MISSING: FOUR HOURS
It was nearly 2:00 p.m. when Liz Jarrett pulled her car into a spot by a dumpster in the parking lot behind the Shilo Inn, where the bar exam would commence in ten minutes. She could feel her fingers tremble as she turned off the ignition and removed her car keys. She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror. She doubted that she’d ever looked worse a single day in her life. Not even on the longest nights-into-mornings in college, when she drank, smoked, and partied herself into a near stupor. Her eyes looked wild and hollow at the same time. It was like looking at a photograph of someone she didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. Who was that woman?
Liz flipped the mirror so she couldn’t see herself anymore and scanned her surroundings. A single pedestrian took his time exiting the lot for the street. When he was no longer in view, she reached across the seat and grabbed the small metal bucket that had ridden with her from Bend to Beaverton. A moment later, her heart pounding all the while, she lifted the dumpster’s lid and tossed it inside. It fell to the metal bottom with a horribly loud, hollow bang. She cast a panicked look around her but still saw no one. She peered inside the dumpster. Empty except for the little bucket. She wanted to cover it up, but there was nothing there. She let the lid fall. It thundered on impact.
Her heart bounced inside her chest.
Inside the Shilo Inn, the cool air from the hotel’s air-conditioning blasted her. Liz imagined running through a car wash just then, the blasts of water and then air taking the sweat from her body. Making her feel as though she were clean, when in reality she’d never felt dirtier in her life.
She flew to the bathroom and doused her face with water. She didn’t even want to look at her face.
Pull yourself together. Take the test. Go home. Owen will know what to do.
The paper towel dispenser next to the sink was empty. Really? Everything about this day was wrong. She pulled a pack of tissues from her purse and patted her skin. The mirror grabbed her image. She looked like shit.
She was shit.
Behind a table in the upstairs lobby area, a woman with coral lipstick and eyelashes that scraped her eyeglasses fished for her packet.
“Skin of your teeth,” she said.
“Pardon?” Liz answered, somehow holding the tremor in her voice at bay.
“One more minute, dear, and you’d be locked out. If you pass, remember that judges like punctual lawyers. Come to think of it, test administrators do too.”
Liz took the packet. It took everything she had not to respond to the woman in kind, telling her that, with a minute to spare, she was on time. The law is about technicalities passed through her mind, and she wanted to say as much.
But she didn’t. If there was no way out of what she’d done, then a flippant retort would only cement her in the mind of this coral-lipped, spider-lashed woman who lived to wag her finger and would surely delight in facing the cameras.
“She was disheveled and late,” Liz imagined the woman saying to reporters. “Very strange. I knew something was wrong with her the minute she made a beeline for the bathroom. She didn’t even acknowledge me. Something wasn’t right with that one. I could see it from twenty-five yards.”
Phones off. Purses and backpacks stowed. The ballroom was a freezer full of people young and old going after a dream. She recognized a couple of people from the last time she’d taken the essay portion of the test. An Asian man from her study group who knew the law inside and out but muffed the essays because of a misunderstanding of the wording of a question. A mother of three was also a repeater. Sally, an Oregon Law classmate of Liz’s. Sally’s dad had been a lawyer of some note, and he’d wanted to pass on his practice to his only daughter. Sally had told Liz one time that she preferred running the office to being in court. “Look, I have three kids. I need to be home in the evenings, not burying my face in a law book or reading depositions. My dad doesn’t get it. All he cares about now is his legacy. When he dies, I’m selling the practice the next day.”
The page in front of her confronted her with a blank stare.
Ten minutes into the exam, Liz got up. She kept her head down and went out the door, passed the woman with the tarantula eyelashes, and went for her car. Sweat dripped down her temples. She kept her breathing shallow, because she was sure if she took in any more air, she’d heave. She sat there trying to get a grip on herself. She turned on her phone. Her hands quaked as she sent a text to her husband.
Liz: I need you.
Owen: I got your message. In meeting. Have to wait.
Liz: I screwed up.
Owen: No shit? Can’t call now. There will be other tests.
Liz: Not the test. God, Owen. I need to talk to you.
Owen: See you tonight. Everything will be all right. Promise. Need to focus here. Big things happening here. Later.
With a jolt, Liz noticed a message had come in from Carole—then saw that it had been sent early that morning. Her heart still hammered as she opened it.
Just sending you good vibes for the day. Saw your light on. I know you pulled an all-nighter. Don’t worry. You’ve got this. You’re going to do great.
Carole had completed the text with a smiley face and a heart emoji.
There was no emoticon for how Liz felt just then.