Ten minutes later, calmer, I shower and dress in a black power suit that gives me the armor of professional composure I need. I disguise the shadows beneath my eyes with a thin layer of concealer and wrestle my curls into a low ponytail. I make a pot of coffee and a mental note to call Dr. Roland’s office to move up our monthly appointment.
I clear my fridge and cupboards of anything that could be used for a binge. Then I grab a yogurt, pour coffee into a commuter cup, and go.
I arrive to an empty office. Lena won’t be in until after ten, which is just as well. I could use a little time to myself before answering questions about my weekend. I usually have a good poker face, but I’m not sure I would this morning.
On my desk, the orchids and lilies still fresh and vibrant, mock my memories and the anguish I feel. Biting my lip against the threat of tears, I carry the flowers into the kitchenette and dump them in the compost bin. But I can’t bring myself to toss out the vase. I store the crystal in the bottom cabinet, out of sight, and make a mental note to ask Lena to sell it on eBay and donate the money to a children’s cause.
Upon exiting the small alcove, the phone rings. Trepidation seizes my lungs. I ignored Mick’s calls yesterday. He left six messages, all asking how I was and for me to call him. He even stopped by last night. But awareness of my weakness for him saved me from opening the door.
Stretching across Lena’s desk, I check Caller ID and see the name I’ve been waiting for light up the screen. Thomas Jackson. Finally. “Deeana Chase,” I answer.
“Well, good morning, Ms. Chase,” he says, far too chipper.
Annoyed that he left my client to stew in uncertainty all weekend, I don’t waste any time with niceties. “After Saturday’s failed visit, Mr. Jackson, I trust your clients have come to realize that a custody battle won’t earn them a relationship with their grandson.”
“On the contrary, Ms. Chase, they are more resolved than ever to return the boy to his rightful home in Kentucky. A fact I’ve just shared with opposing counsel, Calista Sanchez. I look forward to meeting Wednesday afternoon to present legal positions, unless”—he pauses for dramatic effect—“that doesn’t give you enough time to prepare.”
Evidentiary meetings can take weeks to prepare for. And having acquired this case only five days ago, I’ll have to scramble. But I won’t let him catch me sweating.
“I’m not only ready, Mr. Jackson,” I say, “but eager to speak on Dwayde’s behalf.”
WHEN LENA ARRIVES AT TEN THIRTY, we get to work.
“Start gathering whatever information you can on Charles and Joan Franklin and their daughter, Joyce. I want to know what she was like in high school...who her friends were…when she started using drugs, who she dated…and any clues as to the identity of Dwayde’s father.” The “unknown” marked on his birth certificate doesn’t jibe for some reason. Intuition tells me the answers lie somewhere in there.
“Got it,” Lena says, taking copious notes. “Do you need anything more on Victor and Isabelle Torres?”
“Not at this point, thanks. But,” I add, careful to keep any hint of emotion out of my voice, “see what you can find out about their close family friend, former NBA star Micah Peters. He was in the news recently for hitting a reporter. I want to know more about that and if there is any dirt that might reduce his credibility as a witness and a person of influence in Dwayde’s life. Make that your priority for this meeting.”
“Whoa. Back up,” Lena halts my instructions.
“What is it?” I ask, though I already know what’s coming.
“Is Micah Peters your Mick?”
“Mr. Peters is a witness I need to make sure is reliable. You can be certain Jackson has already checked him out.”
Lena starts to say more, but my look warns her that I’m not in the mood.
ON TUESDAY NIGHT, I’M WAGED in an intense blood battle. It’s down to seconds when I swing too soon and give Dwayde the opportunity to take my warrior down with one deadly plunge of his sword.Game over.
“Whoo-hoo! I whooped your butt!” He jumps off the couch to do a victory dance, rousing Rufus from his nap. “Sixth time in a row.”
“You keep getting lucky.”
“Yeah, right,” he gibes. “You might rule the basketball courts, Uncle Mick, but you’re on my turf now, and I’m the video king.”
Anticipating my next move, Dwayde tries to leap away, but I’m quick and wrestle him onto the rug to his shouts and laughter.
Woof! Woof!Rufus barks, leaping between us and licking Dwayde’s face.
“Some guard dog,” I say of the bulldog mix—another lost and wounded stray like Dwayde and me that Victor had taken in. For the next few minutes, I tussle with Dwayde until he begs for mercy.
“Give! Uncle!”
“Now who’s the king?” I pump one fist in the air just as my phone plays inside the front pocket of my jeans.
I let Dwayde up to answer. Her name flashes on the screen and my heart picks up speed. “I have to take this call, Dwayde.”
