Richard Amsterdam is a contract attorney from Daily & Essex, another notable firm whose team we played—and beat—yesterday. He’s in his late thirties, successful, attractive, and has a reputation for fucking anything with a pulse.
“Must’ve liked what he saw.” I stand, bringing the dirty plates to the sink. “He asked me out after the game. Dinner and a show.”
“Ah.” Brent nods. “Dinner and a show—classic code words for ‘alcohol and an orgasm.’ ”
“I don’t like Dick,” Jake says, chewing on the last cheese roll. “He goes through secretaries like I go through condoms—can’t trust a guy with such a high turnover rate in this economy. Something’s not right there.”
“What’d you tell him?” Stanton asks, frowning at me.
“That I was too busy. Which I am, golf lessons notwithstanding.”
His eyes brighten. “Oh . . . good.”
I can take the direct approach, too. “Why is that good, exactly?”
The corner of his mouth pulls up into a bashful, lopsided grin. It makes me warm and tingly in all the right places. “You can do better, Soph.”
7
Stanton
Wednesday morning, I’m in the US Attorney’s Office, engaging in the rudimentary but exciting behind-the-scenes activity that prevents the court system from grinding to a screeching fucking halt: negotiating the plea deal. It’s a common, everyday responsibility—but where the exciting comes in is the thrill of bargaining. I know my client is guilty, the prosecutor knows it too, but it’s my job to convince them to take the easy win—that the time and money saved by the taxpayer is worth the lesser charge and reduced sentence.
I follow Angela Cassello, a short, red-haired firecracker of an Assistant US Attorney, down the bustling hallway. “He connects people with the same interests, people looking for specific physical attributes in a partner, who don’t have the time to vet a potential companion,” I explain.
Diplomacy at its finest. Also known as a crock of shit.
“He’s a pimp,” Angela argues. “Just because he’s rich doesn’t make him any less of a pimp.”
“He’s a matchmaker.”
“Ha!” she counters, not slowing her brisk pace. “And next you’ll be telling me drug dealers are pharmacists.”
That’s actually not bad—I may use that in the future.
“Look.” I lean against the wall, forcing Angela to stop beside me. “He doesn’t work with underage girls, he doesn’t cross state lines, there’s no claims of abuse. This is a guppy, Angela—a harmless, victimless fish. You’ve got sharks to fry. If this were Nevada there wouldn’t even be a charge.”
“If your client were smarter, he would’ve set up shop in Nevada.”
“He’ll cop to the tax evasion,” I offer. “But you have to take procuring off the table.”
“Ah yes, because financial crimes committed by the obscenely wealthy are socially acceptable. Sex crimes are frowned upon—at least when they get caught.”
Sometimes the best answer is no answer. I wait her out.
And she sighs. “You’re lucky I like you more than your client, Shaw. We’ll take the tax evasion. But I want jail time; he’s not skating on probation or house arrest.”
“Low-security facility and you’ve got a deal.”
She holds out her hand and I shake it. “I’ll have the papers sent to your office this week.”
“You’re the best, Angela.”
She pushes my shoulder playfully. “You say that to all the prosecutors.”
“Only the pretty ones.”
? ? ?
Back in my office, I open my briefcase and take out the pimp’s case file and yesterday’s mail I grabbed from the box on my way out this morning. I sit down, drink my coffee, and sort through it. Junk, junk, bill, junk . . . an envelope catches my eye.
Five by seven, white, addressed to me in handwritten calligraphy . . . with Jenny’s parents’ return address.
I open it and remove the flat ivory card.
And it’s like a nuclear bomb goes off in my head.
My brain must’ve turned to ash—making me illiterate—because I can barely decipher the words.
Honor of your presence . . .
Jenny Monroe . . .
James Dean . . .
June . . .
Wedding . . . wedding . . . wedding . . .