Black Leather Page 2

  Irene glanced at the big, institutional clock less than five seconds after she told herself not to. There were many unfortunate things about being a criminal defense attorney, but nothing was worse than waiting for a jury’s verdict.

  She looked down at the brief she was pretending to study, but she’d been looking at it for—she glanced up at the clock again, winced, and looked back down—a half hour. She still hadn’t read a word.

  Tony, her assistant, leaned against the wall and flipped through the pages of an old People magazine that someone had left on one of the scarred chairs in the courthouse waiting room.

  Rudy, her defendant, paced. He’d taken off his suit coat, tossed it casually over the back of a chair, and paced, dark circles of sweat on his shirt growing ever larger under his arms.

  The room was tightly sealed—most modern buildings didn’t include operable windows. Despite the air conditioning, Irene could smell the tension. She could smell Rudy’s tension. She could smell her own.

  Despite being reasonably new, the institutional-ivory walls were scuffed where thousands of defendants had rested nervous feet, and dirty where thousands of young attorneys had leaned and left hand prints. The desk was carved by hundreds of idle hands with a pen, a pencil, or a penknife. Initials, obscenities, designs.

  Irene glanced up at the clock again. That made three times within the last three minutes.

  She threw the case study into her black leather briefcase, dropped the top down and sat, actively idle, her fingers mindlessly stroking the soft black leather. She could think of a million things she’d rather be doing than sitting. Waiting. Nervously waiting.

  She could be at the gym. Twenty minutes on the stairmaster, then the weight machine circuit, then a few extra sets with free weights. Sweating like that was infinitely preferable to sweating like this.

  The purring of a cell phone made everyone stop and look at her. She opened her briefcase, pulled out the phone, and clicked it open. “Irene Nottingham.”

  “It came in,” her secretary said, the excitement making her voice tremble the slightest bit.

  Irene forced a smile to her face while her guts recoiled in panic. Now this was something fine to dwell upon while she waited. “Before the verdict,” Irene said, her voice steady. “I’m surprised. When is the interview?”

  “Two weeks from tomorrow.”

  The waiting room door opened and a bailiff looked in. He took his time, as if counting the people in the room. There were only three. “Jury’s in,” he said to Irene.

  Irene nodded in acknowledgment. “Gotta go,” she said into the phone, folded it, tossed it into the briefcase, and snapped the locks down.

  “That was good news, gentlemen,” she said as she stood up and buttoned her pin-striped suit coat. She tried to keep up appearances, but in reality she was having a hard time breathing. “What?” Tony asked.

  “I got the call. I’m being considered for a district court judgeship, the seat that Judge Harcort vacated.” The words made her breathless.

  The admiration was clearly evident on Tony’s face. “Wow. Irene. Congratulations.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Rudy said, shrugging into his ill-fitting jacket, “but can we just get this over with?”

  “It was a good omen, Rudy,” Irene said, smiling with a newfound tolerance at the man she had never even liked before.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,” he said, then walked out the door without waiting for her.

  Someone in the hall had been eating a Big Mac, and the unmistakable odor of it swept in and threatened to dislodge all of Irene’s carefully-controlled movements, all those things she had tried to learn to do instead of throwing up in anxiety.

  She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she could do anything. There was nothing on the other side of the door that she needed to be afraid of, she’d done it a hundred times before. There was nothing here of any permanence, this was just another step forward for her career. No reason to panic. No reason at all. One thing at a time. Rudy’s verdict first. Then she’d think about Judge Harcort’s vacancy.

