Hold Me in Contempt (12 page)

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
There was a snap in the middle of my back.

“I'm on top of it,” I said, trying to breathe through the pain encircling my neck.

“He told you he was afraid. That he was being followed,” Paul said.

“I sent an officer to his home with him. I thought that would be enough. Look, he was a habitual drug user. He certainly wasn't clean when he came into the office. It sounded like he was over—” Easter looked up at me.

“He was what?” Elliot pulled.

“I followed procedure,” I started again. “I didn't do anything wrong.” I hated the way I sounded. Like some little girl sitting in the principal's office for necking with her boyfriend in the bathroom. I was at the top of my game. Not some first-year ADA who had to explain a wrong move to a room full of uninvited onlookers who basically knew squat about the case. I was being dragged out into the wide open. Pissed on in the worst way. And Paul was leading the pack.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I looked at Paul.

“I'm putting a new lead on the case immediately,” Paul said abruptly. “Just to ward off any hits from the media.”

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“No. Everything is fine. It's my case. This is just a setback, and—” I tried but Paul stopped me.

“We can't risk it,” Paul went on.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Risk it?” I repeated. “We? We who, Paul?”

Tap. Tap. Ta—
Easter stopped typing when I said Paul's name. Both she and Elliot glanced from me to him suspiciously.

“Easter just closed the Lemont case, and she's been following this one. She's a great pick.” Paul smiled at Easter. “She just needs to get some information from you and Chief Elliot, and I think we can move forward. I think that's what's best. And I know we all want that.”

Easter and Elliot smiled at Paul's seemingly diplomatic front.

“Of course we do,” I said. “I do. But perhaps we need to talk more about this, right? Not make any rash decisions just because of the media. And we don't even know what's going to happen. If it's even a story.”

“We had to move fast either way. Be proactive. We can't afford to be behind,” Chief Elliot said. “We have to protect ourselves from this error.”

“It was an innocent mistake. How was I supposed to know that he was going to—”

“You were supposed to know because it's your job,” Paul snapped.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“I am not some psychic. I am—”

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“And what are you typing?” I shot my eyes at Easter.

“Counselor, don't do this,” Paul said, and again eyes in the room rolled from him to me.

“Do what? I asked a simple question.”

“I'm . . .  ​I'm—” Easter tried.

“No. Don't say anything, Easter,” Paul commanded, pointing at her.

“Oh, she's Easter, but I'm Counselor?” I said.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“And don't you type another thing I say,” I shot at Easter.

Chief Elliot's eyes darted back and forth again, and he stood up with the hat he was holding on his lap in his hands.

“Don't do this now, Kimberly. Not here,” Paul said.

“Do what? What am I doing?” I asked. “Better yet, what are
you
doing?”

Chief Elliot quietly put his hat on and looked at Paul, who was still sitting beside Easter and her crossed legs and red toenail polish.

“I believe I have a meeting elsewhere,” he announced, sounding as if he'd just said the first thing he could think of to get away from the tension in the room. He caught Paul's eye and grimaced knowingly.

After Easter and I stood to shake the chief's hand, Paul walked him out of the office and left us standing there looking at each other.

Silent, we could hear Paul whispering to Elliot about rivalry and getting everything straightened out.

“I'm sor—” Easter started.

“Don't,” I stopped her. “Don't you dare say you're sorry. Not for this. Because we both know you're lying, and with the kind of morning I'm having, I can't stand here and pretend I give two shits about your fake sorry. You're not sorry. Not one bit. So save it.”

“Kimberly, I admire you—how you've—”

“Oh, stop it, Easter. I can see right through your type. A glorified fucking secretary.” I pointed at her laptop. “You don't have the brains to get to the top, so you take the notes for the boys, study hard, and maybe sleep with a couple of people to get to the top. Is that the plan?”

Easter stepped toward my desk, and her eyes went so cold, she looked like she was possessed. “Was that the plan for you?” she asked.

