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I grab a blue pinstriped suit and a blue tie that matches the stripe. “Why is the gray one lucky?” I ask as I pull a black jacket over my long-sleeved turtleneck, that I’ve matched with my flared skirt.
“I won my first jury verdict in it,” he says. “And if I’m really lucky, as I was that day, the verdict is the same day as my closing.”
I step into a pair of black stiletto heels and when he’s fully dressed, except for his jacket, I knot his tie. “You’re skilled at this,” he says. “Whose tie have you been attending to?”
“Three brothers,” I say. “One of which, Gabe—the one who stopped by my place—still can’t tie a tie. I used to pre-knot them for him.”
He laughs. “I had a friend in law school like that. I couldn’t teach him. He bought a machine to do it for him. The guy could debate the hell out of you in the classroom, and he’s a damn good attorney now, but a tie brought him to his knees.”
I pat his tie. “All done.” I step back and watch him shrug into his jacket. “You need another lucky suit. I think you should actually buy a suit for every trial to be ‘the’ suit.”
“Why is that?” he asks, sticking a tie pin into place.
“Because then you can see your successes line your closet, and you know why I think that’s important.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not lucky. You’re good. You don’t need a suit for luck at all.”
He snags my hip and walks me to him. “Maybe I should make you my lucky charm.”
“You’d have to give up the suit then.”
“I’ll take you over the suit any day, sweetheart.”
I’m still smiling over that comment when we head to the kitchen and grab a cup of coffee. After which, I open my MacBook and read my new column while Reese answers emails. “Are you happy with it?” Reese asks, closing his computer.
“I am,” I say. “Are you?”
“You’re the one who counts.”
“I wanted you to read it last night before I sent it in.”
“And I told you, I don’t want to influence your writing.” He sticks his MacBook in his briefcase and gives me his full attention. “Read me your closing statement.”
I like that he wants to hear it. I like that he doesn’t want to influence me. The problem is that he didn’t and I’m not sure I want to read it to him. “Tonight,” I say. “I’ll read it to you tonight.”
“I don’t want to know what you wrote, do I?”
“I don’t want to influence you.”
“When have you ever held your tongue with me?”
“The morning before you walk into court. Reading it to you last night was different than reading it to you ten minutes before we have to leave for court.”
“Cat,” he prods. “Read me the closing. Influence the fuck out of me. If I need to hear what you wrote, I need to hear it.”
I inhale and breathe out. “All right.” I start reading: When a prosecutor spends all of three days presenting his case in a trial this massive, you have to ask: What is he afraid of? Why not call character assassins to the stand? Why not call the investigators to the stand, and how did they end up on the witness list for the defense, not the prosecution? Why not spend days or weeks with medical experts on the stand? I’m baffled and have only two conclusions I can draw: Either the prosecutor charged rashly, and planned to build a case later, one that simply didn’t exist, or he has a brilliant plan, perhaps a trap set for the defense, that has yet to be revealed. Until then, —Cat. I look at Reese. “Well?”
“A trap,” he says. “Why the hell would you let me walk into court and not bring that to my attention?”
“It was a random thought right before I hit send. I mean, what trap could he really have set?”
“One of the witnesses on my list is going to burn me. Maybe one of the investigators I’m calling today. And that burn will be deeper because I called them, not the prosecution. I’ll look ill-prepared.”
“You said it yourself. They have signed statements. Don’t back down.”
He taps his finger on the island. “You’ve validated my plan. Short and effective. I’m not calling anyone I don’t have to call.”
