Chapter 37
37
SAMANTHA
T he Office of Disciplinary Counsel moves faster than I expect.
Of course they do. They received three complaints in a single day. Two came from freeport clients I’ve long suspected have connections to Russo. The third—a local bank—came as a surprise.
I receive notice on Wednesday that I’m under investigation for a wide range of ethics violations. The key one is lying on my bar application years ago, knowingly misrepresenting my fitness to be a lawyer.
I find Trap in his office, where he’s studying his copies of the complaints.
“I’ll have that resignation letter to you by close of business.”
“I still won’t accept it.”
His loyalty is heart-warming, but it’s a mistake. “As general counsel of Diamond Freeport, I strongly advise you to reconsider your position.”
“Noted.”
I refuse to let his business be tarred with the brush ruining me. “I’d like your permission to go on an extended leave of absence.”
“Permission denied.”
“Trap, this isn’t a battle you have to fight. I refuse to drag you or Diamond Freeport into the middle of this.”
“I don’t get dragged anywhere I don’t want to go.”
I sigh. “I renew my advice. Seriously. You’ve got enough on your plate, with the tax authorities trying to get into your operations. You don’t need this sort of publicity. You can’t afford to give the government any reason to think you aren’t one hundred percent above board in everything the freeport does.”
As if he hasn’t heard a word, he says, “The Delaware Division of Revenue wants to reclassify the sale of my private jet, saying it’s a retail transaction instead of wholesale.”
I shake my head. “We’ve gone over that. The tax rate is calculated based on the purchaser’s use.” I take him through the transaction again, citing the statutes and regulations from memory.
“Exactly,” he says when I finish.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s exactly why I can’t afford to let you take a leave of absence. And your resigning is off the fucking table. You know this stuff backward and forward. You understand what we do, what we need. Even if I brought in some cocksucker tax specialist tomorrow, he wouldn’t be up to speed until summer.”
“You’ll regret this,” I warn.
“I’ll live.”
Back in my office, I send four emails to lawyers who specialize in ethics matters. I attach the complaints against me and ask for an opinion, along with a fee schedule for preparing a response.
After that, there’s nothing else I can do about the looming disaster. So I open my email. I call out to Mary, asking her to bring in a file. And I settle down to the work I love, the work I’m good at, the work that I may be about to lose forever.
“Anything else you need tonight?” Mary asks.
She sounds exhausted. I look at the clock on my computer and realize it’s after eight. We’ve been at this for twelve long hours.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Why didn’t you remind me of the time?”
“We needed to get through the Propov matter. And I can always use the overtime pay.”
“Go home,” I say. “And I won’t notice if you get in late tomorrow.”
“You’re the best.” She smiles and waves over her shoulder as she heads toward the elevator.
I lean forward in my chair, doing my best to stretch my spine. My top rides up over the waistband of my black wool pants. I bought the clothes yesterday, from a little shop over by Sherman University called Daisy Chain. I ran in yesterday morning and grabbed the sweater in white, gray, and black. I bought two identical pairs of the pants, because they fit well.
For just a moment, I’d considered reaching out to that store in New York—Gallagher Samson, the one Braiden keeps on call. But I don’t have that type of disposable cash.
And I don’t need any more reminders of Thornfield, of the life I’m leaving behind.
I wipe my palms against my thighs. The pants are practical. Professional. Polished.
And boring.
I want something brighter. Something pretty. Something soft.
I want one of the skirts Braiden made me wear.
But more than that, I want someone to notice I’m working late. I want someone to care.
He knows I phoned him Saturday night. He saw two calls come in before he blocked me.
I’m not reaching out to him again.
That sounds like high school, but it’s not. I’m a danger to Braiden Kelly. To Braiden and the Fishtown Boys and anyone else in Antonio Russo’s sights. In the same way that I told Trap—that I begged Trap—not to be dragged down with me, I can’t let Russo get to Braiden through me.
Any more than he already has.
So I turn off my computer. I walk back to Goldenrod Cottage.
But I log on again, from the safety of my temporary home. I shop online for a trio of pretty floral skirts. My finger hovers over the button; I can pay extra to have them delivered tomorrow.
But then it hits me, with the weight of a thousand shipping containers.
I don’t deserve floral skirts. I don’t deserve a break at the end of the workday. I don’t deserve anything soft, anything comfortable. Not after all the mistakes I’ve made.
I delete the entire order. And then I call up a proposed new regulation on investment income and settle down to review the legal language.