as day. He hasn’t looked at me once. He doesn’t seem to have any intention of doing so either. What a prick. Sleeping with him was a mistake. A grave one for my ego but nonetheless, one that’s over. We’re nothing more than a man and a woman working closely together in a professional setting. Not a damn thing else as far as I’m concerned.
Wine… back to my wine I go because I desperately don’t like feeling that twist in my stomach and the tightness at the back of my throat.
Just a sip, and only two glasses tonight. I couldn’t focus at the office, so tonight will consist of sitting cross-legged on my bed with paperwork in front of me until I have every piece of evidence in line for the perfect prosecution.
Work is my comfort place and working will get me through whatever these emotions are that I’m warring with inside right now.
Trial is a dance. The steps are all taken carefully and meticulously to get to the twists and turns that wow and convince the room. It’s more than a back and forth of questions, there’s intention, there’s a necessity in every move and every angle. Even the wording of the questions is vital. Being able to focus and pivot is even more important.
I won’t sleep tonight until I know the pace and presentation that will be the most alluring and convincing. Some call the courtroom a circus, but that’s just a show for entertainment and distraction. I treat every courtroom like a ballet, with a spotlight on the details. Every single detail brought to light with a pirouette given enough time and pause to show the depth of what it means.
With a glimmer of confidence, I take another sip of my wine. Aaron and I went over the basics and in only hours I will figure out exactly how we nail this prick with first-degree murder and nothing else.
“Jones.” Patterson’s voice startles me, but not so much that I show it. Giving him a professional smile, I offer the experienced man a nod in greeting.
“How are you doing tonight?” he asks, but doesn’t give me a moment to respond before adding, “I heard you got a whopper of a case.”
A whopper. Patterson’s from somewhere in the Midwest, I think. Maybe he wants to know details, I’m not sure. But he should know better than to think I’d give him any. He’s a defense attorney and none of his clients have anything to do with any of mine. So this is … peculiar.
“You know how it is,” I answer him with a shrug that brings his attention to my blush-colored blouse. But not to my shoulders. His gaze dips lower and the heat of embarrassment creeps up my chest. “When you have a series of plea bargains and boring cases, you get hit with a difficult one to throw you off.” Setting my wineglass on the table and pushing it away slightly, I add, “Can’t have too many easy ones, can we?”
Patterson looks between the glass, my chest, and my face. The slight sway in his stance and the red in his cheeks betray any air of being sober the man has. He’s simply had too much to drink.
“That’s true,” he comments, pointing at me with the hand he’s also using to hold his whiskey. The ice tinks on the glass. My father’s a whiskey drinker. Never on the rocks though. He said the ice melts and weakens it.
The thought reminds me that Patterson is old enough to be my father and rich enough to buy him four times over.
Patterson seats himself, occupying the chair Aaron recently left empty. “You know when I worked with your father years ago, he used to say the same thing.”
My father was a lawyer decades ago. Pride wore on his face the day I told him I was going to law school. I’ll never forget that day. But his career was incredibly short-lived. The lifestyle, he told me, simply didn’t suit him and Mom wanted to move back home.
“Is that why he gave it up? It was too easy for him? Or are the stocks just paying better?” Patterson questions me.
I shrug again and this time when Patterson’s gaze drops, I lift my glass of wine to block what little of my cleavage could possibly show from that angle.
“My mom wanted to move back home,” I answer straight-faced. We never wanted for anything and grew up in a nice enough area. It