Power of Attorney (16 page)

“You should totally be doing this, Chelsea. I can’t do that like you can. The only time I ever perform in public is when I’m telling some half-assed story, that my client swears is true, to a jury. I’m just not good at kittenish. I’m more like an angry lioness.”

“You can too do it, Sarah. I’ve seen you be very sexy, when you’re relaxed and not overthinking everything. Look, if you can’t pretend you’re Marilyn, pretend you’re me doing Marilyn.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, and fidgeted for a minute, thinking about her suggestion. I
did
know Chelsea really well. So, couldn’t I imitate her? Maybe I could.  I tried to focus and center myself the way she did when she was about to assume a character. I pictured how she stood, and walked, and spoke ...

“Hhhhappy birth ...day, to you ...” I began, almost not recognizing my own voice. “Hhhappy birthday to ... you. Hhhappy birthday, Mr. Dirty Old Guy. Happy Birthday to .... you.”  I paused, and looked at Chelsea, quirking an eyebrow questioningly. She was silent for a beat, and then she let out a huge “squee” and came running over to hug me. I took that as a sign of approval.

“U
m, excuse me.” I tried to flag down a passing caterer’s assistant but he ignored me and rushed on by. “Excuse me.” I tried again with another, but the result was the same. Okay, no more Mr. Nice Guy. “Hey! MARILYN MONROE HAS ENTERED THE BUILDING! I’m the cake girl! Who do I talk to here?” I yelled out in a no-nonsense voice. Finally, someone paused.

“Peter!” an assistant yelled to someone in the distance. “Marilyn Monroe wants to talk to you.” A tall, gaunt looking man in a black turtleneck and trousers glanced over at me and then, looking put out, headed in my direction. Geez, I hoped I wasn’t troubling him.

“You’re Ms. Davis, from Rent A Star?” he asked as he approached. Chelsea and I had agreed that it would be better for both of us if I used her name that evening, just in case her boss ever checked, or anyone asked who I was. I wasn’t even carrying identification on me. So, if they found me floating in the Delaware River later, I could be a woman of mystery.

“Yes.”

“Come this way,” he said and hurried off toward what looked like a storeroom at the back of the bustling hotel kitchen. As we passed through the door, I saw an enormous Paper Mache replica of a cake with a small stepladder leaning against it. “The party is already well underway. The guest of honor, Mr. Anthony DiLaurento, is celebrating his 85
^th
birthday with his ... family. Mr. DiLaurento is a very powerful ... businessman in South Philadelphia, and they want him to be happy. He’s got a thing for Marilyn Monroe.”

The dirty old man was Anthony DiLaurento? Oh, great! This was a nightmare. Please God, don’t let me get caught jumping out of a cake at a party for a mafia capo. This more than made up for Bug Boy. Chelsea now owed
me
as far as I was concerned.

“How will I know when to jump out?”

“Haven’t you done this before?” he asked giving me a dubious look. “You’ll hear someone say the word ‘surprise!’ You jump up then. There will be a microphone stand right next to the cake. He’ll pass it to you and you’ll sing your song.”

“Okay, I jump up and sing my song and then?”

“And then we’ll help you out, and you’ll give this cigar to Mr. DiLaurento,” he said handing me a Habano. I guess the fact that Cubans were illegal wasn’t a really big deal to the DiLaurento family.  “Then you’ll exit, return back here; I’ll pay you and you’ll be on your way.”

“Gotcha,” I said, swallowing nervously and popping the cigar into the clutch bag that Chelsea had leant me. I took a deep breath and pictured her. She wouldn’t be nervous. She would be ready to put on a show, and impatient to get out of here. “I am Chelsea,” I said quietly.

“You told me that already,” Peter the caterer said, sounding annoyed. “Now let’s get you into that cake.”

He took my arm and led me over to the stepladder, helping me to keep my balance as I sat on the edge of the enormous paper pastry and swung first one leg, and then the other, inside. Hopping down, I stood looking out. There was no seat in there, so apparently, I would have to squat. Luckily, thanks to the slit up the side, I could just pull that off in this dress. I crouched down as he covered the top with some cheesecloth. This was really uncomfortable; I hoped I wouldn’t have to be in there long.

