A Bad Day Ch. 01

It was a bad day, in the middle of an unhappy month, not quite mid way though a year which held no perceptible promise. It had, Andi thought, been like this for a while. She looked out the window at Chicago's springtime skyline, 40 floors above Wacker Drive. People and vehicles below seemed to move with purpose, eager to attend to the business of being alive. For Andi, the business of her business (which was the law) had occupied so much space her life that the business of living had simply ceased to exist in any meaningful way. She had loved the law at first, driven by the intellectual challenge of learning to be a trial lawyer and the interpersonal challenge of finding her way through a male dominated firm and profession without losing what it was that made her Andi. There was no event, really—just a fading away of friends, and interests, and dating, until all that was left was work, a sense of emptiness, and absolutely no clue about how to make things better.

And now, into this already unpleasant soup, a fly had fallen: she had made a case mistake from which there was no obvious path to recovery. Having already hired an expert to support the care her physician client had given to a woman who died, she learned yesterday that her expert's license to practice medicine had been suspended several years before. In cases which often came down to a "battle of the experts", having an expert who managed to get his license suspended was very bad indeed. Trial loomed, deadlines for the disclosure of new experts were long expired, she hadn't told a soul, and she was desperate for a plan.

She leaned against the window and took a deep breath though her nose just like her DVD yoga instructor told her to do. The window was colder than she had expected; it felt good. She turned around and pressed her forehead to the glass, eyes closed. She wondered if anyone was looking and, if so, what they might be thinking. She wore a peach cashmere short-sleeved top, a gray pencil skirt, and her uniform black pumps. She was 5' 5", weighed about 10 pounds more than none-of-your-business, but knew that she was shapely and at least fairly attractive. Her mid-length reddish brown hair hung loosely—she could feel it against the sides of her face. She tried to feel someone's eyes on her, and failed. No one was looking or, if they were, they weren't caring. What the hell was she going to do?

She sighed and pulled away from the window. It would be suicide to confess to her partners—that was out of the question. The trial needed to be continued or, even better, avoided altogether. She thought about Jack McLaren, the lawyer who represented the estate of the dead woman. He was in his late 40's, maybe early 50's. Tall, bald, smart, and clearly confident, he had been nothing but a pleasure to work with during the case. He was, in fact, so sure of himself and accommodating that it was a little unnerving—like they were playing a game but only he knew the rules. She reviewed her list of options in her head and found only one idea on the list. She walked back to her desk and picked up the phone.

In Illinois, it turns out, someone who files a lawsuit can, under some circumstances, dismiss the lawsuit and then refile it anew. This process, called a voluntary dismissal, was typically used by claimants when something went wrong late in the case and they needed a do-over. In Andi's case, of course, nothing had gone wrong for the claimant, and there was no rule that allowed a defendant or Andi to restart the case. Andi's plan, such as it was, was to call McLaren and see if he would be willing to dismiss his perfectly good case.

His office staff put her through and he answered warmly. "Kelly. How can I help?"

If you only knew, she thought.

"I'd like to sit down and talk about Collins when you have a minute" she said, using his client's name to identify the case.

"Do you have your checkbook?" he asked with a smile in his voice.

Repartee she could handle. "I do" she said. "Plenty of checks, but I'm not so sure about funds."

She could sense his appreciation. "What's on the agenda?" he asked.

"Procedural stuff". She waited a breath. "And maybe even a favor".

" Good. Can you do tomorrow around 6?" he asked.

"Yep. Where?"

"I'll meet you at the bar at the Peninsula", he said, picking one of the city's nicer hotels. "Drinking sometimes needs to go together with favors."

The call ended. And her worried rehearsing began. It continued all night when she should have been sleeping, and through the next day when she should have been generating billable hours.

The time was nigh. She went to the bathroom and checked her reflection. She looked just like she felt--tired and worried and strung out. She found something in her purse to cover at least some of the shadows beneath her eyes, put on a little lip gloss out of habit, and headed to the elevator to grab a cab.

