Shattered Virtue (3 page)

She pushes “6,” where the reception’s being held. “You’re not going back to the party?”

I shake my head and offer her a rueful smile. “I have work waiting on my desk.”

“Oh?” She sounds disappointed. Why, I have no idea.

When she steps off on the sixth floor, she offers her hand. “Thank you again for the tour, Mr. Steele. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Looking forward to it. Madrigal.” My voice’s gone gravelly. Can’t help it. “Good night.” I brush my thumb across her wrist before letting go.

She gasps and pulls back. But something flashes in her eyes. And for the first time, I see the heat there. Against all expectations, she’s attracted to me. Which ratchets this situation from inconvenient to a fucking disaster in the making.

CHAPTER 4

Madrigal

The next morning, the head of human resources shows me to my desk in the criminal law wing. The area is not as spacious as the one Mr. Steele walked me through yesterday. And my office is tiny compared to the others on the floor. But to my surprise, a surge of excitement streaks through me. Strange since this is the last place I wish to be. Maybe it’s because it’s my very own, or because it’s my first real job, or maybe, just maybe, something Trenton Steele said last night sparked my interest.

Most summer interns are asked to research a point of law and write a legal memorandum covering a particular issue. And last night Mr. Steele verified as much. But he’d also hinted at meaningful work. Don’t know why that possibility excites me since I’d be working on the other side of the law. Maybe it’s because I’d be helping to save someone’s life. But I’ll only work on a case if the person’s blameless. If the alleged perp did the crime, I have no interest in keeping such scum out of jail. Having reconciled that idea with my conscience, I take a deep breath. Maybe this internship will be a good thing after all.

God knows I’ll need something to occupy my time beyond spending the day in the library, because I won’t be making friends among the interns anytime soon. From the resentful glances thrown at me at the reception, most of them believe I’m only here because Gramps is a founding partner of the firm. But they’re wrong. Dead wrong.

I have as much a right to be here as they do. My grades were top-notch. I was recruited by plenty of top-ranked law firms. I could have gotten this internship on my own if I’d chosen to apply. Which I hadn’t. It’s not as if I want to work here. I already have a job. Come September I’ll be working as an assistant prosecutor for the Commonwealth Attorney’s Office in Arlington County, Virginia, putting criminals behind bars, something that’s been my goal since my parents were killed. So I’m not competing for a job at the firm.

In the meantime, I’ll be learning from Trenton Steele, one of the best criminal law attorneys in the country. Surely I can make the internship work. The problem is last night I sensed something between us, some undercurrent that is not the least businesslike. The look he directed at me during the cocktail party, not to mention the highly inappropriate remark he made, tells me he’s attracted to me. How did he know he could say such a thing to me? We’d only met that day. And yet he trusted me not to go running to my grandfather.

Did I signal that I’m attracted to him? No idea why I am. He’s not at all like the men I dated in college. All of whom were young and clean-cut, with a patina of wealth and breeding. Trenton Steele, on the other hand, is thirty-seven. Early gray peppers his hair. There’s no family money. He grew up poor, which explains his rough edges. Maybe it’s his brilliance as a lawyer I’m attracted to and not him per se. He’s never lost a case. How many attorneys can boast that? Maybe that’s all it is. I hope so, because I can’t afford to be sidetracked by him.

Just as I’m propping up a picture of Madison and me on my desk, Gramps appears at the door. “May I come in?”

“Of course. Please do.”

He waves his hand around the space. “Do you like your office? If it’s too small—?”

“It’s perfect. I love it.” Just as I say that, one of the interns walks by the open door and screws up her face.

“Good.” He clasps his hands behind his back, an old habit of his that tells me he’s about to say something important. “You know we pride ourselves on our pro bono work.”

“Of course.” The firm represents clients who can’t afford legal fees, handling child custody disputes and landlord–tenant issues. In the last couple of years, they’ve taken on appeals of criminal cases as well.

