened attentively, watching carefully for the points where the judge interrupted and making mental notes to address those issues. When the plaintiffs’ ten minutes were over, J.D. stepped front and center at the podium. Opposition to class certification motions were of crucial importance in the cases J.D. handled and luckily, they were his forte.

J.D. began.

“Your Honor, today is the day the Court should put an end to Mr. DeVore’s six-year class action charade. By asserting a breach of contract counterclaim and seeking nationwide class certification, Mr. DeVore has literally made a federal case out of what should have been a simple foreclosure proceeding. Whatever this Court makes of the mortgage contract and the provisions Mr. DeVore challenges, one thing is certain, no class can be certified in this case because Mr. DeVore is not an adequate class representative. He perjured himself in his deposition . . .”

It was at about this point that J.D. noticed the judge leaning forward in his chair. He peered down curiously from the bench, trying to get a better look at something.

The judge suddenly held up a hand to stop him. “Counselor,” he asked J.D. with a quizzical brow, “did you get
shot
on the way over here?”

The judge leaned down farther from the bench. He squinted at J.D.’s chest, trying to get a better look at the stain.

“What
is
that?”

J.D. could only stand there at the podium, while the courtroom deputy, the clerk, the plaintiffs’ lawyer, and now pretty much everyone else in the whole damn courtroom fixated on the softball-sized mark on his suit.

So much for scraping by unnoticed.

AND THEN IT got worse.

Of course, John Grevy, a partner in the litigation group at J.D.’s firm, would happen to have a motion before the same judge that afternoon.

“That’s why we tell associates to keep a spare suit in their offices,” he hissed disapprovingly as J.D. passed him on his way out of the courtroom.

Really, John?
he wished he could say.
No shit.

And then still, it got worse.

Once outside the courtroom door, J.D. set his briefcase down, hurrying to get the splotch jacket off as quickly as possible. He heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Are you trying to embarrass me, or just yourself?”

J.D. closed his eyes. Brilliant. Exactly what he needed right then.

He turned around, taking in the grave-faced man standing before him.

“Hello, Dad. Imagine running into you here,” he said, although it actually wasn’t that much of a surprise. As a judge on the Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals, his father’s chambers were in this very building.

The esteemed Honorable Preston D. Jameson looked upon J.D. with much disappointment. It was a look J.D. knew well.

“Margie saw your name on this morning’s docket,” his father said, referring to his secretary. “She watches out for your cases. Since your mother and I haven’t seen you in a while, I thought I’d stop by and watch your oral argument.”

Preston took a step closer, his gaze fixated on his son’s suit coat. J.D. braced himself for the inevitable.

“You look ridiculous,” his father told him. “You really should keep a spare suit in your office.”

“Thanks for the tip, Your Honor,” J.D. said sarcastically. He grabbed his briefcase and stepped into the elevator that had just opened up.

“Tell Mom I said hello,” he said tersely as the elevator doors closed shut.

Inside, J.D. stared ahead as the elevator descended. He had only one thought on his mind.

Revenge.

It would soon be his.

Eleven

HIS CHANCE CAME a few hours later.

J.D. sat in his office that evening, lying in wait for just the right moment. It came when Laney dropped by to pick up Payton for their yoga class.

He sat at his desk, pretending to work, stealing glances across the hall. For a moment, he thought he might have to abort his mission, as Laney apparently had a hard time getting Payton to leave.

“You know you’re prepared,” he overheard Laney tell her. “Come on, the class will help you relax.”

J.D. was familiar with their routine; she and Laney went to this class every week—not that he paid any attention to Payton’s whereabouts or anything—and tonight was no exception. She changed into her little downward-facing-some-other-hippie-crap yoga outfit, leaving her work clothes behind in her office.

J.D. watched as she and Laney left. For the briefest second, he thought he saw Payton glance over in the direction of his office, but he was probably just being paranoid. When they were gone, he waited, then waited a few moments more just to be safe. He had about an hour to accomplish his task, which was fine. He would need only a few minutes.

