A Verdict for Love

©
2010 by Monica Conti

All rights reserved. No part
of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of the author.

This material is presented
as adult entertainment and is not intended for any person under the
age of eighteen years. While every precaution has been taken in the
preparation of this work, the author assumes no responsibilities
for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of
information contained herein. All characters and descriptions
contained herein are purely fictitious
.

C
hiara stood by the window watching the people moving along W.
Peachtree as she sipped her coffee and thought about the day ahead.
Her raven hair was swept off her face and fell in waves around high
cheekbones. The tips of that luxuriant mane grazed the tops of her
shoulders. That morning she had chosen a turquoise turtleneck
sweater that fit her slim torso and gently hugged her breasts.
Black trousers hung low on her hips and clung to her bottom as
though the material had been painted on her. Chiara felt that too
many career women imitated men in their choice of dress. She saw no
reason to drape herself in curve killing pinstripes.

Chiara Bianchi had arresting, dark
brown eyes. When she gazed at anyone she had a way of making them
feel as though she were looking deep into them, not just at them,
but inside their being. That she stood out wherever she went was
due to no special effort on her part. Her beauty and Italian
heritage gave her an aura of intrigue. Most of the denizens of
Atlanta found her worthy of attention. And, if her accent and
beauty weren’t enough to make them notice, then her unconventional
sense of style was.

Even though the letterhead of the firm
of Smith, Weinstein & Brooks did not yet bear her name, Chiara
felt the firm’s offices were her domain. She pretty much lived and
breathed her career and years of hard work had advanced her to
junior partner status but there was one last rung to climb. Each
morning, she would stand in the same spot. Her eyes were on the sun
rising over the distant skyline but her mind was busy ordering the
day ahead. Whether she had a court appearance or a brief to work
on, she was diligent and thorough.

Chiara was a worthy adversary in the
courtroom and not one that prosecutors looked forward to seeing
across from them at the defense table.

A
s
she turned away from the window that morning she had a lot on her
mind.
She was undertaking the biggest
criminal trial she had ever been given. If she won it, she could
expect to make full partner. A pursuit of success and power was the
hypnotic underpinning that kept her centered as a woman and as a
lawyer.

The case involved Jack Shay, the
proprietor of the largest and most popular gentleman’s club in
Atlanta—Club Vanity Fair.

The indictment charged Shay with
racketeering and the illegal operation of a prostitution ring on
the premises of the club. They were alleging serious connections to
organized crime. It was a nice juicy, high profile scandal. The
prosecutor saw a chance for some sweet political headlines and he
had people lined up around the block to testify against Shay.
Everyone in Atlanta figured he was guilty.

Most anyone with deep pockets called
Peter Smith’s firm when they found themselves in hot water. But the
most senior of the partners had not been eager to defend Shay. It
seemed like a lost cause and losing a case that was getting so much
publicity wouldn’t help their reputation. But there were two good
reasons for him to help Shay in spite of his reservations. One, the
fee would be large and there was a second incentive. Some years
back there had been an unfortunate mishap. He and a few cronies had
at times availed themselves of the services of some of Shay’s
classier girls. One night things had had not worked out for him
with one of those girls. Everything had been taken care of. It was
pretty much ancient history but with the prosecutor busy digging a
hole to bury Shay in who knew what old skeletons might be
unearthed. If the firm took the defense he would be in a better
position to do some damage control if by some fluke it became
necessary.

None of the partners wanted it. They
felt it was an unwinnable bet and who needed an addition to their
loss column. Also it had the smell of outside underworld influence
written all over it. So Smith passed it off to Chiara Bianchi. She
was hungry for a chance to shine and he was sure she was able
enough to at least put up a good show. The prosecution would be
painting Shay as a victimizer of women so having a woman at the
defense table made sense.

As word circulated within the firm it
became a sort of whispered joke. Her male colleagues were sure that
the high and mighty Miss Bianchi would lose the trial and be one
step closer to leaving. Oddly enough it was the very fact of her
attractiveness that had brought about such secret
animosity.

Chiara had initially been admired by
all the firm’s male lawyers, but their admiration was more for her
beauty and exoticism than for her skill as a lawyer. But after
getting nowhere near her bedroom resentment had replaced
admiration. She’d become known as the Ice Queen behind her back.
Her defeat would provide some satisfaction for their bruised
egos.

It was true that Chiara had
steadfastly refused all of their seductive overtures. But she’d
rejected them kindly. Chiara was not cruel or rude. In fact, she
was femininely polite in the extreme way that Italian women tend to
be. She was always respectful to her male counterparts.

