Hate at First Sight

All three of us were shocked at Talbot's condition, including me, and I'd seen it already. Whoever had done this to him clearly didn't care whether he survived or not. Mom and I just sort of gaped at him; Dad, bless his heart, sat down next to Talbot and started a one-sided conversation about pretty much anything except law, hospitals, and people getting beaten up.

I was trying to figure out how in the world I'd managed not to admit I loved this man, and what I was going to do about it, when through the fog of my thoughts I heard Dad say, "Livingston brought you something." I put the flowers on his bedside table while I tried to think of something to say. Did Talbot's eyes mist up, or was that my imagination? Maybe it was the pain he must be in. Come on, Livingston Brookes, you hot shot lawyer, say something!

"Talbot, I'm taking your case." His eyes widened, and I could see him trying to shake his head.

"No. Danger," he finally managed to croak out. I took his poor weak hand in both of mine.

"I know, Talbot. Of course, you know this proves you were right all along. Bandini is guilty as sin, we all know that, but it's the people who hired him who need to be put away. I intend to make that happen, and you know I can do it."

He tried to smile. His mouth didn't cooperate, but I saw it in his eyes. "Fence," he croaked.

"Fence?" I was puzzled for a moment. "Oh, you mean defense. I always do defense. You're right, I'll probably hate myself for the rest of my life for being on the wrong side of the courtroom, but if it means nailing the bastards who did this, it's worth it." I spoke with all the conviction in my heart. I hated them far worse than I'd ever hated anyone, including Talbot.

His eyes looked a warning at me. "Ain er," he said again.

"I know, Talbot. It will be dangerous, and I know you can't rescue me this time. I'll be careful. Some people at my firm have connections, and I'll be safe."

"Ohbuhee utch ivvy," he said. "Nobody touches Livy," I interpreted.

"Talbot..." There was steel in my voice. Love him or hate him, I was NOT 'Livy!'

I could swear his eyes were twinkling just like they used to. Whatever those bastards had done to his body, he was still Talbot, through and through.

"Eee ill oo ard," he croaked. I heard my Mom give an unladylike giggle/snort behind me just before I figured it out. "Three syllables, too hard." I laughed; I couldn't help myself.

"All right, I'll give you a pass this time. But my name is Livingston, and don't you forget it!" I smiled as I said it, so it wouldn't sting.

"Sure thing, Liv," Dad piped up behind me. I turned to glare at him, only to see him and Mom smiling at me with their arms around each other and all their love for me in their eyes. I mean, talk about unfair, but what was I going to do? I just smiled back at them.

Talbot was obviously getting tired, so we got ready to leave. I told him I'd visit often and keep him posted on the case. Dad told him he was betting on him. It would have sounded hokey coming from anyone else, but it seemed to encourage Talbot. We said goodbye.

The moment we were out of sight of Talbot's room, Dad turned toward the nearest wall, leaned against it with his head on his arm, and sobbed. Great, silent, heartbroken sobs like I never could have imagined. He'd been a rock when we were with Talbot, now we could see how he really felt. Mom hugged him from one side and I hugged him from the other while his body shook with his sobs. We could hear hospital people going by us in the hallway. I guess they were used to this sort of thing.

Dad quieted, then straightened up. He looked a thanks at both of us, then led the way to the elevators with a steady stride and a grim face. We drove home in silence. It had been a long day.

When we got into the house, my parents looked at me, then they put me in between them and squeezed me, just like they did when I was that scared little girl. I'm half a foot taller than Mom is now, so you might think it would feel different. It didn't, not one little bit.

"Never gonna let you go, girl," Dad rumbled at me.

"Nope, never gonna happen," said Mom. Just as always, when we broke apart, we had tears in our eyes and big grins on our faces.

"Livingston, you're going to nail those sons of bitches," Dad said, with that voice and look that makes you sure you can do anything, the same one he gave Talbot. He really was a damn fine coach.

"Liv, you'll get him back," Mom told me.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Because he wants you to." She just stood there with that "Mama knows" look on her face, and I couldn't help believing her. Have I mentioned how amazingly awesome my parents are, and how much I love them? It wasn't until I was home, getting ready for bed, that I realized that was the first time I'd ever heard Dad curse.

