The highest moral law is that we should work unremittingly for the good of mankind.
—MAHATMA GANDHI
Washington, D.C.
Thomas Clarke sat in the tenth-floor conference room at Clayton|Swift, staring out the window at the law firm of Marquise & LeClair across the street. The dark-wood conference table in front of him had room to accommodate twenty-four. There were eighteen people at the present meeting—twelve lawyers, four paralegals, and two interns. The Wharton Group, as it was called, was the largest litigation team in the firm’s history.
The topic of discussion today was the Wharton appeal. Of the dozen lawyers present, five did most of the talking. The rest, including Thomas, stayed silent, their BlackBerrys keeping track of the seconds that passed on sophisticated billing software that would be automatically synchronized with their firm-issued laptops at day’s end. The meeting was critical. The coal company executives were outraged at the jury’s verdict and were calling for blood.
No one wanted to believe it had come to this. Clayton’s lawyers had played marionette with the judicial system for more than three years, searching for a way to kick the $1 billion wrongful death case out of court or to settle for pennies on the dollar. At all points, the evidence had been against the defense. The blowout at the coal company’s mountaintop removal facility in West Virginia had been predicted by activists. The contractor who had pronounced the slurry safely contained in the mining tunnels was under review by the government. And then there was the problem of the kids. Ninety-one of them drowned at their lunch tables by fifty million gallons of blackwater that erupted from the mountainside upslope of their elementary school. The Wharton Group had only one strategy to defeat the families of the dead, and that was to prevent them from ever telling their story to a jury.
The strategy had almost worked. The pressure of litigating against a firm and a coal company with near-infinite resources had driven the plaintiffs to the brink of civil war, and they almost bought Wharton’s last-minute offer of settlement. In the end, however, they had stayed the course, and the jury trial when it came was a fait accompli. The only question was how high the verdict would go.
After three grueling weeks, Judge Hirschel sent the jurors out to deliberate. They returned an hour later with a verdict that shocked even the thickest-skinned courtroom veterans: $300 million in compensatory damages and $600 million in punitives. Nine tenths of a billion dollars. It was not simply a message. It was a bombshell.
The fallout had been immediate and devastating. Overnight, Wharton’s stock lost half its value. But Clayton’s strategy was not yet complete. Standing on the courthouse steps, Wharton’s chief executive proclaimed his company’s innocence and vowed to fight the verdict all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court. In reality, he wanted nothing more than to kick the can down the road. Even if the verdict was ultimately affirmed, the plaintiffs would spend five years waiting for the money to come. By then, who knew how many of them would settle for a song?
Despite the meeting’s importance, Thomas had struggled to keep his mind on the appeal. His thoughts had drifted from the kidnapping he’d witnessed in Fayetteville, to Tera Atwood sitting across the table from him, to the school pictures the plaintiffs’ attorneys had showed the jury. What he had told his father last night was true: it was hard to like a company that had killed a schoolhouse full of children. On the other hand, liking Wharton was irrelevant to the representation. A lawyer’s job was to fight for his client and let others decide what was right and what was wrong.
He tuned in to the conversation when Maximillian Junger stood from his seat at the head of the table. Junger was the managing partner of the litigation division and the leader of the Wharton Group. He was also a personal friend of Thomas’s father.
“The appeals team will be led by Mark Blake,” Junger said in the oracular voice that had charmed juries for more than thirty years. “He’ll be assisted on the briefs by Hans Kristof and a core group of associates.”
Junger used a remote control to access a flat-screen television mounted in the wall behind two retracting wood panels. He powered on the unit, and the names of those on the appeals team were displayed. Thomas’s heart sank; he was not on the list. He glanced at Tera. Unlike him, she had been selected for the assignment. She smiled at him, but her eyes were sad. Their days of working closely together on the case were over.
Thomas looked back at Junger. “To the rest of you,” he was saying, “allow me to extend the firm’s thanks for your efforts over the past forty months. The verdict was a disappointment, but as we’ve discussed, there are many grounds for appeal. If you’re not on the appeals team, talk to your supervising partner. We have a number of pending cases that need attention.”
Junger glanced at the clock on the wall. The thirty minutes blocked out for the meeting were over. “Thanks for your attendance,” he said. “This meeting is adjourned.”
