Chapter One
LENA - LOS ANGELES, CA
THIRTY-TWO YEARS LATER
Ihit Ignore on my cell phone, sending my dad’s call to voicemail and feeling guilty.
We often chatted in the morning before work.
I would ring him later, but at the moment, I needed to focus.
I’d come to the office early so I could be totally prepared to practice my opening statement with Marcus by the time he arrived.
As if on cue, Marcus appeared in my office doorway, trench coat still on, a briefcase in one hand and a cardboard coffee holder with two cups in the other. “You ready, kid?”
It cracked me up that Marcus referred to me as “kid.” He was only twelve years my senior but still used that affectionate term often. It didn’t rankle me. I secretly enjoyed it.
“Absolutely,” I said. “Be right there. Just printing out a clean copy.”
“Of course you are.” He snickered. “Wouldn’t want a dirty, marked-up opening statement. So messy.” He shuddered, making fun of me.
He glanced around my office, which was a study in minimalism with no visible clutter.
My desk held only the multitiered inbox system I used for active cases, meticulously color coded and labeled.
My credenza contained the few law books I consulted, organized alphabetically by title.
It was a stark contrast to the other attorneys’ offices, with their papers, books, and files haphazardly strewn all over surfaces, along with the occasional used coffee mug with contents that looked like a leftover science experiment.
Although the chief liked to chide me about my anal behavior, I credited it as one reason I’d moved up in the division so quickly.
I was Ms. Organized before anyone had even heard of Marie Kondo, thank you very much.
“See you in five in the conference room. Oh, and I brought you one of those lattes you love.” Marcus raised the cardboard coffee holder as proof.
Shit. The chief drank his coffee black. Nothing fancier than that. He only brought me a latte when he wanted to butter me up or cheer me up. Which one is it?
“I’ve got to talk to you about another case,” he added. “Bring that planner of yours.”
“Okay,” I said, sounding noncommittal even to my own ears.
I was already mentally scanning my docket to see if I could squeeze in another case.
I had two upcoming trials, settlement negotiations for two other cases, and a handful of depositions.
But my biggest commitment, by far, was the behemoth Hawke Health Care case that could make or break my career.
The case scared the shit out of me. Marcus had made me first chair, and I needed to nail it.
I was thrilled that a significant case like this had landed in my lap.
We were taking on the Southern California health care system for its unfair treatment of female physicians.
I’d been waiting years for a case like this to come along—one that could be a game changer and make a big statement about gender discrimination.
I stood up and smoothed down my skirt. I wanted to strike the right note to practice my opening statement and get myself in court mode—confident, approachable, and intelligent.
I was wearing my favorite suit, a gorgeous cobalt blue from Nordstrom Rack.
Power blue, the saleswoman had called it.
Not navy blue—that was so New York financial district.
This was Los Angeles—lighter and brighter, less serious but still formidable.
It was the suit I’d worn when I won the Randall case the previous year.
I also wore three-inch leather heels, a splurge from a recent trip to Florence with my husband, Kevin.
Though five feet, nine inches tall—thanks to my mother—I stood at six feet with the heels on, the same height as Marcus.
May as well be eye to eye with the chief while going toe to toe over my opening statement. I knew he’d be putting me through the paces. He always did.
When I walked into the conference room a few minutes later, Marcus was already seated, papers laid out, coffees on the table. The flip chart was on the easel, ready for us to jot down notes as we stopped along the way. A podium was waiting for me across the room. The chief was ready to go.
Many of my law school friends complained incessantly about their supervisors.
I felt like the universe had given me something special when I’d been assigned to work with Marcus.
He was my boss, my mentor, and a legend.
He’d seen everything and then some. He was about as close as a lawyer could get to being a superhero, in my book.
He made me believe in the concept of a true counselor at law—he was dedicated, humble, and a tremendous supporter of his team.
Born and bred in downtown LA, he’d gone east to attend the first historically black university law school in the United States—Howard University—then boomeranged back to the West Coast to clerk for the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals and then entered the US Attorney’s Office.
He worked his way up the ranks until he took his seat at the top, in the 1980s, as the first African American Civil Rights Division chief.