I'd thought a lot about how I was going to wangle a temporary assignment to the public defender's office. I knew Mr. Tate, the managing partner, slightly. He was pretty sensitive about the firm's reputation; we weren't exactly known for sticking up for the little guy, so I figured I could sell him on some high profile pro bono work. It all went perfectly until he asked why I wanted to go to the public defender's office.

"I want to take the Bandini case."

"WHAT?"

I stuck my chin out and repeated. "I want the Bandini case, and I think I can win it."

"Livingston, you know good and well he's guilty. The only way you'll get him off is by nailing the people behind him. After what happened to poor McCoy, we all know who they are."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you under some sort of mistaken impression that they'll take it easy on you because you're a woman? Hell, Livingston, they'll just... you know ..." He couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Rape me first, then beat me? They'll have to catch me first, and I don't intend to be caught."

"Neither did McCoy." He sighed and looked at me sadly. "Look, Livingston, I know how you feel. We all feel that way. We talk a lot about how hard we fight in court, and our take no prisoners attitude, but that's all figurative. What happened to McCoy was real. We never dreamed something like this would happen to one of us, an attorney, over a case.

"You haven't been here very long, but everyone here, from me down to the janitor, likes you and respects you. We're proud of you, and you have a great future here. We don't want to see that future put in jeopardy over a scumbag like Bandini. More important, Livingston, we don't want to see you hurt, or even killed. That's a real possibility, you know."

He paused. I could tell he was truly concerned about me, and I was touched, but I knew what I had to do.

"Do you still want to do this?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right, then, I'll make the arrangements." He coughed into his sleeve.

"There's one more thing, Livingston. You're going to need help." I bristled at him, but he snapped at me before I could get a word out.

"There's a one word description for the Lone Rangers who go after people like this by themselves. That word is dead. Now shut up and listen." It was an order. I listened. His face was sad again.

"There's a man I know. We were best friends long ago, way back when we both had ideals. He's a cop. Nobody in this town knows more than he does about the mob. Treat him right, and he'll help you. At least, he'll get protection for you, and you'll need it." He took a blank card and wrote a name and phone number on it from memory.

"That's his private phone. Mention my name before he hangs up on you." I took the card and tried to pronounce Joseph Przybylowicz. I failed miserably. He stood and offered me his hand.

"Good luck, Livingston. Let us know if there's anything we can do for you."

"Thank you, sir. I'll make you proud." I almost felt like I was saying it to my Dad.

"Yeah, just don't make me have to say it at your funeral." I started to smile, then I realized he wasn't kidding. There's one thing that's always safe to say to a senior partner.

"Yes, sir." We shook hands and I left his office.

I'd never thought of Mr. Tate as someone who cared much about the people at the firm. Cared about them as people, I mean. This was the first time I'd had more than two sentences with him, and I was surprised how much he seemed to care about me. Maybe my hard shell had deprived me of more than Talbot? Oh, well, I would think about that later. I had work to do.

I didn't bother to wait for the paperwork. I went straight to the head public defender's office, told her who I was, what I was doing there, and that I wanted the Bandini case. She looked at me funny.

"Why that one?"

"I have my reasons. Any reason I shouldn't have it?"

"None at all. No one else around here will touch it with a ten-foot pole, so if you want it, it's yours. Bring me the paperwork when you have it, and I'll release the files to you."

Check that one off the list. I was on a roll, so I headed to the District Attorney's office for a conference with my opposite number. I could have done this by phone, of course, but I thought the personal touch might be more effective. Especially since I'd dressed for a senior partner. I saw a couple of male heads pop up over the cubicle walls when I said "Bandini" so very clearly. Sure enough, I didn't even have to wait half an hour before one of them came round and introduced himself as Devin Williams, ADA on the Bandini case.

It's usual to let the prosecutor lead off at these meetings, and he gave me the usual stuff about how bulletproof his case was, and how I might as well plead my client guilty and save the taxpayers money. I asked what I would get in return, and we danced around that for a while. I hadn't been practicing long, but I could already do this part in my sleep. I spent the time polishing what I would say about the real business of the meeting.