  Face composed, breathing regular, heart rate almost normal, she tugged briefly on her suit coat and strode purposefully into the courtroom.

  ~~~

  Judge Colburn’s court was an efficient, no-nonsense place to carry on judicial business. Irene always liked presenting cases before Judge Colburn, and when she stood up to honor him as he walked back into the courtroom, she felt an interesting new emotion rise up within her.

  I could soon be his colleague, she thought, a thundering realization that brought with it a good-sized slam of anxiety. His shoes made big footprints in this town. If there was anyone she had admired more in this profession than some of her law professors, it was Judge Colburn. She tried to visualize meeting him and his wife at a social gathering, trying to make small talk as his peer. She couldn’t.

  By the time she snapped her attention back into place, she was standing again, along with Rudy as the jury foreman unfolded the paper.

  “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

  “Yes!” Rudy yelled, both fists in the air. Then he slapped Irene on the butt with a quick, “Thanks, babe,” and he walked away to shake hands and hug his family and friends.

  “Jackass,” she whispered under her breath, then collected herself. She grabbed her briefcase, gave a nod to Tony, then walked to the prosecution’s table, a conservative smile ready for the team.

  Walter Rogers and Owen Crowell were scowling and speaking quietly to each other as they packed up their briefcases.

  “Well prosecuted, gentlemen,” Irene said as she held out her hand to Walter, the District Attorney.

  With the slightest of hesitations, Walter shook her hand briefly enough to be courteous, but not sincere. “Not well enough, apparently.” He turned so quickly to get away from her that he almost hit her with his briefcase. Losing this case was a real blow to Walter. He was old, he was tired, he was ready to retire. Losing this case may have been the final straw for him.

  Owen Crowell, the Assistant District Attorney, young, aggressive, adorable, and with a reputation to match his flirtatious nature, moved right in. He took her hand warmly. “Well defended, counselor,” he said to her. Then he leaned in to speak confidentially.

  Irene, used to Owen and men of his ilk yet not immune to their ways, couldn’t help but feel her blood temperature rise just a touch at his attentions. “Rumors abound,” he whispered in her ear.

  She pulled back to look into his eyes. “Oh?”

  “Appointment to Harcort’s seat?”

  Irene took a step back, smiling a tiny flirtatious smile. She was older, though not by much. But she knew the game lots better than he did. She had to; she was a woman. “One never knows, Owen. It’s a funny business.” She slipped her hand from his.

  “All that politicking must pay off.”

  Irene gave him a small, politically-superior smile. “It must. Please excuse me.”

  Feeling his eyes on her back, she walked slowly and confidently from the courtroom. She not only felt his eyes on her back, she felt his eyes on her legs, on her butt that was still warm from the slap that the cretin had given her, she felt his eyes on the sharp razor cut of her blonde hair. She was a natural blonde and proud of it. She kept her hair short so nobody would ever make the mistake of thinking that dark roots were being disguised.

  She liked having Owen flirt with her. She tried to imagine the immediate change in dynamic when she donned a black robe and sat in the power seat. She couldn’t. She couldn’t imagine that any more than she could imagine being Judge Colburn’s equal.

  Whoa, she thought. One thing at a time. A vacated position was filled by a bar poll. The judges decided who would be their new peer. Irene would be interviewed by a small representative committee of judges. The power committee. Before the bench appointment, the interview. And before the interview, preparation for the interview.

  And before that, a little reward for winning Rudy’s case. A lit
tle out of town time. Yes. Exactly. She quickened her pace, pushed through doors, ran down the stairs instead of taking the elevator, and by the time she reached the big front doors, she was almost flying. She was ready to get out of town.

  This might be her last opportunity. Once she donned that robe... Once she became Judge Nottingham... Well, there would be many changes in her life, and the little out of town respites would be the first to go.

  This one, this last one, would have to be a good one. A memorable one.

  ~~~

  Usually, Irene dropped her keys into the koa bowl next to the door and then luxuriated in a long look out the wall of windows in her living room. The view from her seventeenth floor Nob Hill condo took her breath away. San Francisco was a city of extremes—extreme traffic, extreme weather, extreme people, and Irene could see it all and watch it change from day to day. She loved the moods of the water and the weather, she loved the skyline. The Bay was always full of activity, from little white triangular sails floating solo or in festive regattas, to long barges muscled around by tiny tug boats, to mammoth Naval ships, both foreign and domestic, smoothly gliding past. Alcatraz. The bridges. It was the best of all possible views: ever changing. The view from Irene’s living room brought inside more diversity of every description than any single individual could possibly relish. That view, that one amenity, made the outrageous price she paid for the two-bedroom condominium worthwhile. It was her one indulgence, and to look out over all that water, or all those lights, or all that traffic, or all that fog, soothed her.