J.D. stealthily crept across the hall. He was prepared, carrying an accordion folder in his hand—should his mission be compromised and he became in quick need of a cover story, he could always say he was in her office to drop off a file. Really though, he was being overcautious: it was already mid-evening and the vast majority of the office had gone home. He could go about his business deliciously unobserved.

Restraining the urge to let out an evil laugh, J.D. checked, saw he was in the clear, opened the door to Payton’s office, and let himself in. A quick look around and he spotted what he was looking for on the floor in the corner of her office.

Her shoes.

His motive was simple: if she wanted to get down and dirty in this race for the partnership spot, so be it. She made him look like an ass in court, so now . . . well, payback was a bitch.

J.D. grabbed one of her shoes, a three-inch, skinny-heel black sling-back number à la one Mr. James Choo. And she had the nerve to call
him
a clothing snob. The skinny heel would most certainly prove to be to her detriment tonight, even if it did make her legs look amazingly fantastic.

He had no idea why he just thought that.

Realizing he was in danger of losing his focus, he stuffed the shoe in the accordion folder and hurried out of Payton’s office to the supply room.

THE PAPER CUTTER did an amazing job.

Really, that blade just sliced right through, mid-heel, without leaving a mark.

A little invisible glue—just a light coat—to paste the heel temporarily back together and—presto.

Revenge was sweet indeed.

PAYTON FELT HORRIBLE.

The high from her victory that afternoon had lasted about twenty minutes before the guilt had set in.

Yes, J.D. was unbelievably, frustratingly arrogant and smug. He deliberately had been trying to push her buttons and she doubted she would have too many problems convincing a jury of her peers that he deserved it. But still.

She felt horrible.

Cycling through the events of the day, she now wondered whether she should’ve been searching through his office in the first place. She didn’t know why she had felt comfortable taking such liberties, given that he was her sworn enemy and all.

And then there was the small matter of the—ahem—coffee.

As a litigator, she knew how much appearances mattered in court. To make matters worse, she had heard through the firm grapevine (i.e., Irma) that one of the partners had seen J.D. in court and reprimanded him for the stain on his suit. For that she felt particularly bad.

So, now came the hard part.

She needed to apologize.

Before leaving with Laney for their yoga class, she had glanced in the direction of J.D.’s office and momentarily had been tempted to do it in person, but, well, this wasn’t exactly easy for her.

So instead, she lay in bed that night, having decided to apologize first thing in the morning before she headed off to court. But sleep eluded her. Frustrated, Payton rolled over and grabbed the phone sitting on the nightstand next to her bed.

She looked at it for a long moment, debating. Then she dialed.

THE MESSAGE WAS the last thing J.D. heard that night.

Per usual, he checked his work voice mail one last time before going to sleep and was surprised to discover that someone had called just before midnight.

The automated voice mail indicated that the call had come from outside the office. The caller did not identify herself; she just started right in as if they were in the middle of a conversation. But J.D. recognized the voice right away.

“So I know you’re probably going to think that this is a cop-out, too,” Payton’s message began, “but it’s late and maybe you’re sleeping and I suppose I could just say this in the morning, but now
I
can’t sleep and I’m just lying here so I might as well get it over with, and well . . .”

There was a long pause, and for a moment J.D. thought that was how the message ended. But then she continued.

“I’m sorry about this afternoon, J.D. The first spill honestly was an accident, but the second . . . okay, that was completely uncalled for. I’m, um, happy to pay for the dry cleaning. And, well . . . I guess that’s it. Although you really might want to rethink leaving your jacket on your chair. I’m just saying. Okay, then. That’s what they make hangers for. Good. Fine. Good-bye.”

J.D. heard the beep, signaling the end of the message, and he hung up the phone. He thought about what Payton had said—not so much her apology, which was question-ably mediocre at best—but something else.

She thought about him while lying in bed.

Interesting.

LATER THAT NIGHT, having been asleep for a few hours, J.D. shot up in bed.

He suddenly remembered—her shoe.

Oops.