“Steele’s handling a pro bono appeal on a death row inmate. He needs to travel to North Carolina to interview our client.”

“Oh?” I think I know where this is headed, and I’m pretty sure it’s not a good idea.

“I asked him to take you along.”

“But—”

He holds up his hand. “Before you object, this case hinges on a confession our client made.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“It was made before his Miranda rights were read to him.”

My stomach lurches. An inmate whose appeal revolves around violations of his Fifth Amendment rights. The same circumstances as those criminals who murdered my parents, except in that case their trial attorney successfully proved their rights had been violated. A conversation with that inmate might provide an avenue to follow to get to the truth of their deaths. “But if he voluntarily offered exculpatory evidence—”

“He should have been read his rights immediately after the cops took him in. They didn’t.”

Tempted as I am by the circumstances surrounding this case, I can’t help but hesitate. “Do you think this is a good idea, Gramps?”

“What do you mean?”

“Some of the interns already think I’m given preferential treatment because I’m your granddaughter. A trip to visit a prisoner on death row with the head of the criminal law practice group will set tongues wagging.”

“If anybody dares to criticize—” His face turns a sick, ruddy color, and he goes off into a coughing fit, signs I’ve been warned to watch out for.

I shake my head. “Never mind, Gramps. Of course I’ll do it.”

“Good girl.” He fetches a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes spittle from his mouth. “Damn lungs.”

Rounding the desk, I hug him. “Don’t get so excited, Gramps. It’s bad for you.”

He waves the handkerchief at me and strides away without saying another word. He’s pretty spry for an eighty-year-old, except for his lungs and his heart. Although he gave up smoking years ago, the damage was already done.

As soon as he leaves, Lucy Perkins, my newly assigned secretary, steps into my office and closes the door behind her. About my age, we met at a summer law firm picnic one year and hit it off. So when I was asked if I had a preference for a secretary, I chose her. “Heads up. Steele’s on the warpath.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“Well”—she gives me an odd look—“word has it your grandfather demanded he take you to North Carolina to interview a client, and he’s not too happy about it.”

Can’t blame him. I wouldn’t be either if I’d been asked to take along a wet-behind-the-ears intern to a prisoner interview. But there’s no getting out of it. I’d promised Gramps.

“Bummer.”

My phone rings. Caller ID tells me it’s Trenton Steele. I make a face. “It’s him.”

“Mr. Steele?”

“Yes.”

“Good luck, sweetie,” she says before dashing out the door.

“Hello.” My voice sounds shaky at best.

“For the record, Ms. Berkeley, you answer the phone with your name.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

“Come to my office.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now,” he barks.

Darn. I grab a yellow legal pad and a pen and head out. Except I don’t know where I’m going.

Lucy points to the corner office. Figures that’s where he’d be.

I stumble when I enter his office—darn heels—but manage to catch myself before I face-plant on the rug.

Other than pointing to the chair in front of his desk, he doesn’t react to my less-than-graceful entrance.

Feeling the heat rising in my face, I duck my head and drop into the seat.

“I need you to go with me to North Carolina on Friday.”

“Yes, sir.”

His left brow arches. “You don’t sound very surprised.”

“My grandfather”—I clear my throat—“said you’d like me to accompany you.”

“Is
that
what he told you?”

Kinda. Sorta. “Yes, Mr. Steele.”

“For the record, you make a lousy liar.”

I don’t dare say a word. What happened to the man I met last night? The one intent on charming me? Maybe he’s bipolar and missed his meds. Or maybe he has a Jekyll and Hyde personality. Whatever the reason, I need to tread carefully around this man.

“Your law school article, “Unraveling Miranda”?”

“Yes.”

“We’re representing a death row inmate whose appeal comes up next week. He’s a pro bono client. We’re arguing he wasn’t properly Mirandized. There was a lapse between the time the suspect was arrested and when the Miranda rights were read.”

