Exposed (11 page)

I couldn’t help myself and looked down to see if they were wearing high heels. They were, but not extreme. They were just very tall.

And though one was a younger copy of the other, they could have been fashion models. Maybe they were, or had been.

After I walked around my desk, I held out my hand to the mother and asked them to sit down. When the mother ignored my hand and only looked me over head to toe, I turned and offered my still outstretched hand to the daughter. She smiled and shook it. I don’t remember what I was wearing, but if it was black, then my earrings might have been too. Or made of feathers. If it was warm, then I’m sure my top was sleeveless, unless I was going to court. My arms are more than a bit cut with muscle, and I don’t mind showing them off.

My skirt may have been quite short, or if I was wearing a dress, it may have been to the floor, depending on how I felt that morning.

It could have been white with ruffles and looked like a formal gown. I don’t know, but I do know I didn’t much care. I then turned to the older woman with my hand out, and I stood there without saying anything until she reluctantly took it.

“I’m Claudia Moore,” said the older version, “and this is my daughter, Ashley.” She paused for effect, but getting nothing from me, continued.

“So, you’re Mark Love’s ex-wife? Such a surprise.”

The statement could have meant she was surprised Mark did not do everything to keep me, but her tone said she was surprised he married me in the first place.

I was tempted to have Claire show them
out
right then. But Grandmama’s lessons taught over backgammon, about waiting until the other side overcommits, kicked in and I decided to bide my time.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Moore?” I asked.

“Ashley needs some legal services, and we’ve been told you are the best for this sort of thing.”

The twit had brought in some coke from Canada. Not a lot, but on her father’s boat. And somewhere in there it came out that she was Max Moore’s oldest daughter.

Probably for that reason and maybe others, Moore & Associates did not handle the case. But because of who she was, the news media were all over it.

I told them I would review the case and get back to them. “You can call me,” said Mrs. Moore.

“How old are you, Ashley?” I asked the younger version.

“I turned twenty-two in January,” Ashley said.

“Since your daughter is of age, if I am her lawyer,” I said to Mrs. Moore, “my communications should be with her.”

“Please don’t instruct me in the law,” said Mrs. Moore, with the tone of queen to handmaiden. I ignored her and turned to young Ms. Moore and started to ask her for contact information.

“Please communicate to me through my mother,” she said.

“And assume my communication back to you is from my daughter,” added older Mrs. Moore. The girl looked at me and nodded.

They had just added to a long list of reasons why I did not think I would take the case of Ms. Ashley Moore, but I still wanted to think about it when I wasn’t reacting to the attitude.

As I was showing them out, Tony came around the corner.

“Hello, Claudia,” he said.

“Tony!” She opened her arms and walked quickly to him. He opened his arms, too.

You know how you can feel communication between two people even when they aren’t saying a thing? When it’s strong enough? What flowed between those two at that moment would have stressed transmission lines for Seattle Power & Light. And not one word was spoken. They held each other two moments too long.

“You look good,” said Tony, pushing away at last.

“And you are obviously well,” said Claudia, studying his face.

And with that, she gathered up her daughter like an extra piece of luggage and walked out to the elevator.

“You know each other?” I went fishing.

“We did,” was all he said and walked away down the hall.

A half-hour later I knocked on his door, entered when he said, “Come in.”

“I’m taking a pass on the Ashley Moore case,” I said.

“No, you’re not,” Tony replied.

“Excuse me?” Not once had Tony ever overruled me when I didn’t want to represent someone. Once in a while he would say I
couldn’t
represent someone, if he thought the case would be bad for the firm or not pay well, but he never made me handle one I thought smelled bad.

“You’re taking the case,” he said.

“But Tony…” I started, then he held up a hand.

“Jessi, the case is yours. Tell yourself whatever you need to tell yourself to be good with it. That you are doing me a favor. That it’s good for the firm. That I’m occasionally an asshole. All of those may be true. But you are taking the case. Okay?”

I respected Tony too much to let him down when he was making a plea in such honest terms.

I won that case, too, but won’t bother you with a lot of details. You’ll see later why I brought it up. Suffice it to say there was a procedural error. The feds failed to document the chain of evidence.

Somehow, a bag identical to the one Ashley was carrying showed up in the same facility where the drug bag was stored. With an identical tag. Except it contained clothes that would fit a tall, stylish young woman.

Now there were two bags. Two tags. All happening while the evidence was in possession of the feds.

I had no idea how that happened. Really. At least not then. Nor did Lily or Sarah. But I was delighted.

Remember Deborah Riddle? The cop when I got busted for having sex with Sam when I was fifteen years old?

It’s amazing how certain people seem to appear, disappear, and then reappear in your life. I don’t know, or at least I didn’t know then, why Deborah Riddle and I seemed to belong to the same karass. I may know now, but that will have to wait.

For now, it’s enough to know that according to the paperwork, the bag with the drugs disappeared then reappeared while in federal custody. Then there was a second bag. No one could say which was the original, nor when, or where it had been.

I could have parked a truck in the middle of that reasonable doubt.

As I walked past Agent Deborah Riddle in the courthouse, looking especially vampish because of my confidence in the outcome and wanting to poke my finger in the eye of Mrs. Max Moore, I looked at Agent Riddle and said, “She got exactly what she deserved.”

But that wasn’t the end of that conversation. A month or so later I was at one of my favorite “get out of the office for a half-hour” lunch spots. I may have been reading a brief or the
Source of the Sound
, I don’t remember.

