Once A Liar

“So, you’re a defense attorney, you’re twenty-eight years old and you’re not from New York.” She summarized our discussion, smiled and delicately popped a dumpling in her mouth.

“What makes you think I’m not from New York?” I asked.

“You stopped at every light and didn’t jaywalk once. New Yorkers don’t stop at lights.”

“It’s that obvious, huh? No, I’m not from New York.” I had been developing the story of my past since before I started college, spending much of my time testing out details about my family before I settled on a suitable series of fabrications. “I’m kind of from all over the place,” I told her.

“Army brat?” she asked, seeming genuinely interested.

“Not quite, no.” I never went for the military-upbringing story. I feared it had too much of a blue-collar bent and it could alienate me from the influential people I was trying to fall in with. “My father was an art dealer, and we spent most of my childhood living in different countries in Europe.”

“Oh, wow. That sounds interesting.”

“It was.” I tried to conjure up images of old European cities in my head. “What about you? Did you grow up in New York?” I steered the conversation back to her.

“Yes, born and raised in Manhattan.” She turned her chair to face me. “Tell me what it was like living around Europe. Did you have a favorite place?” She seemed to want to keep the spotlight off her background just as much as I wanted to keep it off mine.

“I look back now and realize it was very glamorous when you think about it from an outside perspective, but it was hard for a kid.” I’d practiced these lines. “I went to excellent schools, but I never stayed at the same one for more than a couple of years, didn’t make lasting friendships and I was always somewhere I didn’t know the language.” These quick, heartstring-tugging snippets would provide just enough information for people to find me intriguing and sympathetic. I took a dramatic pause and sipped from a green tea that Juliette had ordered for me.

“That’s so lonely,” she said with compassionate eyes. “Do you have any siblings?”

“No, it was just me and my parents. Definitely a lonely time.” Although the story isn’t true, the sentiments were. I did have a lonely upbringing, but it wasn’t in Europe and it wasn’t because I didn’t have siblings.

The evening felt easy and natural, despite me telling her manufactured stories. She told me how she came to follow Eileen Cutler’s career, and I told her of my dreams to be a high-powered defense attorney. I found her charming as she discussed her passion for helping others, and her work to open her own charitable organization. She seemed to imply family connections and money but kept the details guarded, and I didn’t pry.

“Do you have any idols in your field?” she asked me, after gushing over Eileen. “Seems a difficult business to keep one’s integrity.”

“Maybe. But I find being a defense attorney quite honorable. The justice system hinges on the belief that lawyers are fighting for the rights of their clients, but often defense attorneys are underdogs in the fight.” I turned my body to face her. “With my talents and abilities, I am simply serving to even the playing field. And yes, I do have an idol in my business.”

“Tell me about him.” She looked at me kindly. “I’m interested to hear your perspective.”

“Ever since I wrapped my mind around going into criminal defense, there’s one man whose career just blows everyone else’s away. He’s a legend in the business, and I met him at an event before I graduated.” The excitement was rising in my voice. “It was Christmastime, and my cohort was invited to a big party hosted by different law firms. All the big names were there, as well as representatives from the public defenders’ offices and the DA’s office. I was first in my class, and I knew many of the lawyers were there to talk to me specifically.”

Juliette seemed impressed, listening intently as she ate.

“This lawyer—my hero—was known and feared, having beaten many of the other lawyers who were there in court battles, and my classmates were practically starstruck when they noticed him standing by the entrance. He called my name—‘Caine,’ he said, and he didn’t even look at me as he said it, he just lifted a glass of scotch in my direction.”

Juliette’s head bounced in a slow, methodical nod. “He knew your name?”

“Most of the lawyers did, yes.” I suddenly felt reticent. I didn’t want Juliette to get the impression that I was gloating. “They do their research before recruiting events.”

“That must have been a thrill for you.”

“Oh, absolutely. I was nervous and excited when I approached him. He just handed me the scotch, picked up his martini glass and then turned and walked to a corner away from everyone. I followed him. I didn’t really know what to do. I mean, I’ve been admiring this guy’s career since college, and I couldn’t believe he was there to talk to me. Then he downed his whole drink in one sip and asked me if I was ready to give up all the bullshit.”

