I turn and head for the elevators at the end of the hall, still chuckling to myself. The doors open, and I take it up to the seventh floor where Berlin’s office is located. The public defender’s offices take up two floors – one for the attorneys and a second for meeting rooms and administrative offices, which are on the sixth floor.
Both floors are hives of buzzing activity with what seems like ten thousand people dashing this way and that on one errand or another. Frankly, the PD’s offices could use some cleaning and freshening – a little remodeling probably wouldn’t hurt either. The walls on both floors are painted with the same drab gray and look like they haven’t seen a new coat in thirty years. The walls are nicked, scarred, and dingy, and the linoleum on the floor is curling upward in some places and is in rougher shape than the walls.
All of the furniture on both floors is battered and beaten – I’d be shocked if the public defender’s offices have seen a new desk in the last couple of decades. Frankly, this place is a dump. I don’t know how somebody like Berlin manages to maintain any semblance of hope or optimism in here.
When I get to Berlin’s office, I find the door ajar, but she’s not inside, so I go in and take a look around. I walk over to a bookcase standing against the wall to the right of her desk and look at some of the framed pictures she has on display. I see a couple that are obviously from her college days – candid snaps with some of her girlfriends in various places.
There’s a particular picture that catches my eye, so I pick up the silver frame and examine it. The photo is of a much younger Berlin – she can’t be more than eleven or twelve years old – and an older man I assume is her father. In the picture, they’re sitting in the stands at the old Shea Stadium, smiling at one another. There’s a look of adoration in her father’s eyes, and she’s looking at him with something akin to worship in hers. The love between them is evident and makes me smile.
I look around and notice that while I see pictures of Berlin in her younger days with her friends that run through very recent times, I don’t see any other pictures of her and her father. Or her mother, for that matter. It makes me wonder what happened to her folks, or whether they’re still in the picture or not.
“This is becoming a thing with you.”
I turn at the sound of her voice to find Berlin standing in the doorway of her office, a look of consternation on her face.
“What’s becoming a thing?” I wonder.
“Dropping by my office unannounced – and uninvited.”
“Ouch,” I grin. “Somebody having a rough day?”
She walks in and drops her things on the desk before snatching the picture frame out of my hands and carefully puts it back where it belongs like she’s placing a holy artifact back on a sacred shrine.
With her standing so close, I can smell the citrus of her shampoo and a light hint of her perfume. It’s feminine and intoxicating –I feel my groin stirring and have to fight back the urge to grab hold of her and kiss her. I’m relatively certain that would not be well received.
She gives me a pointed look and then shifts her gaze to the pair of chairs sitting in front of her desk. The message is clear – get out from behind her desk. Flashing her a grin, I walk around and drop down into one of the two chairs that look like they’d been lifted from an AA meeting. I cross one leg over the other and fold my hands in my lap as Berlin sits down in her chair and looks at me with an expression that’s one part irritation and one part curiosity.
“What are you doing here, Sawyer?”
“I was in the building doing some business, and I thought I would take you to lunch.”
“Well, that’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?” she asks. “Assuming I’d be available – or even interested – in going to lunch with you?”
I give her a winning smile. “In business, I’ve found that it pays to take chances sometimes. Calculated risks.”
“Speaking of business,” she scoffs. “What kind of business would bring you here?”
I clear my throat. “Well, that’s what I was hoping to talk to you about over lunch.”
She rolls her eyes. “Is this like the other night when you wanted to talk to me about something important – then didn’t talk to me about anything important?”
“But did you have a good time the other night?” I smile.
Her cheeks flush, and the smile creeps across her face before she can stop it. But Berlin quickly regains her composure and smooths out her face, looking at me with a cool and detached neutrality.
“I had a pleasant evening, yes,” she says. “And I appreciated it.”
I laugh softly. “I’m glad because I had a wonderful time, too.”
She lets out a long breath, and though she remains composed, I can see a sparkle in her eye that tells me she enjoyed our evening out a lot more than she’s letting on. She may be able to control her expressions, but she can’t control those eyes of hers.
“I have a lot of work to do, Sawyer,” she tells me, trying to sound stern. “They just dropped another half dozen cases on me –”
“I promise you this time; I really do have something important to discuss with you.”
“I really shouldn’t.”
I can tell by the tone of her voice and the look in her eye that she’s on the fence about it. All she needs is a gentle push.
“Come on, Berlin,” I push. “It’s just lunch. I promise I’ll be on