“That was out of bounds,” said a voice at my shoulder. It was Agent Deborah Riddle.

“What was out of bounds?” I asked.

“Planting evidence, or non-evidence. Breaking the law in only God knows how many ways to get that bag planted in our custody. Damaging my career. Effectively ending the career of the other agent on the case,” said Agent Riddle.

“I have no idea what you are talking about. I had nothing to do with anything like that,” I said. “Your team had the bag, and apparently more than one bag. Reasonable doubt.”

“What you did was out of bounds,” Riddle just repeated. “And it painted a target on your back for every cop and prosecutor in this city.”

“Is that a threat, Agent Riddle?” I asked.

“Consider it a warning,” she said. “You’ll get what you deserve.” And with that, she walked away.

Her warning bothered me on a couple of levels. First was the obvious threat. Nobody wants to be a target for anything.

But even more importantly, I hadn’t really considered that there was a lot that smelled pretty bad in the Ashley Moore “win.” I didn’t question the screw-up in the feds’ handling of the evidence because I had not created it. I just used it. I just did my job.

And I was pleased with the victory, not only because I liked to win but because that win would be noticed by others. Important others. It was a validation, of sorts, a flip-off to Mark, Claudia Moore, Max Moore, and even Tony, who forced me to take the case.

So, even though at some level I knew there was a stink in there someplace, I pushed it out of my mind. Maybe I should have given it some more consideration.

• • • •

The next time I went to SASSA, I showed up around 10 p.m. on a Friday night. The music downstairs was too loud, so I went right upstairs and sat at the end of the bar.

As often happened in the past, a man sat down next to me. When I looked at him, I recognized the owner of SASSA.

But he didn’t recognize me. It had been a long time since we’d seen each other at that deposition when Mark and I found ourselves on opposite sides of the table, and that encounter didn’t last long and had enough other drama going on. I doubt I made any impression at all.

And I looked quite different then.

“Hi,” he said. “You’re here alone.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“Nope. Just enjoying the atmosphere,” I said, nodding at a couple starting to make love on a couch ten feet away.

“Would you like to be part of that atmosphere?”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Just a second.” He came back with a bright white,
freshly
laundered sheet from one of the many stacks of them scattered everywhere in the club. He unfolded the sheet and lay it out on the bar. “Sit up here,” he said. I didn’t know what he expected of me, but I was a little aroused, so I kicked off my shoes and sat up on the bar.

“Remember,” he said, “No means no. You’re in charge.” And then he walked off.

I sat there until I was just about ready to feel silly and slide off. That’s when a guy wearing a dark sport coat, his necktie from work stuffed in the pocket, walked up. “May I buy you another glass of wine?” he asked, nodding at my nearly empty glass.

“No, thank you,” I said. “Not yet.”

“May I help you off with your dress?” he asked.

A quick rope of electricity ran from between my legs to my fingertips, barely pausing to throw a loop around each nipple on the way. I exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled.

“Why yes, thank you,” I said. I turned to my right and put my feet on the bar so he could get to the zipper at the back of my dress. He slowly, ever so slowly, unzipped the sheath to my waist. His fingertips brushed my skin all the way down in a way that was completely unnecessary but my, did I like it.

He started to slip the straps forward over my shoulders but I asked him to wait.

“I’d like to savor it,” I said to his questioning eyes. As I turned to look around the room, every move I made loosened the dress a little more. Finally, when I reached down for my nearly empty wine glass, I shrugged the straps off my shoulders and the loose top fell in a bunch in my lap.

I left it there. I’d not worn a bra, and my nipples hardened as they were caressed by the gaze of at least a dozen men and a half-dozen women.

“You know, I think I’d like that glass of wine now,” I told the man who had just freed me. “Pleasure,” he said with a smile. He hadn’t gotten over to the stairs to the first-floor bar before a couple of men in tight jeans and matching haircuts came over. One placed his hand on my calf and smiled, the other placed a hand on my thigh,
leaned
close, and asked, “Would you like to go into one of the rooms?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. He smiled and asked if he and his friend could sit at the bar. “Yes, but please leave that chair for the man who went to get me a drink,” I pointed at the one on the end. They flashed their similar smiles and sat down to my right.

They made small talk while the one closest to my left leg ran his thumb from my knee to where the hem of my dress ended at mid-thigh. I did nothing to discourage him. What he was doing, along with sitting there half-exposed on top of the bar with everyone looking at me, was causing a serious pounding in my heart.

“Here you go,” said the bearer of my glass of wine.

“That’s your seat,” I said to him, indicating the stool at the end of the bar.

“Why thank you,” he said and sat down.

“Well thank you… ?” I asked.

“Rick,” he said.

“Rick. And this is… ” I looked at the man stroking my thigh. “Paul,” he said, leaning back so he could shake hands with Rick without removing his left hand from my leg. “William,” said the other with a small salute.

“Now we’re all friends,” I said, feeling more relaxed than I had any right to feel. We listened to the music for a bit and I sipped my wine.

“William, do you think you could stand and help me off with the rest of my dress?” I asked at last.

William was on his feet in an instant and very gently slid the dress down and over my butt when I lifted my hips. Of course his hands touched my skin, but he wasn’t obvious. When the fabric passed my knees, I put my butt down on the bar and lifted my legs. The dress slipped easily over my feet.

I had on a thong. I must have known it was going to be on display when I left home.