embedded in the stories, but this one was getting more complicated than the three-dimensional Capitol Building my mom sent for my last birthday. It had frustrated me to the brink of throwing it out half-finished, and I never attempted another.
Now the lawyer was missing? Did a family man with a successful career really take off with hundreds of thousands of dollars in evidence and not even tell his wife? Or was the wife lying?
Medical condition meant medical bills. And prosecuting isn’t where the big bucks are in the legal game. Sounded like a motive to me.
I cleared my throat.
“Hey, DonnaJo,” I said, running a finger over the evidence locker sign-in. “Do you have any idea why Neal would have been at the PD on a Sunday?”
“I go up there sometimes, if there’s evidence I want to look at again when I’m prepping for court,” she said.
“How long would it take you to get me a list of the cases he’s working on?” I asked. “The PD isn’t talking, and I want this for my piece today.”
“About an hour. I have a hearing.”
“Can you also see if there’s anyone he put in prison who’s gotten out recently?”
“Sure. It might take a bit longer, but I’ll send you both. If you’re going to run them, they didn’t come from me, though.”
“No worries. The courthouse fairy brought them to me.”
I thanked her and hung up.
Glancing toward Bob’s door, I got up to go ask if he wanted a separate piece on the attorney by way of the soda machine. I decided as I ambled along, the condensation from my Coke bottle mingling with the sweat breaking out on my hands, that my best bet was to lay out the facts for him as lightly as I could, and ask him if he thought the attorney’s disappearance warranted its own headline. Writing about a lawyer, I didn’t want to get in hot water with legal for tying him to the missing evidence if there was a reason I shouldn’t.
I kept my eyes on the mottled brown carpet as I walked through Bob’s door, my nerves overriding my manners and making the knock more cursory than usual. Perching on the edge of my seat, I began listing the latest developments in my story before I looked at my editor, who was slumped over in his chair, barely breathing.
7.
In a heartbeat
“Bob!” I knocked over the wastebasket and pushed a tape dispenser and a bottle of white-out off the desk dragging Bob’s heft from the chair, which crashed into the wall when I kicked at the casters under it to get it out of the way.
Once he was on his back on the floor, I knelt and popped his cheek with my palm, rapid-fire style.
“Bob!” I shouted, my nose inches from his. My hand left a red mark on his otherwise bloodless skin.
He didn’t move, his breathing still shallow.
“Help!” I turned my head in the general direction of the door I couldn’t really see from behind the desk.
“HEY!” I bellowed in my best press conference voice. “In Bob’s office. Someone help! We need an ambulance!” Damn. Mid-morning on a Monday was not the best time to find newsroom staff in the office.
“Nichelle?” Shelby’s voice came from near the doorway.
“Shelby, thank God.” I’d have been glad to see Adolf Hitler himself right then if he knew how to call the paramedics. “Over here, behind the desk.
“Call 9-1-1. Then go get someone who can help with CPR, just in case he stops breathing.” I barked the orders automatically, having been through this more than once when my mom was weak from her chemo.
For the first time ever, Shelby didn’t argue with me or offer a smartass retort. She gaped at Bob for a split second and then snatched up the phone, giving the operator the building’s address before she sprinted out into the newsroom.
She returned shortly, hauling Eunice behind her.
“Christ on a cracker, what’s going on in here?” Eunice’s golden brown eyes widened as they studied Bob, and she laid a hand on my shoulder. “Shelby said you needed help with CPR, but he’s
Now the lawyer was missing? Did a family man with a successful career really take off with hundreds of thousands of dollars in evidence and not even tell his wife? Or was the wife lying?
Medical condition meant medical bills. And prosecuting isn’t where the big bucks are in the legal game. Sounded like a motive to me.
I cleared my throat.
“Hey, DonnaJo,” I said, running a finger over the evidence locker sign-in. “Do you have any idea why Neal would have been at the PD on a Sunday?”
“I go up there sometimes, if there’s evidence I want to look at again when I’m prepping for court,” she said.
“How long would it take you to get me a list of the cases he’s working on?” I asked. “The PD isn’t talking, and I want this for my piece today.”
“About an hour. I have a hearing.”
“Can you also see if there’s anyone he put in prison who’s gotten out recently?”
“Sure. It might take a bit longer, but I’ll send you both. If you’re going to run them, they didn’t come from me, though.”
“No worries. The courthouse fairy brought them to me.”
I thanked her and hung up.
Glancing toward Bob’s door, I got up to go ask if he wanted a separate piece on the attorney by way of the soda machine. I decided as I ambled along, the condensation from my Coke bottle mingling with the sweat breaking out on my hands, that my best bet was to lay out the facts for him as lightly as I could, and ask him if he thought the attorney’s disappearance warranted its own headline. Writing about a lawyer, I didn’t want to get in hot water with legal for tying him to the missing evidence if there was a reason I shouldn’t.
I kept my eyes on the mottled brown carpet as I walked through Bob’s door, my nerves overriding my manners and making the knock more cursory than usual. Perching on the edge of my seat, I began listing the latest developments in my story before I looked at my editor, who was slumped over in his chair, barely breathing.
7.
In a heartbeat
“Bob!” I knocked over the wastebasket and pushed a tape dispenser and a bottle of white-out off the desk dragging Bob’s heft from the chair, which crashed into the wall when I kicked at the casters under it to get it out of the way.
Once he was on his back on the floor, I knelt and popped his cheek with my palm, rapid-fire style.
“Bob!” I shouted, my nose inches from his. My hand left a red mark on his otherwise bloodless skin.
He didn’t move, his breathing still shallow.
“Help!” I turned my head in the general direction of the door I couldn’t really see from behind the desk.
“HEY!” I bellowed in my best press conference voice. “In Bob’s office. Someone help! We need an ambulance!” Damn. Mid-morning on a Monday was not the best time to find newsroom staff in the office.
“Nichelle?” Shelby’s voice came from near the doorway.
“Shelby, thank God.” I’d have been glad to see Adolf Hitler himself right then if he knew how to call the paramedics. “Over here, behind the desk.
“Call 9-1-1. Then go get someone who can help with CPR, just in case he stops breathing.” I barked the orders automatically, having been through this more than once when my mom was weak from her chemo.
For the first time ever, Shelby didn’t argue with me or offer a smartass retort. She gaped at Bob for a split second and then snatched up the phone, giving the operator the building’s address before she sprinted out into the newsroom.
She returned shortly, hauling Eunice behind her.
“Christ on a cracker, what’s going on in here?” Eunice’s golden brown eyes widened as they studied Bob, and she laid a hand on my shoulder. “Shelby said you needed help with CPR, but he’s
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