Twelve

J.D. RACED INTO the office early the next morning, eager to get there before anyone else. A quick look around told him he was the first one on the floor. He headed straight for Payton’s office, and a hurried search revealed what he feared would be the case.

The shoes were gone.

He hadn’t received any death threats that morning, so either the heel he had tampered with had held up on her way home from work last night, or she had simply left her yoga shoes on after class.

Fine. No problem. He would wait for her to come in. Not that he had any fucking clue what he was going to say when he saw her. “Hi, Payton, thanks for the apology, that was nice. Did you see they’ve got muffins in the break room? Oh, by the way, I sliced off one of your heels and shoddily glued it back together hoping it would break off in court and leave you hobbling about like a drunk one-legged prostitute. Have a nice day.”

Somehow, he had a feeling that might not go over so well.

When nothing else came to mind, J.D. decided he would wing it. He was good at thinking on his feet.

So he waited in his office. He looked up from his desk every time somebody walked in, expecting to see Payton at any moment.

When 8:00 a.m. rolled around, then 8:30, he grew a bit concerned. By 9:00 he was in a full panic, thinking of the worst-case scenario. What if she wore the shoes on her way into work and the heel suddenly snapped and she fell and broke her ankle? Should he retrace her route into the office? Wait—she rode the “L” into work. What if she had tripped while getting on, sprained, maimed, or separated something, and was now trapped inside one of the train cars, calling for help, riding endless circles around the Loop?

J.D. decided to check with Payton’s secretary. Maybe she had heard something.

He walked up to Irma’s desk, where she typed steadily away at her computer. He oh-so-casually leaned against her credenza, being careful to appear as nonchalant as possible.

“Good morning, Irma, my, that’s a lovely brooch—is it a seagull? Nice weather outside, isn’t it? Hey—by any chance have you heard from Payton this morning?”

Irma paused her typing for a brief moment, looked J.D. over, then resumed her work.

“It’s a kangaroo, not a seagull; actually it was quite cloudy when I walked in, and yes, she left me a message, she went straight over to the courthouse this morning.”

Straight to the courthouse? Son of a—

Fighting to maintain his façade of disinterest, J.D. idly fingered the leaves of the plant sitting on top of Irma’s desk.

“So, by any chance did Payton say what she was wearing this morning?” He picked imaginary lint off his suit. “More specifically, did she happen to say anything about her, um, shoes?”

Irma stopped her typing and slowly peered over at him. J.D. knew he needed to say something quick by way of explanation.

“I just want to make sure she’s, you know, accessorizing appropriately.”

Irma folded her hands politely.

“Mr. Jameson. Whatever this is, I don’t have time for it. If you have questions about Payton’s attire this morning, I suggest you take a stroll on over to the courthouse and check it out for yourself. She’s in Judge Gendelman’s courtroom.”

J.D. nodded. Yes, yes, fine, thank you. Nice attitude, by the way. Like boss, like secretary.

But always a gentleman, he smiled and thanked Irma for the information. He stopped by his own secretary’s desk and told her that he had an errand to run.

Then he hurried out of the office and headed straight for the courthouse.

BY THE TIME J.D. walked into Judge Gendelman’s courtroom, court was already in session.

He quietly closed the door behind him and slipped into the back row of the galley, wanting his presence to go unnoticed until he figured out what he was going to say to Payton.

J.D. took a seat. As he tried to get comfortable on the hard wooden bench, his eye was immediately drawn to the action up front. Payton stood before the witness stand, which meant that she was in the middle of either a direct or cross-examination. He sat back to enjoy the show, figuring this was a great opportunity to observe the enemy in her nor—

Holy fuck—would somebody please tell him why a massive photo of a
penis
was sitting front and center in the courtroom?

J.D. glanced around warily. What the hell kind of law did Payton practice around here? Everyone else in the courtroom, however, seemed wholly unfazed by the exhibition.

His interest now really piqued by this spectacle of a so-called trial, he turned his attention back to Payton. Remembering why he was there, he sat up to get a better look. He watched as Payton walked around to the other side of the podium, and—wait—

Shit. She was wearing the shoes.