I wanted to postpone Bandini's trial while we went after his bosses. I built a case including the attack on Talbot, which any attorney should hate regardless of which side they were on. I said all we had to do was get something on one of Bandini's bosses, and then Bandini would testify himself. Once the bosses were settled, we could let the small fry go free. I was going pretty well when he interrupted me.

"No."

"What?"

"No. McCoy put the same thing to me, and it's no deal."

"Why? Nailing a big boss like that would make your career. Heck, I'd even help you do it, and I'm a defense attorney. What's the problem? You aren't afraid, are you?"

"No, Ms. Brookes, that's not it, although it would make sense if I were afraid: I don't know where McCoy, and now you, get off thinking you're a match for these people. You're not. There are two reasons my answer is no.

"First, this case will make my career as it is, and it's a slam dunk. You either plead him guilty to all the charges, or you get trounced in court. This is the surest thing I'll ever have. I'm not giving it up. Second, my boss told me not to."

"What? But why? I thought he was trying to make a reputation as a big mob fighter so he could run for Congress."

Devin looked thoughtful for a moment. "McCoy asked me the same thing, and I'm still not sure why, and yes, I do know Bandini's bosses are throwing him under the bus for some reason. But," he became brisk again, "that isn't important. What matters is he gave me my orders, and told me it's as much as my job is worth to disobey them. So I said 'yes, sir' and 'one mobster conviction coming right up, sir'."

There didn't seem to be much to say after that. There wasn't anything more I could do without the paperwork, so I went back to my office and gave thanks for a door I could close. I hate cubicles.

The interview with my client went even worse than the meeting with Devin. He knew he'd been set up, he'd been paid to do what he did, but he wouldn't say anything else. I threatened, I cajoled, I told him nailing his bosses was the only hope we had of getting him off, and all he did was ask me how long his sentence was going to be. It was the most frustrating experience of my life. Even Talbot at his worst hadn't been this bad. Or, maybe he had, but I didn't look at it the same way anymore.

I was running out of options. It finally occurred to me to find out who had been investigating Talbot's beating, and see if they'd come up with anything. I did, and it was the guy whose name Mr. Tate had given me. At least I thought it was. The first name was Joe, and the last name was long and sounded like a Polish sneeze. That was close enough for me. Reluctantly, I decided to call him.

I've never liked cops. It's not a race thing; I don't like black cops either. People who go out and get a job where they tell other people what to do just rub me the wrong way. I haven't had any terrible experiences with cops, like some people I know. In the experience I've had, they either do the wrong thing, or try to do the right thing and screw it up, or show up too late to do anything at all. I don't like cops.

I knew what this Polish Joe character looked like before I even dialed the phone. Balding, short, fat, out of shape, double chinned, disgusting man-boobs making dents in his too-tight shirt, and narrow squinty little eyes focused on my tits. I shuddered as I dialed the phone.

"Yeah?" The voice's owner clearly wished I would go away.

"Mr... um, Prize-blow-..."

"Yeah, who's callin'?" I introduced myself, told him Mr. Tate had referred me, and that I had taken on the Bandini case. The only response was low, heavy, slightly asthmatic breathing. Oh, crap, a perv on top of it all, I shuddered. I was trying to decide whether to repeat myself, ask if he was okay, or just hang up.

"Why?" It felt like the query was shot from a gun.

"What?" I reacted.

"Why. Why - would - you - take - that - case?" He acted as if he was talking to an infant with water on the brain. I began to explain about the firm wanting to polish its image, my wanting to do some pro bono work.

"Bullcrap. You get one more chance 'cause you're a babe. Why?" The statement snapped like a whip. With a passing thought that this guy would be murder in an interrogation room, I decided to tell him the truth, or most of it.

"You know Talbot McCoy, the PD who was on the case? He and I went to school together, and my dad was his football coach, so we've known each other forever. Well, for a long time, anyway. It just seemed like I should do it." More silence. I hated myself for feeling, and sounding, so insecure.

"All right, fair enough. We'll talk." He gave me a time the next day, and complicated directions to a secluded place in a public park. "Got that?" He hung up before I could answer.

I was proud of myself for arriving exactly on time, and for dressing down: my professional clothes would be out of place here. He arrived at exactly the same time from another direction. He looked exactly as I imagined, except his eyes were constantly in motion, and hardly ever on me.