It was only a few minutes, but it was long enough, as it turned out. By the time I felt someone start rolling the cake out of the storeroom, my legs had started to lose circulation and get numb. I could hear laughter and boisterous voices all around me. It sounded like quite a party. I hoped that I wouldn’t miss my cue. There was the sound of feedback, and a microphone crackle, and then a voice with a heavy Philly accent boomed out, and the cake came to stop near it.

“Yo, everybody listen up! This is a very special night here! Uncle Antony is turnin’ 85. Now, he remembers the days when Frankie and Dino and the rest of that gang, used to put on a show, and he was a big fan of a certain blonde back in that time too. And so, we put together this
surprise
!”

That was it! My cue! But when I tried to stand, my legs wouldn’t cooperate. Shit! They had gone completely numb, and I couldn’t move. To my confusion, though, it sounded like the crowd was reacting to
something.
I reached up to the edge of the cake, and shoving the cheesecloth out of the way, I grabbed on and used my arms to haul myself up. I was finally thankful for all those damned bicep curls.

As my eyes peeked over the rim of the cake, I saw a scene of chaos unfolding before me. People were running and knocking over chairs everywhere. Dinnerware was smashing on the ground. What in the hell was going on? And then I heard it, the word that struck terror into my heart – “Raid!” The party was being raided! Fuck! I had to get out of there, but my legs were just starting to tingle with circulation again, and they were not going to support my effort to scale the side of a giant cake. I looked around frantically, and saw the microphone stand to my immediate left. Pulling myself up further, and reaching out as far as I could, I
just
managed to grab it, and pull it over to me.  Holding it firmly, while leaning against the side of the cake, I did the only I could do ... I rowed.

Planting the microphone stand on the floor, I pushed with all my might, forcing the wheels beneath the cake to turn. Slowly, I began rowing my way off the dance floor and toward a door.  Freedom was in sight, when it all came to an end, as a stream of uniformed police officers came charging through the very portal that I had been aiming at.  They grabbed DiLaurento family members all around me and began cuffing them and reading them their rights.  I looked up, and saw that the doorway was clear again; I had one last chance.

With every ounce of strength I had, I hauled myself on my “pins and needles” wracked legs over the side of the cake and dropped to the ground with a thud. I landed badly, though, and twisted my ankle. Wincing, I staggered toward the door, looking like a mummy from a 1950’s B horror movie. I had almost made it once again, when a lone figure entered, saw me, gave me a curious look ...  and then checked me out.

Looking down, I saw my boobs working harder to escape my bodice, than I had worked to escape the cake.  I stood upright, causing a bolt of white-hot pain to shoot to my ankle, but I squared my shoulders for battle anyway. After all, I was a Philadelphia public defender, and I was facing a Philadelphia Assistant District Attorney. We had never formally met, but I had seen him at court before. Facing me was Matt Brenner, hot and sexy Matt Brenner, to be specific. Clearly, I had been born under a cloud.

“Well, hello there Norma Jean,” he said with cocky grin. “Leaving so soon?”

***

I
sat in his office while he took numerous phone calls. At least some of them were probably confirming that Chelsea Davis was an innocent employee of Rent A Star, and not in any way affiliated with the DiLaurento crime family.

It was a typical government attorney’s office, fluorescent lights, iron desk and filing cabinets circa World War II, but he also had some nice looking leather-bound volumes on his bookshelf, mostly the usual legal tomes, but then my eyes rested on the spine of Harper Lee’s
To Kill a Mockingbird
. Hmm.

My eyes moved to his wall. He had a college degree from the University of Chicago and a law degree from NYU, a definite urban dweller. I wondered what he would make of rural Venango County, PA where I had grown up, famous for great deer hunting and not much else. 

He laughed at something someone on the other end of the phone said. It was a deep, rich sound that drew my attention back to him. I noted that when his face lit up with laughter, he was transformed from merely handsome, to devastatingly attractive. He had dark brown hair with just a hint of curl, and striking hazel eyes. He was also tall and well built, and had a very sexy smile. Yum.

He glanced up at me and my eyes darted away to his wall again. Luckily, just as I was getting
too
interested in how hot Mr. Brenner was, two framed photos on his wall brought me back to reality. The first was a picture of him and some of his friends and fellow prosecutors, including Kevin Nicholas.