J.D.’s eyes narrowed in on the left shoe—the heel he had made a few, shall we say, “special modifications” to. The heel appeared to be holding together, although it was anyone’s guess how long that would last. With every step Payton took, he held his breath, expecting to see her stumble. He would have to pull her aside at the next break and warn her. He only hoped the glue he had applied would hold together until then.

Having no choice but to sit idly by in the galley and wait, J.D. distracted himself by focusing on Payton’s interrogation of the witness. He could tell within seconds from the way she leadingly questioned the woman on the stand that this was not a friendly party.

“I’m not sure I understand your position, Ms. Kemple,” Payton was saying. “Maybe you can help me understand what it is you believe the company did wrong.”

J.D. watched as Payton positioned herself between the jury and the witness, a trial lawyer’s trick to get the jurors’ attention during cross-examination.

“Earlier we established that you reported the incident involving your former manager on June fourteenth of last year, correct?” Payton asked.

“That’s correct,” Ms. Kemple answered.

“And the director of Human Resources responded to your complaint that very same day, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“As part of that response, the company immediately fired your former manager, also that same day, didn’t they?”

The witness nodded. “That’s correct.”

“And, in fact, yesterday at trial was the first time you had seen him since the incident in his car, correct?”

Again the witness nodded. “Yes.”

“So it’s fair to say then, Ms. Kemple, that you never again had any problems with your former manager after that one incident?” Payton asked.

The witness appeared more reluctant to answer this question. “I guess that’s fair to say,” she finally agreed.

Appearing satisfied with this answer, Payton walked over to the defense attorney’s table. Having been drawn into the testimony, J.D. noticed for the first time that a junior associate from their firm—what the hell was his name, Brandon, Brendan, something like that—sat at the table. Perhaps, J.D. mused, he could slip Brandon/Brendan a note to give to Payton.

J.D.’s eyes were drawn back to Payton as she casually leaned against the table facing the witness.

“Ms. Kemple, am I also correct that, after your manager was fired, the director of Human Resources came out to your office and conducted a full-day sexual harassment refresher seminar that was mandatory for all employees?”

The witness tried to hedge here. “I’m not sure it was a
full
day . . .”

“Well, how long was the seminar?” Payton asked.

Ms. Kemple thought for a moment. “I guess it was about seven or eight hours.”

“Wouldn’t you describe seven or eight hours as a full day?”

“I suppose so.”

With this admission, Payton held up her hands. “So? Why are we here, Ms. Kemple?”

The witness stared at her, confused. “Excuse me?”

“To be blunt, you’ve sued the company for two million dollars. What exactly is it that you think they did wrong in handling your complaint?”

J.D. watched Payton as she continued her cross-examination. Because they had worked in the same group for the last eight years, he had heard plenty about her numerous trial victories. But this was the first chance he’d gotten to observe her firsthand.

She was good. Right away, J.D. saw how relaxed and comfortable she was in the courtroom. Yet always professional. It was obvious that the jury liked her, and more important, they trusted her—he could tell from the way they listened attentively, how some of them even nodded along with her questions.

“Well, I think there’s a few things the company could’ve done differently . . .” the witness was saying in a defensive tone.

“Like what?” Payton asked. “You don’t disagree that the company handled the matter promptly, do you?”

As Payton asked this question, she folded her arms across her chest and casually leaned back against the table—on one foot, her
left
foot—for support.

J.D. drew in his breath. Oh, shit.

“I suppose they handled the matter promptly enough,” the witness conceded.

“And you would have to agree that they handled the matter effectively, wouldn’t you, seeing how you never again saw your ex-manager, let alone had a problem with him?”

Still leaning against the table, Payton crossed her right ankle over her left, so that all her weight now bore down on her left heel.

J.D. cringed. Crap, crap, this was going to be
bad
. He couldn’t watch. But yet he had to. Should he do something? Maybe he could—

But right then, Payton eased onto the table—taking the weight off her shoe—as the witness answered.

