Not any event. One event. An event that no law enforcement agency had done much to investigate, probably because they were all too busy celebrating. “What about Dars’s decision to refer me to the state bar to ask that they take away my law license?”
Abby hears a banging in the background and Will calls out, “One second,” and then to Abby, “so I argued that point and Judge Ducey said, yes, he asked that your conduct be investigated, but that was a decision warranted by the inexplicable circumstances by which you had come into possession of exculpatory evidence. ‘So-called exculpatory evidence’ was actually what he called it. Said the investigation had apparently concluded with no findings against you. Based on everything he knows, having opposed you in court and by your general reputation, he is of the opinion that, while your methods may be somewhat unorthodox, there is no proof that they are unethical. Says you are a brilliant lawyer, that Mrs. Rivera Hollis could not hope for better representation, that he looks forward to the truth coming out through the adversarial process over which he has been assigned to preside and will preside with fairness to all involved.”
Abby had been expecting as much, though it’s hard not to be impressed with the way that Dars had so elegantly dressed his lies. He must have really been enjoying himself. Abby hears another knocking sound, louder this time, and Will says, somewhat exasperated, “Okay, I’m coming out.”
Abby stares at the whirring machine, the white liquid zipping along now. Time for plan B. “We’ll file a motion for reconsideration.”
“On what grounds?” She can hear Will trying, unsuccessfully, to control the frustration in his voice. “The record he made is ironclad. For crissakes, Abby, the man went out of his way to say how much he admires and respects you.”
“We’ll come up with something.”
A pause and then Will’s voice, resigned, “I can go back and put in an order for the transcript.”
“No. There’s no time for that. We’ll get something on file tomorrow.”
“What? What exactly are we going to file tomorrow?”
She almost says, “It doesn’t matter,” and catches herself. “Just something quick and dirty.” That is an accurate way to describe it—not the motion, but what she has planned to do all along, knowing they would lose. “Look, Dars may change his mind and he needs a legal out. We just need to give him one.”
A deep sigh on the other end of the phone. “He’s not going to change his mind. You weren’t there, you don’t know. It’s hopeless. Paul thinks so, too. Look, I think—” Will breaks off, calls out one more time that he is coming, really he is coming out this time, then says, “I think we have to at least consider the possibility of you playing a less prominent role in this case or maybe—”
“Just get out of the bathroom and file the motion, Will.”
Ten minutes later, when Jonathan knocks on her door, Abby is dressed again and screwing the lid on the second bottle of milk.
“Heard the news about your motion,” he says, sliding into a chair across from her desk.
Abby looks at her best friend, who is wearing a wool-blend Armani suit that would eat half her paycheck. Jonathan’s boyfriend, Quinn, is a wildly successful Hollywood screenwriter, and Jonathan, with his boyish good looks and impeccable taste, is hands down the most stylish lawyer Abby has ever seen not on TV.
“Word travels fast,” she says dryly.
Jonathan apparently has been checking her out, too. “You look great, by the way.”
Abby looks down at her Ann Taylor Loft sheath, which she bought several years ago and has probably worn fifty times. “Really? I mean, thank you.”
“Yeah, you really do. You look—” Jonathan scrunches up his face, trying to summon the words “—I don’t know. Hot. Filled out. Great color, your skin is glowing.”
“Jonathan, stop. This is weird.” She’s blushing furiously.
“I am just saying what the straight guys are thinking,” he says saucily.
Abby rolls her eyes.
“Anyway, back to the point of my visit.”
“Which is what?”
“Asking if you are going to get off the case.” Jonathan takes off his tortoiseshell glasses, makes a show of cleaning them with his pocket handkerchief.
“No.”
“You should. It might be the best thing for everybody.”
“Et tu Brute?”
Jonathan holds up his hands. “Look, Abby, you know I support you—I am helping take care of your kid, for God’s sake. But this situation with Dars is untenable.”
“It’s not over,” she says.
“Right, your loser motion for reconsideration.” They make eye contact and Jonathan opens his mouth, then closes it as the realization sets in. “Holy fuck,” he says, “you think you can convince him. Why? What do you have on him?”
“Nothing,” she says truthfully.
“But you’re going to go see him, aren’t you? Alone. To bluff?” He nods, answering his own question. “Oh, God, no. That’s a horrible idea.”
Abby busies herself putting away the bottles and zipping up the case that holds her breast pump. In the silence she hears Jonathan take a sharp breath. “Don’t do this, Abby.”
“I never said I was.”
“Please. I’m amazed you’re still here. But you are waiting for later, aren’t you? After everyone’s gone home.” He looks at her and she looks away, not answering him.
“No, Abby. No.” Jonathan gets out of his chair and stands over her, his hands on her desk. “Do you realize how close you were to losing your license the last time you tangled with Dars? If he goes to the state bar again, you are going to be in a world of pain. And this time, he’ll be in a position to testify against you. You know that going to see the judge outside the presence of the prosecutor to talk about an ongoing case is flat-out unethical.”
“Dars