“Gin?” Juliette asked.

“What?”

“Never mind. What was he talking about?” Her tone was deliberate, knowing.

“He pointed at the rest of the lawyers in the room and told me that they were all there to fawn over me, and if I was serious about my career, I would call him instead. He asked me if I was ready to realize my talents and rise to the top.” I recalled the event with embarrassment. “All I had ever wanted to do was meet this guy and impress him, and when he was standing in front of me, I had no idea what to say.”

“So, what did you say?”

“I told him I was willing to take any opportunity he was willing to give me. Looking back, now I see why he was immediately turned off. He told me that I was still soft, and I should call him when I toughened up. He put his card on the corner of a cocktail table and walked out without saying another word to me.”

“Did you ever call him?” She had turned to face me and was studying my eyes.

“His card didn’t even have a number on it. It was just his name. Like he was leaving me a challenge to go and find him, like that would prove that I was ready to take him up on his offer.”

“And?” she asked excitedly.

“Well, truth be told—” I looked around us for eavesdroppers, then leaned in conspiratorially “—I tracked down his number months ago, and we’re opening a firm together. I’m keeping it hush-hush for now, don’t want to jinx myself before everything is finalized.”

Juliette and I ordered a last round of drinks. She congratulated me and toasted the news that I was about to open my own firm with my professional hero. As I paid the bill, I found myself uncharacteristically drawn to her, and I didn’t want the evening to end. I knew dragging it out beyond its natural conclusion would put a future encounter in jeopardy, so against my natural inclinations, I brought the evening to a close. She commended me again on my new business ventures and scooted her stool back.

“It has been a pleasure spending time with you, Miss Juliette, and I hope you will allow me to take you out again sometime.” I stood and held my hand out to help her from her seat.

“Thank you, Mr. Caine.” She bit her lower lip and smiled an unforgettable smile. As I guided her toward the door, she pulled a packet of matches from a bowl and scribbled her phone number inside. She raised her arm for a taxi on the corner and handed me the matchbook. “Call me,” she said as a taxi pulled up in front of us. “I’d love to hear how the business turns out.”

I watched the taxi heading uptown on Third Avenue until the rear lights blended in with the horizon. I called her the next day, and thus initiated the beginning of her end.

NOW

Everything feels status quo, not unlike any other day of my life, despite cremating my ex-wife and becoming the sole guardian to my estranged teenage son. But every person I pass looks at me a little closer, stays and chats a little longer, compassionately touches my shoulder, as if these changes were something drastic. Anna, my assistant, hands me my morning coffee as I pass her in the hallway, and a junior partner whose name I’ve forgotten blocks the path to my office.

“So sorry to hear about your wife, Peter,” he says to me. “I hear she was a wonderful woman.”

“Ex-wife,” I correct as I push past him and continue down the hall. As a man known to not need sympathy, let alone accept it, I can’t understand why my colleagues would still offer condolence for the loss of my ex-wife. I reach the door to my office, and I see Sinan walking toward me. I leave the door open for him to come in.

Sinan Khan, a Turkish lawyer from London, has been living in New York and making a killing as a defense attorney since the mid-1990s. Marcus brought him on to Rhodes & Caine almost as soon as we had formed. Sinan and I share the same moral flexibility, paired with a seemingly bottomless depth of knowledge of the law. He understands me.

“Got some stuff for you,” Sinan declares in his baritone British voice, sidling up to my desk. “I have the case files from that custody thing I tried last year. I think you can use the same case as precedent in your kidnapping trial. It’s a tiny loophole—I’m saying ants can’t squeeze through it—but you should be able to sell it.” He tosses the files onto my desk. “And Anna was about to walk in here with this stack of nonsense—” he flaps a bunch of envelopes in my face “—so I’ll just leave them on your bookcase next to the Oban.”

“Thanks. Sit, have a drink.” I wave at a large leather chair in the corner of my office.

“Drink? It’s 8:20 in the morning.” Sinan oozes sophistication.

I look up at him and smile. “You Muslims and your prohibitions.”

