DEFENSE (15 page)

              “Okay,” I said, at last, backing down, beaten into submission. “I…I want you back.”

              She sighed with relief.

              “Thank God, Harrison,” she said. “You’ve put me through hell and back these last few weeks.”

              “I’m sorry.”

              “There’s no time for that,” she replied. “We have work to do. We’ve got two weeks ‘til trial. I’ll see you Monday morning.”

              “Okay,” I said.

              The relief I felt was all-consuming. Just two days to get through before I could see her again. I’d been an idiot to try and block her out.

              The phone bleeped, indicating I was down to the last few seconds of the call.

              “Harrison,” Katie said. “Did you read my letters?”

              “No,” I admitted. “I still have them, though.”

              “Good,” she replied. “Read them over the weekend, okay? They’ll give you something to take your mind off everything.”

              “Okay.”

              The phone bleeped loudly. My call time was over. The line cut dead before I had a chance to say good-bye.

              I looked at the receiver in my hand. Katie Scott was back onboard and back in my life. I’d caved. I’d been selfish. But it felt damn good.

Katie

I whirled into the Newland & Rook offices, my chin held high. Even though I’d clocked out for the weekend a few hours earlier, I knew my boss would still be in her office. Galiema Rook wasn’t one for relaxing weekends, especially now that she’d taken on a huge serial rape case involving Jessica.

              I went straight into her office, not even bothering to knock. She looked up and raised an eyebrow.

              “Yes?” she said, removing her glasses.

              I grinned. “I’ve got our client back.”

              Her eyes widened and a line of confusion appeared between her eyebrows. “You mean Harrison Wrexler?”

              She knew I’d been trying my hardest to get Harrison back onboard. What she didn’t know was why. In Galiema’s mind, Harrison Wrexler was a great paying client whose case, if we won, would propel us into the stratosphere of law firms in DC. It was a chance for TV appearances, press conferences, and interviews. If she could present a strong enough case, there was even a chance she could join the elite, exclusive ranks of famous lawyers—the Dean Strangs and Robert Kardashians of the world.

              But that wasn’t why I wanted Harrison back onboard. I wanted him because I hadn’t been able to wipe the feel of him off my skin. Because I craved his lips on mine like an addict trying to get their next fix. Because I wanted to feel Harrison Wrexler between my thighs again.

              For me, the money and prestige was irrelevant. But if Galiema ever found out what Harrison and I had gotten up to in these very offices, she’d fire me for sure.

              “Yes,” I replied, confidently. “Harrison’s back onboard.”

              “Well, well, well,” she said. “Your persistence paid off.” She folded her arms. Galiema wasn’t one for gushing, but I could tell she was impressed, even if it were just for the amount of money that would soon be deposited into her bank account. “Remind me, when is the trial set?”

              “That’s the thing,” I said. “We’ve only got two weeks.”

              She smirked. “Good thing we like a challenge here at Newland & Rook. I guess you’ll be spending the weekend here with me. Shall I order takeout?”

              I knew taking Harrison’s case back on would mean giving up my life all over again. But losing my weekends for Harrison wasn’t a sacrifice. If anything, it would remind me of those two amazing days when we’d had the whole place to ourselves. We’d made love in the conference room, in the shower, in the dark little office room, and it had been heaven. Those memories would be enough to keep me going, no matter how tired I got.

              A few hours later, Galiema and I were eating noodles out of pots and pouring over the reams of evidence our private investigators had brought in during the short time we’d been Harrison’s lawyers. Harrison had fired his other lawyer after our call, but it wouldn’t be until Monday morning that we’d be given access to his files on the case. It didn’t matter; we had more than enough to work through already.

              I chucked my chopsticks into my empty noodle pot. “How’s everything going with the rape case?”

              Galiema had been practically living in her office over the last few weeks, and the main reason was because of the rape case.

              “Good,” she said. “John hasn’t found out about it yet, though I’m fully prepared for shit to hit the fan when he does.”

              Other than my roommate Jessica, she’d been able to find several other women willing to testify. When the case blew up, it was going to be big. I felt a little guilty to be taking Galiema away from something so noble. But Harrison needed us. Harrison had to come first.

              “It’s 9 p.m.” Galiema said, folding her papers. “Maybe we should go home and get a proper rest. There’s still a ton of work to do tomorrow.”

              I agreed and we parted ways. I was still on cloud nine the whole taxi journey home, knowing that in less than 48 hours I’d be back in Harrison’s presence.

***

I arrived at work early Saturday morning. Galiema was already there, in the conference room, surrounded by boxes.

              “I bought coffee,” she said, nodding towards a paper cup before returning her gaze back to the notes in front of her. “Might be cold now.”

              I picked it up. It was tepid. “How long have you been here?”

              Galiema didn’t even look up. She just shrugged.

              I put the cup back down and went over to her side. “What’s that?” I said, glancing at the glossy picture in her file. It was of a stunningly beautiful woman, with olive-colored skin and long black hair falling in waves across her shoulders.

              “That is Catherine Wrexler,” Galiema said. “The dead wife.”

              Hearing her name was like a punch in the guts. Galiema had no idea that the “dead wife” was my lover’s ex. I didn’t want to be one of those simpering, jealous girls, but I couldn’t help but feel insecure about her stunning beauty.

              “She’s gorgeous,” I said.

              Galiema grunted her assent. “She doesn’t look familiar to you?”

              I frowned. “Why would she?” I couldn’t help but touch my fingertips to the photograph, to Catherine’s face. This was the woman who’d captivated Harrison’s heart, the woman whose death had destroyed him.

