Sustained

Thursday starts off shitty and goes straight to hell from there. It’s raining, and my morning run is crap because I had a terrible night’s sleep. No matter how many times I punched the hell out of my pillow, I couldn’t get comfortable. I’m late getting into the office because some moron who didn’t know how to drive in the rain slammed his car into a telephone pole, backing up traffic to East fucking Jabip. Then, an hour after I finally get settled at my desk to start working through a pile of files taller than I am, I end up spilling hot coffee on my favorite shirt.

“Goddamn fucking shit!”

Stanton swivels around in his chair from his desk on the other side of the office we share.

“Problem?”

I rub at the stain on my chest with a napkin, trying to murder it. “I spilled my coffee.”

His eyebrows rise. “Did somebody piss in it first? You’ve been barking all morning. You even snapped at Mrs. Higgens—and she’s as close to a saint as I’ve ever seen.”

I shake my head, not in the mood to share. “Just a bad day.”

He goes back to reading the document in his hands. “And it’s only just begun.”

Fucking tell me about it.

• • •

I don’t hear from Chelsea all morning, not that I expect to. And I don’t think about her. Not the anger frozen on her face or the hurt in her eyes the last time I saw her. Not her plump lips that kiss so softly, smile so easily, and laugh so enchantingly. I don’t think about the kids either—not Riley’s wisely perceptive look or Raymond’s kind questions. I don’t think about Rory’s smartass smirk or Rosaleen’s giggle. Not Regan’s sweet voice or Ronan’s drooling grin.

I refuse to think of any of them—at all.

• • •

After a quiet lunch with Sofia and Stanton—Brent was stuck in court—I sit down at my desk and bury myself in case files for two hours. And then there’s a commotion outside my office. Raised voices and Mrs. Higgens saying I can’t be disturbed without an appointment. For a crazy split second I think maybe it’s Chelsea with a few of the kids.

But it’s not.

“Mrs. Holten.”

She stands in my office doorway, blond hair perfectly coiffed in an elegant knot at the base of her neck. Her blouse is white, just a shade darker than her skin tone. French-manicured nails decorate delicate hands, one of which is still graced with a shiny engagement ring and wedding band. They rest at her sides, against a Democratic-blue skirt.

Mrs. Holten is Senator William Holten’s wife. The one he’s accused of beating to a bloody pulp in the US attorney’s case against him. The case I’m representing him in. And she’s in my office.

“I need to speak with you, Mr. Becker.”

Mrs. Higgens tries to explain, “I told her you can’t see her, Jake. I—”

I hold up my hand. “It’s all right, Mrs. Higgens. I’ll take care of it.” She closes the door as she leaves.

Mrs. Holten lets out a quick relieved breath and steps closer to my desk. “Is it true?”

“Mrs. Holten—”

“I just came from the prosecutor’s office. They said at my husband’s trial, certain . . . indiscretions . . . from my past could be made public. By you. Is that true?”

I stand up. My voice is even but firm. “I can’t speak with you. You are the complaining witness in a felony assault case against my client.”

“I need to know!”

My palm moves to my chest. “I could be accused of tampering with a witness. You can’t be here.”

She grinds her teeth, on the verge of tears, hands shaking—but more than anything she looks utterly terrified. “I married William when I was eighteen years old. I’ve never had a career—my only job was to be his wife, the mother to our children, his prop on the campaign trail.” Her throat contracts as she swallows reflexively. “He’s capable of tying up our divorce for years. He knows all the judges. When this is done, all I will have to rely on is the kindness of affluent friends and the admiration of my children. If you know what I suspect you know, and if that comes out at William’s trial, they will never look at me the same way again. I will have nothing. Please, Mr. Becker, I just need to be prepared for what’s to come.”

I scrape my hand down my face and gesture to the chair in front of my desk. Mrs. Holten sits down but remains stiff as a frightened board. “Would you like a glass of water?”

“Thank you, yes.”

I pour her a glass and set it on my desk within her reach. Then I sit back down and when I speak, I choose my words so very carefully, doing my damnedest to bend the rules without breaking them, and in the process wrecking my entire fucking career.

“Speaking purely hypothetically and not referring to this particular case at all, it is standard practice for this firm and myself personally to employ private investigators who vet potential witnesses. They look into their backgrounds and recent histories for information which could possibly be used to impeach their credibility.”

“ ‘Impeach their credibility’?” she repeats. “So, once a liar, always a liar—is that right?”

I look into her eyes—they’re gentle brown, like a doe’s. “Depending on the circumstances . . . yes.”

Mrs. Holten sips her water and asks, “So if a potential witness had an affair and lied to her husband, her children, her friends about it? If she developed a reliance on pain medication and had to attend a live-in rehabilitation center? Would you use those facts to impeach a witness’s credibility, Mr. Becker?”

