He holds his hand up to cut me off, the look of sorrow on his face only deepening. Carl looks down at the ground, rubs at his eyes, and when he looks back up, I can see they’re red and watery as if he’s been crying.
“I fought with him for three hours today, Berlin,” he says softly. “We went back and forth, and he will not budge. All he’s worried about right now is covering his own ass.”
My stomach lurches, and I barely manage to grab the trash can in time before the dry toast I managed to choke down this morning comes rushing back out. My stomach empties into the can, and I dry heave for a moment. When I set the can down and sit back up, Carl is there with a handkerchief. I take it and dab at my mouth, then grab my bottle of water and take a long swallow.
“Thank you,” I groan.
“I’m really sorry, Berlin,” he says. “More than I can ever express. I wish there was something I could do.”
I sigh. “It’s not your fault, Carl. When does he want me out?”
His face blanches, and he looks down at the ground. “Immediately.”
The tears roll down my cheeks, and my head spins so hard, I feel like I might pass out. I scrub the tears away, but I can’t staunch the flow. They run freely down my face, and I sniff loudly.
“What am I supposed to do, Carl?” I gasp. “What in the fuck am I supposed to do? I can’t be out of work. Not with my father and…”
My voice trails off. I might as well be talking to a brick wall. That’s not a knock against Carl – he’s essentially middle management and can only do so much. If the people above him want somebody gone, that person is gone. In his case, that person is me.
“I’m sorry, Berlin.”
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
“Dwight wants me to give you an hour to pack up, but fuck him.” Carl attempts to smile through his own tears. “Take all the time you want.”
I try to smile at him through the tears but fail. All I can do is nod as Carl gets to his feet. He’s never been an overly sentimental man, so when he comes around my desk and kisses the top of my head and gives my upper arm a squeeze, it means a lot to me.
He leaves me office without another word, quietly closing the door behind him, giving me the privacy I need to have my breakdown. As quietly as possible, I cry hysterically for a few minutes, then do my best to pull myself back together – which is far from an easy task. I’m gripped by fear and uncertainty, not to mention a thousand questions that are rapidly firing through my brain.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. With my father’s meds, the bills, and everything else, I don’t know what in the hell I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how we’re going to make it. I guess I should be thanking Sawyer ten times over right now, given that if not for him, we’d definitely be living on the street. At least thanks to him, we’re going to have a roof over our heads for the next six months.
“Fuck,” I growl.
My anger and shame boil beneath the surface. I grab the coffee cup sitting on my desk – my gift for winning my first case. I look at the smooth porcelain surface and trace my fingertips along the city seal. My tear splashes off the surface of the mug, and a white-hot bolt of rage tears straight through me. I get to my feet, reach back, and with all the strength I can muster, I hurl the mug across the room.
“Fuck!” I scream. The mug hits the far wall and shatters, sending a spray of ceramic shards across the room.
My office door opens, and one of the other attorneys in the office, a short weaselly-looking man named Arthur, pokes his head in. He looks at the shards on the ground and then up at me, his eyes wide and blinking behind his black-rimmed glasses.
“Uhhh… everything okay in here?” he asks.
Arthur and I have never gotten along. Personally, I’ve always hated the guy and thought he was a rat-faced, back-stabbing asshole. He’s the type who would step over or on anybody to better his lot in life. I guess if there’s one silver lining to all of this, it’s that I don’t have to pretend with him anymore.
“No Arthur, everything is not fucking okay,” I spit.
“Is there anything –”
“Get out!” I scream. “Get the fuck out of my office!”
I grab the water bottle of my desk and hurl it at the door. Arthur ducks out a moment before the bottle bounces off the wall and clatters to the floor. I plant my hands on top of the desk and lean down, taking deep breaths and letting them out slowly, trying to calm myself down.
It’s doing no good, though. The enormity of what’s happening feels like I’ve got iron bands wrapped around my chest, and they’re squeezing tighter and tighter. So tight that I’m struggling to catch my breath. I feel a pain pulsing behind my eyes, and my heart is thumping so hard inside of me, I’m half-convinced it’s going to leave a bruise.
I pick up an old box that’s sitting in the corner and start putting all my personal effects inside. I don’t have much here – I guess that’s one benefit of having had one foot out the door all this time. It takes me about ten minutes to pack up all the things I’ll be taking with me. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I pick up the box, cradle it against my hip, and walk out of my office.
I hear the whispers and murmurs following in my
