Читать книгу Blindfolded Innocence - Alessandra Torre, Alessandra Torre - Страница 9

Three

Six in the morning came way too freaking early. The day before, I had bounded out of bed, excited about my internship, but today it took two snooze cycles before I lifted my head. My alarm still sounding, I fumbled to turn it off just as pounding started on the wall beside my bed. “It’s off!” I shouted. Zack, my stoner of a roommate, stopped beating on the wall, probably already halfway back to sleep. He’d had friends over till past 3:00 a.m., and they had made no effort to be quiet. I had no doubt there would be plenty of fights in the upcoming months over our sleep routines.

After breakfast and a shower, I grabbed a blue sweater-dress out of the closet and pulled it over my head, cinching a brown belt around my waist. Grabbing small faux diamond stud earrings and a purse, I surveyed my shoe options. All sexy and over three inches tall. Seeing long hours ahead, I realized I would need to buy some shoes that emphasized comfort over fashion. For now, I grabbed some gorgeous leather-and-gold stilettos and slid them on.

I arrived at the office at 7:30 a.m. Pulling open the heavy teak doors, I entered the lobby, nodding to Dorothy, the ancient receptionist. “Good morning, Miss Campbell,” she said creakily. “Here late last night?” Her bemused expression had no trace of pity.

“Not too late,” I replied breezily. She grinned at me, her wrinkles accentuated by the motion.

“Have a good day,” I heard her call as I pressed the door to the stairs and headed for the fourth floor.

The fourth floor—or power floor, as the staff referred to it—was divided into three different wings, one for each partner. Each partner had two secretaries, two paralegals and one intern. Brad De Luca was the exception, with four secretaries and three paralegals. I remembered from orientation that his caseload was double that of any other attorney, including the other two partners. Broward’s secretaries were Sheila and Beverly, neither of whom, judging by their empty desks, arrived till 8:00 a.m.

Broward was already in his office, phone to his ear, when I passed his closed door. I waved at him through the glass and entered my office. Setting my purse by the door, I switched my cell to Silent and then started in on the pile stacked on my desk. I was halfway through the first brief when Broward appeared in the doorway.

“Good morning,” he said distractedly.

“Good morning.”

“Did you make coffee?” His question caused me to look up from my computer.

“Coffee?” I stalled. Is that part of my duties?

“Yes, the kitchen with the coffeepot is on the third floor. I’m sorry I didn’t give you the proper tour, but I thought they might have covered that in orientation.” A phone began ringing in his office, and he glanced back at me with agitation.

“Yes, I’ll get it now.” I stood quickly and smoothed down my dress. He disappeared, and I heard him answer his phone a few seconds later.

Coffee. Okay, I can do this. Are Trevor and Todd brewing freaking coffee?

I found the third-floor kitchen without too much trouble and stared at the complex stainless steel coffeepot. I came from a noncoffee family. I had never desired to attach myself to a caffeine habit, and had treated coffee the same way I treated cigarettes, drugs and—until I was nineteen—sex. I stayed away from them, and they stayed away from me. Therefore, my coffee education rivaled that of a newborn.

Should I admit weakness and ask Ancient Dorothy for help? Nope. I started opening drawers in the kitchen, hoping to find a user’s manual for the coffeepot.

My butt was saved by a short, round woman with spiky red hair and an I Love My Labradoodle sweatshirt. Sarcastically, I wondered if the sweatshirt classified as business attire until my subconscious smacked me across the face. Who was I to judge salvation?

“Good morning!” Labradoodle woman chirped happily, bustling past me and settling her orange-and-blue polka-dot lunch box in the fridge.

“Hi!” I blurted out enthusiastically. Probably a little too enthusiastically. She gave me an odd smile before heading to the sink to wash her hands.

I cornered the Labradoodle-loving stranger by the sink. “My name is Julia,” I said. “Today is my second day, and Broward just asked me for coffee, and I’ve never made coffee before, and I can’t find a user’s manual for the coffee machine, and I don’t know how it’s supposed to taste....” My rush of words faltered and I looked at her in desperation. Please, have some compassion!

She beamed at me and patted my arm reassuringly. “Now, now, that is no problem! I don’t drink a lot of coffee myself, but I’ll show you how to fix it!” With purpose, she bustled over to the cabinet and pulled out a jug of ground coffee. “Now, the way I fix it is to put three teaspoons of coffee grounds in...and then fill the water canister to eight cups.” Three teaspoons, eight cups. Sounds easy enough.

