Kenzi did not often visit the lowest floor, the subterranean depths, what she and her colleagues often called “the basement” of Rivera & Perez—but this morning, it was her first stop. Since this was primarily a divorce firm, and the divorce lawyers were all upstairs, the denizens of this floor were sometimes thought of as second-class citizens. A juvenile attitude, to be sure. But what else was new? Lawyers were the most cliquish people in the world, and the Basement Lawyers didn’t sit at the same cafeteria table as the cool kids.
The office door was only slightly open, but she could see through the ubiquitous glass wall that the lawyer was in. She knocked quietly on the door. “Emma?”
The raven-haired lawyer was at her desk, hunched over a thick document, red pen in hand. Her short, layered hair wrapped around her oval face. “Come.”
Kenzi stepped inside. The shades were drawn and the overhead light was off. The only illumination emanated from a candle, while an electronic diffuser filled the room with the scent of Tea Time. “Sorry to interrupt.” Her eyes swept the room. “How can you work in here? It’s so dark.”
Emma sat back in her chair, lips pursed. “I like it this way. Is that a problem?”
“Your door was closed.”
“The diffuser is pointless if the door is open. And I concentrate better without the constant hallway noise.”
“Seems unfriendly.”
“I’m okay with that.” Kenzi noted that Emma was dressed almost entirely in black. If she were a decade younger, people would call her emo. “Did you come for a reason?”
“I haven’t spoken to you in ages. Maybe I thought it was time for a girlgab.”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s possible.”
“It’s possible that Bigfoot is on Mt. Rainier. But I doubt it.”
Kenzi pulled out a chair and took a load off. “What’s with the attitude? Have I done something to offend you?”
“No. You haven’t done anything to me. Or with me. In forever.”
“What about when we were on that…that committee together?”
Emma tucked in her chin. “That was in high school.”
“And your point is?”
“Come to think of it, you mostly ignored me in high school, too.”
“I was two years ahead of you. And busy.”
“Busy being the flashy superstar. The pretty girl who attracted all the attention and got everything she wanted. I studied harder and made better grades. But you were the one the teachers adored. All flash, no substance.”
“I’m sure some of the teachers loved you too.”
“No. Never.”
“But we worked well together. I remember. We were like—”
“Oil and vinegar?”
“I was going to say, partners-in-crime.”
“And now, years later, even though I made much better grades in law school, wrote for the Law Review and graduated Order of the Coif, you have the flashy office near the boss and I’m in the basement.”
“That’s because you didn’t want to handle divorce cases.”
Emma sighed. “This is about your Hexitel case, isn’t it?”
Kenzi hated to be so transparent. But it would be pointless to deny it. “Maya needs help. The divorce and custody fights were bad enough.”
“But now she’s facing criminal charges.”
“How did you know?”
Emma swerved her desktop computer monitor around. “Because every online news engine carried the story. Some variation of: CULT MOMMY CHARGED IN FIERY MURDER. I suspected it was just a matter of time before you came to see me.”
“Maya didn’t do it.”
“Of course not. None of your clients are ever guilty. Coincidentally, neither are mine.”
“I don’t need cynicism. I need assistance. Judge Benetti agreed to put the divorce on hold while we work out the criminal charges. He’s probably secretly hoping she’ll be convicted, which will make his decision on child custody much easier. But because of the dueling jurisdictions, he issued a memo requesting that the criminal case be fast-tracked.”
“You can object to that.”
“On what grounds? Slow down, because I have no idea what I’m doing?”
“Cop a plea. The DA doesn’t want a high-profile case during an election year. Washington abolished the death penalty a few years ago. Offer ten years and settle.”
“I don’t think Maya did it.”
“Shut up.”
“No, seriously. She’s innocent.”
“Just happened to be at the scene of the crime with a car full of flammable chemicals?”
Seemed the DA was already building his case—with the press. “She was there to gather her belongings because she was fired.”
“By the woman she murdered?”
“Someone else started the fire, Emma. She thinks it was her husband.”
“That tracks. But I don’t see a jury buying it unless you have a ton of evidence.”
“Then help me. Divorce cases are bench trials. I’ve never appeared before a jury in my life. I have no idea how to convince jurors of anything.”
“And you think I do?”
“I…thought you handled criminal matters for our clients.”
“True. There are sometimes issues ancillary to the divorce that need to be resolved. But I hope you won’t be shocked when I say we haven’t had any murderers—until now. I don’t think we’ve even had a serious non-drug-related felony.”
“I’m sure you can handle this.”
“But why would I want to?”
“Because that’s why we keep you here.”
Emma tapped her pen on the green desk blotter. “Who’s ‘we,’ kemo sabe? Last I heard, you didn’t get the managing-partner position you obviously expected.”
