“If you hear nothing else I say today, Casey, hear this. Your life is going to fundamentally change. I know that you like to chase newspaper headlines, but a baby will be your main story. Got it?”
When I didn’t move or respond, Dr. Fowler closed her eyes as if gathering strength, opened them, then asked, “Do you have any questions?”
Somehow I’d blinked and my life had become an episode of Maury Povich. If I hadn’t been pregnant, I’d have gotten off the exam table and thrown a chair.
Questions?
I had so many damned questions. The most important of which the good doctor wouldn’t be able to answer. I hesitated a moment longer. Maybe she could?
I wondered if it was possible to spare myself an appearance on the confessional stage. What did I know about the state of modern scientific progress?
“How…”
How? How could I push past my shame to ask how to find out what I wanted to know? I came to a realization that answered my own question.
Alexis Fowler was my primary care physician. Our conversation was covered by the same kind of privilege I had with my clients. The sacrosanct kind that meant she had to keep all my secrets. Despite that rationalization, my stomach still went slightly queasy at the idea of admitting the mistake I’d made—sleeping with two different men back-to-back without any contraceptive barrier between any of us. I didn’t fear the telling as much as I feared the humiliation the question would bring.
Awash with mortification that was heating my face, I sucked in air and tried to slow the beating of my heart. No good Catholic woman past thirty should be in my predicament. At least that’s what my parents would have said if I had the guts to tell them. That revelatory conversation was a can I was kicking all the way down the road to the next county.
“I’ve heard it all, Casey,” she soothed. “We share the same duty of confidentiality,” she said as if reading my mind. “You understand that more than most.”
Though she was ten years older, Fowler’s face was unlined. It held such compassion that I relaxed my vigilance. I was done protecting my shame like it was a small animal in need of shelter. I plowed ahead before I lost my nerve.
“Is there any way I can find out who my baby’s father is before he or she is born?”
I waited a beat, ready to be scolded for successively having unprotected sex with not one but two men. It didn’t come. Her tone, when she spoke, was matter-of-fact. Gasping and pearl clutching weren’t hallmarks of a good bedside manner.
“Depends. When you check out with reception, you’ll get my list of OB-GYN referrals. In about two or three weeks…” Fowler’s wiggling hand indicated the vagaries of human fetal development. “…maybe four, you can schedule your first ultrasound. When they get in there, the radiologist will be able to measure the fetus. From there, the date of conception and the due date will be a lot clearer. Does that help?”
I wondered if my face was more tomato red or beet red. Either way, I imagined this is how my mother felt when a sudden hot flash came upon her. Humiliation wasn’t menopause. I took another deep breath and spoke the truth while shaking my head.
“It was two days apart. Friday and Sunday.”
To Dr. Fowler’s credit, she didn’t even blink. Instead she shifted my paper file from the crook of one arm to the other.
“That narrows things, of course. The other option to get an answer before birth is far more invasive, unfortunately. The OB can insert a needle to either extract amniotic fluid or blood from the placenta, then compare that to the fathers’ DNA.”
“The fathers?”
“It’s just a cheek swab, so not invasive for them.”
“But I’d have to tell them.”
Dr. Fowler rewarded me with a tiny smirk.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re aware that medical exams without consent are illegal.”
I wanted to tell her to preach that one to arresting officers in emergency rooms or to jail doctors, but decided a criminal defense attorney soapbox rant wasn’t appropriate right about now. Instead I tucked that little conundrum—of how to get Justin’s or Ron’s cheek cells—away for later consideration. I’d only need it from one of them, which in a way made the idea of asking easier.
“My due date again?” It was a question that Dr. Alexis Fowler could answer. One that I’d have to factor into not only my court calendar, but…my life.
“Probably April. But that will be confirmed at your first ultrasound appointment. You don’t need a referral. We’ll call in some prenatal vitamins as well. Do you have a preferred pharmacy?”
Obstetrician? Gynecologist? Pharmacy? The first time I’d been here, it had taken me three tries to even find my doctor’s office on a block of quintuplet medical office buildings, none of which seemed to have any visible address numbers.
“Can I just have a paper prescription? I’ll figure that part out later.”
