1
Jemma
Jemma smoothed her hands down the classic lines of the Oscar Hunt suit. As usual, only her Vera Wang blouse added a splash of colour to the sombre attire; a courtroom wasn’t the place for fashion statements or showcasing her personality. The high-end suits had become her armour: immaculately attired, Jemma presented an image of strength and dispassionate efficiency. No one would ever associate her with the insecure pre-teen she’d been twenty years ago.
Although whether she had a distinct personality anymore was something of a moot point—not that anyone would dare argue it with her. For years, life had revolved around study and work. Today, as usual, she’d be in the office until around 8 pm, then she’d hit the gym—thanks to the membership provided by her law firm—or go for a run, before making her way home. Most nights, she’d have her laptop open again, re-examining files and notes while eating dinner from a cardboard takeaway box. Bed wouldn’t be before midnight, but she would wake at six to be back in chambers by seven.Jemma was a barrister, and the chance of making partner in a well-established and respected firm kept her at the offices of GB&A rather than striking out alone.
Recently, her calm façade had become almost as vital as keeping her apartment doors locked.
Jemma checked her elegant silver Longines wristwatch. Her dad had wanted to make a graduation gift of the expensive piece, but she’d purchased the statement herself, despite her crippling HECS debt; in her mind, the statement was that she had never needed—nor would she ever need—to rely on anyone else. She wouldn’t forget the lesson she had learned at her mother’s knee.
As always, she was perfectly on time—although that was partly because she hadn’t slept well. Stress always unleashed the dream, worse lately than it had been for years. She frowned; perhaps she should change her routine? Did her discipline make her movements too easy to predict? She applied a slash of deep mauve lipstick that mirrored the colour of the Vera Wang. Her image in the compact didn’t reflect her turmoil. Court was no game and she’d cultivated what her grandfather called afaccia da poker—a poker face. Jemma’s clients would never recognise the moment she realised she’d won their case, nor would opposing council know if they had her rattled.
Not that they’d yet managed to throw her off her stride. The challenge of the courtroom guaranteed an adrenaline high that had become as necessary to her as oxygen over the past decade. She’d thrived on the long hours, frantic deadlines, coldly abusive confrontations and heated exchanges. She’d excelled through dedication and determination, and was passionate about every facet of her career, living for and breathing law.
Until now.
She took the fawn trench coat from the back of the dining chair tucked beneath the small, frameless glass table. Jemma had moved in after Dad vacated the apartment almost a year ago, taking little more than his clothes. The minimalist steel and chrome furnishings of the single-bedroom space suited her perfectly, as she and her father shared an almost compulsive focus that could be to the detriment of other interests. For Dad, that passion was cooking, producing the perfect pasta. For Jemma, it was law.
She spun the silk-lined coat so it settled evenly over her shoulders, the weight an extra shield, and slid her feet into leather loafers. Her sensible five-centimetre heels were in a bag sitting alongside her briefcase, yet her gaze stole toward the chrome shoe rack; she’d prefer to wear her Louboutin batwings, the red soles flashing a warning. But, although she invested in her look, the pavers outside the Supreme Court and the Sir Samuel Way building were spaced to savage stiletto heels in a manner that required the wearer—or some gallant passer-by—to go down on one knee to prise them free. If she got the heel of one of the overpriced but exquisite shoes trapped, she’d be down on her knees herself. Sobbing.
She locked the door and took the stairs down to the cafe that provided her street access. Setting up for the breakfast rush, Stefan unspeakingly handed her an almond latte across the top of the machine. Friendly silence and coffee tempered to perfection were a great way to start the day, and were among the perks of the apartment being situated over her father’s cafe. Another was that once the restaurant closed, her rooms were invulnerable—triple-locked behind the cafe’s doors.
Although Jemma vibed with the hustle of the city, lately she preferred the early morning emptiness of the streets. The low mountain range to the east was wreathed in late autumn mist, the air nose-tinglingly crisp.
The last of the maple-shaped leaves of the plane trees lining the broad street carpeted the road in shades of orange and copper. Briefcase strap over her shoulder and the cup of coffee warming one hand, Jemma pushed the chilled fingers of the other into her trench-coat pocket. She recoiled as they met a folded piece of paper. She didn’t want to think about the contents, not while she was on the street.