When I attended NYU School of Law in the ’90s, I read some cases Marcus had argued in federal court and developed a bit of a professional crush on him.
I worked my ass off in law school and was rewarded with an offer for my dream job after graduation.
The only catch was that it was across the country in California, far from my mother. It was so hard leaving her.
“Lena, before we begin, I wanted to ask if you could handle that sexual orientation case that just came in, for the town of Fletcher school district. Can I add it to your cases?”
I froze. I’d heard about the case and knew it was coming down the pipeline.
They’d fired a gay teacher from his public school position in a Central Valley agricultural town, and he was claiming sexual orientation discrimination.
It had the potential to explode with media coverage.
Typically, I liked to act as first or second chair in high-profile cases for the division.
But I didn’t have time for this one. Not at the moment.
“I heard about that case. Good one for the division. But I’m slammed with first chairing the Hawke case and overseeing my other cases.” Is that true? I’d managed heavier caseloads in the past.
I ran through the short list of attorneys at the division I thought could do justice to this case and, grudgingly, came up with only one—Bradley Hanford III, the other deputy in the division besides me.
Brad was a good litigator, even if he was a pompous ass.
It drove him crazy when he didn’t get to sit at the attorney’s table with Marcus because I was taking up the second-chair seat.
And I had to admit to a certain amount of satisfaction at Brad’s irritation.
“Can you give it to Brad?” The words came out of my mouth and made me cringe inside.
I couldn’t believe I was giving this case away.
Am I really feeling that overwhelmed with my work, or is something else going on?
I couldn’t put my finger on it. I just knew in my gut that I didn’t want to say yes to this case.
“You sure you don’t want this one? You’re perfect for it. I’m surprised you’re not jumping at it. Heavy dockets never stopped you before.”
“I know. But I want to nail this Hawke case and really focus my attention on it.” I hesitated. “I think Brad can handle the Fletcher one. And you know he’ll jump at the chance.” I rolled my eyes.
“Oh, he’ll jump at it—that’s for sure.” Marcus snickered. “But I really think the Fletcher case should be yours. Besides, I think we’ll be in good shape for the Hawke case. What gives?”
Damn, he’s not letting this go. “I just think I should focus on the cases I already have. The Hawke case is consuming me more than I thought it would. Why don’t we give Fletcher to Brad? I can provide backup if he needs it.”
Ugh. That was the last thing I wanted—to help Brad shine. But I could also tell I didn’t want to take on the Fletcher case.
Marcus nodded slowly, hand to his forehead, processing my request. It was a gesture he often made when he was thinking, almost like he was trying to access his brain waves.
He then nodded more vigorously, and I knew I’d won.
“Okay, that’ll work. But let me know soon if you change your mind, before Brad digs in. ”
Yes. I felt relieved but didn’t want that to show on my face. “Will do. Thanks, Marcus. I appreciate it.” I left it at that. He didn’t like when his attorneys harped on issues and offered unnecessary explanation.
“One other thing,” Marcus added. “The Los Angeles Bar Association dinner is next month on July 15. Unfortunately, I can’t make it, as I’m already booked as the keynote speaker for the UCLA Black Law Students Association event. Can I put you down for the bar dinner in my place?”
I cringed. I hated schmoozing at legal events, but it was an honor to be asked to go on behalf of our division.
“I know you hate these shindigs, but I can’t be in two places at once. Besides, you’re good at them once you get there and stop worrying about it.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said.
“It’s a free meal,” he added.
“If you call rubber chicken a meal,” I said. He mockingly stared at me, waiting for me to give in. “Fine, I’ll go. But I’d much rather be at your event, listening to you give that keynote, to be honest.”
“Nothing you haven’t heard before,” he said dismissively. “Okay, enough admin crap. You ready to go? Take your place, counselor.” Marcus gestured to the podium.
“Aye-aye, Chief,” I said, saluting him. I walked across the room, stood behind the podium, stared out at my imaginary courtroom, and began.
“May it please the court, my name is Lena Antinori, and I am the deputy United States attorney for the central district of California, representing the plaintiffs in this case.”