All Work, Let's Play, page 3
The money I saved from their life insurance payouts was supposed to go to a down payment for a house. But Joyce wanted a big wedding, something she’d never forget, and I was in love, so I didn’t think twice about using my savings to foot the bill. Joyce’s parents had a fair bit of money, but I didn’t want them to think I couldn’t take care of her, so I used the money my parents left me. Now I had nothing.
“I’m sorry, Gage. I didn’t know,” she responds, apologetic.
I wave her away, even though she can’t see me, and finish my packing. “It’s cool. I like my job. Mr. Newman isn’t even a downside. I enjoy our banter most of the time. He gets under my skin, but I don’t let him ruffle my feathers like everyone else does.”
“Hmm...I hear you. So what’s new?”
I head to my living room, turn on the TV, and start flipping through channels while we talk. “Not much. I was calling to check in. See how you are.”
We talk for a few more minutes. I caught Candice on her lunch break from the accounting firm she works at and when her lunch is over, we say our goodbyes. I turn on MSNBC and see a breaking news story. I turn the volume up, hoping to catch what kind of craziness is going on. I lean forward and listen intently to what the news anchor says.
“In today’s breaking news, we have reports that the trial for Marcel Dunbar will be held in Virginia, where the crime occurred, not Maryland, where the perpetrator resides. Dunbar, a 36-year-old pharmacist, crossed state lines and murdered 19-year-old Tyree Richardson and his father, 44-year-old Michael Richardson. No motive behind the attack has been released to the public. The jury selection is due to begin shortly, with the commencement of the trial to be scheduled shortly thereafter. From our most recent reports, Dunbar has retained outside counsel and has not given a statement to police as to why he murdered both men. The case will be televised, and we will release information as we receive it.”
The news anchor speaks more about what they know about the case, but it’s just more of the same words she’s already said. So this is our case. I really want to know the motive behind the murders. I’m sure Mr. Dunbar will tell Mr. Newman and the new guy what they need to know to win the case, but it will be hard to defend a murderer that crossed state lines to commit a crime. That sounds like premeditation, which could put the death penalty on the table. First-degree murder already allows it and it will be hard to cop a plea. I’m not an attorney, but I’ve done enough research to know that this will be a tough one for Mr. Newman. But if anyone can handle it, it’s him.
As much as I hate to admit it, Mr. Newman is a damn good attorney. Whether he’s doing criminal law or corporate, he’s the best. He’s not in it for the money, though he’s paid very well. He actually cares about his clients and works hard for them. Since I’ve been working for him, he’s only lost three cases, and those cases have haunted him, making him work even harder to get a positive outcome for the next client. He might be a dick to us in the office, but he does good work for his clients.
I sit back on the couch and take a deep breath. This is going to be a busy month for me. Not only am I working alone, but I also won’t have access to all the resources I would have in our own office. I’ll probably have to buy a printer while I’m in Virginai, not wanting the staff at whatever hotel we’ll be staying at to get too much information about our case or what I’m researching. Many late nights and early mornings are in my future.
Standing to go back to my room, I trip over one of the end tables I bought two months ago. I hate these fucking tables. Joyce saw them and had to have them and I gave her everything she wanted.
I turn around and my eyes bounce around my apartment. I hate everything about it. It’s not me. The colors too bright, the room too open, nothing that says I live here. Everything is Joyce. The colors, the decorations, even the art on the wall. I picked out nothing, except the TV. And even that had to be a compromise between two different options. One that she’d picked and one I’d picked. I won that battle at least.
This is not my apartment. I don’t belong here.
That thought is going through my head when my phone rings. I look at the name and my heart freezes in my chest. Joyce. I need to answer, I know I do, but I can’t. I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know if I should curse her out or ask to talk so I can feel more secure in myself. I’ve been fucked up since she left me with nothing more than a shitty note. I don’t know how to feel about myself. Three years of my life were dedicated to her, to making her happy. To making her feel like the most beautiful and precious woman on earth. Making her feel as secure as she was supposed to make me feel.