Thomas stood up quickly and headed for the door, hoping to escape before he had to face any of the other associates, especially Tera. Max Junger met him in the hallway and walked with him to the elevator. When they were inside, Junger pressed the button for the twelfth floor. Thomas reached for the seventh-floor button, but Junger stopped him.
“It’s been a while since we visited,” he said. “Why don’t we chat in my office?”
Thomas nodded, but his mind raced with the implications of the invitation. A private meeting with Junger was not a propitious sign. Good news was always channeled through the chain of command.
“How is your father?” Junger asked, making conversation.
“He’s well,” Thomas said, trying to calm his nerves. “He talks about you all the time.”
“And uses me as a point of humor, I’m sure,” Junger said with a selfdeprecating smile. “He’s been doing that since law school.”
Before he was elevated to the bench, the Judge had been one of Clayton’s star litigators and a colleague of Junger’s. Years before that, they were classmates at Virginia Law.
The elevator door opened, and Junger led the way through the ornate twelfth-floor lobby and into his office. The room had enough space to accommodate at least fifteen of the cubicles in which associates like Thomas had to work. The walls were cherry-paneled and studded with bookcases and original artwork. It was an intimidating setting in the best of times. In the worst of times, it was suffocating.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Junger said, gesturing to a sitting area with an overstuffed couch and wingback chairs. Thomas sat in one of the chairs, and Junger took a seat on the sofa. He crossed his legs and tented his hands, looking at Thomas with his piercing hazel eyes.
“How are you?” he asked. “It was September, wasn’t it, when you lost your little girl?”
Thomas took a deep breath and nodded. “I have good days and bad days. It’s about what you would expect.”
“Hmm.” Junger paused reflectively. “When Margie and I lost Morgan, I felt like I was underwater. I had no idea where the surface was.”
Thomas had heard the story from his father. Junger’s sixteen-yearold daughter had been killed in a head-on collision with a logging truck a decade ago.
“An apt description,” Thomas replied, wishing Junger would get on with it.
“Do you know what brought me back, what gave me a sense of purpose again?”
Thomas shook his head.
“It was Margie’s idea. She told me I needed to take a break from the firm. I remember laughing at her. When you’re a partner, you’ll understand: there is never a good time to get away. In the end, though, she didn’t leave me much choice. So I called up Bobby Patterson, who was then dean at Virginia, and asked if he could use an old warhorse in the classroom for a year. Teaching was the best decision I could have made. It gave me new life.”
Junger fell silent, and Thomas waited for the axe to fall. A clock ticked nearby. It was the only sound in the office, other than the hammering of his heart.
“I spoke to Mark Blake,” Junger said, confirming Thomas’s suspicions. “He told me about the Samuelson case.”
Thomas pursed his lips but made no preemptive defense.
“My sense is that Mark overreacted, but you have to understand the pressure he’s been under, leading the effort in the courtroom. Wharton Coal has paid this firm over twenty million dollars in the course of our representation—a huge fee. Jack Barrows, Wharton’s chief, desperately wanted us to keep the jury from seeing that morbid simulation of the blowout. All those computer-generated children running for their lives. The sludge catching up to them. The little markers where the bodies lay, red for boys, blue for girls. It was inflammatory, prejudicial, and predicated on any number of unprovable assumptions. You know the argument. You wrote the brief.”
Thomas nodded.
“The Samuelson case was the linchpin of Mark’s argument. Who can blame him? The judge who wrote the opinion was a friend of Judge Hirschel’s. It had all that beautiful language about the dangers of unscientific evidence designed to exploit the jury’s passions. As you can imagine, Mark was humiliated when Judge Hirschel told him the Third Circuit had overturned the decision. And Jack Barrows was apoplectic. I think Jack overreacted too. My guess is that the judge would have let the plaintiffs show the simulation to the jury anyway. But Barrows blamed Mark for the fact that the simulation came into evidence.”
Junger eyed him closely. “None of this is surprising to you, I imagine.”
Thomas shook his head.
“But there’s more, and this is confidential. After the verdict was handed down, Barrows threatened to sue the firm for malpractice. The threat is still on the table. Only a few people know that at this stage. We’re hopeful the appeal will sort things out.”