I followed her instructions and had a pot of watery brown liquid brewing in no time. I didn’t trust myself with a taste test, but poured Broward a cup and stuck one of the prepared containers of sweeteners, creamers and stirrers under my arm. I carefully navigated my way through the halls to the elevator and used my elbow to press the button. The doors opened to Todd Appleton’s perky good looks. His glowing skin and enthusiastic “good morning” spoke of a full night of rest. I stepped into the elevator with him and watched his eyes travel up my legs and stop on my shaky coffee cup and creamer selection. I had already sloshed at least a fourth of the coffee around the rim, and could feel some drops running down my fingers. Great.

“Making coffee for the office?” he teased, his gaze finally reaching my face.

“Very funny,” I responded. “Did you know our duties include coffee prep? Something I have never attempted before,” I added dryly.

“Maybe for you,” he shot back. “De Luca has Le Croissant bring up a full spread every morning, with coffee, fruits and a bunch of pastries. They deliver at 8:00 a.m.” He paused, glancing at his watch. “Hence my early arrival. I want to get some while they’re fresh.”

The elevator pinged and stopped at the fourth floor, doors opening slowly. Todd bounded off, apparently never having been taught by his doting mother that ladies go first. I exited carefully, trying my best to keep every last remaining drop of coffee in the cup, and traversed the three turns and two straightaways until I stopped in front of Broward’s door. I bumped the door gently with my knee, and then pushed it in.

I could feel tendrils of my hair coming out of my French twist, and felt completely out of sorts when I tried to gracefully place—and more like dumped—the cup and ceramic container on Broward’s desk. He was on a call, discussing what sounded like an environmental issue, and held up one finger to indicate that I should stay. I chose one of the two heavy leather chairs facing his desk and sat, waiting for his call to finish.

While he droned on about the impact of what sounded like a nature trail, I discreetly checked out his office. It was decorated in the heavy, ornate, masculine fashion that all our offices seemed to share. He had stacks of files everywhere and file boxes lining any free space on the edges of the walls. Six file cabinets lined one wall, and a six-person conference table took up the right side of the room. It was a large office, more than twice the size of mine, but what I would have expected for a firm partner. The table didn’t look as though it was used for many meetings. Every inch of it was buried in stacks of papers, with hundreds of small and large Post-it notes covering them. My head spun with the enormity of his workload. I had naively assumed that I was making some headway with the measly fourteen hours I had put in the day before. I grew stressed just sitting in his office.

His desk was the cleanest place in the office. He had three legal folders on its surface, one open to the file he was discussing on the phone. He had a large digital clock, no doubt to help him keep track of billable hours. He had two framed photos next to his phone. I couldn’t see them from this angle, but assumed they were of his wife and kids. Those photos were probably the most he ever saw of them. My snooping was cut short by the sound of his phone handset being returned to its rightful place. I looked up and into his blue eyes.

“I didn’t know how you liked your coffee, so I brought it black,” I said, gesturing to the accompaniments in the ceramic holder. I stood up and slid the coffee cup toward him until it was in easy reach.

“Just light cream and Equal,” he said, standing up, grabbing the creamer box and flipping through it.

What defines “light”? And how much Equal? I watched him closely, noting how much he added of each to the cup. He looked at the color of the coffee a moment longer than what I would define as normal, and then, dismissing whatever thought was in his head, brought the cup to his mouth.

Gag would be too strong a word for what happened next. An involuntary wince perhaps? His blink was a bit forced, his mouth curled into an unpleasant grimace and there was a slight shudder that he tried hard to cover. An involuntary giggle popped out of me and I slapped a hand over my mouth. He looked at me in confusion, trying to figure out if I was trying to play a joke on him. His expression looked somewhere between mad and amused.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped, fighting the ridiculous hiccuping laugh that was fighting tooth and nail to come out. “I don’t drink coffee. I’ve never made it. I was stumbling through trying to figure it out when someone downstairs was kind enough to show me how....” My voice trailed off as my giggle urge left and I felt despair creeping in. “Is it...horrible?” I whispered.

“A little,” Broward admitted, a wry smile coming to his lips. “But, no worries. I’ll have Sheila walk you through it tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I need a file couriered over from Rothsfield and Merchant. Could you stop by Starbucks on the way back?”

I nodded rapidly, some relief flowing into my body. He didn’t seem mad. Yes, I had looked inept, but it seemed to be okay.

“If you prefer,” I ventured, “I think Mr. De Luca had some breakfast delivered. I could grab some coffee from their conference room?”

His face darkened. Okay...maybe not something he’d prefer. Did I say something wrong?

