The Album: Book One (17 page)

Adam Ford
7/31/03
Re: Adam and the horrible, terrible, no good, very bad day

M
Y OFFICE WINDOW
is on the north side of the building and directly faces another Fifth Ave cement behemoth – not quite the corner office of my dreams, but it’s definitely better than sharing a desk in the hollows of a dilapidated City shack. During my days at the District Attorney’s office, I would wheel around a giant file box like a nerd that didn’t want to go to his locker, but if I stayed at my desk, I felt like a prisoner chained to a 1970s cop drama. But no matter how bad the work environment was, working for the Manhattan District Attorney was amazingly fulfilling and a huge accomplishment.

Jenkins, Shaw and Davis literally courted me. The hiring partner took me to expensive dinners and Mets games and introduced me to the second floor secretaries. I didn’t really have a master plan, but money, or rather lack of, was the catalyst in making the move. If I took the job with JS&D, I would be able to pay my law school loans in five years and live comfortably. With the small signing bonus, I was able to lease an apartment in Brooklyn Heights and move out of my friend Pete’s parents’ basement in Westchester.

And prior to today, everything has gone according to plan. But today, on this brutally hot day of July, my perfect plan is going to shit.

My new secretary, Sister Roberta, has ordered me lunch every day since her arrival. She doesn’t even ask what I would like or if in fact I have allergies to certain things, she just lays it neatly on my desk and frowns.

“Lunch, Mr. Ford. I will be back at one-thirty.” Roberta hands me a printed copy of today’s messages and remaining meetings – gone are the days shooting the shit with Diane. Roberta’s probably going out to enjoy a McDonald’s Big Mac and shake, evil-grinning about the cafeteria crap she left for me. I lift the lid to the Styrofoam container –
son of a bitch!
Roast beef sandwich, a big-ass pickle and a carton of fucking milk. She might as well pack it in a He-Man lunchbox with a note on the napkin:

Lunch, Mr. Ford
I hope you hate it as much as I hate you.
~Roberta the Nun

There’s a knock on my door as I shove my lunch inside the garbage can.

“Yeah?” I grunt.

Fiona appears in the door and quietly closes it behind her. “Hey, Adam.” She moves to the garbage can and helps me tie off the mess.

“Do you believe this fucking shit?” I growl.

Fiona sits down across from me and crosses her legs. Her heels must be at least four inches, because when she sits, she barely floats above the desk.

“I have a couple of protein bars in my desk, or I could order you Chinese,” she offers.

“I’m fine. I have a meeting with Shaw at three and I can’t really stomach anything right now.” I haven’t been able to stomach anything for days because I know what kind of meetings Mr. Shaw likes to have – he hires and he fires.

“Adam, we need to talk.” Jesus Christ. What now?

“Okay?” My voice is dry and irritated.

“Would you rather go to lunch and discuss—”

We’ve had an agreement of sorts for two months but I apparently gave her too much credit in separating sex from a relationship. “No. What do you want, Fiona?” She flinches at my sudden eruption so I try to remedy the rip-open-my-shirt-and-turn-Hulk-behavior. “Sorry for my tone. I’m really stressed with work and I don’t want drama, understand?”

She exhales and rolls her eyes. “So, my ex-boyfriend is back in the picture. We were best friends in high school, pre-boobs, and we want to give it another shot.
Who Wants to be a Millionaire
is over . . . for obvious reasons.” Fiona waves her hands in front of me, welcoming me back to reality. “Hello, you need to relax. This inconsistent Adam is
not
the cool and confident Adam that gets what he wants.”

My jaw tightens –
I am relaxed
. It takes massive amounts of self-control to not express what I’m really thinking – that I’d rather pound my chest like an angry gorilla, hopping from foot to foot. But instead, I turn my attention to my computer screen and say, “Done. Is he good to you?”

“Yes, of course. Adam!” She raises her voice. “I’m your friend and as your friend, I’m advising you to dial the crazy back a few notches. Get your shit together and win your fucking cases.” Fiona stands and smooths her skirt. She walks over to my brown plants dying in the window and laughs. “Oh Adam, how much do you miss Diane?” How appropriate that those plants chose today to shrivel up and die.

“Fiona, I’m fine. I’ll win the case.” I walk over to her with a bottle of water and douse the brown leaves – but there’s really no hope. Without asking, she tosses the small pots in the trashcan and gives me a patronizing smile. I return her smile, but mine is plastic and unattached. Our friendship has changed – and I will not allow her to
know
me.

“I have a lot of work to do. Can you get me Nicki Mayne’s cell phone number? She’s not listed in the CUNY Fall registration portal and it’s imperative that I speak with her.” I mess around with papers on my desk and thumb through my Blackberry, hoping she takes the hint to leave me alone.

She does. Fiona walks out the door without looking back.

As soon as the door closes, I hurry to the trashcan to remove one of the dead plants. Would it have taken too much discipline to remember to water a tiny, helpless plant? With as much force as I can muster and without causing too much noise, I hurl the pot at the large window that once represented my perfect future . . . “Fuck.”

“Adam, have a seat. Did you bring the Delgado file?” Curtis Shaw may look like Colonel Sanders at a Kentucky potluck dinner, but he has the reputation of being an uncompassionate prick.

“Yes sir.” I reluctantly pass him the file, knowing that I’m serving him my balls on a manila folder.

“You had a double major at Penn State?”

“Yes, Political Science and Psychology.” My Psychology 101 class was so easy that I decided to continue with it as a double major. Before I decided to go to law school, I was planning a career as a political analyst, but I hate politicians, so law was the next obvious choice.