Thomas blanched. He had no idea the coal company had taken the issue so far.
“In any event,” Junger went on, “I’m sure your perspective of what happened is different from Mark’s. But none of that matters. Mark has taken a beating, and the client needs to be reassured. There were some who suggested drastic measures, but I intervened. I told them it wasn’t your fault. It was the fault of the firm. We made the mistake together.” Junger held out his hands magnanimously. “And we have to bear the consequences together.”
Junger paused and then changed direction. “Thomas, do you know why I love your father so much?”
“No, sir.”
“He’s brilliant, yes, and he’s loyal and a damn good lawyer and judge. But more than that, he’s relentless. He never stops until his work is perfect. I see that same quality in you. I know how much you’ve devoted to the Wharton case. I admire your tenacity and your skills. But I think it fair to say that your personal circumstances have had an effect on your work product. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Thomas thought no such thing. He had told Mark Blake that the Samuelson case had been appealed. He told him that the Third Circuit was expected to hand down a decision soon. He strongly advised him to share that fact with Judge Hirschel. In the end, Blake humiliated himself because he was too stubborn to listen. But Thomas couldn’t say that. Not to the managing partner. Not with a $900 million verdict and a malpractice suit hanging over their heads.
As much as it galled him, he submitted to Junger’s assessment. “I imagine you’re right.”
Junger nodded. “I don’t fault you for it. But the bottom line is that you need a break. So I’m offering you two options. The first is a vacation. I checked. You have over eight weeks saved up. Go to Bermuda or Bali. Sip mai tais on the beach. Spend time in the bedroom with Priya. Find your compass again.”
Thomas was fuming, but he held his tongue. “And the second option?” he inquired, hoping for a penance he could serve without disappearing from the face of the earth.
Junger smiled. “The second option may suit you better. A parent never gets over the loss of a child. But there are ways to move on with your life. You have to put your mind on something worthwhile.”
Junger paused and folded his hands on his knee. “As you know, every year Clayton gives a pro bono scholarship to one of our associates. An all-expenses-paid trip to any corner of the world. Pro bono associates interface with the United Nations, the European Union, and top-flight NGOs. The selection process for the coming year is over, but the partners have agreed to create an honorary scholarship for you. If you want it, that is.”
Thomas was stunned. He could almost see Priya smirking at him. A year-long sabbatical with a nonprofit? He felt like a leper.
“I appreciate your sincerity, sir,” he said, “but this feels a lot like being sent to Siberia.”
Junger shrugged. “Call it whatever you want. The choice is yours.”
Thomas took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay, let’s say I take your advice and go somewhere for a while. How are you going to spin it in the firm? People will wonder.”
Even as he asked the question, Thomas knew the answer.
“We’ll tell them you took a leave of absence for personal reasons,”
Junger said. “Everyone knows about your daughter.”
Junger’s moves had been perfectly planned. Check and checkmate. “What will happen when I get back?” Thomas asked wearily.
Junger put out his hands. “I will see to it that you are placed on the best assignment the firm has to offer. It won’t be long until no one remembers you were gone.”
Thomas looked out the window and tried to piece together his shattered pride. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”
Junger’s expression didn’t change, but his shoulders relaxed. “That’s all I ask.”
At six o’clock that evening, Thomas left the offices of Clayton|Swift with no intention of returning for a long time. A freezing rain was falling, and the sidewalks were slick with ice. He avoided the clump of associates headed to happy hour at the Hudson Restaurant & Lounge and caught the Metro at McPherson Square. He got off at Foggy Bottom and hailed a cab into Georgetown. The first snowflakes began to fall as he reached his house.
He left his sodden shoes in the foyer and went upstairs to change. He was about to head back down to the kitchen to fix dinner when his BlackBerry chimed, indicating he had a new e-mail. The message was from Andrew Porter, an old law school classmate and a lawyer at the Justice Department.
Porter had written, “Hey, buddy, we still on for tennis tonight? Seven o’clock at EPTC?”
Thomas kicked himself. He’d scheduled the match a month ago. He toyed with the thought of canceling but quickly decided against it. Playing tennis was far more appealing than moping around.