“Casey, I know that you’re a busy lawyer, but babies are not like moles. You can’t just wait until later to figure all this out. You have to do it now. Maybe the father part you can put off…maybe even indefinitely, but the baby-growing-inside-you part? No.”
I wondered if I’d been too honest earlier. It had been two and a half weeks between the pee-on-a-stick test and finally coming in to have a doctor confirm it with…another pee-on-a-stick test. Dr. Fowler had been quick to tell me that blood draws were a thing of the past.
“I…uh…”
“Oh gosh, I’m…I need to backtrack.” That came out in an embarrassed rush from Dr. Fowler. “I just assumed you’d keep the baby. But you have down on your forms that you’re single, and earlier you said… Do you need a different kind of referral? One for termination?”
My heart sped up again, but for an entirely different reason.
“No, no. I’m going to keep the baby,” rushed from my mouth. Not for a single moment in the last seventeen days had I thought of an abortion, not that I had a religious or moral objection. But first I’d had to mourn the idea that anything in my life was going to happen the traditional way. “I’ve always wanted a family. Not in this order, but I’m going to take it as a blessing, nevertheless.”
Dr. Fowler’s shoulders came down from around her ears.
“Well then, my first recommendation stands. You’ll need to get in to see an obstetrician sooner rather than later.”
My phone rang, giving me a jolt of adrenaline I didn’t need. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it in my hand the entire time. I’d hated that habit in Miles, my ex-fiancé. I made a mental note after months with him to not become “that” person who needs a doctor’s scalpel to surgically extract their phone.
I silenced it with a single button push. From my glance up at Dr. Fowler, it didn’t seem like a good time to joke about surgical removal. Kept that to myself. But I could feel myself relax into the humor with a smile.
“I’ll do it today. Thanks,” I promised, already distracted by the real world crowding in on me.
My doctor was out the door before I could get out a proper goodbye. I was about to stand up when my forgotten phone chirped again. This time I didn’t silence it but looked to see who could be calling me. The number was local, but wholly unfamiliar. That was my life though. Strange people calling me—soon to become clients—a person whose secrets I would know and keep.
“Casey Cort,” I answered after I accepted the call.
“Peyton Bennett.”
The name sounded both familiar and not. In case it was a client who was going to soon put cold hard cash in my hands, I made my voice as helpful and solicitous as possible.
“How can I help you, Mr. Bennett?”
“I’m a partner at Bennett Friehof and Baker. You may have heard of us?”
May have heard of them? That’s like asking if I’d heard of the Cleveland Browns. Of course, I’d heard of Bennett Friehof and Baker. It was one of the firms that had turned me down for a job when I was desperate for gainful employment. I put a hand to my chest. The usual constriction wasn’t there. Ten years and I was just beginning to shake the bitterness.
Bennett…I wanted to ask him if he was a founding partner. He couldn’t be, of course, he’d have to be like a hundred years old. I patted the paper gown down around my legs, as if he could see me through the little gadget, then, realizing I’d been quiet far too long, spoke.
“Yes, of course,” I acknowledged. “Again, how can I help?”
“I have a proposition for you.”
That was a phrase that could go either way. I’d either get a referral for some kind of pedophile serial killer I would be loath to represent. Or maybe it was an opportunity to get on another million-dollar case. I held on tight to the phone. People did win the lottery twice. I’d read about one such person in a magazine right here in this selfsame doctor’s waiting room years ago.
“A proposition?” I mimicked.
“Can you meet me in my office in an hour?”
I looked around the room I was in. Thought about getting dressed, retrieving my car, sticking something bland down my throat so I didn’t throw up what was still in my belly from this morning.
“I’m just ending a meeting on the east side. Maybe two hours. Would…” I glanced at my trusty Timex. The watch had seen me through everything and it kept on ticking. I laughed at my own joke. Justin would have liked that one. At the twinge in my belly at that thought of that man, I shook my head. “Would one o’clock work?”
“I’ll have a visitor pass ready for you. I’m on the twenty-third floor. Reception will show you in.” Like any important person, he ended the call when he was done. Not a lot of pleasantries with those kinds of people, law firm partners that was.
