“Lots of suicides don’t have notes. Besides, even if—let’s say for the sake of argument—she was the victim of foul play, we’re still a long way from establishing that Paul Michelson is the foul player here. And at the risk of pointing out the obvious, we are criminal-defense lawyers, Ella. If it weren’t for criminals, we’d be out of work. Which, again, is why I truly don’t care if he did do anything to Jennifer Barnett.”
I know my father’s attitude is the correct one—at least to survive in this business. And he’s thrived. But even after three months, I still hate the idea that I’m dedicating my life to the wrong side. And now it’s my professional obligation to turn a blind eye to the possibility that Paul Michelson might be a murderer.
When I return to my office, my first instinct is to call Charlotte to tell her about how I reconnected with Paul. I have to resist it, however. Attorney–client privilege prohibits revealing our client’s name, at least until we make a public appearance on his behalf. Even though my father thinks that retaining a lawyer from day one and then hunkering down is the smart move, most people think it suggests guilt.
Given that telling Charlotte about my old flame is a no-go, I decide to spend my free time finding out what my father claims he does not want to know—the facts about Jennifer Barnett’s disappearance.
The firm subscribes to several very expensive and specialized legal databases, but I still start most of my research with a good, old-fashioned Google search. I type “Jennifer Barnett missing” into the search engine and, a second later, I have more than a million hits. I click the first one and begin to read.
Other than the town in New Jersey from which she hailed, a tony place called Short Hills, everything else reported is something I already knew. She’s twenty-two, started at Maeve Grant only three months ago—coincidentally, the same day I joined my father’s firm—has been missing for four days, and the police are not revealing the names of any suspects or divulging any working theories concerning Jennifer Barnett’s whereabouts.
I peruse another six articles, but none of them contain any different information. Next I plug Paul’s name into the search engine. Google returns some articles from the business press in which he’s quoted, but he otherwise lacks a cyber footprint. No Facebook profile. His name doesn’t even appear on the Maeve Grant website.
My sleuthing completed, I do a little more lawyer work on behalf of some other clients, managing to somehow show that my pushing paper around amounts to nine hours of billing. At eight I leave the office, full of excitement for the evening to come.
My transformation to Cassidy begins the moment I step into my apartment. There’s no point in having a secret life if you’re going to hold back, so I reach for my tightest jeans and decide not to even bother with a shirt or bra. Instead, I put on a fringy vest and cinch it tight, until I’m reasonably satisfied I won’t fall out of it.
Cassidy’s makeup also makes a statement: dark mascara and bright red lipstick. And she wears her hair down and loose. I only wish mine were longer, because hers should be midwaist to truly be as wild as she’d like. Cassidy certainly doesn’t have to tie it back for work in the morning.
Less than an hour later, she’s staring back at me from the full-length mirror in my hallway. I eye Cassidy the way a man would. Slowly lifting my gaze from the floor, up my legs, lingering at my breasts, and then finally smiling at my reflection when we make eye contact.
She looks good. No, hot.
Cassidy—no last name, just Cassidy, like Madonna or Rihanna—has a bio on Lava’s website and more than eight hundred “fans,” the Lava equivalent of Facebook likes. Charlotte might be the writer in the family, but I’ve crafted a perfectly convincing alter ego for myself. It says Cassidy’s from a small town in Oregon and describes her musical style as indie/pop with a jazz influence. There’s a “sounds like” section for people who don’t understand what indie/pop with a jazz influence means. For Cassidy’s, I’ve listed Lana Del Rey and Adele, along with Billie Holiday, to lend her an aura of sophistication.
There’s also a photo array. Eight carefully composed pictures indicate that Cassidy is worth looking at without any of them actually showing her face. Of course, even with the teased-up hair and heavy black eyeliner that Cassidy favors, anyone who’s ever met me would instantly recognize that it was Ella Broden onstage. But so far, at least, in the three months that I’ve been living my double life, that hasn’t happened.
And yes, my first visit to Lava was two days after I joined up with my father. And no, you don’t have to be a shrink to realize that the timing isn’t a coincidence.
I haven’t told a soul. Not even Charlotte, although I’ve come close a few times. I don’t withhold out of shame or embarrassment, however. Charlotte is the least judgmental person I know. Rather, I maintain this secret because, as odd as this sounds, I feel like telling Charlotte—or anyone else, for that matter—would be betraying Cassidy. That she’s not me is the point. If I blur that line, then Cassidy will cease to exist.
And right now I need her. A once-a-week vacation from my life, and a quick glimpse of the road not taken. What Ella Broden might have been if . . . she hadn’t been so Ella Broden. If she had been a little more like her younger sister.
6.
The Lava Lounge—as Lava is officially named—is in the East Village. I’m likely the only person who takes a cab there. It’s strictly a subway-and-walking kind of crowd.
Open mic is every Wednesday night. Lava’s front room is a traditional bar. No seats, just a ten-foot mahogany counter. There isn’t even a kitchen. Sometimes a food truck parks in front, just in case a patron wants some form of sustenance between rounds of alcohol. The moment you enter the back room, however, it’s like Dorothy stepping out of her black-and-white Kansan world and into the kaleidoscopic colors of Oz. The stage has blindingly bright spotlights that illuminate a bright, red-lacquered floor. The rest of the space, though, especially where the crowd stands—and it’s strictly a standing-room-only situation aside from a few bar stools—is dark as a cave. There’s a collection of well-worn musical instruments and amps set off in the corner. Lava always provides a piano player, and more often than not, other musicians are at the ready to back up the singers.
It never fails to smell like a heady concoction of beer and sweat, and it’s always loud. Very, very loud. The two-drink minimum makes the crowd enthusiastic and unforgiving. Tonight, the decibel level is already high enough that you need to shout to be heard even though the mic hasn’t yet officially opened.