She would have been happy in the bar at the Peninsula had she been there for almost any other reason-- it was warm and rich and comfortable, the drinks were good, and the service was nearly perfect. As she walked in, however, she could feel the anxiety rising like a flood tide. She suspected that her neck was flame red, something that often happened in times of stress, but there was no way to know for sure. So she soldiered on, full of foreboding, sheathed in false confidence about a micron thick.

He was there already, seated in a chair, reading. A drink, probably bourbon, sat before him. There was another seat across from his, and Kelly headed for it, resigned to her task. He stood and extended his hand.

"Kelly. It's good to see you. What can I get you?"

No reason to make this harder than it needed to be. "Just a diet cola, I think."

"How sad", he said, smiling. He raised a hand, and a waitress started to glide in his direction.

Kelly watched him. He seemed relaxed, certain of his place in the universe, sure of what was to come. She envied him that. She unloaded her briefcase and raincoat onto an adjoining chair and sat, crossing her legs.

Small talk ensued. Kelly found it almost unbearable. Not that he was hard to talk to; in fact under almost any other circumstance she would have regarded this a welcome respite from the day. But now, the weight of her plight was just too heavy to allow her to enjoy his company. After a while, he seemed to know.

"Okay" he switched gears. "What's up on Collins?"

She glanced down, smoothed her already perfectly smooth skirt, and took a breath. She had thought about this for hours now. It wasn't that she was against bending the truth a little, it was just that nothing but the truth seemed to have any chance of working.

"I've got a problem in Collins. I can't tell you what it is exactly, but it's big, much bigger than just losing this case. Not only might I screw up a client relationship that the firm has had for decades, but it might give me career trouble." Kelly looked up.

McLaren was gazing at her steadily. "Can you fix it?"

"I can't," she said. "But you can."

"And how would that be" he asked, his voice just a little harder and his eyes steady.

"I need you to..." Bad start. Try again. "I was hoping you might consider taking a voluntary dismissal."

She took a quick breath and launched into her argument before she lost her nerve.

"You can refile as soon as you want. It will cause some delay in the resolution of the case, but not a lot-- not more than 6 months. Your case will be as good on refile as it is now. And I'll be able to go back to sleeping at night."

She fell silent. Well, there it was, sitting out in the open like turd. It occurred to her that she might throw up.

Jack pressed his fingers together in front of his chest and thought. And then spoke.

"Seems kind of hard for me to explain this maneuver to my client, don't you think? What benefit, for instance, does the family get from this? And although I can't be sure without knowing exactly what the problem is, I'm guessing that the delay actually hurts my clients by getting you and your client out from under something case related that isn't to your liking. Do you have some suggestion for how I explain why this is a good idea for my people?"

He was, of course, right. There was absolutely no benefit to him or his client and there was no use pretending that there was. She shook her head from side to side gently. She wished to disappear.

"Not really, I'm afraid. I put you in a tough position by asking, and I'm sorry about that. I'll work it out. Thanks for listening." She reached for her things.

"Stop." It sounded like more of an order than a request. She did.

"You look like you haven't slept in a week." It was one thing for her to know it, and quite another for him to a) notice and b) say it out loud. He raised his hand and the magic waitress appeared out of nowhere.

"We need a glass of pino noir, please." She opened her mouth to protest, but he was there first.

"Don't. You can't seriously tell me that some wine will make things any worse. I need some time to consider my options, and I'm disinclined to sit here and drink alone. I would consider it a favor if you stayed for a while and kept me company."

It didn't sound like he thought it would be a favor at all—it sounded very much like he expected her to stay.

"So. Is every facet of your life this fucked up?" he asked with a grin in his eyes.

She forced a thin, little smile. And so it began, a steady, seemingly endless stream of questions. About her work (otherwise good, rewarding, uncomfortably busy), her family (a brother in Akron and a sister in Miami, Mom divorced and in Scottsdale, Dad absent, busy with a new family), home (condo downtown), pets (who in God's name has time?), husband/significant other (long-gone ex and who in God's name has time), and even hobbies (are you serious?). She asked no questions herself, instead choosing to simply sate his curiosity. In the process, she was overwhelmed with wretchedness. It wasn't just that her life seemed like a barren waste land, it was that he was making her say it out loud. One glass of wine became three; her self-pity knew no bounds.