  Chapter 2

  San Francisco was fabulous during every season of the year, but late spring was Irene’s favorite. Everything was green, lush, and fresh. That’s how Irene felt inside, and that’s what showed outside her huge living room windows.

  Or at least she assumed it did. Cynthia had pulled the draperies closed, making the apartment dim and sickly.

  It was just another reason she had to get out of town.

  Irene didn’t take the time to open the draperies and savor the view. She banged through the apartment door and went directly to the bedroom. She threw her briefcase onto the bed and undressed, hanging up her suit and tossing her under things into the laundry basket. She slipped into a scuffed pair of jeans and a yellow t-shirt, then opened her briefcase, took out the cell phone and speed-dialed while she rummaged in the closet for her black leather carry on.

  Her secretary of five years answered with the perky, uptown voice Irene admired. “Irene Nottingham’s office.”

  “Mona, hi.”

  “Hi, judge-to-be. How did it go?”

  “We won.”

  “I knew it.”

  “They didn’t even poll the jurors. Walter’s tired.” She took denim skirt out of her closet, folded it and stuffed it into the overnight bag.

  “Walter’s tired and you’re not.”

  “Well, I’m damned tired of Rudy. Bill him.”

  “Will do.” Mona sighed in sympathy. She was well aware of Rudy and his hands. “Why don’t you take a couple of days off?”

  “Do you think I could?” Irene wouldn’t give Mona up for the world. She anticipated everything. Sometimes it seemed as though they were married.

  “Nothing here that I can’t handle or reschedule.”

  “I think I will then,” Irene said from the bathroom, the phone cradled under her chin. She threw her toothbrush into a cosmetic bag and zipped it shut. She tossed it onto the bed, then went to the closet and pulled out a couple of light sweaters, held them up to the light, then rolled them up and packed them. “I’ll be back in the office, say... Tuesday?”

  “Sounds good to me. Don’t get into any trouble.”

  “Thanks, kid.”

  “Irene?”

  “Hmm?” She stopped and listened, alerted by the seriousness of Mona’s voice.

  “I’m really happy for you. I mean, nobody works harder in this business than you do. And I know whereof I speak.”

  Irene was touched. “You’re sweet. I’ll see you Tuesday.” She clicked off the phone, then dialed again.

  “United Airlines.”

  “Hi, I’d like to make a reservation. The next shuttle to LA.” She grabbed some bracelets from her dresser and turned to throw them in her bag.

  Cynthia, Irene’s younger sister, looking disheveled as usual, leaned against Irene’s open bedroom door.

  Shit, Irene thought. She turned her back on Cynthia for privacy, and spoke low and soft into the phone. “Aisle seat. Irene Nottingham. American Express. Thanks.” She folded the phone and threw it back into her briefcase, locked it and stowed it in the closet.

  When she turned back around, Cynthia was sitting on the end of Irene’s bed. Cynthia looked horrible. She hadn’t put makeup on in a week, it looked as though she hadn’t washed her hair in several days. Her wrinkled clothes hung crookedly on her.

  Irene remembered a time when Ellie, their mother, had looked like that. Cynthia had been too young to remember, but Irene would never forget. And her depression had been over a man, too. Their father. It made Irene sick to her stomach.

  Irene had opened her home to Cynthia when she and Joseph split up, thinking it would only be a week or so, but it had been three months, and Cynthia showed no initiative, nor any motivation to pull herself together. She was like a leech, and Irene felt smothered by her constant, wraithlike presence. She was beginning to look and smell more than depressed. Cynthia was making herself sick.

  “You won,” Cynthia said flatly.

  “Yep.” Not even Cynthia’s depressing, silent appearance could bring down Irene’s good mood.

  “You’re going away again?”

  “Don’t start,” Irene said.