After scarfing down a tuna sandwich and an apple, he locked the house and crossed the sidewalk to his Audi. The drive into East Potomac Park took longer than expected, thanks to the weather. Porter was waiting for him in the locker room. His friend was slightly shorter and stockier than Thomas, but he was a fitness junkie and his body looked like it was sculpted out of marble.
Porter shook his hand and issued a friendly challenge. “You ready to get slaughtered? Wait till you see my new serve.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Thomas replied. “Before you run me over, I have to work out a little rust. How long has it been? Two months?”
“Two months for you. A week for me. Clayton doesn’t let you have a life, buddy.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Thomas changed into his tennis clothes, and then he and Porter took their gear out to the court. The East Potomac Tennis Center was a vast facility with nineteen outdoor courts and five indoor courts enclosed in an inflatable tent affectionately called “the Bubble.” Though it was snowing outside, the temperature inside the Bubble was a comfortable seventy degrees.
They made a few laps around the court to loosen their muscles and then went on to stretch.
“So how are the heirs of Larry Flynt?” Thomas asked.
Porter laughed. “Flynt’s a choirboy compared to the lowlifes I’m dealing with.”
Porter had started his career at the Justice Department prosecuting securities fraud cases. The work, however, had been colorless and mindnumbing, and his superiors had quickly learned that if they wished to keep him around, they needed to give him some real action. So they transferred him to the CEOS—the Child Exploitation and Obscenity Section—and gave him the grisly stuff, the child pornography cases. It was the sort of prosecutorial work that most civilized attorneys wouldn’t touch. Porter, on the other hand, seemed energized by it.
“Game on,” Porter said, retrieving his racket. He walked to the baseline and hit a few warm-up serves before powering a flat serve into the corner of the box.
Thomas whistled appreciatively. “Not bad.” He warmed up with a few serves of his own and then walked to the baseline. “Show me what you’ve got,” he said. Balancing on his feet, racket spinning in his hands, he could almost imagine that his life was normal again.
Almost.
They played two sets under the lights, and Porter managed to win only a handful of games. Thomas could tell that the whipping annoyed him, but Porter’s good nature never faltered. At the end of the match, they met at the net.
“You’re too good,” Porter said, clasping Thomas’s hand. “I’ve never seen you hit the ball so hard. You sure you’re not taking steroids?”
Thomas laughed. “I just needed to get a little aggression out.”
Porter’s face turned serious. “How’s Priya holding up?”
Thomas weighed his options and decided to trust his friend. He gave Porter a summary of his wife’s departure and his conversation with Max Junger.
Porter shook his head. “I’m so sorry to hear about Priya. You guys always seemed to have something special. Any chance you’ll get back together?”
“Not likely,” Thomas replied.
“The Clayton thing makes me sick,” Porter said, changing the subject. “I can’t believe the firm sacked you like that. Wharton deserved that verdict. If anything, it wasn’t tough enough. For them to threaten malpractice is a complete joke.”
“Maybe so, but they’ve funded the salaries of half of the litigation division this year.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Thomas shrugged. “I have no idea. Any advice?”
“If it was me, I’d get the heck out of the District. It’s miserable this time of year. And I’d give thought to the sabbatical. Clayton’s drained you. I can see it in your eyes.”
Porter’s assessment was surgical in its accuracy, and Thomas didn’t have a ready reply. They sheathed their rackets and headed for the locker room.
“Have you ever heard of a group called CASE?” Thomas asked on the way. “I think they have a connection to the Justice Department.”
Porter nodded. “The Coalition Against Sexual Exploitation. They work on trafficking and sexual violence issues in the developing world. The guy who founded the organization was a bigwig at the Civil Rights Division. Why?”
“They were listed on Clayton’s pro bono page.”
Porter raised an eyebrow. “You’re thinking about an internship?”
Thomas shrugged. “Does that surprise you?”
Porter opened the door to the locker room. “Let’s just say the brothels of Cambodia are a long way from K Street.”
Thomas knew his friend was right. A week ago he wouldn’t have given CASE much thought. The trade in human beings was a global tragedy, but like child labor and the AIDS epidemic it was irrelevant to his world. The incident in Fayetteville had changed that. Abby Davis had made it personal.
Thomas took a seat on a bench. “Something happened to me yesterday,” he said by way of explanation. “I witnessed a kidnapping.”