"We have five minutes. I talk, you listen. If Bandini is anywhere but jail now and for the next few years, he's a dead man. That's why he won't squeal or cooperate with you. He wants to be convicted. Your only hope of getting to the guys behind him is through the attack on McCoy. I'm working on that, but it's slow going. Witnesses to this kind of thing have a habit of turning up dead.

"I'm going to arrange protection for you. You'll give me your address and a phone where I can reach you. I'll handle it from there. Don't get that high and mighty look with me, or I turn around and walk away and you take your chances. You've been visiting McCoy at the same time every day. Stop doing that. Change it up. Don't be predictable.

"If I get something, I'll call you on the phone you used last night. If you get something, call me on the number Tate gave you. Only use the phone to set something up, not for other stuff. Questions?"

"Thank you, Mr. Priz-bile-..."

"You'll never get it right, you ain't Polish. Just call me Jopie."

"Wait, what?"

He sighed. "Jopie. You know, Joe P. Got it?"

I got it. I gave him the address of my apartment. I tried to thank him, but realized I was talking to his back and gave up. I slumped down on a bench to think for a while. I never thought I would meet a competent cop. Now I had: if this 'Jopie' didn't know what he was doing, I was a blonde. I was aware that I was entering another world. Jopie's and Bandini's world. The partners at my law firm, Devin Williams, and even Talbot didn't know it existed, not really. The 'shadow world' thing was supposed to make me afraid. Well, good luck with that, I thought. I squared my shoulders and went to see Talbot.

I thought Talbot's color looked better today. Maybe that was just wishful thinking. He was still almost completely covered with wraps, casts, bandages and so on. He did look like he was glad to see me. Monica was there, so I couldn't get too personal. I just filled him in on the news. I told him that I'd struck out with the DA on the Bandini case, just as he had. I thought Monica gave me a funny look when I said that, but I could have been imagining that, too.

I couldn't stay long. Seeing him helpless and hurting like that, and seeing him look lovingly at another woman was tearing my heart out. I couldn't let him see that, of course, so I just smiled at him as hard as I could, told him to get better and left.

I paused at the end of the hallway to collect myself. I'm not a crier. When I get hurt, I don't weep. I get even, and more if I can, and I was fighting mad. Whoever did that to Talbot, no, whoever ordered that to be done to Talbot, was going to wish they hadn't, if it was the last thing I did.

Before I could turn and stride away there were quick footsteps behind me and a light hand on my shoulder. I spun on my heel to see Monica. She handed me a card. "Don't read it here," she whispered. She turned and was gone.

At home that evening, I pulled out the card Monica had given me. "Monica Bennet, CPA, Audit Division, Latham & Revere, Investment Bankers." There was a downtown address and a phone number. On the back was written, "Please call," and a different phone number. It must have been her personal cell; the area code was out of state. I was pretty sure she wanted to talk about Talbot. That was the last thing I wanted, but the 'please' was underlined twice, so I shrugged and dialed the number.

Monica wasted no time on pleasantries. We needed to talk; it couldn't be at her place or mine, or at either of our offices. She proposed a conference room at the public library, the next afternoon. I agreed, and she hung up. That was odd, I thought. What could she say about Talbot that had to be so hush-hush?

I was punctual to the minute. Monica ushered me into the room, dimmed the lights, and started a movie playing on the computer. Finally, we shook hands and she thanked me for coming. She talked so low I could barely hear her over the movie.

She had been hired almost straight out of business school into the audit division of Latham & Revere, which she described as the biggest investment bank that no one had ever heard of. A few months ago, she had run across some well-hidden transactions that looked suspiciously like money laundering. She traced them, and after a lot of winding and doubling back, one of those transactions ended in a payment to Goldblum, Perry, and Tate for legal fees relating to one Sam Bandini.

"There were rumors at our place about that, too. Why didn't you tell Talbot?"

"I was going to," she answered, "but that was the night he was attacked. Do you think there's a connection?"

"Hell, I don't know." I knew someone who would, though. "There's a guy who's helping me with the case. Let me put it to him and see what he says."

"Thank you, Livingston." She paused, and blushed a little. I knew what was coming next, or thought I did.