I decline the call. I’m not ready yet. I’m not ready to have any kind of amicable conversation with her. Anything I say to her will be ugly and though she deserves it, I have to protect my peace. I was unsettled enough as a kid. I won’t bring it into my adulthood if I can help it.
Seeing Joyce’s name on my phone and looking around at my apartment that’s not really mine, I decide to start doing something about it. I have two more hours until I have to be at the airport and it’s only a thirty-minute drive. I have time.
First, I take the ugly, horrible end tables down to the dumpster. I put them beside it, just in case someone wants them. There’s nothing wrong with them physically, I just hate them personally. After the end tables, the art on the wall comes down. Every picture of flowers in a vase, a meadow dotted with purple flowers, words of affirmation, all of it. All stacked beside the dumpster. Last, I take everything she used to decorate the apartment, to make it a home, and throw it in a garbage bag. All the coasters, hand towels, refrigerator magnets, table mats, everything goes and I toss it beside everything else by the dumpster.
I’m breathing heavily when I go back inside, but when I look around, I’m happy. Nothing is how it was. Now I can start brand new, if I want to be here. I don’t know if I’ll even be here after the month I’m gone. I have a few months left on my lease. I might let it run out and find somewhere that doesn’t have memories of what my life could have been.
I pretty much used up the hour and a half I had before I had to leave, so I hurry to grab my luggage and take it to my car. When I’m pulling away from my building, I see a few people coming to take the things I threw out. I’m glad someone else will enjoy that stuff and I didn’t completely waste my money. I could have sold it, should have sold it, but it all needed to go. It’s been a month. I need to start trying to rebuild my life. I don’t need constant reminders of Joyce.
The drive to the airport is quiet. I don’t turn on the radio or pull up Spotify. I’m thinking about work. What I’m going to potentially research. What I might need to pick up when we land. What supplies I need to ask for. What office we might be working out of.
I love legal research. I don’t like talking in front of people, but I wanted to work in law, especially if I can help kids. I haven’t done much of it, but I’ve helped keep parents out of prison with my research, so in a roundabout way, I guess I am. The sense that I’m helping someone gives me a sense of pride. It’s hard work, long hours, but I get a sense of fulfillment at the end of the day. I’ve never desired to be a lawyer. Too much working with other people. I like my small bubble with people who also like keeping to themselves. Legal researchers and paralegals like me are my people.
I park in the long-term parking and make the short walk to the airport entrance. I don’t know if Mr. Newman wanted me to meet him at the check-in desk or if he was leaving my ticket at the counter. All he texted me was the airline and the time of the flight. I’m walking to the desk when I spot Mr. Newman. And the attorney standing next to him. I curse myself, knowing why Mr. Newman had that shit-eating grin on his face earlier. So much for no reminders of Joyce.
The new attorney is Max.
Chapter Four
I try not to slow my stride when I walk up to them. I don’t want it to look like I’m nervous or intimidated by both of them. Two men who can’t stand my fucking guts for reasons I don’t know.
“Mr. Archer, you know Mr. Streeter.” I shoot a glare at Mr. Newman after his shitty introduction, not liking how his eyes twinkle with mischief.
“Did you set this up?” Max inquires aggressively. Mr. Newman turns to look at him smoothly, not ruffled by his angry tone.
“Mr. Streeter, I didn’t know your name at the wedding. I called you in for an interview because I was impressed with your resume. I assure you, I would never hire you to start some petty drama in the firm that I helped build from the ground up,” Caleb responds in an almost bored tone. “Mr. Archer is the best legal researcher I’ve worked with, so of course, I’m going to have him join us on the case. If you have a problem with that, you’re free to go home. I’m doing you a favor by allowing you to shadow me on such a high-profile case during your first month in my employ.”