  “I don’t like this, Irene,” Cynthia said. “I don’t know what you do when you go away. You’re so secretive. It scares me.”

  “Don’t mother me, Cynthia,” Irene said, brushing past her younger sister. She went into her office, where Cynthia’s futon was surrounded by exploding bags of her belongings. Once Irene’s home office, this room had become Cynthia’s bedroom. Irene’s home office now consisted only of her desk and the bookshelves behind it, pushed farther and farther into the corner. Cynthia had even bought herself a dresser. She was settling in without Irene’s approval in a way that Irene didn’t welcome.

  That was the problem with getting too close to people, Irene thought. They take advantage. If they’re not taking up the spare bedroom, they’re taking up time. Or space. Or taking away one’s self esteem, or one’s mate. Bad news, getting close. Always has been, always will be. But then there’s family. Inherently close. Close without consent. What the hell was she supposed to do about family? About Cynthia?

  Could she love Cynthia back to health? Apparently not.

  Eventually, it had taken Myron to love their mother back to health.

  Irene squinted her eyes closed and banished the memory. If Cynthia needed a man to be well, to be whole, that was her problem. She didn’t need to haunt Irene’s apartment with her sickness.

  Irene looked up a phone number in the phone book on her desk, then dialed. While she waited, she stared at Cynthia, who had followed her and stood in the doorway, leaning dejectedly against the jamb. When the cab company answered, Irene ordered a taxi, all the time studying Cynthia.

  “You do this every time,” Cynthia whined when Irene finished.

  “First of all,” Irene said in slow, measured tones, “it’s hardly any of your business.” She hoped this would get a rise out of Cynthia, but she didn’t see a flicker of anything—not even life—cross Cynthia’s face. “But be that as it may, this will probably be the last time. I’ve got an interview for an appointment to a district court judgeship in two weeks, so this is my last chance to take a little vacation.”

  “Judgeship?” There. There was life in Cynthia.

  “Yes.” Irene looked directly at Cynthia, not exactly challenging her, but establishing her authority. “So get off my back.”

&nbs
p; “Or get out of your house.”

  Irene shrugged an it’s up to you shrug, then squeezed past her younger sister who would not move to get out of her way, grabbed her carry on and her favorite black leather blazer. Cynthia followed, leaned sullenly against the wall and started picking at her fingers.

  Irene was so tired of seeing Cynthia lean against walls that she wanted to shriek.

  “I talked to Joseph today,” Cynthia said.

  “You talk to him every day.”

  “I think there’s hope. I think he’ll take me back.”

  “He’d be a fool.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Listen,” Irene said, “I’ll be gone a few days. Why don’t you take this time to get yourself together? Three months is too long to dwell on Joseph and scheme on getting him back. While I’m gone, why don’t you concentrate on getting yourself a job?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Cynthia said, clearly without conviction.

  “Living with me isn’t good for you, Cyn. You need to be on your own. You’re losing your self-esteem.”

  “Yeah, like you help my self-esteem.”

  Irene brushed a kiss on Cynthia’s cheek as she passed by. “I’ll be back Monday.”

  “Can I go with you?”

  “No. Don’t mope. Pull yourself together. Take a shower. Get a job. Go to the gym.”

  As soon as the front door was closed behind her, Irene felt free. Cynthia’s presence was becoming way too oppressive. If she was still in this state of depression, this dependent phase when Irene returned, Irene would give her a not-too-distant deadline. That might be exactly the kick in the ass that Cynthia needed.

  Chapter 3

  Cynthia watched Irene go, then flopped down onto Irene’s soft, expensive beige sofa. I’m the one who needs a vacation, she thought as she stared without seeing at the dark television. I’m the one who needs a change of pace, a change of scenery.

  She sighed, the weight of her life lowering her shoulders. She scratched around in her hair for a moment, the changed focus and saw herself in the reflection of the television glass.

  She needed to touch up her roots. She needed a facial. She needed a shower. She needed a few new clothes. She needed, she needed. She needed a job, an apartment of her own, a new man...