There are times in every Harlem girl's life when who she wants to be is called into question and who she was proves too strong for restraint. When in her diamonds and pearls and Chanel and Gucci, she is pushed to a place where she regresses to those old Timbs in the back of her closet and the wad of Vaseline she knows to rub into her cheeks so not one scratch from the fight that's about to start will ruin her complexion. That's where I was taken so quickly when Easter came out of her mouth at me like she wasn't standing in my office and didn't have a clue about who I was or what I was capable of.

Hurt back, neck, and all, I was no one's punk and I was getting tired of everyone, everywhere I went, treating me otherwise.

I didn't even say anything.

Easter's eyes widened as I got two inches shorter because I'd stepped out of my shoes and then reached to my earlobes to remove my earrings.

“Look, we have to—” Paul stepped over the threshold of my office and surveyed the scene. “Wait! What's going on?”

“I was just about to make an impression on Counselor Summer that it was time for her to leave my office,” I said sternly.

“And I was just about to make an impression on Counselor Kind that I'll leave when the meeting is over,” Easter said, looking like she was in no way going to stand down.

Paul stepped between us just before I was going to come over the desk after Easter or she was coming for me from the other side.

“No one is asking anyone to leave.” His body was facing me, but he looked back and forth between us.

“Really?” I said, testing him.

“Easter,” Paul started, his eyes stuck on me, “please return to your office. I'll be in there in a minute to give you further direction.”

“Yeah, that's what I thought,” I said.

“But I still need the—” Easter's voice had tumbled to a whine.

“Easter, please!” Paul glanced at her but kept his head facing me.

“But—”

“Please!”

Locked in with Paul, I watched Easter stuff her laptop under her arm and roll her eyes at us. “Guess I got my answer,” she murmured before walking out.

“What is this?” Paul asked when she was gone.

“You tell me. I came to work and I was basically ambushed in my own office,” I replied as he turned to close my door. “A heads-up would've been nice.”

“There's no heads-up in this. A man died, Kim. Do you understand that?”

“Oh, now I'm Kim?”

“What's gotten into you?” Paul walked around the desk and looked at my bare feet.

“I'm having a really fucked-up morning,” I said. “There's a lot going on with me. And the last thing I need is to get here and have the fucking chief of police and some glorified secretary with some law degree in my office talking about they're taking over my case. My case! And you didn't even tell me what was about to go down. Our shit aside, I thought you had my back.”

“Don't you dare question my goddamn loyalty!” he hollered so loudly I knew everyone outside the office could hear him. I looked at his chest and realized he was wearing the red and purple Vitaliano Pancaldi tie I'd bought him last Christmas. “You made your decision. Now you live with it. No different from anybody else around here.”

“No different from Easter?” I asked suggestively.

“Easter? Are you fucking serious?”

“I saw how you were looking at her. The same way you looked at me before I was dumb enough to take the bait.” I laughed coolly.

He whispered angrily into my face, “This is not about us. You know what we have. This is about you.”

“Me?”

Paul leaned against my desk and crossed his arms before resting his head in his hands.

“Me?” I repeated, feeling the weight and worry in his stance. “What about me?”

“I wanted to wait. I thought maybe things would change, but after how you just reacted in here, I see it's impossible,” he announced gravely.

“Wait for what?” Those ticks were coming up my back again.

“You haven't been the same lately, Kim.” He finally looked at me. “Your work, it's weak at best. I got that Lankin case brief from Carol, and—”

“She wasn't supposed to send that to you yet,” I said before calling out for Carol. “Carol! Carol! Ca—”

“Stop it, Kimberly. I sent her to lunch.”

“Lunch? What?” The ticks in my back reached my neck again, and I had to sit down. “Why did you do that? What's going on here?” I reached down to my purse for the painkillers I'd forgotten weren't in there.

Paul grabbed the bag. “I need you to listen to me.”

“I can't. My back hurts right now. It hurts and I need my painkillers.” I tried to pull the bag back, but he snatched it and threw it to the other side of the desk.

