The Green Line (8 page)

“Pretty much.”

“And then Ali is forced to prove what? That he couldn’t have known about the drugs or couldn’t have done more to prevent the trafficking?”

“You got it. It’s pretty difficult for an owner. In fact, as I told Mr. Rashid, relatively few owners of seized property even contest the forfeiture in court.”

“Why, because they never win?”

“Because they can’t afford the cost of litigation, or they fear criminal prosecution or having their sworn statements used against them in other matters.”

“Ali told me he wasn’t sure he could afford you.”

“True, but we worked it out. In fact, I’d like to file something tomorrow that I hope will convince the prosecutor that this is not a good case to pursue.”

“I’m so glad you got involved. Thank you again for taking on his case.”

“Not a problem. I’m pretty confident. We just need to get this moving so he can get out from under this as soon as possible. Otherwise, these cases can drag on for quite some time.”

Abby relaxed back into the chair. “That’s great.”

“Yes, except that I need to find Mr. Rashid. I was unable to reach him all weekend. You don’t have a cell number for him? No one is answering the home phone number he gave me.”

She instinctively turned back toward her desk, the location of all answers. She shuffled papers around like some magic phone number would appear. “I am so sorry but I don’t know what I can do to help.” She stopped the search and looked at the lilies again. Her favorite flower. “I really hardly know him. The store phone number is all I have.”

“Okay, well, if you do hear from him again, please tell him to call me right away.”

“I will. And thanks again for taking on his case.”

She hung up and rested her hand on the receiver. This would all work out. Ted Gottlieb obviously knew what he was doing. But what a racket. It was still baffling how this whole process was legal. She just hoped Gottlieb could reach Ali soon.

ABBY
crawled into bed at ten o’clock and began leafing through her
Rolling Stone
magazine. She flipped the pages, scanning for good stories on her favorite bands and half-heartedly listened to the local news on TV. The reports were typical: Fifteen seconds of information, depressing and shocking, but for the fact that every day’s news was intended to shock. A rape in River West, a robbery in the Loop, a semi turned over on the expressway, an apparent murder-suicide in the West Garfield neighborhood. Abby had heard enough. She grabbed for the remote to hit mute. Looking at the TV, she saw a picture of a convenience store that looked familiar and quickly hit
volume
to hear the story:

“Two men who lived above a convenience store at Lake and Pulaski were found dead in their apartment early this morning. Police have determined that this was an apparent murder-suicide. One of the men, Mr. Ali Rashid, had recently been detained in relation to a drug-trafficking charge and the government had begun forfeiture proceedings against the property. It is unknown whether there is a connection between that matter and today’s events.”

Abby sat up, grabbed her glasses from the side table and stared harder at the screen, at a picture of Ali. She felt sick. And then his face was gone. The newscast moved on to the weather report.

EIGHT

ALI
is dead? The words rang in her head over and over. She couldn’t process it. She didn’t know how to feel. Her stomach ached. She reached for the bedside phone, her hand trembling, but she stopped. She didn’t know who to call. She couldn’t even think of anyone to talk to. Both hands, as if they knew she might scream, clamped over her mouth as her head shook back and forth in disbelief and tears fell down her cheeks. How could this happen? She pictured his face, those soulful eyes, that warm smile. It was just a week ago that they’d met.

She tossed around most of the night, unable to sleep as she pictured Ali’s face, relived her night in that neighborhood, and reviewed every detail about their lunch at Italian Village. It didn’t make sense.

At work the next day, she remained distracted, wondering if she should do anything about this new information. She pulled out Officer Reilly’s card and dialed the number.

He answered on the first ring.

“Officer Reilly? It’s Abigail Donovan. We met last week?”

“Oh yes. How can I help you?”

“I was just watching the news last night and heard about Ali Rashid and his friend’s death.”

“Oh yeah. Quite a mess.”

Abby immediately pictured his dead body and the blood. She struggled to continue.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Donovan. I’m not sure how this relates to you.”

“Officer, it’s just that I met Ali. Like I told you. Actually, we had become friends, kind of.”

“I don’t think you mentioned that before.”

“No. Sorry.” There was no point lying now. “He told me all about the seizure of his store. I just can’t believe this happened. Can you tell me anything?”

“Well, Ms. Donovan, the evidence looks pretty clear. Mr. Rashid appears to have shot his friend and then himself—”

“No!” Abby interrupted. She just didn’t believe that Ali would hurt anyone, especially the man he considered family.

Reilly continued. “Perhaps he found out about his friend’s drug-dealing. We found a lot of drugs at his store. We’d been investigating that location for quite some time. It was a haven for trafficking and we knew at least one of them was involved. I’m sorry, Ms. Donovan. People are not always as they seem.”

Abby had nothing else to say. She was dumbstruck. She couldn’t believe it. Any of it. They hung up and she immediately hit the caller ID to find Gottlieb’s number to tell him the news.

Gottlieb sounded surprised but dispassionate. Perhaps his criminal law practice made him that way. He advised Abby that obviously he would quit pursuit of the matter. After all, he had no client. The forfeiture proceeding had already been instituted, and with the owner of the property dead, there was no one to come forward and fight against the process. The court would undoubtedly declare the property forfeited and auction it off.

No one seemed to care.