“But I’m still a partner.”
“So am I.”
“Oh, technically…”
“What does that mean?”
“This is a divorce firm. And you’re…”
“Not in the ruling class?”
“Not one of our top moneymakers. But it doesn’t matter. I need help.”
“Obviously. That’s the only reason you’re speaking to me.”
“I need someone with experience in criminal law.”
“You would be better off referring this to another firm. What about Berber & Smirnoff?”
“Maya wants me to handle it. Please help.”
“Let me give you a brief education. Yes, I handle criminal matters for this firm. But that rarely involves actual courtroom appearances. Most times, my work is closer to what you might expect from a private investigator. And I don’t mean the hard-boiled Raymond Chandler-type private dick either. I don’t carry a gat and I don’t call women ‘ripe tomatoes.’ I just dig up information.”
“Like what?”
“Like a salacious detail that will encourage settlement. Amazing how reasonable husbands become when they think they might face criminal charges. And these days, evidence of sexual harassment is better than evidence of embezzlement. Spouses back down fast when they know their career could be destroyed by a few accusatory tweets.”
“How do you obtain these salacious details?”
“Social engineering.”
“I’m not following.”
“That’s the current trendy term. It means disguising your true identity and tricking people into giving you the information you want.”
“That can’t be legal.”
“To the contrary, so long as I don’t pretend to be a cop or a federal officer, there are few laws against lying. And no laws to protect the stupid from their own stupidity. So I pretend to be putting together a #MeToo documentary to get women to spill their stories about the boss sexually harassing them. I pretend to be an accountant to get the location of someone’s offshore bank accounts.”
“This sounds way too sleazy for Rivera & Perez.”
Emma laughed out loud. “You have no idea.”
“Meaning?”
“We didn’t become the most prominent Latinx-controlled firm in Seattle with sunshine and lollipops.”
Kenzi felt some serious irritation building. “So you’re a glorified con artist. What do you do when you need documents to back up your claims?”
“More often than not—hacking.”
“You mean on computers?”
“Haven’t met a firewall yet that I couldn’t get past, given enough time.”
“Is that legal?”
Emma flipped her hair back. “Depends on the circumstances.”
“Meaning no.”
“Meaning, if you get the goods, cyberterrorism will be the least of your target’s concerns.”
“And you do this here? From this office?”
“I wish I could. But people are getting more protective of their files. The smarties leave sensitive information on standalone computers that have never been networked and thus can’t be accessed through the internet.”
“Then how—”
“By visiting their offices. Copying sensitive information.”
“You mean, stealing sensitive information?”
“Pro tip. Remove the hard drive from the computer before you copy it. Computer logs and USB ports leave a trail.”
“You break into people’s offices and steal stuff?”
Emma smiled a bit. “There is a reason I usually wear black.”
This conversation wasn’t going at all as Kenzi expected. “Look, this is interesting, but what I need is a good criminal lawyer I can partner up with. I’ve never tried a criminal case.”
“Neither have I. I’ve settled dozens of criminal cases. Before trial.”
“I don’t think Maya is going to plead out. No matter what they offer. So are you going to help me or not?”
“That is my role here. If you have a criminal matter, and you’re too foolish to farm it out, I have to help. But let me warn you—I will advise, but I will not be lead counsel. I will not speak in court. I haven’t made an oral argument since law school and I hated it then.”
“But—”
“C’mon, Kenzi—you love being the center of attention. You’re the internet superstar. And you’re about to get more attention than you’ve ever had in your entire life. I’ll tell you what to say. You say it.”
“So you’re Cyrano and I’m Christian?”
“Good analogy. Maybe you were paying attention in high school.”
“Occasionally.” She pulled out her phone and started making notes. “Okay, what happens first?”
“Arraignment. Don’t sweat it. Just plead not guilty. You’re not going to get bail. Many states have abolished money bail, but sadly, Washington judges can still charge people for freedom. Washington does not, however, require a grand jury to indict, which will speed the process along. The prosecution is required to present all exculpatory evidence to the defense. I’ll consider what pretrial motions we might bring, but given that the case has been fast-tracked, you should focus on the trial. You must convince a jury of twelve that the prosecution did not meet its burden of proving your cult momma set fire to her workplace and killed her boss.”
“How do I do that?”
“I have no idea. But I’ll start investigating.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Kenzi realized her heart was palpitating. A murder trial? Never in a thousand years had she expected to be in charge of something like this. Divorce court was brutal, but at the end of the day it was mostly about custody and money. This was about life and death. “I’m—really not sure I can do this.”
“You’ll be fine. With me propping you up.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Things haven’t changed that much since high school.” Emma smiled. “You’re the flash. I’m the substance.”