‘Do you handle debt collection cases?’ she asked.
She hadn’t made an appointment. She just walked off the street into my office. If she had come before the Week, when the office had a real bustle about it, she would have had to come back when I had time to see her. But this was about eight months after I reopened, and although I had some work, the bustle was missing. When I closed the office, I’d had to hand over my cases to other lawyers, and many clients had not returned.
She was two or three inches taller than me, a little over six feet, her hair and eyes dark brown. She was smartly, professionally dressed in a light grey suit with a white neck scarf, and grey heels, not too high, her make-up classy and restrained. She was pulling a large, flexible brown leather briefcase on wheels. Today, I would recognise her on sight as a van Eyck. It’s the nose. There’s no mistaking it. The van Eyck nose is high at the top, with a pronounced bony drop to the lower part, which descends slightly off-centre, to the right, as an observer sees it. I have seen that nose countless times since, on the faces of family members, and in their portraits, and in the photographs in their homes and on the faded pages of old newspapers. I would recognise it anywhere. But at the time, it barely registered. I was too busy taking in her clothes, and wishing guiltily that I had paid more attention to mine.
Before the Week I would have been dressed very much as she was, dressed as a lawyer in a dark suit and starched white shirt. Every law professor and mentor I ever had insisted that success as a woman practicing law depended on it – and by the way, did I understand that the harshest critics of my sartorial standards would be, not men, but other women? But since the reopening, none of that seemed to matter to me. I did apply some basic make-up, and my clothes were well cared for, but they were clothes I felt comfortable in – coloured blouses and beige slacks, and there was still enough of India in me to prefer bare feet indoors, as we always had at home and at Arya’s house. The shoes I’d abandoned near the door of my office were casual with almost no heel, not the court shoes I hated but had once felt obliged to wear. As I stood to walk around my desk to greet her, I realised that they were out of reach. If she noticed, she didn’t seem to mind. She smiled.
‘I am Samantha van Eyck, the actress,’ she said. ‘Please call me Sam. Everyone does.’
We shook hands.
‘I’m Kiah Harmon.’
‘Kiah. That’s a pretty name.’
‘Thank you. It’s Indian.’
I waved her into a chair. She sat down and wheeled the briefcase into place beside her chair.
‘So, you’re an actress?’ Arlene had shown Sam in without giving me any clue about what she wanted. Apparently, Arlene had decided not to give me the option of turning Sam away without even knowing why she needed help, or putting her off to another day, which had become my post-Week default setting when faced with a new client.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sure I should recognise your name, but I haven’t been out much lately. I can’t remember when I last went to the theatre.’
It had been about eighteen months before, with Jordan.
She laughed. ‘There’s no reason at all why you should know my name. I’m a repertory actress. I’ve worked in the DC area, and out as far as Georgia and North Carolina, for the last five years since I graduated college, and that’s about it so far. Multiple nominee for best actress in a role nobody notices very much. A steady diet of Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams, and one movie.’
‘Oh? Is it one I would have seen?’
‘I hope not.’
We laughed together.
‘In case you were wondering,’ she said, ‘I got your name from my cousin, Shelley Kinch. You handled a case for her, about two years ago, and she recommended you very highly.’
That was another effect the Week had. I had almost no memory for cases I had done before. Even my clients’ names seemed unfamiliar. Mercifully, this one rang a distant bell.
‘She worked for a private school in Bethesda teaching modern languages,’ Sam added.
It came back to me. Thank god (even though I don’t believe in him, or her, or them).
‘Sure, I remember. They discriminated against her; they wanted to pay her far less than the men doing the same job. They settled out of court.’
‘That’s it. The money you got her helped her start her own school. She’s doing great now, and she says you were so caring; you supported her emotionally as well as being her lawyer. You made a real difference for her.’
Did I? I was glad to hear that. Every boost to my confidence, however small, was welcome then, but the reference to emotional support surprised me. Had I been capable of that once? I wasn’t sure it was still in my repertoire now.
‘So, Sam, what can I do for you?’
Which was when she asked: ‘Do you handle debt collection cases?’
I said I did.