“Mmm,” he sneers. “I have something else for you, as well.” Sinan reclines in the leather chair and fiddles with a marble chessboard on the table next to him. “A blast from your past is on his way back out into the world.”

“Back out? When did I ever have a client who went in?” I run my fingers through my hair, knowing full well to whom Sinan is referring.

“You should know exactly who I’m talking about, especially since he stands pretty much alone in your guilty column.”

“Bogovian?” I blurt when Sinan substantiates my fears. “You’re telling me Stu Bogovian is getting out? Has it been that long already?” Stu Bogovian was a New York congressman with a penchant for sexual assault. He came from an outrageously wealthy family who paid his victims for their silence, leaving Stu to never learn any self-control. I can’t believe he could be released so soon. Seems like yesterday he went to prison, not the nearly twenty years it’s really been.

“Yes, love. Stu Bogovian is getting paroled next Thursday. Mark your calendar!” Sinan holds up his hands and twinkles his fingers in mock celebration. “You think he still hates you after all this time?”

“Back off, Sinan.” I feel the ugly anger rising in my stomach. “Who’s representing him now?”

“Some Harvard prat. But don’t fret, darling,” Sinan teases, “no one remembers that you were the one who couldn’t get Stu off, and from the trial transcripts, it sounds like Stu had no problem getting off!” Sinan laughs and knocks over the white marble queen with a thin black bishop shaped like an obelisk.

“He doesn’t hate me—no one hates me.” I swallow the acrid taste of defeat. “He hates Harrison Doyle. And he hates that ADA twerp who put him away, whatever his name was.”

“You remember the assistant district attorney’s name,” Sinan sighs, knowing I wouldn’t dare forget.

“Someone who cared would remember his name.” I try to focus my attention on anything other than the Bogovian trial and the birth of my vendetta against Harrison Doyle. Sinan grins at me and emits a low grumbling laugh, amused to know I still get flustered. I draw in a deep breath and wrangle my irritation.

“Are you coming to this cocktail thing tonight?” Sinan probes, changing the subject. “I’m bringing a very beautiful young man from St. Louis.”

“You don’t even know where St. Louis is,” I say. Sinan, brilliant though he may be, is hopelessly elitist and thinks America is made up of Manhattan and Los Angeles.

“This is true. He’s dead from the neck up, but gorgeous. You should come tonight and bring Claire. She’s kind enough to talk to my beautiful St. Louis boy, so I won’t have to.” Sinan smiles and blinks his long eyelashes, trying to convince me.

“Sorry, my friend, I won’t be able to get Claire to butter up your plaything for you. I’m not going to the party. I have drinks with Harrison tonight.”

“Why do you continue to spend time with that terminally classless man?”

“He’s useful,” I say. “We should have him in our pocket.” My nerves settle as I remind myself that I am in control, and Harrison’s time at the top is limited. “And you should be facilitating these kinds of relationships, too.” I wave a gold pen in Sinan’s direction. “Not just lapping up the affections of impressionable Missourians.”

“I bet he’s going to rub the Bogovian thing right in your face tonight. Try not to lose your temper and knock him out.”

THEN

Juliette and I went on four dates before I found out who her father was. Each time I picked her up at her apartment, she was already waiting for me in the lobby, so I never had to announce myself to her doorman and ask for her last name. It was over brunch at Union Square Cafe that I finally made the connection while I told Juliette of the first major case I was working on at my new firm.

“We were hired to represent Congressman Stuart Bogovian,” I began. “It’s just the kind of case we need to get noticed quickly.” I explained to Juliette that since the firm was still new, having such a high-profile case right off the bat would get us the notoriety we were looking for. My partner, Marcus Rhodes, had been working for himself for decades, so he brought along a caseload as well as his reputation. I wasn’t able to bring any of my clients from my previous firm, so when we were called about Bogovian, Marcus encouraged me to take on the case.

Bogovian was rich, slippery and completely unaffected by the expected behavior of decent society. Entitled to the degree that he viewed people as property, he never encountered a problem he couldn’t pay his way out of. He had been charged with assault and attempted rape in the first degree. Allegedly, he pinned an intern between his desk and bookcase, tied her arms and stripped her of her clothes, intending to rape her, but she broke free and escaped.

