ward.”
“Fine, I get it. He took some tough breaks. But again, not your fault.”
“Of course it is, Don. Simple cause and effect. A to B to C. Jack at our apartment. Jack calls Owen. Owen spends hours consoling him at a bar. Owen drives home and dies. Jack goes crazy.”
“And then Jack gets better, marries a woman, becomes a successful writer, has a child. He got a fresh start. You don’t owe him anything.”
According to profiles I had read, Molly had supported Jack so he could stop teaching and finish his first novel. Jack was so grateful that he dedicated the book to her and began volunteering to teach writing workshops to troubled kids as a tribute to his teacher wife. She was the supportive woman I had never been, and, with her, he thrived.
But he didn’t have Molly anymore. She was killed, and now Jack was accused of murdering the man he felt was responsible.
“Don, you’ve been telling me to get to the point. The point is, I’m taking this case. I’m a partner, not your employee. I choose my own clients—”
I heard a woman two tables over call out, “Hey, turn that up! It’s about the shooting.”
I watched as Melissa pointed the remote control at the television hanging in the corner above the bar. On the screen, the police commissioner took his place at the lectern while the mayor stood sternly at his side.
He delivered the kind of comforting preamble the public had come to expect after a mass shooting. There had been so many, I wondered if police departments shared notes.
“We know members of the public have been eager for details, andwe have asked for your patience as teams of officers and detectives have been working on multiple fronts, both to notify and to support victims’ families and also investigate the case and identify and capture the person or persons responsible. Tonight, I can report that, as we already stated earlier today, shots were fired shortly after seven AM . Three people were shot. Two of the victims were deceased by the time emergency vehicles arrived at the scene, and, unfortunately, just an hour ago, the third victim also succumbed to injuries. We can also release the names of the three victims: Tracy Frankel, age twenty; Clifton Hunter, age forty-one; and Malcolm Neeley, age fifty-seven.”
The commissioner cleared his throat as murmurs spread across the briefing room at the mention of Neeley’s name. “I can also report that we have arrested a suspect in connection with the fatal shootings. His name is Jackson Harris, he is forty-four years old, and is a resident of Manhattan. All evidence is that the perpetrator acted alone, and there is no remaining threat to the people of New York City.”
As the commissioner turned from the lectern, the press erupted into a barrage of questions. “Is that Jack Harris the writer?” “Was this retaliation for the Penn Station shooting?”
Around us in the restaurant, fellow diners expressed similar thoughts. I heard a woman behind me say, “Holy shit, guess that kid’s father should have paid up on the lawsuit.” Within moments, the consensus at the table next to us was that Jack “must have snapped.” There was that word again. There were tsk sounds, as if to say, “That poor guy, what a tragedy.”
A three-minute statement by the police commissioner, and already, I could feel its impact: the entire city was sure that Jack did it.
I downed the rest of my martini. “Are you going to say you told me so?”
Don’s wince was barely perceptible, but I could tell I had managed to hurt his feelings. “Of course not. You’re not my underling anymore,and you’re an excellent defense lawyer. You’ve earned the right to make your own decisions.”
“Don, I’ll understand if you don’t want any part of it.”
“That’s not how we operate. Not ever.”
That wasn’t technically true. Three years ago, Don used a claim of battered woman syndrome to defend a woman accused of child neglect. I refused to help him,
“Fine, I get it. He took some tough breaks. But again, not your fault.”
“Of course it is, Don. Simple cause and effect. A to B to C. Jack at our apartment. Jack calls Owen. Owen spends hours consoling him at a bar. Owen drives home and dies. Jack goes crazy.”
“And then Jack gets better, marries a woman, becomes a successful writer, has a child. He got a fresh start. You don’t owe him anything.”
According to profiles I had read, Molly had supported Jack so he could stop teaching and finish his first novel. Jack was so grateful that he dedicated the book to her and began volunteering to teach writing workshops to troubled kids as a tribute to his teacher wife. She was the supportive woman I had never been, and, with her, he thrived.
But he didn’t have Molly anymore. She was killed, and now Jack was accused of murdering the man he felt was responsible.
“Don, you’ve been telling me to get to the point. The point is, I’m taking this case. I’m a partner, not your employee. I choose my own clients—”
I heard a woman two tables over call out, “Hey, turn that up! It’s about the shooting.”
I watched as Melissa pointed the remote control at the television hanging in the corner above the bar. On the screen, the police commissioner took his place at the lectern while the mayor stood sternly at his side.
He delivered the kind of comforting preamble the public had come to expect after a mass shooting. There had been so many, I wondered if police departments shared notes.
“We know members of the public have been eager for details, andwe have asked for your patience as teams of officers and detectives have been working on multiple fronts, both to notify and to support victims’ families and also investigate the case and identify and capture the person or persons responsible. Tonight, I can report that, as we already stated earlier today, shots were fired shortly after seven AM . Three people were shot. Two of the victims were deceased by the time emergency vehicles arrived at the scene, and, unfortunately, just an hour ago, the third victim also succumbed to injuries. We can also release the names of the three victims: Tracy Frankel, age twenty; Clifton Hunter, age forty-one; and Malcolm Neeley, age fifty-seven.”
The commissioner cleared his throat as murmurs spread across the briefing room at the mention of Neeley’s name. “I can also report that we have arrested a suspect in connection with the fatal shootings. His name is Jackson Harris, he is forty-four years old, and is a resident of Manhattan. All evidence is that the perpetrator acted alone, and there is no remaining threat to the people of New York City.”
As the commissioner turned from the lectern, the press erupted into a barrage of questions. “Is that Jack Harris the writer?” “Was this retaliation for the Penn Station shooting?”
Around us in the restaurant, fellow diners expressed similar thoughts. I heard a woman behind me say, “Holy shit, guess that kid’s father should have paid up on the lawsuit.” Within moments, the consensus at the table next to us was that Jack “must have snapped.” There was that word again. There were tsk sounds, as if to say, “That poor guy, what a tragedy.”
A three-minute statement by the police commissioner, and already, I could feel its impact: the entire city was sure that Jack did it.
I downed the rest of my martini. “Are you going to say you told me so?”
Don’s wince was barely perceptible, but I could tell I had managed to hurt his feelings. “Of course not. You’re not my underling anymore,and you’re an excellent defense lawyer. You’ve earned the right to make your own decisions.”
“Don, I’ll understand if you don’t want any part of it.”
“That’s not how we operate. Not ever.”
That wasn’t technically true. Three years ago, Don used a claim of battered woman syndrome to defend a woman accused of child neglect. I refused to help him,
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