My heart unexpectedly warms hearing Mr. Newman saying I’m the best. It’s been so long since someone has told me I was the best anything. And I didn’t think he recognized my work. Most times, he would bitch about me taking too long to find a case file or not giving him enough information for a case. I know my work is always impeccable, but it’s nice to hear that it’s appreciated.
I take my eyes off Mr. Newman, where they were stuck during his spiel, and move them to Max. “Look, I’m here to do a job. I will stay out of your way if you stay out of mine. We don’t even have to talk if it’s not work-related. I’m good with that.”
Max’s eyes are like lasers on my face. I don’t look away though. I fix my face into an impassive mask and wait for him to figure out how much he hates me. “Fine,” he grinds out through clenched teeth. “Just do what I tell you and we won’t have any problems.”
I roll my eyes and look back at Mr. Newman. He gives me a one-sided smirk that makes my stomach do a flip for some unknown reason. Maybe because he actually looks like he’s having fun. Like our little exchange was a delight to him. Fucking weirdo.
Rolling my eyes at him too, I ask, “What supplies will be available to me at the hotel? I might need to buy a printer.”
Mr. Newman gives me a once over, like he wants to say something cutting. “Of course, you’d think I’d waste money on a hotel for a month.”
I have no idea what the fuck that means, but it’s irritating, nonetheless. “Can you just answer my question?”
“We’re staying at one of my family’s summer homes.” Of course his family has more than one house. Mr. Newman comes from old money. His great grandfather heavily invested in a distillery and they make their own whiskey that cost almost $600 a bottle. I’ve never had it, because I would never spend that much money on alcohol that does the same thing as a $40 bottle, but I’ve heard from several people that it tastes like no whiskey they’ve ever had. I’ll take their word for it.
“Naturally,” I say back, sarcastically. His lips quirk up into a slight smile, like he’s enjoying our banter as well. It takes me a minute to realize this could be the most he’s fun he’s had in a few weeks, since his frat brother is in jail for murder. I try to keep that in mind, giving him a break. If he gives me one.
“You’ll have everything you need there. I have several printers set up and I had some things delivered that should help with your research. Anything you can’t find online can be found at the School of Law that’s a few blocks away. I’ve spoken to the Dean and she’s allowing you full access at any time of day, if you need it.”
I nod, thankful that my job won’t be impossible and could be done in relative comfort. There will be some days I’ll need to be in court with Max and Mr. Newman, but most days, I’ll be able to come in and out at my leisure.
“That helps.” I don’t say thank you. I can’t bring myself to be that pleasant to him. I still don’t like him and he doesn’t like me. No need to push it.
We check in for our flight and check our bags. When we get to our gate, Mr. Newman takes out his laptop and he and Max put their heads together and discuss matters about the case. I take out a small notepad and wait to see if they have anything for me to research when we touch down. Mr. Newman says a few things that I jot down, cases he wants to me to track down so they can get discovery ready. The prosecution has already sent theirs down and Mr. Newman expects me to have research compiled tonight so he and Max and get their evidence together and have it presentable the day before the trial starts. Cutting it a little close, but I think he’s doing it on purpose. The prosecution may not have time to look at all the evidence and that may allow something to slip through. It’s a bit underhanded, but he only wants to represent his client as effectively as possible.
By the time our flight is ready to board, I have a list of cases and prior trial evidence I need to find that will help the case. By the time we land and get to his family home, it’ll be after eight in the evening. I know I won’t get much sleep tonight, so I make a playlist to help me stay awake.
We pull up to one of the largest estates I’ve ever seen in my life. The huge wrought iron gate opens up to a large sprawling lawn with honest-to-God trimmed hedges in the shape of animals. The quarter mile-long driveway is paved and in the middle of the circular driveway in front of the door is a fountain that’s spraying water and tinkling quietly. The house itself is something out of a magazine. Three stories high, something I’ve never actually seen in real life and the stone steps leading up to it looking like they belong in front of a church or courthouse. The double doors are made of glass and have the same wrought iron pattern as the gate we drove through. I try not to stare open-mouthed, but it’s hard. I knew his family had money, but not this much.