“Didn’t his attorney argue that during trial?”

“The public defender who represented him was fresh out of law school. He got his ass handed to him by the district attorney who handled the case. The idiot never questioned the timing of the Miranda rights.”

“But what if he committed the crime?”

He glares at me. “Ms. Berkeley, the law needs to be followed to the letter. If it’s not, justice will not be served. Do you understand?”

I gulp. “Yes, Mr. Steele. I’ll be glad to draft some questions for the inmate, if you wish.” The look on his face silences me. He could care less about my assistance.

He rises to his feet, walks to his office door, shuts it.

Uh-oh. I feel a reprimand coming on. And on my second day on the job too.

He picks up his letter opener and points it at me. “Let’s get one thing straight, Ms. Berkeley. The one and only reason I’m taking you is because your
Gramps
issued me an ultimatum. Either I take you along or I can kiss my private suite good-bye.”

Well, that explains his about-face. My grandfather forced his hand, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Flight leaves at eight a.m. on Friday. A car will pick you up at six and take you to Reagan National Airport.”

“You don’t have to—”

His brow rises along with his voice. “
I’m
not picking you up. The firm’s sedan service will. Our travel office will issue your ticket.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t expect you to say one word during the inmate interview. If I want your opinion, I’ll give it to you. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.” Haranguing me, berating me. Lashing out. I hate it. I hate him. How could I have ever believed I was attracted to him? “Are we done?”

“Yes.” He stabs the letter opener into his black leather desk pad.

On wobbly legs I emerge from his office, glad the big bad wolf didn’t take a bite out of me. Well, at least now I know where I stand with him.

CHAPTER 5

Trenton

I meet Mitchell Brooks for dinner at our usual haunt, an Argentinian charcuterie located on Pennsylvania Avenue. My mentor since I was a kid from the wrong side of the tracks, Mitch saw something in me all those years ago at the Boys & Girls Club where he volunteered to sponsor at-risk youth. Because of him, I got into a good college and a decent law school. Not Ivy League. Couldn’t afford the tuition, and my grades weren’t quite at the level they needed to be, but good enough.

As we follow the hostess into the main seating area, someone hails him. He stops long enough to introduce me and exchange pleasantries with the woman, a professional acquaintance of his. She’s not shy about tossing an appreciative glance in Mitch’s direction or chiding him for not giving her a call. Taking it in stride, he apologizes and promises to ring her up. Mitch may be in his midforties, and his gold hair may have strands of gray, but he still commands a great deal of attention from members of the opposite sex.

Given our hectic schedules, we haven’t seen each other for a month. After he bids his friend good-bye, the hostess leads us to our table, where we order our usual and settle into our catch-up phase.

“How are things at the firm?” he asks. Not a casual question. He was a partner there until three years ago. Something happened. Something he never shared with me that caused him to abandon a very lucrative career and move to the Securities and Exchange Commission. The SEC welcomed him with open arms. He’s always been a straight shooter with a reputation for honesty, intelligence, and hard work.

“Fine.”

He fiddles with the cutlery, a nervous habit of his. The man loves order above all things. “Heard Holden’s granddaughter is doing a stint as a criminal law intern.”

“Just for the summer. She starts work as an assistant prosecutor at Arlington in the fall.”

He steeples his hands over his plate. “The internship is Holden’s doing, I suppose?”

“Yes. He wants her to learn the defense side. He’s hoping she’ll give up on the prosecutor’s job and come work for him.”

“Ummm. Not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Holden likes to exert control over all things. Living in his house and working at his firm might stifle her professionally and personally. She’s young, impressionable. It would be better if she didn’t work in the same place as Holden.”

I’m surprised he knows so much about Madrigal. “You’re closely acquainted with her?”

A slight hesitation before he answers. “Yes. I know her and her sister, Madison. I attended the same prep school as her mother.”

“You never mentioned that before.”