I didn’t want to share too much information about the case with Juliette, even though it was already in the news. I worried that she would get the wrong impression of me and the work I was doing if she saw the people I represented as monsters who didn’t deserve freedom. I wanted her to see that they were people who required the best defense just like anyone else, and I was hired to uphold the law, plain and simple.

She already seemed to be getting uncomfortable when I talked about work; leaning away from me, responding with one-word answers and not really engaging. I wanted to assure her that I was one of the good guys, despite my profession’s reputation.

“You’re going to be the congressman’s defense attorney?” she asked, not making eye contact.

“Yes,” I said cheerfully. “Marcus and I agreed that I should take the lead on Mr. Bogovian’s case.”

“Your partner’s name is Marcus?” She looked at me curiously, a forkful of salad balanced in front of her mouth.

“Yes, Marcus Rhodes. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

Juliette let out a single burst of laughter. “Yes, I’ve heard of him,” she snorted. “Marcus Rhodes is my father.”

“Your father?” I balked. I should have known; her smile seemed so familiar. I was almost jealous. I looked up to Marcus, nearly regarding him as a father figure, much more so than my actual father. I almost felt that I wanted to keep him for myself and not share him with Juliette. “He didn’t tell you he was starting a new partnership? You couldn’t have thought it was a coincidence?”

“No, he doesn’t involve me in his business life. I had no idea he was starting something new.” She shook her head, seeming disconnected.

“I’m sure I’ve mentioned his name before today. Didn’t you know I was talking about him?”

“Honestly, no. When you told me he left a card with no number, that sounded like a move my father would pull, but I didn’t know for sure.” She ate her salad as if this realization were no big deal, while I felt like the news was prodigious. I was working with Marcus Rhodes and dating his daughter. This was the world I was supposed to be in. Everything was beginning to feel right.

“I can’t believe you’re Marcus’s daughter,” I marveled. “What a serendipitous coincidence.”

Still seeming a bit uneasy, she agreed, amazed that the world could be so small. “You’re sure you know what you’re doing getting involved in a case like this with my father?”

“Yes, absolutely. I’ve always wanted to have a mentor like your father, and I’m certainly ready to take on whatever Harrison Doyle throws at me.”

Juliette held her glass up to me as if to toast my goals. I didn’t think twice about her question as to whether or not I was prepared to take on the case. I felt unstoppable, and I was sure I could handle the DA.

Harrison Doyle was in his first term as district attorney, and he put a viper of an ADA on the Bogovian case, making sure he made a splash in the headlines right off the bat. That viper went by the name Eric Gordon, and he was intolerable. Both Gordon and Doyle seemed obsessed and pulled out all the stops, ethical and unethical, to ensure a win for the prosecution.

I allowed my professional ambitions to cloud my better judgment. Had I known what was going to happen, I never would have tried the Bogovian case, and I never would have developed the bad blood with Harrison Doyle.

NOW

Harrison is standing at the Four Seasons bar, waiting impatiently for me to arrive. Every time I see him, I have to actively suppress the memory of him humiliating me after the Stu Bogovian trial. I don’t like Harrison, and I never have, but over the years, he has been hounding me to be his friend, even going so far as to offer me jobs with outrageous perks and benefits at the district attorney’s office. He’s not trying to make up for what he said after the Bogovian trial; he’s trying to keep my mouth shut.

When I spot him at the bar, I see two empty glasses sitting in front of him while he works on his third drink. I cross the room, nodding hellos to men in suits at various tables. Some leggy supermodel-type stops me before I reach Harrison, kissing my cheeks three times. She must be one of the French ones. I grasp her by the waist and then release her, barely stopping to take the time.

Harrison pulls me in for a strong handshake.

“I’m having vodka. I think it’s my third or fourth by now, not that anyone’s counting. What are you gonna have, Pete?”

I recoil and wipe my hands on a handkerchief. Instead of allowing him to place my order, I lean behind him and ask for a single malt scotch from a bartender I know but whose name I have long forgotten.