In many ways, despite her career
accomplishments she was traditionally feminine outwardly. She even
volunteered to serve the coffee or tea at meetings. And, she never
indicated any displeasure when she saw the men sizing her up
physically during intra-office gatherings or at firm
outings.

She had been raised by a second
generation Italian-American mother and had been brought up to show
respect for men. So, it came naturally for her to do so. The
problem was that the men misinterpreted this behavior as meaning
that she might want something more than office
politesse.

In thinking she was interested in men
in any way other than professionally they had been way off base.
Chiara was a lesbian. Her personal choice was to remain in the
closet. To her mind she had no alternative if she wanted to succeed
as a lawyer in such a very old school Atlanta firm.

However, being closeted had merely
solved one problem and created another. The men took her rejection
of them to heart and their resentment toward her grew, as both a
woman and an attorney.

Chiara had naturally become aware of
this but there was little she could do beyond maintaining her
composure. The conflict was unavoidable. She was absolutely
gorgeous to look at and though she tried and mostly succeeded at
keeping suitors at bay with the kindest refusals, she had an allure
that was bound to lead her into difficulty.

At the moment, she didn’t have time to
consider any of that or what she was missing in her life. Her
thoughts were consumed with a search for some angle that could be
brought to Jack Shay’s defense.

She knew that Shay was guilty as sin.
From the moment Peter Smith had tossed the case in her lap she had
spent night, day and every waking millisecond on it. She didn’t
care about his guilt. What she cared about as a seasoned defense
attorney was getting him a fair trial. And winning it despite the
odds against her!

Chiara had been schooled by some of
the best and brightest lawyers at Harvard and she knew what it took
to win a tough case. The key would be microscopic focus. There had
to be a flaw somewhere she just had to prove she could find
it.

On her initial meeting with Jack Shay,
they were both sizing each other up. Chiara took one look at him
and saw him for a sleazy purveyor of flesh. For his part, he seemed
more than a little doubtful of her ability to defend him
successfully. Chiara quickly pointed out to him that having a woman
in his corner when he was accused of prostituting women was
actually a huge advantage. In the end he had to concur. The bottom
line for Chiara was that her personal opinion of Jack Shay was
immaterial. Giving him anything less than the best defense she
could muster would be unethical.

H
er
head might have been filled with thoughts of nothing but Jack Shay
and Club Vanity Fair. But, at night sometimes, when all was quiet
in her large home on E. Paces Ferry, private musings intruded. She
would stare out across the pine-tree strewn backyard and listen to
the night-birds singing. Her success had earned her a lovely home
but she felt deeply lonely at these moments and wished she had
someone to share it with.

She had been single for a year now.
Her longtime lover Helen had gone back to Boston where they had met
during Chiara’s stint as a law student.

Helen had left because she had felt
too often ignored. She’d been angry because Chiara spent all her
time at the firm and she had also resented being forced into the
closet with her there in the conservative and deeply-religious
south.

Though they had loved each other a
great deal, Helen had been unable to reconcile herself to being
relegated to the home and never sharing time outside of it with her
lover.

Chiara had not known how to change
anything, though she had wanted to do so. It was too late now.
Helen was already with another woman, a painter named Sharon
Blackamoor, living in a quaint house with an ocean view and two
dogs.

So on the dark evenings when Chiara
was alone in her big empty white house with its grand portico and
Doric columns, she felt yearnings for love, yearnings for pleasure,
for eroticism.

There was no outlet for her. Torturing
herself was pointless so she put even more of her energy into the
career that had created those evening voids, always postponing her
deeper desires and repressing any overwhelming longings. It was sad
and a loss…both for her and for some special woman somewhere with
whom she could have shared love had she felt free to live more
honestly and more truly.

She justified the situation by telling
herself that the time was not right for deeper living yet. At
least, that is what she tried to convince herself of.

O
ut
of the blue, Helen called one Sunday morning and asked Chiara if
they might meet in New York for a showing of some recently unveiled
Mapplethorpe photographs at the Modern. Chiara was surprised but
also happy. The approaching trial made her hesitate but then she
decided a break could actually help. If she could clear her head a
fresh approach might present itself.

She had missed Helen horribly and
longed to see her again. They had a rich history together and it
was one that they both still valued. Circumstances more than
anything else had separated them, not a lack of love or desire for
one another.

Chiara agreed to meet her
and they decided to share a room at the Omni Berkshire on E.
52
^nd
Street. They had stayed there before and both liked its
convenience as well as its simple elegance.

Chiara arrived Friday night and found
out at the desk that Helen had already checked into the
room.