Abby spent the next hour searching the Internet for more stories about the shooting—anything to make sense of it. She found nothing. She stared at her e-mails and the stack of files on the desk, but she could not begin. Nothing made sense. Something about the last week’s events felt important, like she needed to pay attention. She stared up at her framed diplomas and moot court awards. She had always known she was living a charade, pretending to be someone she wasn’t. But now she wondered if she was actually sitting in that big-firm office for another reason. She would never have met Ali had she not been on that train. She would never have been on that train had she not worked at the firm. Maybe there was a reason she found herself surrounded by these two horrific and mysterious deaths.

The phone rang; it was one of her clients. She closed her eyes and shook her head as if to turn on her professional voice. She picked up the phone and defaulted into work mode.

LATER
that afternoon, Abby turned to face the window and recharge. Her office on the forty-ninth floor provided a great southeast view. She soaked it up as she never before had. The Lake, Buckingham Fountain, the Planetarium, Soldier Field, the traffic along Lake Shore Drive. There was a lot going on outside her little box. She wondered where all the people on Lake Shore Drive were heading. She wanted to trade places with any of them.

By six thirty, Abby clocked her eighth billable hour and called it a day. There were still ten unanswered e-mails, a few voice messages to return, and countless projects to be done, but no one would die if she put off the work until tomorrow. And if she stayed any longer, she’d just stare out the window. She grabbed her coat, turned off the computer, and hit the light switch.

THE
next morning, Abby got to the office by eight o’clock and was just beginning her routine when the phone rang. The caller ID read
J. Hadden
.

“Shit,” Abby said as she picked up the phone.

“Abigail Donovan,” Abby offered in her professional voice.

“Abigail. Jerry. Can you come to my office?”

“Sure. When?”

“Right now.” He hung up the phone.

Fuck.

She grabbed a notepad and headed for the fiftieth floor.

“HEY,
Jerry. What’s up?” Abby was leaning in the doorway of his massive corner office, trying to appear casual and confident.

He didn’t look up at her. “Come in. Shut the door, please.”

Abby obliged. Her warm and light-hearted partner-advisor looked anything but. Unlike so many of the senior partners who often chose to tear down and rebuild associates as if they were in an army boot camp, Jerry was a great mentor. Every time she’d visit, he’d have some joke or story to share and his big belly would shake with laughter.

There was nothing light in his expression today.

He motioned to the chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat. Abigail, is everything okay?”

Abby obliged. “Why do you ask?”

Jerry removed his oversized frames, revealing the painful looking indentations they left behind. He rubbed his nose. He did not look pleased to be having this conversation.

“Abby, you have long been one of my favorites. As I’ve told you during past reviews, you have done stellar work here for years and your future looks bright.”

“And?”

“And all of a sudden, I’m hearing things that give me serious concern.”

“What things?” Abby sat straighter in her chair, on the defense and eager to show that she would take any criticism seriously.

“Well, Peter mentioned that you bailed on an assignment recently and that sounded out of character.”

“Jerry, honestly, it couldn’t be helped. I just didn’t bother with my explanation because I could tell that Peter was stressed and wasn’t in the mood for any excuses.”

“Well, that may be, but I just hung up the phone with Steve Prince and he said he sent you two e-mails and left you a voice mail last week and never heard back from you.”

“Jerry, I’m really sorry. I’m just sort of swamped right now and I’ve had some personal issues.” Her voice began to trail. She knew it was sounding like a poor excuse. “Calling Steve was at the top of my to-do list today.”

“Abigail, we’re in the midst of a multi-million-dollar lawsuit. If the client calls you or e-mails you, I don’t care what is going on in your life or in other cases. You drop everything and be sure to respond before the sun goes down. You know that.”

Abby nodded, conceding her screw-up. “I do. I do. I’m really sorry.”

“Well, unless you want to be removed from that case too, which I’m sure you realize is career suicide, I suggest you get on the phone as soon as you leave here, apologize profusely, and do everything in your power to regain Steve’s confidence. You’re the lead attorney on the case, for Christ’s sake.”

“Of course. I’ll go call him right now. Jerry, I’m really sorry I let you down.” She was ready to escape and braced her armchair to stand.

Jerry raised his hand to stop her. “Remember, it’s your job to delegate work if you get overwhelmed. It’s your job to let me know if you can’t find some junior associates to help you out. If you don’t speak up, I can’t help you.”

“Thanks, Jerry. It won’t happen again.”

Abby walked down the stairs, silently berating herself.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck
. Snap out of it. Focus. Do not lose everything over this.

Her gaze remained fixed on the carpeting as she walked down the hall. She ran right into someone.

“Jesus, I’m so sorry,” Abby offered as she bent down to grab the files that had fallen to the floor.

“Well, hey there, Abby. That’s quite the ‘hello’!”

Abby looked up and saw Nate smiling down at her.

“Hi, Nate. I’m sorry. I was deep in thought.”

“A big case?”

“Kind of. What are you doing here?”

“I’ve found my first warm body,” he said, nodding in the direction of Becky’s office, a first-year associate.

Abby leaned into Becky’s doorway and waved.

“Listen, I’m so glad you bumped into me. I was just about to come find your office. I really want to catch up.”

“Nate, that sounds great, but…I, uh . . .”

“You can’t have lunch with me?!” He was mocking her.

“It’s just that—”

“Okay, I get it. It’s a busy day for you. How about Friday? Unless you have a serious prior engagement that can’t be broken, you are not allowed to blow me off. Dinner. An early one. I want to get home to kiss my baby.”

“Excuse me?” It was an odd thing to say about a girlfriend.

He pulled out a photo. “Lizzy. She’s extraordinary.” Abby looked at the picture. A precious baby wrapped up in a tiny pink blanket. It was one of those hospital photos taken moments after birth.