“There was never a need to do so.” His tone implies a reluctance to pursue this particular subject, which makes me curious as hell. He and Holden’s daughter attended school during their teen years. Could there have been more than simple friendship between them?

The waiter appears with our appetizers—beef empanadas and
chicharrones
—interrupting my train of thought.

After we’re served, Mitch unfurls his napkin over his lap before he asks, “How’s Madrigal doing?” He leans forward, causing me to think his interest is more than casual.

“Smart, focused, dedicated to the law. She’ll make a fine lawyer from what I can see.” She might have been forced on me, but I have to give credit where credit’s due.

“That’s good,” he says after biting into his
chicharrón
.

I may have been warned off the subject, but I can’t let it go. Something about Madrigal pushes me to find out as much as I can about her. “What happened to her parents?” Their murders occurred before I came to work at the firm, but I’d learned about them through the office grapevine.

His gaze turns glacial. “That subject is off-limits.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s none of your business, that’s why,” he spits out.

“She’s my intern.”

“And her parents’ murders have nothing to do with that job.”

“Mitch, one way or another, I’ll find out. Wouldn’t it be better if it came from you?”

His hand tightens on his water glass before he takes a sip. “The Berkeleys’ house was broken into. A home invasion gone wrong. That’s how Holden ended up with the girls.”

“And the killers were caught but let off on a technicality.”

“Yes, they were.”

“Did Holden conduct his own investigation into the matter? I can’t believe he wouldn’t have done so.”

“He didn’t, as far as I know.”

“That makes no sense.”

“After his daughter was murdered, he had to contend not only with the girls but his own grief. He had more than enough to deal with at the time.”

“But—”

Mitch holds up his hand. “Enough. That’s as much as I’m going to say about this topic. Can we get back to our dinner, please?”

He knows a hell of a lot more than he lets on, but I won’t get anything else out of him. At least not tonight. I’ll have to do some digging on my own.

I think we’re done with the subject, but after we finish with the appetizers, he surprises me. “She’s the spitting image of Marlena, her mother.”

Madrigal’s lovely enough to make a saint weep, so if she resembles her mother, she must have been something else. “Is she? Beautiful name.”

He nods. “Beautiful girl. After prep school, Marlena went off to William & Mary while I headed to Harvard. She fashioned herself a poet.” The small smile that lights up his face conveys fondness and a touch of sadness.

“Did she become one?”

“No. She met Tom, her husband, at William & Mary, and that was that. She married him right out of college and settled into complacent domesticity. Madrigal was born soon after their wedding.”

The way he talks about Madrigal’s mother makes me think there’s more to the story than a friendship, but Mitchell only shares what he wants to share, so it won’t do any good to push him. I’ll need to find out another way.

Our waiter interrupts once more with our main entrées—suckling pork for him, Angus New York steak for me with a side of Idaho baked potatoes stuffed with Parmesan cheese, bacon, chives.

“How’s Dick Slayton?” he asks once we’ve dug into our food. An obvious attempt to change the subject.

Fine. I’ll play along. “Pissed because I stole the twelfth-floor suite from him.”

“Be careful, Trenton. He’s the wrong man to make an enemy.”

“Is that why you left? Because you got in his way?” He’d never shared his reason for leaving the firm, but I always suspected it’d been a disagreement between him and Dick Slayton.

“No. It was time. After twenty years at Gardiner, I needed a fresh pasture.”

“Sure you did.”

Eight years ago, I’d been brought on board at Gardiner by Mitchell, who vouched for me. Even though I didn’t attend an Ivy League school like most of the partners in the firm, Holden hired me on his word. I’d come through, bringing in business right away. Once I’d managed to keep a congressman from landing in jail, my place in the firm had been secured. But I never would have been hired in the first place without Mitchell’s support.

“Your money is still in a blind trust?” Old habits die hard. From the time we first met, he’s tried to keep me on the straight and narrow, so he asks that question regularly, to make sure I don’t mess up.