Porter stopped unlacing his shoes and looked up. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
Thomas shook his head. “The girl was eleven years old.”
He gave Porter a summary of the incident and his conversation with the Judge over dinner the night before.
After he finished, Porter was silent for a while. “Your dad may be right about the trafficking angle. It’s anyone’s guess. But I’d say there’s a real chance she’ll be sold.”
“The detective in Fayetteville mentioned that the feds may get involved.” Thomas said.
Porter narrowed his eyes. “It’s possible.”
“Would your office get a piece of that?”
Porter looked uncomfortable. “Maybe. We’ve been working on a number of rings in the Southeast.” He paused. “That’s confidential, by the way.”
Thomas nodded, understanding his friend’s position. “I don’t want any details. Do me a favor, though. If you run across her, let me know.”
Porter nodded. “Sure. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. I don’t see many happy endings in my line of work.”
Thomas left Porter in the tennis center parking lot and drove back to Georgetown. When he pulled up to the curb, he saw that his house was brightly lit. He had left in such a hurry that he’d forgotten to turn off the lights. The snow was falling in larger flakes now. Nearly an inch had accumulated while he was away.
He locked his car and walked up the flagstone steps. He didn’t hear her until she was next to him, her hand on his arm.
“Hey,” Tera said.
He was caught completely off guard. He looked at her for a long moment, gathering his wits. She was wearing black leather boots, a black-and-white checked city coat that reached to her knees, and a crimson scarf. Her ears were adorned with diamond pendants. She was the most fashion-conscious woman he had ever met.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I tried calling, but you were out. I wanted to see you.” She spoke softly, deliberately, her eyes never leaving his. She took his hand. “I’ve missed you.”
Thomas stood stiffly for a moment before defaulting to hospitality. “Why don’t you come in for a drink?”
They entered the foyer and Tera doffed her coat and scarf. Underneath, she wore a red turtleneck sweater, a gray skirt with dark stockings, and a string of large pearls.
She walked into the kitchen and looked around. She had never been inside before.
“I love these old brownstones,” she said. “You did a nice job with the space.”
Thomas went to the wine cabinet and selected a bottle of burgundy. Retrieving the opener from the drawer, he drew out the cork. His motions were mechanical, his heart at war with itself. He couldn’t help but be drawn to her.
He poured two glasses of wine and handed one to her. They took seats in a nook by the living room window and watched the snow fall.
“You seem withdrawn,” she said. “Are you all right?”
He took a sip of the rich, earthy wine, relishing its calming effect. “I suppose.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get assigned to the appeal.”
He debated whether to tell her about Junger, then decided against it. He shrugged.
“The partners do what they want. C’est la vie.”
She looked at him strangely. “Something happened. I can tell.”
Something is an understatement, he thought.
“I’m okay,” he said, preferring a bald-faced lie over the alternative.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
She seemed stymied and sipped at her wine, her earrings sparkling in the lamplight.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“Doing what?”
“Why are you here with me?”
The answer seemed obvious: she had waited for him outside his home. But he sensed that the question had a deeper meaning.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I like your company.”
Her eyes flashed, but he couldn’t tell whether it was melancholy or anger.
“Do you want me to leave?” she asked quietly.
There it was, the question of the hour, a question that had no definitive answer. Yes, he wanted her to leave. No, he didn’t want her to leave. He wanted his life back, but his life wasn’t coming back. He wanted to be free of the haunting he felt in this house. He wanted to feel the warmth of skin on skin, to feel the unity of love transmuted to passion. But the face in his dream wasn’t Tera’s. It was Priya’s, as she was before. The girl who had stolen his heart in the lecture hall at Cambridge while her father, the Professor, talked about quantum physics. The woman who had conceived and borne his child.
Tera put down her glass on a side table and moved toward him. She sat down in his lap, her face inches from his.
“I don’t want to leave,” she whispered.
She kissed him then and he didn’t resist. He forgot about Junger’s ultimatum. He forgot about the ghosts of his wife and child. His mind went blank, his heart tranquilized by desire and despair. Only his body was left to act.
But for the moment, his body was enough.