Adjacent to Dad’s cafe was the family restaurant, Trattoria di Angelis. Nonna and Nonno wouldn’t yet be at work and, despite having supposedly taken over Dad’s responsibilities there, Uncle Dante wouldn’t turn up until partway through the first service.
Jemma had a valid concern that her uncle’s name and reputation would cross her managing director’s desk one day. Adelaide was a small city, and that made the possibility of her uncle needing representation unpleasantly strong. Dante had a tendency to form affiliations with unsavoury characters, although he did seem a little more circumspect since his latest stint in jail. Not that the little sojourn could be mentioned in front of Nonna. Jemma’s grandmother was firmly in denial when it came to her youngest son’s peccadilloes. That was partly why Dad had left town. Her grandfather had more of a grip on reality, but still, the only time Nonno ever backed down was to his diminutive wife.
It was thanks to those grandparents that Jemma would never starve: they had food delivered to the cafe each day and stored in the fridge for her to pick up as she passed through on the way upstairs. Which was just as well, otherwise she’d be content to let coffee serve as breakfast, lunch and anything in between. Dad ripped into her for her lifestyle being unsustainable and unhealthy, but until he’d moved to the country the previous year, he had been every bit as obsessive as she was. As Nonna said, it was a case ofla pentola che chiama il bollitorenero. Even old wisdoms about pots and kettles sounded like a romantic verse in Italian, Jemma thought, as she strode toward her office off Carrington Street, keeping up a scan of her surrounds. Previously, she would have walked with her nose buried in her phone, making sure she was up to speed on the latest news; now she told herself that the prickle of hair lifting on her scalp was due to the breeze, nothing more.
For much of the year, the overhanging foliage of a jacaranda tree took the focus from the boxy, mushroom-brown building that housed Gerard Baxter & Associates. Jemma suspected the office was deliberately nondescript so that clients wouldn’t feel intimidated—or perhaps so they didn’t question the fees before they’d even stepped through the doorway. Once buzzed through the security door, the client would no doubt clutch their wallet tighter: Gerard Baxter had cultivated a style he referred to as ‘leather and library’. Opulent couches gleamed dusky burgundy in the light of glass-and-brass banker’s lamps set on carved walnut occasional tables in the foyer. Behind the leather inlaid reception desk loomed embellished shelves—which lacked only gargoyles to be truly impressive—holding great tomes. The reference books looked pretentious, but they were well thumbed by Gerard and his team.
‘I swear I’ll be up early enough to beat you in one day,’ Tien said as they reached the entrance simultaneously.
‘You almost made it today.’ She held the door as her colleague wheeled his bike inside.
‘Yeah, but I didn’t have to spend an hour making myself look gorgeous first.’
‘Harsh,’ she said, deliberately misunderstanding. ‘I’m sure I could pull myself together in about forty minutes, if I absolutely had to.’
Tien yanked off his helmet. ‘That’s not what I meant, Jemma!’
She gave a sniff and headed toward her office at the back of the building.
‘Jemma!’
He was far too easy a target. She turned slightly, but kept walking. ‘Teasing, Tien. While you’re downstairs, can you grab me the files on the Wilkins case? Once you’ve hidden your evidence, that is.’
‘Yeah, you’re funny,’ Tien grumbled as he wheeled his bike to the stairwell. There was a lower level beneath the office where they kept the archives … and also Tien’s transportation. There’d be hell to pay if Gerard saw the bike pass through the posh foyer. He paused. ‘Wilkins? I thought Rohan had that case?’
‘He wishes.’
Client choice wasn’t something afforded within GB&A: Gerard liked to cherrypick the cases for the firm and then told his staff who they defended. Jemma had made her peace with that; she was paid to do a job, and while she would never lie to protect a client, she was legally bound to provide a defence that would either mitigate or quash any charge against them. But when Gerard took the unusual step of assigning the Wilkins case to both her and the other barrister, Rohan, Jemma recognised the test: only one of them would be offered the partnership.
She’d started with GB&A as one of a team of law clerks while she was at uni. After graduation, she’d had options, but GB&A was a small—or exclusive, as Gerard preferred to consider it—firm in a city where larger companies proliferated, and Jemma had figured that gave her the opportunity to shine. Big fish, small pond.
