Counsel (Counsel #1) (10 page)

I breathlessly peppered wet kisses down her neck and shoulder as our movements turned frantic. ‘I love you, Adam,’ she moaned, her body tensing in climax. I struggled to articulate words as fire raged through me. She turned her head, and our lips locked in a passionate kiss. I opened my eyes, wanting to tell her how good she felt, how happy I was. I stared into honey-brown eyes.

Shocked, I woke, panting, heart racing and my body covered in sweat. I bolted upright. "What the fuck?" I exclaimed, staring down at my very painful erection.

It's 5.30 a.m. now, an hour since I was so rudely woken. I groan in quiet frustration at the recollection of the way I raced into the shower. The cold water pounding down on me proved useless in ridding me of my arousal. My mind simply refused let go of the feelings that being that close to her, inside her, evoked. I tried to visualize other women I'd had sex with. I tried, desperately, to replace the vivid memory of her as I resorted to taking myself in hand. None of the alternatives had the power to overturn what my treacherous brain and body refused to abandon. I cursed as I came with a loud, inarticulate sound, a combination of pleasure and self-disgust. I remained in the shower for what seemed like an eternity, letting the water run over me as my body shuddered from physical release and the emotional turmoil raging within.

What the hell is wrong with me? I'm an intelligent, educated man. I've schooled myself to be disciplined and in control of my life. I detest Angelique Bain. Well, I don't detest
her
necessarily, although she has, from our first meeting, managed to get under my skin. I loathe what she does for a living.

There’s so much to detest; the fact that she sold and still possibly sells herself, the fact that she was or still is sexually involved with Justin and possibly Tom… and her association with Joseph, a man responsible for the pain and tragedy in the lives of so many … it's all so sick and twisted. There’s no reason, other than the superficial, for me to be attracted to this woman, I remind myself.

I finish my coffee and, despite the early hour, decide to get ready for work. We have a big day ahead of us, and the earlier I arrive, the more I can get done.

It’s a week later, and our first witness conferences today went extremely well. Because of Professor Robertson’s earlier courtroom experiences, preparing her had been somewhat of a formality, and Paul Ryan, it soon became apparent, has nothing to hide. In his capacity as General Manager of Fidelity, his responsibility was simply to ensure that the results he’d been forwarded from a subsidiary company were properly recorded. He had no direct managerial responsibilities for Sigma while it operated, so cannot be held responsible for its conduct. He, like the professor, stood up well under our mock cross-examination. Jodi and I are both confident that they’ll prove to be credible witnesses.

Preparing Amy Sanders for trial, however, proved difficult. She’s well intentioned but an inveterate gossip, incapable of passing up an opportunity to gain attention or titillate her audience. A few questions into her cross, I decided we couldn’t possibly risk placing her on the stand. And now, after making up some plausible reason for our decision not to have her testify, she’s upset. She seems somewhat mollified when I assure her that her written testimony will prove equally valuable.

"Just call me if you change your mind," she says hopefully as Jodi leads her out.

We still have Natasha Perkins, Carmen Bonacci and John Clarke to meet with before we can call it a day.

"We have forty minutes before Natasha’s due. How about a quick lunch at the deli?" Jodi asks when she returns.

"I’d love to, but I have to pop in and see Bristly, and I also need to make a couple of calls. Bec will get me something when she goes out. In case I’m longer than expected, would you start the meeting with Natasha?"

"Sure," she says easily.

I call Mom to invite her to dinner as soon as I return from the DA’s office.

"Come home, Dad and I would love to see you," she offers instead.

"If you don't mind, I'd like it to just be the two of us, Mom. It doesn't have to be a late night."

"Is anything wrong, Adam?" she immediately asks.

"Can’t a son just want to spend time with his mother?" I reply lightly. "How about Sorellina's at seven?"

"That'll be perfect. I'll see you then, sweetheart. I love you."

She’s still concerned, I can tell. "I love you too," I tell her, hanging up quickly before she can ask more questions.

.

.

I sense the tension the moment I re-enter the conference room.

"Of course, I mentioned her. You asked why Justin stopped seeing me;
she
was the reason," Natasha says, clearly irritated.

"It’s not the fact that you mentioned Ms. Bain, it’s the vitriolic way you said her name," Jodi responds tersely.

"What? I simply said Angelique was the reason Justin stopped seeing me!"

"I think what Ms. Maddox is referring to is the inflection you used. You did it again just then, Ms. Perkins," I say, taking a seat beside Jodi.

"
Inflection
?" she asks, her tone teasing. "You can call me Natasha, you know, Adam."