He lay in darkness, Tera asleep beside him. Above them, the ceiling fan swung in lazy arcs, barely stirring the air. He remembered accidentally bumping the switch when Tera had pushed him into the room. He remembered the rest, all of it, with extraordinary vividness, but he couldn’t think about it. His conscience had returned, calling him names he deserved.
He slipped out from the under the covers, threw on a sweatshirt and flannel pants, and went downstairs. The lights were still on in the kitchen and living room. He turned them off one by one. The only illumination came from a streetlamp that cast a pale glow on the polished wood floor. The snow had stopped, but the ground was white, and he guessed that three inches had fallen. He glanced at his watch. The luminescent hands showed that it was after midnight.
He stood perfectly still, listening to the street sounds. Then he went to the door to the basement and descended the steps. He knew where the box was. He had hidden it himself after she left. He returned to the living room and took a seat in the chair by the window. He could still smell Tera’s perfume in the air. He set the box on his knees and lifted the lid. The photographs were in disarray. His objective had been to erase the memories, not curate them.
The first photograph showed Priya in her wedding gown. She was in a garden beside a bench surrounded with flowers. There was an ease in the way she stood, a comfort in her own skin that he had always found appealing. Her eyes were brown, her olive skin a contrast with the white of her dress. She was smiling at something in the distance. Children had been playing on the lawn nearby, he recalled. She had always adored children.
They had married at River Farm, a sprawling estate on the Potomac south of Alexandria. The ceremony had been the sort of cross-cultural spectacle that had satisfied no one except the bride and groom. After the traditional Christian rites, they had completed their vows with the saptapadi, or Seven Steps, around a ceremonial flame. Priya had recited the blessings in Hindi and given herself over to her new life. She had married Thomas over her father’s objections. He wondered now whether the decision had cursed them in some way.
He set the photograph aside and picked up the next one in the box. The grief returned as if it had never left. The photograph showed Priya holding a three-month-old Mohini at Rock Creek Park. The little girl and her mother were smiling at one another. It had been their favorite picture of the baby. Her soft skin, blotchy for the first two months, had cleared. Her chocolate-brown eyes were open and she was effervescent with life.
The tears began to flow, but he didn’t wipe them away. He thought again of that dreadful morning in September when they had found her. He remembered the shrillness of Priya’s scream, remembered running up the stairs and wrestling Mohini from her grasp. He remembered the clammy chill of the baby’s face and the intensity of his fear when she didn’t respond to CPR. He could still hear the wail of the ambulance pulling up to the curb; he could still smell the antiseptic odor of the emergency room; he could still feel his anger at the sterile efficiency of the doctors as they poked and prodded Mohini’s tiny body, searching for the explanation they would never find. The coroner’s report had called it SIDS—Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Mohini had died while they were asleep. Cause unknown.
The resident physician had allowed them to spend fifteen minutes with their baby before sending her to the morgue. Alone in a bare room, Priya took the little girl into her arms and chanted to her in Hindi. Listening to his wife whisper-singing over their daughter’s body only heightened Thomas’s sense of loss. Eventually, Priya laid Mohini down on a white sheet and kissed her a final time. She turned away and did not look back.
Thomas closed the box of photographs. After a while, he climbed the stairs and opened the door to Mohini’s room. The crib stood empty along the wall, the brightly colored mobile keeping watch over it in silence. Everything was as it had been when they put her down to sleep the evening before she died.
He walked over to the crib and rubbed the wooden railing with his fingers. He had built it himself. It wasn’t money he had wanted to save, but Priya’s opinion of him. He wanted to prove that he could do it—more, that he wanted to do it, that his long hours at the office didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in the baby. He remembered her smile when he had finished. They had made love that night for the first time in many weeks. Her swollen belly got in the way, but they managed. The release had been cleansing, an act of liberation. How different it was with Tera. Every time he touched her, he felt the noose tighten around his neck.
He knelt down before the crib and placed his forehead on the slats. In this posture of supplication, he sang the chorus from “You Are My Sunshine” as he had for Mohini every night of her life. He realized as he sang that the song was actually a prayer, a prayer to the God of children, a prayer for safety and peace. In Mohini’s case, the prayer had gone unanswered. Tears came to his eyes again, and he whispered the words he never ceased to feel.