              Galiema pulled out another file and rummaged through before producing a picture. It was of a young, smiling woman. She had the same olive-colored skin and black hair.

              “Is this Catherine when she was younger?” I asked.

              “No,” Galiema said. “That’s Shantelle. The second dead woman.” She turned her eyes up to me. “You’ve got to admit, Wrexler has a type.”

              I put the picture down and turned away, my heart hammering. I’d only ever seen Shantelle in autopsy photos, when her skin had drained entirely of color. I’d never seen Catherine before at all. The resemblance was striking.

              “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

              Galiema snorted derisively. “That’s not how the jury will see it and you know it. They’ll see one dead woman’s picture next to the other dead woman’s picture and jump to a whole load of conclusions.”

              “Then we’ll get more pictures,” I contested. “Get one of the investigators to find a picture of Catherine with different hair, or Shantelle pulling a different expression. We’ll counter it by saying the prosecutors purposefully selected similar pictures to support their ridiculous narrative then bombard them with a million images of them looking completely different.”

“If such images exist,” Galiema added.

              I could feel myself becoming a little frantic. Why hadn’t Harrison told me he’d taken Shantelle home that night because she reminded him of Catherine? It wouldn’t have freaked me out. Alright, maybe it would have, but hearing it from his own mouth would have been a hell of a lot less weird than finding out about it through Galiema.

              “You know,” Galiema added with a laugh. “Maybe one of the reasons Harrison took you back on as his lawyer was because you have the same name as her. Maybe he’s completely obsessed with Catherine….”

              I cut her off by holding up my palm. “I’m a Kathleen, not a Catherine. And you should be a bit more respectful. This is our client—our
paying
client—that you’re talking about.”

              She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by my scolding. “Actually, you’re a Katie. Katie, that well-known pet name for Catherine. The very same name that Catherine Wrexler went by before Harrison, at his own admission, insisted she go by her formal name. So my observation still stands. And, if I may add, it is my job—the job I’m being
paid
to do—to look at this case through the eyes of the jury. I need to consider anything that might hurt our case, including whether our client has an obsession with his ex-wife and women that remind him of her.”

              “You think me having the same name as his dead wife might hurt the case?” I asked incredulously.

              “I think it might, in some jurors’ minds, indicate that he has an obsession with his dead wife. An obsession that some jurors might believe could cause him to seek out his dead wife’s doppelgänger before raping her and murdering her.”

              I felt sick. I couldn’t listen to what she was saying. For Galiema, this was just another day at work. Another client. For Galiema, Harrison’s guilt or innocence made no difference in the amount of vigor with which we’d represent him. But for me, Harrison’s innocence was paramount. Anything that even so much as hinted at his guilt sent my mind reeling.

              “Where are you going?” Galiema asked as I strode, almost hypnotically, to the door.

              “Coffee,” I said, nodding to the paper cup I’d left on the table. “It had gone cold.”

              Galiema nodded, though I could tell she was suspicious by the look in her eyes as she watched me leave.

              By the time I got into the elevator, my mind was whirling. Was there any chance that Harrison was obsessed with Catherine? That he’d drugged and killed Shantelle because she looked like her? That he’d started an affair with me merely because I shared the same nickname as her? I knew Harrison, in my heart and in my body, but the revelation had planted just the smallest seed of doubt in my mind.

              I made it down to the lobby and walked out the main doors. But the moment I set foot outside the building, I was accosted by a reporter. When Harrison was first arrested and charged with murdering a prostitute, Galiema had done well at keeping the paps at bay by putting injunctions and gag orders in place. But as soon as he was charged for the murder of his wife, as well, the bans were nullified and there was nothing holding them back. Harrison’s lawyer before me must have been hassled about the case constantly. I suppose the few weeks that Harrison had blocked me from accessing him had provided me with a buffer from their glare. Maybe that’s what he meant about not dragging me into it.

              I tried to keep my composure as the reporter followed me across the street.

              “Morally speaking,” he said, “how does it feel to be representing a murderer?”

              He had an irritating, nasally voice.

              “Morality doesn’t come into it,” I said diplomatically. “Everyone has a constitutional right to representation in a court of law.”

              “Except a rich person’s constitutional right gets him a better lawyer than a poor person, wouldn’t you agree?”

              I could feel my cheeks growing hotter. I had to keep my cool, for Harrison’s sake, and for my own.

              “That’s a question you should be putting to the president,” I replied. “I don’t make the rules. I just follow the law.”

              The reporter was clearly amused by how riled he was making me. He followed me to the entrance of Starbucks, then hovered around outside the door as I ordered my black Americano.

              “Do you think Harrison Wrexler might become this generation’s OJ?” the reporter said the moment I set foot outside again.

              I tensed. Was that really what the public thought of him?

              “That depends on how much of a caricature you make him out to be in the newspapers, and how well you do your research,” I replied with a raised eyebrow.

              The reporter smirked. “Why don’t you do an exclusive with us, in that case?” he said. “Give us a chance to present all the real facts.”

              I declined his offer in the politest way I could before racing back across the street and into the relative safety of the tower block. He wasn’t legally allowed to follow me inside a private building, so was left floundering on the steps, his question floating into the cold air unanswered.

              Back in the office I relayed the encounter to Galiema. She rolled her eyes.

              “We’ll have to schedule a press conference,” she said. “We can’t have those guys accosting us every time we want to buy a sandwich.” She opened her diary. “If I pull some strings, I might be able to get something tomorrow evening. You up for it?”

              It would be my first press conference. But when it came to Harrison, I felt like I was ready for anything.

              “You bet I am,” I said.