"Yes,
inflection
, Ms. Perkins, a distinct tone of distaste, to be exact. Any defense counsel would pick up on that in a heartbeat, then use it to question your motives," I tell her, ignoring her invitation.

"My motives?" she asks coquettishly.

"You’ll be viewed as jealous and vengeful. Is that what you want?" Jodi interjects before I can respond. "You're a smart woman; stop flirting with Mr. Thorne and don't even think about doing that in court. You wouldn't want people to regard you as an airhead, would you? Now, let's get back to it; we have a lot to cover.".

I lower my head to hide my smile. Bossy, take-charge Jodi’s reared her head, and I couldn’t be more pleased. She’s saved me from having to say the same thing; and she’s done it in a way only another female could have.

Natasha’s eyes flare as she stares Jodi down. She exhales deeply after a moment and nods tersely. The rest of our session goes really well. Natasha’s a bright woman as Jodi pointed out. She realized the inappropriateness of her behavior and has since proven to be an articulate and very credible witness both under direct and cross, even when I’d really put her under the blowtorch. She showed strain at times, but didn’t become rattled, and her story remained consistent.

Our meeting with Carmen Bonacci exceeds expectations. From her, we learn that Joseph made a practice of gaining, then exerting influence or power over nearly everyone he dealt with. With his wife, it was the threat of calling in the massive loans made to her parents; with his employees, it was through punitive employment contracts, and if that failed he resorted to threatening violence and, in some cases, delivered on those threats. With Carmen, it was the promise of providing for her and her daughter and eventually leaving his wife.

She'd been his mistress for only a short time when she fell pregnant. Joseph employed her as his secretary after their daughter’s birth. He refused to acknowledge either Carmen or their child publicly, but provided an apartment for them to live in. He couldn’t leave his wife because she was his ticket to Boston’s society; his marriage and the position it afforded him were crucial to his business dealings, at least in the medium term, he claimed. Carmen found out about his other mistress and their two children, both younger than her daughter, only after his arrest. She’d been unaware, until we informed her, that the apartment had been bought in her name.

She feels manipulated and betrayed. It took very little persuading to gain her cooperation, a real win for us because she'd been privy to almost all of Joseph’s business dealings conducted at Liaison. He may have duped her, but she’d been smart enough to take out her own insurance policy by copying many of the documents he asked her to type or otherwise manage.

At the end of our session, I arrange for someone from Jon’s department to accompany her and Jodi to collect the evidence. Our last meeting of the day, which I attend on my own, proves useful if not revelatory. John Clarke, unlike other Liaison members we’ve contacted, doesn’t appear at all concerned about his reputation, potential loss of business or any adverse publicity being associated with a high-class brothel might bring. In fact, he appears to take pride in his reputation as the bad boy multi-millionaire and entrepreneurial genius. He readily agrees to testify.

Later that evening, I meet Mom at the restaurant. "You look tired, Adam," she announces the moment she sees me. "We’re very busy at work," I fob her off as I usher her inside. Almost as soon as the waiter departs with our orders, she embarks on her usual interrogation, ‘are you eating properly, getting enough sleep, what about exercise?’ Questions one would expect would drive a man of thirty-one crazy; but I've never found Mom's love embarrassing or stifling. More than two decades later, I still feel lucky to have a mother who’s concerned about my wellbeing.

"What's on your mind, Adam? I can tell something's bothering you," she finally asks.

"I’ve been dreaming about Eleanor," I confess. "I haven’t done so for the longest time…I generally try not to think about her at all."

"You’re hurt and angry, Adam,
still
. I wish that wasn’t the case," she says, sadness evident in her eyes. "I tried to talk to you about Eleanor when she died and again later when I thought you were old enough to better understand. You’d get so upset or angry at the mere mention of her name…I should have forced the issue, but I wanted to be your mother more than anything else. I felt it best to leave the therapy to Ariane…" Mom’s voice breaks, and I reach over to squeeze her hand.

"It's not your fault," I soothe.

"It
is
, if only just a little," she laments.

"I’m ready now, Mom," I urge, leaning forward despite the tightening in my chest. I may be ready to listen, but I don't know if I’m ready for the pain and the lingering feeling of rejection I’m almost sure to experience.

"I can only guess at some things, Adam, but I'll share what I know." Mom tightens her grasp on my hand. "I realized on my first visit that Eleanor was an alcoholic and not a well-functioning one at that. I struggled with what should have been the logical decision, given the circumstances, but it was obvious how much you two loved each other. The panic in her eyes at the mere thought of losing you just broke my heart. I decided then to do everything I could to keep you together when, really, I should have recommended you be placed in foster care

"You may remember me visiting your home, but you wouldn’t have known that I also frequently popped in when you were at school. I hoped I’d at least be able to limit her drinking and stop any serious drug use. She told me things then." Mom stops to take a deep breath.