My mind whirred while I disposed of the paper gown, put on my clothes, and got down to my car. What could Bennett want? Was it another job offer? For someone who’d been a pariah for so long, I was suddenly very, very popular. A formal written, open-ended offer had come from Morrell Gates in the spirit of “if you can’t beat them, join them.” Miriam Shively hadn’t been blowing smoke up my ass after all.
One tuna hoagie, a quick trip home to drop off my car and pick up some seltzer, and two hours later on the dot, I was in reception at Bennett. I had to wonder if there was some giant cloning machine that stamped out law firms. The wood, and brass, and glass were cookie-cutter.
I could have been at Morrell accepting that job offer or at Lulu’s reception at Dalton Lacey which was in this same building, albeit five floors up. It was only the polished brass law firm name affixed to the wall that distinguished this one from the others.
“I’m here to meet Peyton Bennett.” That was for the two women in reception, neither of whom made eye contact when I’d gotten off the elevator.
A very dapper man with gray hair, but young eyes, came toward me. He took my two hands in his in a very paternalistic handshake.
“I’m Peyton Bennett. You must be Casey Cort. So good to meet you. I’ve heard some great things about you.”
From whom? I wanted to ask. For a very long decade, my name had been mud in Cleveland legal circles.
“Yes, I’m Casey,” I said while extracting my hands and swinging my messenger bag around to my front. In one practiced motion, I pushed at the tuck lock clasp, lifted the thick leather, and felt around until I’d found my business cards. I gave one to Bennett. “Nice to meet you.”
He took the card into his smooth palm.
“Come on back to my office so we can talk.” He only moved once I started down the hall in the direction he’d pointed. In front of a large corner office, the size of my living room and dining room combined, he paused. “You want coffee? Tea?”
“Can I actually have seltzer? I…my stomach…”
“Coming right up,” he said, while nodding at a curly-haired woman in a little cubicle in front of a large office that the smaller brass name plate affixed to the dark wood door told me was his. “Have a seat. Bonnie will be right in with that drink. In the meantime, tell me a little bit about yourself. What kinds of cases do you handle when you’re not in the Plain Dealer?”
“I don’t quite know how to answer that.”
I thanked Bonnie when a glass, coaster, and small square napkin appeared in front of me. I took a long sip, held in the burp that was threatening to escape, and spoke again to Bennett. “Not to be rude or anything, but this whole thing”—I waved my hand about indicating me, him, his office, the water service—“feels a little odd.” It was a weird fishing expedition and—second winning lottery ticket or not—I was not taking the bait.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He held his hands wide. His blue eyes were full of warmth. I didn’t get a single antagonistic vibe from him. I wondered if that was his litigation superpower.
Some attorneys yelled.
Others were great storytellers.
Maybe Bennett’s was extreme empathetic disarmament.
“This is awkward,” he admitted. “I don’t know exactly where to start.”
However his superpower could be described, it worked. I wanted to lean in and try to help him solve whatever puzzle was perplexing him.
“How about at the beginning?” I offered.
Bennett’s nod was stiff, formal, acquiescing.
“Have you ever heard of Fernsby?”
I shook my head. Law firms, I knew. Random names, not so much.
“It’s one of the world’s leading architecture firms. They’re headquartered in New York and London. They opened a Cleveland outpost when all the construction sprang up with the new hall of fame, stadium builds, and Gateway renovations. Now they’re handling a number of these historical downtown, near east, and west side conversions.”
I nodded and sipped at the carbonated water. Cleveland had been a hot bed of construction despite its shrinking population. The first domino was the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, then it was a completely modern update to Jacob’s Field, making it into a camera-ready baseball field. Gateway for the Cavs came next, and the Browns stadium right after.
Now buildings just outside downtown to the east and west across the river were being converted into mixed-use type housing that had long graced New York, Philadelphia, and Chicago. I didn’t know who was going to live in them or who could afford to live in them. But maybe it was like Field of Dreams, “Build it and they will come.” I waited for Bennett to continue. Silence was my superpower.
“Our firm has represented them as a corporate and occasional litigation client since they came to town. It’s run by a man by the name of Kendrick Walker, he’s a Fernsby partner and chief architect. Is any of that familiar?”