“You're a fine attorney. The best here,” Paul said.

“Oh my God, you're firing me.” I was shaking. I saw my mother. Kim 2 and Ronald at the altar. Me pushing Kim 2 out of the car, getting behind the wheel, and pressing the gas pedal really hard. Screaming. Screaming.

“No. I'm not firing you. I just—I'm suggesting that you take a vacation.”

“No. No. No.” I tried to get up, but Paul held my hands in place on the arms of the chair. “I'm fine. I don't need a vacation.”

“You're burning out. Missing things. Late to work most days. Not communicating with people. Your reports. Now this thing with Bernard Richard. I've seen it happen before. You need some time. You can't burn the candle on both ends.”

“No. This isn't about burning any fucking candles, Paul. This is about your dick,” I countered. “You're pissed off because I'm not falling for your shit anymore. I mean, just yesterday you were down here talking about how great a job I am doing.”

“I was trying to encourage you.”

“No, you were trying to get back into my bed,” I charged. “And I'll tell that sexual—”

“Don't do that. We both know everything between us was consensual,” Paul said.

“That's not how it will look,” I said, and the knife in my voice surprised me.

“You wouldn't.”

“I don't need a vacation. I need you off my back. Off my case.”

Paul lifted his hands and backed away. “Take a week. Take two weeks. Take a month. Just step away. For you and the press,” he said. “Hand your stuff over to Easter and take some time for yourself. Get yourself together. Please, Kimberly. I'm asking you now. Next I'll have to tell you.”

Paul had a car with a driver waiting for me downstairs. I still don't remember how I got downstairs or what I said to the driver. Just the web of pain over my whole back, spinning over my shoulders, making me sob.

The car started moving. The driver, an old black man with gray dreadlocks and silver studs up his earlobes, hummed along to some gospel song on the radio.

I wanted to say something to him. To ask if he knew what I should I do. Where I was going. How to make the pain stop. But he kept humming and the car kept rolling through the busy late-spring New York City afternoon and I couldn't think of what to say, what to ask, how to begin.

I looked down at my purse in my lap and thought about who I could call. Whose number I could dial who would say, “Tell that man to drive you here. I'll take care of you. I'll comfort you.”

I unpinned the bag and started searching, rummaging past my wallet, lip gloss, lotion, writing pad, and then at the bottom I saw my phone and the half-full bottle of ibuprofen I'd purchased at the pharmacy.

I reached for it.

The driver's humming got louder. I snatched the top of the bottle off and poured half of what was left into a shaking hand.

Now the driver sang along with the music coming from the speaker behind my head. “
His word said he won't. I believe it. I receive it. I claim it.”

My hand was shaking so badly, some of the pills fell to my lap and then the floor.

“
No
,
he'll never put more on me—”

“Stop singing! Turn off the music!” I shouted as more pills fell to the floor.

The car went silent.

I rolled down my window and took in as big a breath as I could.

“Whatever it is, you don't need those pills for it,” the driver said.

I could feel him looking at me through the rearview mirror, but I kept my eyes on the buildings and people and bikes and cars rolling past outside the window. I took two more breaths and dropped the rest of the pills.

“I'm fine,” I said, my voice cracking and unexpected tears rolling down my cheeks.

“I'm glad to hear that. Now, is there somewhere I can take you? Someplace where you have someone who can handle—”

“There's no one. Home. Just take me home.”

I told him my address and he rolled the rest of the windows down, saying he thought I needed more air. He started talking about his grandson who was in business school at Columbia. How hard it was; how he kept telling “the boy” he had to be strong because the devil is out there working in the streets.

I nodded, out of respect, and kept watching the world move along as if mine hadn't just stopped. It was the only thing I could do to stop my tears. Then I went back to gathering the pills off of the dirty car floor. I had a feeling I was looking for something. Waiting. Beside us in the downtown traffic, a couple with California-blond hair canoodled in a Saleen S7.