When Julia finally got back from court herself – after ducking through the judge’s garage in the basement again – there were three new cases on her desk, a dozen phone messages on her voicemail and thirty-two emails in her in-box. She might be a prosecutor in the murder trial of the century, but in the pits of the State Attorney’s Office that didn’t mean shit. The Chief Felony Assistants who handed out the new cases didn’t care she already had 102 of them, and, of course, her DC didn’t want to know how she prepped her calendar, as long as it was prepped. She was probably praying nowadays that Julia would slip up.
She felt so overloaded, so out of touch with everything, with everyone. So alone. This double life that she’d been leading was catching up to her, no doubt. The pressure was all around her, pushing her from every direction and no matter how hard she tried to get it all done, no matter how much she withdrew, she couldn’t seem to distance herself from it. And that was what worried her so much.
Rick. Karyn. Charley Rifkin. Even the State Attorney himself. There was no one to trust anymore in the office. Even her detractors wore smiles and handed out praise. And there was Nora and Jimmy. God, how she missed them sometimes. She missed having a family, even if it was a mess. But she, like Andrew, was an outcast now. A misfit. A Charley in the Box. She picked up the phone and dialed their number, but got the answering machine instead, like she always seemed to. She hung up without leaving a message and looked at her watch. It was too late to call Andrew, and even if she could speak with him, what could she really say? She was in this by herself.
She put her head in her hands and rubbed her temples. This case. The sneaky press releases, the details no one told her – the details she should have known. The political motives. The underhandedness of it all. She had heard every sleazy lawyer joke in the book while she was in law school, but they were never about prosecutors. That was what had taken her by surprise the most. Maybe she should have seen Rick and Karyn coming. Or Rick and any other female in the office for that matter. Maybe that was her mistake. But she never would have thought he would manipulate a case for his own political benefit. She always thought he was better than that.
It must be like this for other prosecutors who have tried high-profile cases, she told herself. Launched out of obscurity, everyone was watching your every move now, critiquing your every sentence, every hairdo, every outfit. You’re constantly in the spotlight and yet you never asked to be a celebrity. The pressure-cooker feeling was to be expected. She just had to get a grip, and leave it at that. It would all be over soon enough, anyway.
It was almost eight o’clock already. Once again, she was sure the building was empty except for her. She checked out the window for signs of either Karyn or Rick’s car in the empty parking lot as she quickly packed up her briefcase and file box, because that was the last thing she needed – catching an elevator down with the two of them.
Her eyes caught on the Dade County Jail. While South Beach just got the party started when nighttime descended, this part of the city definitely emptied at the stroke of five. Especially on a Friday. Law firms, medical offices, the courthouse, commercial high-rise offices, the PD’s, the Graham Building – all lifeless till Monday morning at eight. That’s when you wouldn’t be able to find a parking spot if your appointment depended on it. All except for DCJ. Like a Motel 6, the warden always left the lights on for you there. She stared for a long moment at the ninth floor. The Crazy Floor. If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear their shrieks …
The screamers.
The phone rang at her desk, pulling her out of her thoughts and making her jump. Out of habit she answered it, although as soon as she did she instantly regretted it, realizing that it was probably a reporter trying to hunt down a quote for tomorrow’s headlines.
‘State Attorney’s. Valenciano,’ she said, slinging her purse over her arm and pulling out her car keys.
There was silence.
‘Hello? Can I help you?’ she asked again, impatiently.
‘Julia Valenciano?’
It was a male voice. Deep and scratchy, but yet muffled. There was something very familiar about it. Julia tried to place where she’d heard it before. Maybe it was that reporter from the Post who’d called yesterday.
‘Yes?’ she asked.
‘Julia Cirto Valenciano?’ he repeated. ‘The prosecutor?’
‘Yes? This is she.’ A strange, uncomfortable feeling washed over her then as she listened to his labored breathing. In and out. In and out. Maybe he had asthma, but just his breathing was creeping her out. ‘Can I help you with something, sir? I don’t mean to be short, but it’s late and I—’
‘It wasn’t him,’ whispered the voice. ‘Are you listening now, Ms Prosecutor? Do I have your attention? He didn’t do it.’
Then he laughed and the line went dead.