“Psychology. Does this explain your idiotic reasoning behind Delgado? The trial starts on Monday and Franco was this close to pulling his business from our firm.” His voice lowers to an agitated grumble and his eyes narrow into dark beads. “I had to agree to sit in on the case and babysit you. Do you care to explain?” Shaw leans back in his chair with his hands resting behind his head. Holy shit, he even wears the matching suspenders to his bowtie.

Focus Adam.

“Yes, I wanted to distract the prosecutor by agreeing to the ten women jurors. He would see me as weak and that weakness would garner me some pity. That pity allowed me to acquire the two most contemptible male jurors in the courthouse to join the group.”

“But why? Women do not empathize with philanderers and thieves. And you made it more difficult by doubling the odds.”

“I understand what it looks like, sir. But women also have a connected line of thinking –
empowerment
. The female jurors simply need to believe the perception I create – that Mr. Delgado made a mistake, but his mistake subsequently gave three women a better life.” I keep my voice calm and persuasive, practicing how I will sell this idea to the jury. Shaw rests his hands on his belly and twiddles his thumbs, waiting for me to proceed.

“Go on,” he barks.

“Nicki used the money to return to college and finish her degree in Business Management. Carly quit the escort service months ago, but still continued to see Mr. Delgado on her own accord after payment stopped. She was able to put the money toward daycare for her son while she began a new career as a secretary. And Kyleigh helped pay for her mother’s chemotherapy treatments.”

“Very sweet, but it was solicitation with stolen money.”

“Sir, the escort service doesn’t keep records of clients and Delgado used cash. Cash he had on hand from accounts that he mistakenly thought were his private funds. He then used this cash to
reimburse
the ladies for their expenses. By the time the prosecutor starts revealing actual dollar amounts, the jury will only be concerned with the fact he made a mistake, but his mistake empowered three women. Whether the jury views Delgado as the handsome prince rescuing women from the streets, a Robin Hood giving to the poor, or even if they believe the ladies are modern feminists using his money for their own dreams – women like a fantasy. And I’m prepared to give them that fantastical perception.”

“That’s a stretch and I hope you’re also prepared for the ramifications that will follow if you screw this up.” Shaw’s spit hits me square in the nose but I don’t flinch. There will be no sign of weakness. I will win this fucking case and I will buy new plants for my office window.

August 15, 2003

T
HE FIREFIGHTER WAVES
to Chloe as she politely squeezes through a group of angry women. He’s not terrible looking and he’s definitely boyfriend material, but Chloe wants more. She smiles courteously as he approaches her with a single red rose and a lopsided grin.

This particular firefighter’s older brother died during the 9/11 attacks, and he selflessly changed careers to honor his family’s legacy of New York’s bravest. Last night, he carried six senior citizens down four flights of stairs during the Northeast Blackout. After the fireman safely transported the elderly individuals to a generator-powered waiting room, he volunteered for another four-hour shift in the darkness. He has spent hours in the gym, transforming his short frame into a muscular block of fire-fighting fury, and his honorable character surpasses his average appearance . . . but his story belongs somewhere else.

“You’re beautiful, Natalie. Would you like to get a table?” His enthusiasm is sincere, but Chloe’s is fading. She doesn’t like Natalie’s ill-contrived plan, and hearing her cousin’s name only escalates the guilt she carries for participating in such.

“I’m sorry, Timothy, but I’m actually Natalie’s cousin. I offered to stop by and let you know that she won’t be able to meet you tonight.” The firefighter appears confused, but there’s no sense in Chloe being the bad guy. She contemplates whether a quick drink with him would be fun, but Chloe thrives on emotional energy and this particular firefighter is a single-layer of vanilla cake.

The firefighter laughs humorlessly. “Oh, okay, well that’s messed up. But I guess it’s better than being stood up on a blind date my mom arranged.” The firefighter digs in the pocket of his tight jeans for his cell phone as Chloe returns a seductive glance to the handsome bartender, blatantly running his eyes up and down her body. Maybe she will stay to have a drink at the bar after all. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”

The firefighter jabs his large fingers at the tiny keys, waiting for her response, but Chloe is distracted by a flicker of light in her peripheral line of vision. She turns her head in the direction of the bartender . . . but it’s Adam’s concentrated gaze that captivates her indefinitely.

Adam is leaning confidently against the bar, his silver watch reflecting the large pendant from above. He’s classically handsome and mysteriously sexy, but it’s his intense eyes coupled with his casual confidence that make him irresistible. When he sees Chloe for the first time, he flinches ever so slightly from the onset of unfamiliar emotions. He feels something deep inside, possibly intrigue mixed with fear, but mostly, he’s surprised.

Their first shared moment is timeless, slow-motion and raw attraction, each searching for the appropriate gesture of declaration. The fascination, the impulsive desire – they share a smile. Their first smile – but not their last.

“Hello? Natalie’s cousin! Do you need a taxi?” Chloe returns her attention to the firefighter and Adam, feeling defeated, turns away to pay his tab.

“Oh, no. Thank you. And I’m Chloe, by the way.” Chloe smiles sweetly as the firefighter reaches in for an awkward hug. She telepathically sends a message to the back of Adam’s head, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Alrighty then, goodnight.” The firefighter lays the rose on the nearest table and disappears into the Manhattan melting pot of dating disasters.

Chloe takes a step.

Take another one, Chloe – Adam’s getting his jacket to leave.

She does it. Three more steps and then a pause. Chloe is standing behind Adam, breathing in his air and counting down the beats of her heart. 3-2-1 . . .

“You’re not leaving, eh?”

Yes, their attraction is electric, but their connection is still just an idea. Their story will be a journey.

Controlled. Explosive.

Light. Dark.

Magical. Real.

Like fireworks
!