I shook my head again and drained the glass. My stomach had settled down since my bout of late-morning nausea. But now I had to pee like a racehorse. I wanted to motion for him to move it along, but I could tell he was savoring the telling. Juries loved a good storyteller. I shifted so there was less pressure on my bladder and waited.
“Walker was murdered two Sundays ago in his home in Shaker Heights.”
“Murdered?” My mind spun. And I thought that first conversation with my doctor was going to be the oddest of the day. This was quickly kicking my little paternity problem to the curb. After I let out a long breath, I said, “I think I saw something in the Plain Dealer.”
Murders of the poor didn’t merit much soy ink, but anyone with money, political influence, or social status got top billing in the city’s largest paper.
“The Cuyahoga County prosecutor’s office has already indicted a suspect for the crime.”
I let that sink in. Justice was rarely swift, so there must be more to this than a garden variety murder. Not that homicide was ever ordinary. Or maybe it was too ordinary. I was going to unknot that philosophical conundrum on a day when I wasn’t vaguely nauseous, didn’t have to pee, and wasn’t trying to listen to a law firm partner pontificate. His kind were never fast speaking nor got to the point right away.
“Who?” I asked although I had no idea why I was suddenly front and center to some random murder in our fair city.
“His wife, Juliana Clarke.”
“Oh. Okay.” I shifted in my seat again, half because I was truly interested in getting to the punch line—the reason I’d been summoned—and half because I really did have to pee.
“She called me, yesterday. Mrs. Clarke has asked me to represent her.”
“In a murder case? Where she’s facing a possible life sentence?” I didn’t mean my tone to sound as incredulous as it had come out. But there were two types of lawyers. Those who sat up in these brass-fronted ivory towers not getting their hands dirty.
Then there were criminal defense lawyers. The kind who kept the popular lawyer bar, the Tipsy Jurist, in business. Unless my people skills had taken a powder, Peyton Bennett—from the bespoke wool suit that sat on his frame like royal robes, to his manicured nails—was not, and probably never had been, from the second group.
“For the last ten years, I’ve been heading up the firm’s pro bono practice,” Bennett said. I flashed on Ron for a second. He’d headed up Dalton Lacey’s pro bono group for a few years before he’d made junior partner. Maybe that’s where I’d heard Bennett’s name.
My head tilt silently broadcast my next question.
“It’s my way of giving back,” Bennett answered. “I know that many law firms aren’t the most egalitarian. Since I can’t really lose my job here, I’ve spearheaded both our diversity committee and have taken on some of the more challenging criminal cases judges assign.”
“You’re on the assignment list?” I’d once been on that list myself. But the pay-to-play aspect—having to make donations to the judges assigning cases—had been unworkable on my shoestring budget. Now that my fortunes were about to change, that was yet another thing I’d have to revisit. The fact that it took money to make money wasn’t only true in finance.
Bennett nodded. “We have greater resources than many solo practitioners can offer.” His blue eyes widened for a moment at his faux pas. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I responded almost automatically. I was evolved enough that I no longer took offense at the truth. “But if this woman was the wife of a—by the sound of it—successful architect and lived in the Heights, I’m not reading destitute.”
The whole idea of pro bono was that attorneys should represent the poorest for free. A kind of Robin Hood type scheme for the legal profession and its poverty-stricken beneficiaries.
“She’s not, exactly. She and the victim were in the middle or maybe even at the end of their divorce process. She’s an acquaintance and doesn’t have the cash on hand to bankroll a murder defense.”
“While all of this is kind of interesting, I have to ask. Why am I here?”
“I want you to be my co-counsel.”
He could have knocked me over with either a feather or an anvil—the cartoon variety of course. My biggest worry this morning had been whether I was really, really, really pregnant and what that meant for my life. For my complicated relationship with Justin. For my budding relationship with Ron. For my life eight…make that seven months from now. A murder trial had not been on my radar. For there would absolutely be a trial. Only fools and poor people took a plea.
“Me? I’ve never tried a murder case in my life. Ever. I mean, this Juliana Clarke has a big problem in her life. I’m not sure she’d be happy to add my inexperience to it.”