Mr. Nicholas, (lawyers referred to each other formally in court), was assigned to the same courtroom that I was, and he and I were constantly battling. Sometimes I suspected that he enjoyed pushing my buttons and trying to make me explode. But then, I also took pleasure in denying him. Our daily courtroom cage matches had become a source of entertainment for several members of the staff. If Mr. Nicholas ever found out that I jumped out of a cake dressed as Marilyn Monroe, he would gloat until the end of time. I would never live it down.

The other photo was of him and an attractive middle-aged woman with the same striking hazel eyes, his mom, who also happened to be
the
Federal Public Defender out in Pittsburgh. Shelly Brenner was brilliant and tough and highly respected. And here sat her youngest son, Matthew, with Marilyn the cake girl. I sighed. There were hundreds of prosecutors in this office, but I had somehow managed to get busted by the
one
who I not only found attractive, but who happened to be the best friend of my arch enemy, and the son of my idol. 

He finally hung up the phone and spun around to look at me. His eyes dropped to my cleavage for a second, but he quickly dragged them back up to meet mine. Leaning back in his chair, he tugged on his tie to loosen it, and cleared his throat.

“So Ms. Davis, it looks like you check out. You are, in fact, employed by Rent A Star.” He knit his brows as he looked at a paper that he held. “As well, it seems, as various other establishments, the Penn Bavarian Microbrewery, for example.”

“Beer Garden Girl,” I replied.

“The Coffee Bean,” he continued.

“Barista.”

“Wiener World?”

“I hand out flyers ... dressed as a hot dog,” I noted. He looked up and I saw him fighting back laughter.

“Why so many jobs?” he asked in a slightly strained voice.

“I’m a graduate student in theater arts, and I need to pay my tuition and the cost of living in the city. Besides, these jobs are kind of like acting,” I added, using Chelsea’s explanation.

“For when you play a meat product on Broadway?” he asked and I bit my lip so that I wouldn’t laugh.

“Haven’t you ever heard of Spamalot?” I asked with a smile. He smiled back and we shared a moment. My pulse sped up so quickly I felt a little dizzy.

“Touché,” he said finally, glancing back down at his paper.

“So, do you jump out of cakes often?” he asked without looking up.

“Is that a line?” I asked, surprising myself by how flirtatious I sounded. What was I doing? This outfit was clearly having an effect on me. Or maybe it was just Mr. Brenner. I saw him smile again. He was enjoying himself.

“I was just going to advise you to carry ID with you when you do them. Actually, that’s a good idea in general. You never know.” I had to hand it to him; he was very professional.

“So I’m not being charged with anything?”

“No, even though you did have a contraband cigar in your purse.”

“That wasn’t mine!” I laughed. “I was supposed to hand that to the Birthday Boy, Mr. DiLaurento.”

“What, you don’t enjoy a good Cuban?” he teased.

“Only if he’s a good dancer too,” I teased back, wiggling my eyebrows and Mr. Brenner looked positively delighted.  He stared at me silently for a beat, like he was making up his mind about something. 

“Well, I don’t have any excuse to hold you,” he said finally, sounding like he regretted it.

“Why? Did you want to hold me?” I asked with a coquettish wink. Stop it now Sarah! He looked surprised, but then I saw his eyes darken and I realized that I had better get out of there, before I did anything I would regret later.

I stood quickly and tested my weight on my ankle. It felt much better. So I turned and tossed a “See you around, sailor” over my shoulder on my way out the door. I was halfway down the block when I realized I left my clutch purse back in his office.  There wasn’t much in it, just a comb, some lipstick ... and my cab fair. Shit. I pulled my coat around myself tightly, put my head down against the biting December wind, and walked the fifteen blocks home. By the time I got there, my ankle was swollen again and parts of me had frozen over.  

M
onday morning I found myself back in court, once again, Sarah Eisenberg, public defender, the only remnant of my Saturday night blonde bombshell persona, a limp.  My courtroom partner, Jill Hughes, came bustling in with a stack of files and a paper cup of coffee the size of a water tower.

“Hey, how was your weekend?” she asked, quickly setting up.

“Uneventful,” I lied.

“Well, I hope you got lots of rest. The DA changed things up on us, and assigned Mr. Nicholas’s buddy to fight on the side of truth and justice with him. So, now we have two pretty boy prosecutors to deal with.”