22. Janet
JANET
Peter's assistant doesn't meet my eye when I pass her desk.
She has worked three feet from me for two years. She called me at home. She sent me a card when my mother was in the hospital. Today she finds something urgent on her screen the moment I come through the door.
I keep walking.
The hallway feels different. Same carpet, same overhead fluorescents, same row of closed doors.
Two junior prosecutors I've mentored are talking at the copy machine at the end of the hall. One of them sees me coming and his eyes slide away so fast it's almost graceful. The machine hums. Paper feeds through. Nobody speaks.
I nod hi when I pass. Nothing comes back.
I stop at my office.
The room smells like something is dying.
There's a bouquet on my desk. Or what's left of one — pale pink roses, stems bent, petals browning at the edges and dropping. A week ago they were probably beautiful. My assistant is at my door before I've taken three steps in.
"Janet." She looks relieved and uncertain at the same time. "I didn't know you were coming in. Are you — is everything okay?"
I'm looking at the flowers. "When did these arrive?"
"About a week ago. I've been watering them, but—" She stops. "You haven't been in. I called you. I didn't know what to do with them."
There's a small envelope tucked into the arrangement. Still sealed. I pull it out and open it.
The card is cream-colored. His handwriting is clean and even, the handwriting that takes its time.
Thought you needed something to brighten up your day. Can't wait to see you. Mike.
I read it twice.
My head spinning. Thank God she's standing there because if she wasn't, I would throw them through the window.
The week he sent these, he had already handed the video to Elliot Vance.
I set the card on the desk. Face down.
"Get rid of these," I say.
"Of course." She hesitates. "Janet — are you alright? People have been saying things, and I don't — I don't really know what's going on, but?—"
I move to the bookshelf. "I need to get a few things."
"What do I say?"
"Tell them to fuck off."
She stays in the doorway, not quite willing to leave.
I can feel her watching me as I scan the shelf.
Third row from the top, between the New York Criminal Procedure volumes — my copy of the Rules of Professional Conduct.
I've had it since my second year in Queens.
The spine is cracked. There are pencil notes in the margins I don't remember making anymore, the handwriting of a younger version of me who believed the rules were simple.
I take it down and slide it into my bag.
On the desk, next to where the flowers are dying, is the framed photo of Joe. He's laughing. I can't remember at what. Jacket thrown over one shoulder, twenty-six years old and certain the world was going to be exactly what he planned.
I take that too.
My assistant is still in the doorway.
I'm almost at the elevator when I hear her voice behind me.
"Janet?"
I turn.
She's standing in the hallway looking at me with something I don't have a name for. Not pity. Something more careful than that.
"I hope things get better," she says.
I nod. The elevator opens and I get in.
"Thanks."
Rosemary's office is at the end of the south corridor. I knock twice and push the door open without waiting.
She's at her desk. When she sees my face, she stands, moves around the desk, and closes the door behind me.
"What's going on?"
I shut the door.
She leans against the edge of her desk and waits. That's the thing about Rosemary — she never fills silence the way other people do.
"I need to tell you something," I say. "About the video."
"Okay."
"It's off the record, between you and me."
"Got it."
I look at the window behind her. Gray sky. A water tower on a building across the street.
"It wasn't a mistake," I say. "I knew about it. So did Frank."
She shakes her head.
"Ryan Keller was guilty. The officers were sloppy and careless, and they almost let a drug dealer walk on a technicality. We discussed it and decided it was worth the risk rather than let that piece of shit walk."
"You made a call." Her voice is flat. Not angry yet.
Something worse than angry — measured. "I have been defending you in this office for two weeks.
I've been telling people — colleagues, people who respect me — that you would never do something like this intentionally.
" She stops. "I've been saying Janet isn't like that; if this happened, it had to be a mistake.
An honest mistake." A pause. "I have been standing here looking like a complete idiot. "
"Rosemary—"
"I'm not finished." She stands up straight.
"I love you. You're my friend, but I'm a lawyer, and I need to say this once so you actually hear it.
" She looks straight at me. "Ryan Keller being guilty does not make what you did okay.
Evidence is evidence. You don't get to decide which rules apply based on how certain you are about someone. "
I don't say anything.
"The rules exist because we're not always right," she says. Quieter now. "Even when we're sure. Especially when we're sure."
"I fucked up."
"Yeah, you did. And you're probably going to get disbarred."
I nod.
She exhales. Sits back down. The decision to stay passes across her face without ceremony, and it's done.
"But that being said… Mike Trent, you didn't deserve that. I know you fell for him hard."
"He presented me a picture of the perfect man. And it was all a lie."
"What did he say, anything?"
"No, honestly, what the fuck was he going to say. He told me he loved me, and I believed it."
"I'm sorry."
We don't say anything for a while.
"Do you want to get a drink later?"
"No."
"Does Peter know the truth?" she asks.
"I told Peter it was a mistake, but I'm responsible."
"What about Frank? What are you going to say about him?"
"I don't know yet."
"Because taking down Frank means taking down the whole Queens DA office."
She nods slowly. "Keep it that way for now. Until you have a lawyer."
I'm at the door when she speaks again.
"I'm not going anywhere," she says. "I just won't pretend."
"That's why I told you," I say.
I walk home with my pulse in my throat, checking both shoulders like I'm crossing enemy lines instead of my neighborhood.
It isn't paranoia if someone has already given you a reason to be afraid.
By the time I reach my building, my palms are damp and my keys feel slippery in my hand. The lobby is quiet. Too quiet. Even the old radiator seems to hold its breath.
I force myself to act normal.
Mailbox. Key. Turn.
Bills. Flyers. A menu from a Thai place I never order from.
I see it.
A certified letter.
My name typed across the front.
And somehow, before I even touch it, I know my life got worse.
The subject line reads: Notice of Formal Inquiry — Grievance Committee for the Second Judicial Department.
I open it.
Dear Ms. Graham: You are hereby notified that a formal complaint has been filed against you with the Grievance Committee pursuant to the New York Rules of Professional Conduct.
The complaint alleges a violation of Rule 3.
4, specifically the willful concealment of material evidence during the prosecution of People v.
Keller, Queens County. You are required to appear before the Grievance Committee on September 27th at 9:00 a.m. to respond to the allegations set forth in the attached complaint.
Failure to appear may result in disciplinary action imposed in your absence, up to and including disbarment.
I read it standing in the lobby. An elderly couple gets off the elevator.
Up to and including disbarment.
The mailbox won't close at first. My hand is shaking too hard, and I have to press my palm flat against the little metal door until it finally clicks shut.
I go upstairs to my apartment.
I lock the door behind me and stand there for a second with my hand still on the deadbolt.
I kick off my heels by the door. One hits the wall and falls on its side.
I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over the back of the kitchen chair, dropping my bag beside it.
I go to the sink and fill a glass with water. My hand is still shaking, so I set the glass down before I spill it.
That's when my phone buzzes from inside my bag.
I open the bag. Pull it out.
Mike.
His name fills the screen.
The glass slips from my hand.
It hits the kitchen floor and bursts apart, water spreading fast under my bare feet, shards skittering across the tile.
It continues ringing.
I send it to voicemail.
I block the number.