“No,” he said sharply. “Brad orders that for his secretaries, intern and his clients. We don’t mess with, or borrow, from his staff, and I expect the same from him.” His glowering tone softened slightly at my pale face. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Maybe now is when I should go through the office background.” He stood, shut the file on his desk and pressed the call button on his phone.

A delicate, professional voice sounded through the speakerphone. “Yes, Mr. Broward?” It sounded like Sheila, his secretary. Why wasn’t Sheila getting his coffee? That seemed a secretarial duty.

“I will be indisposed for the next...ten minutes. Please hold my calls.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Broward.”

“Can you please shut the door?” Broward asked as he sat down. I quickly walked to the door and shut it softly, then returned to my place in front of his desk. Broward leaned back in his chair and tapped his finger to his chin, mulling something over while looking at me. I fought the urge to fidget.

“Okay, to begin, let’s attack the elephant in the room.” He leaned forward and met my gaze firmly, his almost-stern expression reminding me of when my father used to lecture me on the importance of high school English. What elephant in the room? Is this about the coffee?

“Brad De Luca,” he began. “Brad is, without a doubt, the best divorce attorney in the south. His waiting list is over ten months long, and many unhappy wives prolong a marriage for the sole reason of waiting to have Brad represent them.” His voice was matter-of-fact and slightly wry. “Brad is a shark in the courtroom and has no problem splattering the walls with blood. He also takes very, very good care of his clients.”

His tone and expression led me to believe that “taking care” of his clients might mean a little more than one would think. I nodded to indicate that I got the point.

“You will no doubt notice the daily breakfast platters, be invited on the Bahamas work weekends and hear the drone of excessive and unnecessary celebrations going on in that wing of this floor.” His stern gaze moved up in intensity to level six. “Julia, I don’t want you to have any part of that. Brad runs his part of the office that way—I run mine in a more...professional and efficient manner. There is a reason that you were not assigned to Brad. Stay away from him.” The approachable, friendly Broward was gone. In his chair sat a dictator speaking to me in the manner one might use on a bad puppy.

I was contrite and didn’t even know why. “Yes, sir,” I said, firmly but quietly.

“Great,” he said briskly. “Now, moving on to the other partner, Hugo Clarke. Clarke focuses on criminal law. His clients are mostly white-collar, though if a case has enough publicity, he will take on the bloodier ones. He is a great source of knowledge, and is always happy to help our interns. He has a young grandson who often spends time here at the office. If you see a two-year-old wandering around, that would be Clarke’s.”

I waited for another death glare and a warning that Clarke sold black market organs, but Broward seemed to be off his soapbox and was now almost jovial. Good lord, it was like dealing with a menopausal woman.

“I focus almost entirely on corporate law—all civil matters. Our work has a lot less emotion involved, but is exciting all the same.” Right. Every law student can’t wait to dive into corporate reform.

Broward skimmed over the other attorneys and reviewed the billing procedures and his general expectations. They all seemed reasonable, though I suspected his general reference to my expected sixty-hour weeks would probably be more of a seventy-or eighty-hour commitment. He signaled the end of our conversation by pressing Sheila’s extension on his phone and indicating that I should open the door.

Her melodious voice came through the speakerphone. “Yes, sir?”

“Please give Julia a tour of the office. Apparently Jane didn’t do a proper job in orientation. Also, she will be running over to Rothsfield to get the Danko file, so please explain the mileage system and petty cash.”

“Certainly.”

Sheila appeared in Broward’s doorway within seconds. She matched her polished voice—an older woman, in her sixties, with a blue sweater set, gray wool dress pants, perfectly coiffed silver hair and a string of pearls. She smiled kindly at me and ushered me out of Broward’s office, closing his door softly behind her.

Sheila’s tour of the wing was in-depth and informative. I met over twelve secretaries, six paralegals, and Attorney Liz Renfield. I nodded at the other interns as we passed through their areas, but didn’t have any conversations. I figured out early why Sheila didn’t bring Broward’s coffee. Handing me the petty cash key, she had an extreme shake to her hands. She was a talker, and I learned as much about her as the firm. She had been there twenty-two years, since it was just Clarke Law Firm and they had to occasionally miss a paycheck if it had been a slow month. By the end of the tour I had learned that Liz Renfield and Robert Handler had once shared more than a case, and that recently Chris Hemming, a civil attorney, had been caught embezzling funds and had been fired.

Sheila led me up a vacant and stale stairway leading to the attic file storage, pausing at the top, key pointed toward the lock in her shaky hand. She glanced at me, somewhat casually. “Did Mr. Broward mention anything about Brad De Luca?”