“Yes, I suppose you could say that the way the company chose to respond to my manager’s harassment was effective enough.”

J.D. exhaled in relief. Close call. But he had better get that note to Brandon/Brendan now, while he still had the chance. He glanced over. A few other latecomers had sat down at the end of his row. He would have to sneak past them to get out.

Meanwhile Payton, sitting on the table, gracefully crossed one leg over the other, continuing her cross-examination.

“And when the director of Human Resources interviewed you a week after the incident, didn’t you, in fact, tell her that you were
pleased
with the company’s response to your complaint?” she asked.

“No, I don’t think that’s what I said,” Ms. Kemple quickly replied.

Payton seemed surprised by this answer, but remained unflustered. “Really? Do you remember when we spoke earlier at your deposition, Ms. Kemple, where you said . . .”

J.D. watched as Payton searched through the files on her table and quickly found the deposition transcript she was looking for. Payton grabbed the transcript—

“Here, Ms. Kemple, let me read to you a portion of your—”

—and before J.D. realized what was happening, Payton did sort of a half leap off the table to approach the witness stand and when she came down on her feet there was a loud
crack!
that sounded throughout the courtroom and holy shit suddenly Payton stumbled wildly off balance, her arms flailing, and she—

—dove headfirst straight into the jury box.

The entire courtroom gasped as J.D. flew out of his seat in horror.

Oh, my god!

Everyone was on their feet, stunned, watching as Payton quickly scrambled to pull herself to a stand, grappling, climbing past the jurors who sat in their box, mouths agape, and she managed to get to her feet, a little flustered but covering as she smoothed her skirt and—

“Sorry about that.” Payton smiled calmly at the jurors, regaining her cool. “Now, where was I . . .”

She looked for the deposition transcript she had dropped, she turned around and—

—the entire audience in the galley cried out in shock.

Unbeknownst to Payton, when she had fallen her skirt—those damn slim-fit skirts she liked so much—had torn at the seam and now gaped open, and sweet Jesus, she was wearing a thong and two tiny white butt cheeks peeked out from between the folds of her skirt—

J.D.’s jaw nearly hit the floor.

Oh god, it was horrible,
horrible
—well, actually it wasn’t all that horrible for him, she had a
really
great ass—but for Payton, this was a train wreck, a disaster—

Up front, Payton heard the ruckus coming from the audience behind her, so she turned around—

—and the peeky cheeks now faced the judge and jury. The jurors’ mouths dropped open, and a few murmured something incoherent, and they all gaped as Payton hobbled about the courtroom on uneven shoes, confused as to the source of the commotion.

At the defense table, Brandon/Brendan timidly whispered something to Payton; J.D. couldn’t hear it and apparently neither could Payton because she bent over toward Brandon/Brendan to hear better, exposed white buns up in the air for all to see, and the courtroom erupted in complete pandemonium and J.D. started to climb past the people in his row—he somehow had to put a stop to this—

But Payton finally heard Brandon/Brendan.

She stood up, her hand flew to her skirt, and she felt the rip in the seam. She instantly reacted; she unbuttoned her jacket and quickly tied it around her waist—no more peeky-cheeks—and J.D. heard a few groans of disappointment as the judge finally got things under control, banging his gavel and calling for order in the courtroom.

And as quickly as the chaos had erupted, things quieted back down. As people took their seats, the clamor settling, J.D. sat down, too, hiding, thinking now definitely was
not
the time to be seen by Payton.

As a silence took hold of the courtroom, all eyes were on Payton. Everyone waited to see what she would do, how she would react.

She paused for a moment. Then she turned and faced the jury.

“Raise your hand if you had no idea you’d see so much nudity in one week of jury duty.”

Twelve hands flew straight into the air.

And unbelievably, Payton laughed.

The jurors joined in with her. Then the judge raised his hand, too. With that, the entire courtroom laughed and people began to clap.

Payton held her hand up, acknowledging. “Thank you, thank you. I’m here all week.”