“She trusts me. My judgment. Don’t undersell yourself. I want you on the case.”
“Why? I mean, look. I think I’m a pretty good lawyer. It’s taken me ten years to come to terms with that. I know my way around a courtroom. I’m even mostly good at client management which turns out to be no more than managing expectations—managing down expectations. But murder?” I plumbed the depths of my memory from studying criminal law for the bar exam. “The possible sentence is fifteen to life, right? That’s a long time.”
“She’s not guilty.”
“Aren’t they all.” I tried not to roll my eyes. I could count on exactly zero fingers the number of clients who’d come into my office proclaiming guilt.
“Seriously.” His face and voice were equally sober. He was on board the innocence train. I wanted to tell him that train almost always derailed. “She’s not, and even if she were, there are extenuating circumstances.”
I had two pressing questions. I chose one.
“Why me?”
“I’ve been following your career since your representation of Sheila Harrison Grant.”
Even with my newfound confidence, I could feel my face warm. That case had been an exercise in snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. I’d nearly won on appeal, only to have the panel of judges dismiss my winning case because my client, a judge, mind you, hadn’t had any trust in the justice system and had fled the jurisdiction before her daughter’s case could successfully wind its way through the courts.
“That was a long time ago,” I said.
“You were on that Baldwin case. The Container case. You got that guy off not once, but twice. And now the papers are reporting that you took on Strohmeyer and reached a class action settlement worth millions. All of that says that you’re a force to be reckoned with.”
Despite my full bladder, I had to agree that it all sounded really good coming out that way. His retelling left out meals of ramen noodles, paying my secretary when I didn’t have the funds to pay myself, and the many months when lint was all I had in my wallet.
I stood abruptly. “I need to use the restroom.” If I was all that and a bag of chips, he could very well give me five minutes.
When I was back, I drank the refilled glass of water that had left condensation rings on the coaster, wiped my lips with the little cocktail napkin. Which of course wasn’t what that was for. Somewhere Miss Manners was rolling over in her grave.
This time when I adjusted myself, it wasn’t to relieve pressure on my bladder, but to make myself more comfortable because I thought the second big question was going to require a much longer answer.
“The extenuating circumstances?”
“She was the victim of domestic violence.” I’m not sure why the term gave me a jolt, but it did. I was glad I’d emptied my bladder.
“In her marriage? Didn’t you say that she was divorcing? Were they still in the marital home together?”
“No, she’d moved out. Bought a condo in Shaker Square.”
I shivered for a second. She lived in my neighborhood. Probably less than a quarter mile from my own front door. In many ways, the world of many of my clients—criminal defendants—seemed so far from my own. Already this was feeling a little close for comfort.
“Where was the husband murdered?”
“In their former marital home. The one in Cleveland Heights.”
“Why was she there?”
“Do all these questions mean that you’ll consider my offer?”
Probably not, I thought. My curiosity had gotten the better of me. Back to reality.
“While you’re the son or grandson or whatever of the name partner—”
“Son. My dad retired years ago, so I’m the only Bennett here now.”
“As I was saying…son of the name partner and can work for free and still pay your mortgage in your house in Bay Village or Orange—”
“Moreland Hills. You were close.” His smile was unrepentant. “I like how you can read people.”
“Moreland Hills, then. I can’t afford to work for free. My two landlords as well as the folks to whom I owe thousands for student loans aren’t interested in anyone’s egalitarianism. They deal in cold, hard, cash. So while I appreciate the offer—”
My feet hit the floor, I was ready to push myself back from my side of his desk, pack up to go and work for clients who paid.
“I didn’t say you’d work for free.”
By their own volition, my heels dug into the carpet beneath my feet. Maybe I wasn’t ready to go quite yet.
“You want to hire me for a case you’re taking pro bono?”
“I said that Juliana Clarke couldn’t pay. I didn’t say she was broke. If you co-counsel on this case with me, the firm will pay you a flat fee of twenty-five thousand dollars as an independent contractor.”
Ten years ago, a twenty-five-hundred-dollar retainer from the aforementioned Sheila Harrison Grant had been cause for me to do a happy dance. A decade later, ten times more and I was as cool as a cucumber.