"Let's get you home",

McLaren said at last. She gathered her purse and her briefcase and her coat; he took the coat and held it as she snaked into it. They walked together to the lobby, out the doors into the cool, wet spring night. Kelly was exhausted. McLaren waived over a waiting cab and opened the door for her.

Andi moved toward the open cab door, briefly smiling in McLaren's general direction.

"Thank you for staying and drinking with me", he said. She nodded a barely perceptible acknowledgement, never breaking stride. The safety of the cab was milliseconds away.

McLaren caught her arm. Kelly turned her head to see what the problem was. Using her captive elbow, he rotated her body so that they were face to face. He looked at her, serious and direct, but without anger.

"I said, Thank you for staying and drinking with me."

She knew immediately that he was making her acknowledge him. She felt silly and rebuked.

"You're welcome. It was nice" she lied.

He slid a hand around the back of her neck, gripping it firmly. It was unusual, and felt strange. He turned her toward the cab, keeping his hand on her neck as she folded inside.

"I'll call you tomorrow" were his parting words. The back of her neck felt like it was on fire. She knew that there would be no sleep to be had again tonight. And she was right.

Eventually, morning came. Kelly stopped staring at the ceiling, showered, dressed, and headed for the office. It felt like sentencing day, with the outcome predetermined. Around 11, she checked her email, and saw this from McLaren: "Thinking over. I'll see you tonight at the Peninsula. 5:30."

More torture. She typed back "Don't I get a clue?" and stared at the empty inbox, fruitlessly willing a reply. She swore she could feel the outline of his hand on her neck and she had no idea what that, or anything for that matter, meant.

This time, McLaren was tucked into the far corner of the room. A glass of bourbon was at the ready. Andi shed her stuff onto and around a chair and settled in. She opened with "I guess you couldn't find it in your heart to give a girl a break, could you?"

It came out a little sharper than she intended. Her neck burned.

"I guess we'll need to check with the eye of the beholder", he said. He signaled a waitress and a glass of wine for her appeared. He hadn't asked.

"Okay" he began, "here it is: I have thought about this from every angle and there just isn't any benefit in a voluntary nonsuit to my client. For some reasons which I can't share and others which will be obvious in a minute, I'm willing to consider it. You paid me the respect of telling me the truth, so I'm going to respond in kind. I am interested in getting to know you better. I am not, however, interested in debates, or games, or chasing phantoms. What I propose is that you agree to spend the next 30 days with me. For most days, this won't mean all day and it may not even mean every day. I won't unduly interfere with your work. But it will mean that we will be together when I want, doing what I say. Even if you would prefer something else."

Andi had expected something bad, but she certainly hadn't figured on this. Her brain took a quick vacation, leaving her body and hovering in the corner of the room, looking down on her. Her first thought was that she couldn't imagine what an arrangement like this might look or feel like, and her second was that she couldn't believe that she hadn't already left. She dropped her eyes to her lap.

Almost immediately, his hand was under her chin. He looked at her intensely, and she could tell he didn't care that there was anyone else in the room. Holding her gaze and her chin, he said: "This means that we will have sex. This means that I will decide what you wear. And eat. And do in your time away from work even when I'm not there. And probably other things I haven't thought of yet. I like you. A lot, I think. So I don't intend to screw with your job or unduly embarrass you. But this won't be a democracy."

She couldn't say a word—it felt a little like she might burst into flame if she tried. An image of one of those bettles entomologists pinned in boxes came to her mind. She simply looked into his eyes and waited for him to stop speaking.

"You will need some time to think about this. I am getting up and going to the men's room. I will wait there for exactly 10 minutes. If you're game, come get me. If you're not there in 10 minutes, I'll understand and we'll never talk about this again."

And he was gone. She wondered where the air in the room had gone. She wondered who had heard. Or seen. And she wondered how strange it would be to see him again after she didn't show up. In the men's room, of all places. Good god, what a mess things were. She struggled to order her scrambled brain, to carefully assess her options and strategies. All to absolutely no avail. What she knew was that she was professionally fucked if she said no, and literally fucked if she said yes. She had no idea which was worse.

Andi stood. She looked at her coat and stuff. She wobbled a little on uncooperative legs. And she walked to the lobby to find the men's room.