“Where else would it be?” Legal ethics require I don’t invest in any business associated with the firm. So to keep from getting into a conflict of interest, I placed the money I made playing the stock market in college into a blind trust that earns hundreds of thousands a year, so I’m not hurting for money. But without Mitchell I never would have learned how to invest in the first place.

“With your financial savvy, Trenton, I never understood why you didn’t work as an investment banker. You could have made millions.”

Biting into a succulent slice of the steak, I smirk. “I have made millions.”

“You could have run your own investment firm.”

I shake my head. “I never wanted to manage other people’s money. Only my own. Now I don’t even get to do that.” I lift a shoulder. Once I’d figured out how to make money off the stock market, it’d become less of a challenge. Defense law, on the other hand, is another thing entirely. You never know the outcome. Too many variables involved. “But I do get to defend those who can’t afford decent legal representation.”

“As well as those who are guilty as sin,” Mitch says. Even though he understands what drives me to represent those charged with a crime, he’s never cottoned to my practicing criminal law. He’s much more comfortable advising clients, which he’d done when he worked at the firm. In his current job as the head of the Investment Management Division of the SEC, he deals with the same issues, albeit from the government side.

“Who amongst us isn’t, Mitchell? Haven’t you done your share of sinning? I know I have.” Last night after the cocktail party, I’d visited the delectable Selena. I owed her after canceling our date because of Bernie’s arrest. But burying myself in her heat did nothing for me. My heart hadn’t been in it. Not anymore. All I could think about was another face, a much younger one, with dark hair and pansy-blue eyes. After we fucked, I’d left Selena’s bed and headed home. I don’t think I’ll see her again.

“So anything new on the horizon?” he asks.

“A trip to North Carolina to visit Willie Vaughn.”

“The death row inmate?”

“Yes. His case is finally coming up on appeal. Holden asked me to take Madrigal.”

His fork clatters to his plate. “Why?”

“I told you. He’s hoping that she’ll switch sides. Plus, Willie’s case plays right into her wheelhouse. She’ll be able to apply what she knows.” I might not be totally on board with her tagging along, but the case will be a great learning experience for her.

Resting against the back of his chair, he studies me. “You’ve changed so much since you were a kid. Sometimes I forget how far you’ve come.”

I may object to his interfering and questioning of my career choices, but I owe him much. So I lift my wine goblet to him in acknowledgment of everything he’s done for me. “Thanks to you.”

He clinks his water glass with mine. “And Holden. He took a chance when most partners wouldn’t have given you the time of day.”

“Including Slayton.”

“Most especially him.”

After dinner, I head to my condo in Crystal City with its breathtaking view of the nation’s capital. Ditching my suit, I slip into a pair of silk pajama pants and a robe and pour a glass of my best Chardonnay. The night is clear, the moon’s full, so I let my mind drift back to those childhood days. Dinner with Mitchell always brings back painful memories. I suppose it’s the price I have to pay for the good he did me. A snotty-nosed kid from one of the worst sections in the city, I was a fourteen-year-old badass, a drug mule. When I was caught with contraband, he’d been the attorney assigned to my case. After a fifteen-minute conversation, he’d personally vouched for me, promising the judge he’d keep me out of trouble. When the judge agreed, Mitch sat me down and told me in no uncertain terms exactly what I would have to do. Terrified as I was of going to juvie hell, I agreed to his plan.

He worked with social services to find a foster care family that actually gave a damn about the kids they took in, and then he followed up with me twice a week, checking to make sure I went to school and did my homework. He hauled me into a Boys & Girls Club where he not only helped me with my homework but also taught me what it would take to make it in life. After I met him, I did my best to stay out of trouble, but trouble found me one day. When I refused to join their gang, some crackheads almost beat me to death. If it hadn’t been for Bernie, I would have met the grim reaper that day. So, yeah, I owe both of them—Bernie and Mitch. And I always pay my debts.