Chapter 14 #2
Flynn is sitting at the round table by the windows when I enter the apartment. He’s still in his suit from work, but his jacket is missing. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, and his tie has been loosened. A half-eaten plate of spaghetti sits next to his left elbow.
“Hey,” he says, glancing up from his laptop for a few seconds before resuming typing. “Yours is in the fridge.”
“Thanks,” I reply, setting my bag and keys down before heading to the sink to wash my hands.
I grab my plate out of the fridge and walk over to the table, taking the chair nearest to his. Our knees bump under the table as I sit.
Flynn appears oblivious. My entire right leg tingles.
“You’re home late,” he comments, still focused on the screen. “New case?”
“Same case. I went to a happy hour with some colleagues.”
One corner of his mouth lifts as he continues typing. “Does that mean you won’t remember this conversation?”
“Ha-ha. That alcohol amnesia was after two margaritas, not a glass of wine.”
“Don’t forget the trauma of almost getting arrested.”
“They would have arrested you, not me.”
“I would have represented you,” he continues like I said nothing, “if you’d asked really, really nicely.”
I roll my eyes and pick up my fork. “Work?” I ask, pointing the utensil at his laptop.
“Yeah.” He sighs, pausing to take another bite of pasta. “I might not be able to leave town this weekend. The buyers want due diligence for this deal to be completed by early next week, and I’ve still got a couple hundred documents to review.”
“Oh. That’s fine. I get it.”
Yet again, I should be relieved, not disappointed.
Ever since I told my parents I’d visit the Hamptons this weekend, I’ve been stressing about their potential reactions to me showing up with Flynn, not solo.
If Knox told anyone about running into us at the grocery store last week, it doesn’t appear to have hit the mainstream gossip yet.
Delaying the announcement we’re dating doesn’t really matter—no one except us knew that was the plan—but it feels like a letdown nonetheless. Wasted worry.
“What’s the deal?” I add.
“Private equity firm purchasing a pharmacy chain.”
“That is time-sensitive,” I agree. “Practically a death row appeal.”
A slow smile spreads across Flynn’s face as he leans back in his chair. “What are you working on?”
It’s the first time he’s asked about my job. If not for his offhand comment to Knox that I was “practically running” the Manhattan Public Defender’s office, I’d have thought he’d forgotten where I work.
“Twenty-nine-year-old charged with robbery, assault, and possession of stolen property. The robbery took place in a subway station—a laptop and some cash were taken. Cops identified the client through surveillance footage and showed up at his apartment with a warrant a few days later. He had the laptop in his possession. Claims he bought it the day before and had no idea it was stolen.”
“Receipt?”
“Lost it.”
“Does he have an alibi during the robbery?”
“Playing basketball with some buddies in the Bronx. I haven’t been able to track any of them down to corroborate.”
“Cell phone data?”
“He left his phone at his apartment. Said it fell out of his pocket the last time he played and cracked the screen, so he stopped bringing it to the court.”
Flynn grimaces.
“I know. But none of that means he’s guilty. Just …”
“Not not guilty?”
I nearly smile. “Innocent until, right?”
“You should argue that the search warrant wasn’t supported by probable cause. If the chain of custody on the laptop gets questioned, they don’t have any physical proof connecting him to the robbery.”
“Good idea,” I say.
I’m not entirely surprised Flynn is a competent attorney. I’ve always suspected most of his seeming shallowness was exaggerated. But it’s unexpected that our defense strategy would be so similar. No one else I’ve discussed the case with has mentioned it. Louis suggested I work harder on an alibi.
“You already thought of it.” He sounds very sure, glancing back at his laptop. “Your job sounds more exciting than reviewing insurance policies, commercial leases, supplier agreements, and employment contracts.”
It’s an opening to say what I’ve been wondering since I heard where he was working. I didn’t want to ask him in front of everyone at Bowery Line. “What made you choose Locke, Grey, and Lee?”
“They’re a good firm.”
“I know they’re a good firm. New York has lots of good firms though.”
He adjusts the screen of the laptop. “My dad is friends with Simon Grey. They’re golf buddies.”
Understanding hits. Flynn knows what it’s like for everyone to assume you didn’t earn what you received too. He’s just taken a very different—opposite, basically—approach. I try harder.
“The firm wouldn’t have hired you if you weren’t qualified.”
He huffs a laugh. “I know I’m qualified. I picked that firm because I was hoping that Simon might mention so to my father between holes since I go through these random phases when I give a shit about Julian’s opinion.”
A flood of remorse appears. “Flynn, I didn’t mean that I, uh, thought that you—”
“It’s fine, Rory.” He shuts his laptop. “You saw the construction. That’s what everyone thinks, including my dad.”
Flynn is referring to the latest addition to the law school’s campus, funded primarily by a private donation that coincided with our admissions cycle.
“I’ll let you know for sure about this weekend tomorrow,” he adds, grabbing his plate and carrying it over to the dishwasher. “I’m going to the gym.”
“Okay.”
He doesn’t acknowledge the quiet reply.
I’m left with a full plate of pasta and an emotion I’ve never felt around Flynn before—regret.