Silence took over the office.
The only sound was that of a mantle clock ticking on Bennett’s mahogany-stained credenza. I couldn’t have said if it was the money or the mystery, but he’d hooked me. The new me. The Casey that was no longer living small wanted to grab at any great opportunity with both hands. It had already worked once this year. If I wanted the streak to continue, I couldn’t shy away from a challenge now.
“I’m intrigued,” I admitted. “I daresay I’m interested.”
“Good. Good.” Bennett steepled his fingers, ready for my conditions. I may have been good, but he was probably better.
“Before I commit, there are two things. First, I need to know what the missing element is. And there’s something I’d need to disclose, because it may change your mind.”
“As I said, Juliana is claiming complete innocence. If, however, that doesn’t turn out to be quite true, then I want to put forward an affirmative defense.”
Bennett was likely suggesting self-defense. It was something that Juliana Clarke would have to prove, a legal anomaly because in ninety-nine percent of criminal cases, the prosecuting attorney was on the hook for proving the defendant had committed the crime beyond a reasonable doubt.
“Which is?”
“Battered women’s syndrome.”
He may as well have said that we’d have to prove the existence of God. For the briefest moment my best friend Lulu Mueller’s face flashed in my mind.
As quick as it was there, it was gone. Lulu and her married live-in lover, Sinclair, had a lot of issues, but I’d probably blown them all out of proportion in my mind because my friend had indicated nothing of the type.
I took a deep breath, ran a finger through the tiny puddle that had spilled from coaster to desk, which should have been soaked up by the misused cocktail napkin.
“I’m in,” I said for the second time that year. The first had been one of the best professional decisions of my life. I hoped this would be another. “But I do have to tell you something about myself. Something that I’m not sharing outside this office, for now.”
Peyton Bennett squinted. His blue eyes scrutinized my face and for a long moment I felt like all my secrets were laid bare. I blinked and pushed that thought away. He couldn’t read minds any better than the rest of us, which was to say that he couldn’t.
“I’m pregnant. I’m due in April. If that’s a disqualifier, tell me now,” I rushed out. It was only the second or third time I’d said it out loud. The first two people to hear it could keep a secret. Telling Peyton Bennett felt a little bit dangerous.
Bennett nodded his head as if I’d just handed him the best Christmas present ever.
“Speedy trial should have us in court long before that. I’d like, after conferring with you, of course, to push for a trial in December—between Thanksgiving and the holidays. I don’t want Juliana, our client, to miss any time with her family.”
Bennett pushed back his chair, stood, and sifted through stacks of papers on his credenza. He located a file, pulled out a stapled stack, handed it to me.
“Representation agreement. Let’s do this. I’ll set up a meeting with Juliana, and after she tells you her story—if you’ll take the case—sign this and return it to me. The firm will cut you a check, then we’ll start mounting her two-pronged defense.”
I pushed the clasp of my messenger bag, fished inside for another one of my business cards, laid it on Bennett’s desk. When he thought I wasn’t looking, he’d palmed my first card, then laid it on the ledge of his assistant’s cubicle. There were so many ways that could get lost. For twenty-five thousand dollars and the most interesting criminal case to come down the pike in a minute, I did not want him to lose my contact information.
“My schedule is pretty clear right now. Call me with a time and place and I’ll be there.”
He stood. Shook my hand stoically.
“It’s good to finally meet you in person after all these years. I think this will be the start of a great working relationship.”
It wasn’t until I got outside that I realized I was dressed all wrong. The midday eighty-degree weather had turned cold. It wasn’t more than sixty now, and with the sun setting, the temperature was dropping rapidly. Once I was on the crowded Rapid, what I was beginning to recognize as a hormonal pregnancy fog cleared just a little.
After all these years, Bennett had said. What did that mean, more than the “following my career” excuse he’d given?
The tram jolted to a stop at Shaker Square and I was happy to get out and get home because I was exhausted. A late afternoon nap sounded divine. I’d think about Peyton Bennett, how close I was to paying off my loans, finally having financial freedom, and meeting Juliana Clarke tomorrow.