Once A Liar. A.F. Brady
humiliate me like this?” I didn’t want to whine or appear unappreciative, but I couldn’t understand what we could possibly gain through failure.
“I didn’t do this to you—Harrison Doyle did. Don’t be mad at me, Peter. Get mad at him.” I focused in on Harrison’s pixelated face on the television. It wasn’t Marcus who would be on the receiving end of my hate; it was Harrison Doyle.
I hung up the phone, in need of a distraction. I headed to Bull & Bear at the Waldorf, assured I was far enough uptown to avoid anyone involved in the Bogovian case. But, of course, with the luck I was having that day, Harrison was there, holding court at the bar. I dreaded speaking with him, though I wanted to hear exactly what he had to say. I craned my neck to listen.
“Peter Caine is an ineffective upstart, lacking the singular ability it takes to win cases—heart. Even his client called him a fraud.”
Harrison went on to slander Stu Bogovian, spurred on by the gasps and guffaws of the rest of the lawyers. My ears filled with a burning heat, and the word ineffective blared in my head over and over again. Harrison Doyle said I was a feeble attorney, that I couldn’t do my job. He trashed my reputation in front of colleagues and peers.
My humiliation turned to anger and was then replaced with a burning, malicious drive. Marcus was right—it was Harrison who put me in this position, not Marcus. Marcus was teaching me how to be the best, and I was going to get there. All I needed to do was follow Marcus’s path, coldhearted as it may be.
Ineffective? Never. I vowed to make Harrison regret those words. And oh, how the tables would turn.
This morning, Claire rises early, catching me as I put on my suit in my dressing room. It’s rare that Claire and I wake up together, and even more infrequent that we share a morning coffee or breakfast. Even on the weekends, I always have something to do that takes me out of the house and away from her. She’s used to living with a ghost; an indent in the other side of the bed, a whiff of aftershave as opposed to a real human being.
“Good morning,” she calls, her voice foggy.
I pop my head through the doorway to look at her. “What are you doing up so early?” I cinch my tie tightly up to my throat.
“I wanted to make sure I was awake to send Jamie off to school before I go to work. Give him a nice breakfast.” Claire yawns and stretches her thin limbs across the whole bed.
“That kid kept me up half the night traipsing around. Floorboards creaking down there—it was deafening.” I scrutinize my reflection.
“I didn’t hear a thing. You’re probably just imagining it.” She takes a long sip of water and rubs the sleep from her eyes. “He’s living here now. You have no more excuses to avoid developing a relationship with him. It’s important—he’s been through so much. He needs his father.”
I don’t respond. After their clandestine conversation yesterday, dancing on the edge of insulting me, I don’t feel inclined to take parenting advice from someone who doesn’t have faith in me.
Claire plods gently into her bathroom to brush her teeth. As soon as she shuts the water off, I close the bedroom door and quickly head down the stairs.
“What am I going to cook for this kid?” she says aloud when she walks into the kitchen. She’s not speaking to me, instead posing her question to the inside of the fridge. I don’t respond. She pulls out a package of bacon and starts laying strips in a frying pan. “All teenagers love bacon, right?” she asks into the pan.
The smell instantly fills the kitchen, and Claire inhales deeply while chopping vegetables for a quick frittata. She punches the button on the espresso machine and makes herself a coffee while she works. I keep my nose in the paper, making sure my presence stills her ability to return to a discussion about me once Jamie comes down.
Jamie appears in the doorway with his backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Morning,” he says. He drops his bag on the ground and pulls up a seat at the round table.
“Good morning, Jamie.” Claire smiles. “Did you sleep well?”
“Not really. I think I need to get used to my new room.” He looks nervously in my direction. “Sorry if I was loud. I was wandering around a bit.”
“No problem,” I lie.
“Bacon and eggs okay?”
“Great, thanks, Claire.” Jamie stands and takes the plates from the cabinets and sets the table for breakfast. “It was good to talk to you yesterday,” he begins but immediately stops himself.
“Yes,” she agrees. She sips her coffee, and I think I see her shoot a wink his way.
“I walked around the house last night.” Jamie fiddles with the knife by his plate, changing the subject from yesterday’s conversation that I wasn’t supposed to hear. “I couldn’t fall asleep, so I went exploring.”
“Where did you explore?” I ask, wondering if he’d been snooping in my things.
“Just around my floor and down here. There aren’t any pictures of me in this house,” Jamie says. “I mean, I don’t want to be an egomaniac or anything, it’s just there used to be so many pictures of me at home. And now I’m in a house with none. It’s noticeable. There aren’t any pictures of you, either,” he says to Claire.
Claire frowns. Both of them look to me for explanation, but I’ve turned my attention back to the paper.
“No,” she sighs. “No, there aren’t. The framed photographs throughout the house were mostly gifts. Prints of Peter and whatever client he just successfully defended. He gets a lot of those as thank-you presents. It’s just part of what he does for a living.” She slices the cake-like frittata and brings Jamie two big pieces flanked by crispy strips of bacon.
Claire holds up the spatula in my direction and asks me if I would like a slice. She is looking at me as if she’d like me to leave. Like she has things to say to Jamie she doesn’t want me to hear.
“No, thanks.” I smile. “I’ve got to make a quick call in the other room before I head to the office.” I hold up my cell phone and walk to the parlor again. I make a show of loudly speaking into the phone to no one and pacing the floor. Just as I expected, Jamie starts back in on the conversation, but I can’t quite hear the beginning of what he says. I mumble a loud “mmm-hmm” into the phone and pull it away from my ear so I can listen to my son.
“Do you think he knows they’re guilty?”
“I don’t know if all of them are guilty,” Claire responds, “but it certainly seems like they are. Peter once told me that it’s not his job to care if they did it or not. It’s his job to provide them with the best possible defense.” I’m pleased to hear Claire defending me so beautifully.
“My mom told me about his cases sometimes—she wanted me to be proud that he was such a good lawyer. But then I would look up the cases online, see who he was defending and what they had done. The funny thing about all of Peter’s cases—” Jamie chews a piece of bacon “—when his clients are found innocent, no one else ever gets arrested for the crime. So, it seems to me, his guy must have done it. But they still go free all the time.”
Juliette seems to have spent quite a bit of time talking about me. I reflexively crack my neck in agitation.
“A person needs a proper defense. Our whole legal system is based on that notion. Innocent until proven guilty, right? And if the prosecution can’t prove it, then it’s the system’s problem.” Claire knows exactly what to say. I’ve trained her well.
“Do you ever talk to him about it?” Jamie’s fork and knife clatter onto the plate.