She’s asking because according to the report in my desk drawer, Mrs. Holten has done all those things.

My stomach twists, angry and sick. But I won’t lie to her. “As much as a judge would allow, yes, I would absolutely bring those facts up at trial.”

“That’s blackmail!”

“That’s the law.”

She starts to pant, hand to her throat—almost hyperventilating. Stanton approaches her from across the room. “Is there anything you need, ma’am?”

She closes her eyes and forces her breaths back to even. “No, I’ll be fine. I’m just . . . I was a fool to ever think . . .” She pats her perfect hair and turns back to me. “Tell William I’ll fix this. And I’ll come home. Tell him—”

“I can’t do that. I can’t pass messages. I—”

“It’s important that he knows I’m willing to come home!” she says, pushing. “And that I will clean up this mess I have made.” She stands abruptly. “I can show myself out, gentlemen. Thank you, Mr. Becker, for your . . . honesty.”

And her eyes go flat. Like a death row inmate, just waiting for someone to come along and flip the switch.

Then she sweeps out of my office, closing the door softly behind her. I stare at the closed door for a few minutes . . . remembering.

Until Stanton calls my name. “You all right, Jake?”

I blink and shake my head clear. Then I move closer to my desk and refocus.

“Yeah, I’m good.” And my voice is as lifeless as Mrs. Holten’s eyes. “Just part of the job.”

• • •

A few hours later, after pitch black fills my office window, another commotion stirs outside the door. It opens and the young prosecutor Tom Caldwell stands there, fuming.

His noble steed is probably parked outside.

I tell Stanton dryly, “Must be dramatic entrance day. Lucky me.”

I wave Mrs. Higgens away as Tom practically charges my desk. “What did you say to her?”

I lean back in my chair. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Tom.”

His finger stabs the air. “You know exactly what I’m talking about! Sabrina Holten came to my office—to recant her allegations against her husband. Said she couldn’t risk her indiscretions coming to light.”

I shrug. “Flip-flopping witnesses are always a pain in the ass.”

“I know she was here!” he rails, eyes burning into me.

“She stopped in, yeah. Seemed pretty distraught.”

He leans on my desk. “Did you discuss the case with her?”

I still don’t bother to get out of my chair. “Of course I didn’t—except to say that I couldn’t discuss the case with her. Otherwise we spoke of hypotheticals. And then she left. Stanton was in the room the entire time.”

“ ‘Hypotheticals’ . . . ,” he spits, like it’s a dirty word. “I bet.”

From across the room, Stanton asks, “Are you accusing my colleague of something, Caldwell?”

Caldwell addresses his answer to me. “Yes, I’m accusing him of being a scumbag.”

I stare him down. “I really don’t like your fucking attitude, Tom. It’s been a rough day—you don’t want to push me.”

He backs down, but only a little. His hands are still balled into fists, his gaze still throwing knives. “I told her I could proceed without her testimony—I would submit her statement as evidence.”

“Which I would never let you do,” I say, interrupting him. “I can’t cross-examine a statement.”

“She was scared out of her mind, Becker! Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

I don’t answer. Because sometimes, there’s just nothing you can say.

“She went so far as to tell me that she would testify on her husband’s behalf if I went forward,” Caldwell goes on. “That she would claim she was confused and it was all a political witch hunt against him. I said I could charge her with perjury.”

Stanton laughs. “Wow, prosecuting your victims? That’s gonna make you real popular with advocacy groups.”

“I wasn’t going to actually do it,” Tom tells him. “I just wanted to see if she’d change her mind. She didn’t.” He glowers at me for a few seconds, then he asks, “Have you looked at her medical history? She’s not his wife—she’s his punching bag!”

I rub my eyes. Suddenly . . . so fucking tired. Of all of it. “What are you looking for here, Caldwell? I don’t get it—what do you want me to do for you?”

His eyes rake over me, filled with loathing. With disgust. “Forget looking at yourself in the mirror—I just want to know, how do you live in your skin?”

The words hang heavy in the quiet of the room, until Tom shakes his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter and you’re not worth my time.”

And he marches out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

I run my hand over the back of my neck. Then I stand and pack files into my briefcase. “I’m heading out,” I tell Stanton.

“You want to come over tonight? Have dinner with me and Sofia?”

“Not tonight, man. The faster I get to sleep, the faster this fucking day will end.”

• • •

But I don’t go home. Instead I drive over to a small hole-in-the-wall kind of place—a real dive bar—with grouchy staff, almost nonexistent clientele, and fantastic scotch. Instead of having to deal with friendly, tip-hungry bartenders and female patrons looking to hook up, here I know they’ll leave me the fuck alone. Which is exactly what I need at the moment.

I sit on the threadbare stool as a muscular bartender with a thick, black goatee pours me a double scotch—neat. I toss several bills onto the rotting wood bar, more than needed.

“Just leave the whole fucking bottle.”