"Tell me, even if it’s bad," I urge.

"Eleanor’s parents died when she was very young, and her grandmother raised her, as you know. There wasn’t much left of her grandmother's meager finances after she died, so Eleanor was forced to give up her dream of going to college. She was working at a coffee shop when she met Adam Winston… and well, you know what happened then."

I grimace at the unwelcome memory of my biological father. I’d been going on seventeen when Adam Winston's attorney traced me and wrote to Mom and Dad, advising that his client had left me a fortune in his will. Until then, I’d harbored childish dreams about a man who died either tragically or heroically.

The discovery that he had, in fact, been alive and had deliberately ignored me for all those years dashed those dreams. The letters he left me only multiplied the loathing I felt for him at discovering the truth. The first contained the sad, pathetic and pleading words of a desperate and very pregnant Eleanor. She begged for his support for the sake of their unborn child. The second was a letter from him to me, in which he’d at least given an honest account of his heartless actions. He admitted to having given her money to get rid of the problem, me. I was two years old, he confessed, when he found out that she’d gone through with her pregnancy.

He ignored me for fifteen years after learning that piece of information. Who knows whether he would
ever
have acknowledged me had he lived? I still don’t know what drove him to include me in his will. I can only assume it had been a momentary pang of conscience or a last ditch attempt to gain eternal absolution. I don’t know, and I don’t care; I loathe the man as much today as I did when I first learned the truth.

"Go on, Mom. Do you know why she started drinking … and you know… the other?" I ask, finding it difficult to mention Eleanor’s prostitution out loud.

"On one of my visits, I turned up just as an expensive-looking black car pulled away. I remember thinking how out of place it looked in that neighborhood. The apartment door was open, and I found Eleanor in the kitchen holding a tea towel to her face. She said she'd bumped it against the doorframe, but with a large welt in the shape of a handprint on her cheek, a bleeding lip and the front of her dress torn, it was obvious that wasn’t what had happened."

"Was she drunk or high?" I ask, my voice cracking.

"She'd been drinking and was perhaps a little high, but she wasn’t as out of it as I'd seen her on other occasions. Anyway, I told her I didn't believe her; that I’d seen her visitor leave. I knew only a man could have hurt her in that way, so I lied, I said I’d seen a
man
leave.

She was obviously terrified and said she couldn't tell me his name but admitted she had an arrangement with a powerful man. She confessed to having had sex with him in exchange for rent and a weekly allowance. He later insisted that she see friends of his. She tried to refuse, but he threatened to cut off financial support. His visit on that particular day had been to teach her a lesson for not satisfying a friend of his."

Mom’s eyes fill with tears. "I'm sorry, darling; I hate telling you these things about your mother."

I swallow hard. "I already know she prostituted herself, Mom. As a kid, I knew something was wrong. I saw things, I
heard
things going on in her bedroom, and I saw the bruises. When I was older, I figured it out, but I could never understand why she’d do such a thing… why she’d destroy herself in that way. She had choices, why the hell would she do that? To herself; to
me
?"

"She was overwhelmed, Adam. Some people can't cope and end up taking what they believe is the best or only way left to them. That man, awful as he was, offered her a way out, and she took it. She thought she'd only need to do it for a short time, but she was in over her head.

"The people she got involved with took advantage of her and were never going to let her go lightly. She was ashamed, and she drank to cope with her feelings of helplessness and self-loathing. He introduced her to drugs, convinced her it would make her feel better, make what she was doing easier. When people feel that much despair, they’ll clutch at any lifeline." Her eyes plead with me to accept what's she's saying.

"Well, neither of my biological parents win a prize for living up to their responsibility," I say bitterly.

"Eleanor loved you, Adam. Love made her decide to go through with her pregnancy. Love was responsible for her not giving you up for adoption; and despite what you feel about what she did, it was love for
you
that made her accept that dreadful man’s offer. And it was love that made her decide to register me as your emergency contact. Do you realize how much it must have hurt her to acknowledge that another woman could better look after her child? Even in her drunken and drugged state, she cared enough to make sure you'd be looked after by someone who knew you and who cared for you."

She shakes her head at my skeptical look. "I
know
that deep down you know that Eleanor loved you; you've simply chosen to bury that knowledge because you hurt. It's time for you to set that little boy free, sweetheart. You can't hold onto his pain and anger forever."

I lower my head, processing what I've just heard. Those all too familiar feelings of rejection, confusion, hurt and anger churn inside me. It’s debilitating. Mom’s right, it
does
weigh me down. I take a deep, shuddering breath. "I'll try Mom. I'll really try."