Max is pretty used to seeing opulence, maybe not on this scale, but he has more practice than me. Growing up in foster care and then living with a modest middle-class family after my adoption never granted me the opportunity to see anyone that lived like this. And this is just one of many homes his family has.
I can’t help but shake my head at the unfairness of it all. Even half of what this cost could help so many kids in the system. This type of wealth is almost selfish. It’s not Mr. Newman’s fault, but I can’t help but be a bit irritated with him by association.
To his credit, he almost looks embarrassed, but he wipes his face of any expression and trots to the front door after he grabs his luggage. We pluck ours from the trunk of the Uber and follow behind him. Before he can ring the bell, a short Black man with short gray hair and more wrinkles than I can count opens the door with obvious effort.
“Caleb, my boy!” he exclaims, throwing his arms around him. Mr. Newman throws his arms around him with a small smile on his face.
“Hey, Mr. Bernard. I didn’t expect you to be here.”
The little old man rubs his hands up and down Mr. Newman’s arms, an intimate gesture that speaks to them either being family or close to it. “Well, your father told me you were gonna be in town, so I stopped by. Just because I don’t work here anymore doesn’t mean I can’t come check on my boy. I missed you.”
“Missed you too, Mr. Bernard.” Caleb gestures to us and makes introductions. “Mr. Streeter, Mr. Archer, this is Mr. Bernard. He was with the family for about forty years. We finally got him to retire.” The warmth in Mr. Newman’s voice is a surprise. He usually sounds bland and monotone, except when he’s bitching about how my work needs to be better.
“Ah, Mr. Archer, Mr. Streeter. A pleasure to meet you. Lawyers like my boy here?”
I shake my head. “No, sir. I’m the researcher.”
Max nods his head but doesn’t say anything past hello to the older man.
“That’s great. Legal is a great profession.” He looks back at Mr. Newman. “I have to get home. Geena is waiting for me. I wanted to welcome you and give you the key. You’ll be using mine while you’re here. I might stop by a few times to check on you and talk for a bit, if you’re not too busy. Set aside at least one night for me?”
“Of course, Mr. Bernard.” The little old man hobbles down the stairs and drives away in the car I didn’t notice the top of the driveway.
Max and I look at Mr. Newman and he just says, “Our old butler.” He turns to walk into the house and sets his luggage at the base of the stairs.
Walking into this place is like walking into a whole new world. I’ve never seen anything like it. The stairs right across from me go up one flight, then branch off to two separate sides leading up to the third floor, which I see is comprised of two different wings. The foyer leads to a large office on my left, where I see there are computers and printers set up. There’s a bar on the back half of the wall, couches and a coffee table across from a large fireplace. I go to that room and look around, knowing this is where I’ll spend most of my time. There are books stacked on moveable bookshelves. Law books. The amount of preparation makes me smile. This will make it easier to do a better job for the client, with me having virtually everything at my fingertips.
I go back to the foyer where I see Mr. Newman and Max deep in conversation that halts when I get close. I raise my eyebrow, but neither of them fills me in on whatever they were speaking about. No matter. I’m just the researcher. They were probably talking about something with the case, something that doesn’t apply to me.
Mr. Newman grabs his bags and trots up the stairs. “There’s no staff here besides the cook. She’ll only be here for breakfast and will make us dinner to heat ourselves. Follow me. I’ll show you to your rooms. I’ll give the grand tour some other time. I’m exhausted.”
He gives us rooms on the second floor, side by side. It’s baffling that there have to be way more rooms in this house and he’d put me next door to the man who hates my fucking guts.
“This is the guest wing,” he answers my unspoken question after he directs Max to his room.
“Of course. The guest wing. All homes have one of those. Should have known,” I say with a hefty dose of sarcasm.