“I’m sorry, sweet girl. I’m sorry I didn’t come for you. I didn’t know.”
He left Mohini’s room and entered his office. He powered up his laptop and opened his Web browser. He thought about Junger’s two options. He ran a Google search for a Bahamian island he had read about in a magazine. The photos were inspiring. Beaches lined with palms, iridescent water lapping at white sand. He imagined himself with a piña colada, watching the sun set. Then he tried to imagine the rest. He would be alone. He couldn’t spend all day reading. He would quickly tire of the resort life. As much as he hated to admit it, Junger was right. A vacation would be a black hole. He needed a reason to get out of bed in the morning.
He closed the window and saw that he had two new e-mail messages. The first message was from his mother. She had sent it a few hours before. The subject header was blank, but that wasn’t surprising. Elena had never quite figured out her computer.
She had written:
Thomas, I had a thought today that you can take or leave. You said that Priya is not coming back, but you didn’t mention divorce. If that was an oversight, then ignore this. If not, then consider: What if you followed her to India? What if you gave your marriage one last chance? I know it sounds crazy. She might reject you. You might come home a failure. But at least then you would have the closure I didn’t hear in your voice. There is always time to build a career. Love is a much rarer thing. Your father probably wouldn’t agree with me, but it doesn’t matter. It was good to see you yesterday.
Thomas was astonished. The idea of following Priya had never occurred to him, and now that it did, he saw in it only potential for disaster. True, Priya hadn’t mentioned divorce, but her exit had been so premeditated, so cold and devoid of feeling, that he had never questioned her intent. Indeed, it was that very sense of finality that had driven him into Tera’s arms. And therein lay another problem. Even if by some chance Priya had meant to leave the door open to reconciliation, there was no way to undo what he had done since her departure. He had been unfaithful. Tera was asleep in their bed. His broken vows were an indictment against him.
He closed his mother’s message and opened the next one. It was from Andrew Porter.
Hey buddy, I gotta say I’m still smarting from being so thrashed by you, but I deserve it. I always know I’m going to lose, but I keep coming back anyway. Listen, I hope you don’t mind, but I called a friend of mine at CASE (she’s the deputy director of operations), and I asked her whether they had any openings for legal interns right now. You’ll never guess what she said. A slot just opened up in their Bombay office. Crazy, huh? Don’t know if you’d be interested, what with Priya being there, but I thought I’d pass it along. Let me know if you want to explore this.
Thomas sat back in his chair and stared out the window at the night sky, aglow with light pollution. Bombay! The idea was absurd. Clayton’s pro bono program was as wide as the world. Europe, South America, China, Africa—his options were unlimited. And even if he wanted to work with CASE, the organization had offices in fourteen countries. He might have to wait, but something would open up. Bombay! It was the last place on earth he should search for peace.
He left the laptop open and wandered through the house. He scoured the refrigerator for nothing in particular; he reorganized the wine rack by region; he watched a few minutes of a John Wayne rerun on television. After a while, he collapsed in the chair by the window and picked up the box of memories again.
He sifted through the photographs, finding the one he was looking for near the bottom. He had trimmed it to fit in his wallet. The photograph showed Priya at the entrance to Fellows Garden. They had met there many times during his summer at Cambridge, always in secret, away from her father. Priya smiled back at him across the years, her eyes sparkling with mischief and delight. Love had surprised them both. It had been such a weighty thing. Was there actually a chance that they could find it again?
Sometime during the wee hours of the morning, Thomas finally conceded. He stopped his pacing and walked slowly toward the stairs, compelled by a purpose he couldn’t begin to understand. He returned to the computer and sent two e-mails.
To Porter he wrote, “Set up a meeting. I’m free any time.”
And to Max Junger: “I’ve decided to take your advice. I’m thinking about going to India to work with CASE. I hope Mark Blake and Wharton are satisfied.”
He entered the bedroom and looked at Tera asleep on Priya’s side of the bed. Her back was to him, and her hair had fallen over her face. This was the last time, he decided. It wasn’t her fault. She had been kind to him. But the charade had gone on long enough. He would tell her in the morning. She would be angry, but she would survive. He, on the other hand, was ready to commit himself. India? The fight against modern slavery? Facing his wife again?
How in the world was he going to explain this to his father?