The only reason I am here, as I tried to explain to Sinan earlier, is to remind Harrison that I have all the ammunition I need to take him down and ruin his reelection bid, and that it’s in his best interest to stay in line. So, I play with him now and again. I know he’ll get drunk and ask me to come to the DA’s office, his typical move to try to settle the bad blood between us. He wants me in his pocket. With me as his underling, he would gain control, and I won’t allow him to take away the power I have over him.

He thinks if he shows me affection and professional courtesy I’ll forget what he did to me, and I’ll forget the things I know. But I have no plans of joining the DA’s office and becoming complicit in Harrison’s dirty work.

I lean against the bar and look anywhere but at him and his droopy, drunken eyes. He is tuned into my every move, like a schoolgirl with a crush.

“Pete, Pete,” Harrison is saying. I ignore him, not even bothering with one-word answers, sipping my drink and scanning the room for more interesting company.

“Nice work on that assault case last week, by the way. Didn’t think you’d be able to pull that one off, not even you.” He plies me with faux sincerity and compliments. I’m beginning to feel nauseous.

“Not even me?”

“I mean, the guy had the gun in his possession, right? With her blood on the handle? You really have a way with overcoming physical evidence.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I swirl the ice cubes in my drink.

“Pete, I asked you here tonight because we’ve got to talk about my offer. I need you now more than I ever have.”

Harrison is covering his ass, and I can see right through him. When he gets worried that I’ll jeopardize his career ambitions, he invites me out and tries to entice me into submission, but he can’t acknowledge this. If he admits that he’s scared of what I know, he’s essentially admitting he has something to hide. It’s amusing for me sometimes, keeping up this cat-and-mouse game, watching him squirm.

“I’ve said it before, but clearly you don’t listen, so I’ll say it again.” I don’t even bother to look at him. “I am not, ever, going to work for you at the DA’s office.”

But again, he isn’t listening. “Pete, I’m up for reelection. You know this. The campaign is strong, but I need someone like you—some soulless bastard like you—who can win cases without even getting out of bed in the morning. Use your talents to clean up the streets. Put the bad guys behind bars instead of defending them. Come on. What can I do to convince you?”

If I work at the DA’s office, then I’ll be complicit in his illicit dealings, and I won’t have a leg to stand on if I want to roll over and expose the things I know.

I laugh right in his fat face. “Nothing, Harry. There’s nothing you can do to convince me. If I were to go to your side, I would take your job. I’m not working under you or anyone else. We’ve been having this argument for years and I’m tired of it.” Already sick of his drivel after just one drink, I throw my black card onto the bar behind Harrison’s hulking form.

Harrison tries to steady himself on the corner of the bar and instead his elbow slips, and he barely catches himself on the seat of a barstool. “Jesus, Harry, you’re in public.” I quickly scan the room for onlookers, trying to ensure no one sees me with this classless mess. “People know me here. They know you, too. Pull yourself together.”

As the bartender hands me back my card with the tab, I flick away the plastic Four Seasons pen and draw a Montblanc from my jacket pocket. I leave an enormous tip, hoping to keep the bartender’s mouth shut when it comes time to gossip about drunken bigwigs.

“I need you, Peter. The ADAs have no fight in them, no spark. It’s all perfunctory. No one grabs the bull by the horns like you do. I can guarantee you’ll take my position when I retire. I only want one more term, make it five total.” Harrison pulls my lapels. “Come on, Peter, whatever it takes.”

His desperation is becoming revolting. “Get home and get some sleep, Harry. You’re never going to get me away from criminal defense, and you’re never going to get me to work under you.” I gently slap his hands away from me and lead him down the stairs.

“I’ll fix the Bogovian thing,” Harrison proclaims. “Now that he’s getting out, it’ll be in the media again. I’ll make amends publicly, righting whatever wrongs may have come to you, and then I can announce that you’re coming to work for me. I mean with me.”

I glare at Harrison with raised eyebrows. I knew he would offer me some kind of recompense to sweeten the deal, but I didn’t think he would dare bring up Bogovian.