Overruled

Wednesday morning, I’m in the US Attorney’s Office, engaging in the rudimentary but exciting behind-the-scenes activity that prevents the court system from grinding to a screeching fucking halt: negotiating the plea deal. It’s a common, everyday responsibility—but where the exciting comes in is the thrill of bargaining. I know my client is guilty, the prosecutor knows it too, but it’s my job to convince them to take the easy win—that the time and money saved by the taxpayer is worth the lesser charge and reduced sentence.

I follow Angela Cassello, a short, red-haired firecracker of an Assistant US Attorney, down the bustling hallway. “He connects people with the same interests, people looking for specific physical attributes in a partner, who don’t have the time to vet a potential companion,” I explain.

Diplomacy at its finest. Also known as a crock of shit.

“He’s a pimp,” Angela argues. “Just because he’s rich doesn’t make him any less of a pimp.”

“He’s a matchmaker.”

“Ha!” she counters, not slowing her brisk pace. “And next you’ll be telling me drug dealers are pharmacists.”

That’s actually not bad—I may use that in the future.

“Look.” I lean against the wall, forcing Angela to stop beside me. “He doesn’t work with underage girls, he doesn’t cross state lines, there’s no claims of abuse. This is a guppy, Angela—a harmless, victimless fish. You’ve got sharks to fry. If this were Nevada there wouldn’t even be a charge.”

“If your client were smarter, he would’ve set up shop in Nevada.”

“He’ll cop to the tax evasion,” I offer. “But you have to take procuring off the table.”

“Ah yes, because financial crimes committed by the obscenely wealthy are socially acceptable. Sex crimes are frowned upon—at least when they get caught.”

Sometimes the best answer is no answer. I wait her out.

And she sighs. “You’re lucky I like you more than your client, Shaw. We’ll take the tax evasion. But I want jail time; he’s not skating on probation or house arrest.”

“Low-security facility and you’ve got a deal.”

She holds out her hand and I shake it. “I’ll have the papers sent to your office this week.”

“You’re the best, Angela.”

She pushes my shoulder playfully. “You say that to all the prosecutors.”

“Only the pretty ones.”

•   •   •

Back in my office, I open my briefcase and take out the pimp’s case file and yesterday’s mail I grabbed from the box on my way out this morning. I sit down, drink my coffee, and sort through it. Junk, junk, bill, junk . . . an envelope catches my eye.

Five by seven, white, addressed to me in handwritten calligraphy . . . with Jenny’s parents’ return address.

I open it and remove the flat ivory card.

And it’s like a nuclear bomb goes off in my head.

My brain must’ve turned to ash—making me illiterate—because I can barely decipher the words.

Honor of your presence . . .

Jenny Monroe . . .

James Dean . . .

June . . .

Wedding . . . wedding . . . wedding . . .

“What in the actual fuck?”

That gets Jake’s attention. He turns in his chair. “Problem?”

I grasp for understanding, for a theory that makes sense. “Did you do this? Is this a joke?”

He points to himself. “Have you ever known me to make a joke? On purpose?”

He’s right. Pranks aren’t his style.

Brent, on the other hand . . . This is right up his alley.

I spring out of my desk chair and stomp into Brent and Sofia’s office.

“Is this supposed to be fuckin’ funny?” I accuse, harsh and desperate.

He plucks the card from my fingers. “I don’t know why it would be. Ivory isn’t a particularly funny color.”

And then he reads it. “Whoa.” He glances up to my face warily, then back down to the invitation. And again mutters, “Whoa!”

Sofia stands from her desk. “What? Why are we whoa-ing?”

Brent flashes her the invitation. Comprehension dawns in her eyes.

“Wh— Shit.”

Sweat breaks out on my forehead and my chest squeezes like I’m having a panic attack. I grab the card, and with Brent and Sofia right behind me, trudge back to my office—needing to fucking yell at someone.

And I know just the someone.

I punch the familiar numbers into the phone. But I’m brought up short by the voice that answers.

“Presley?”

“Hey, Daddy.”

“Why aren’t you in school?” It’s an hour earlier in Mississippi, but she should still be in school.

“We got the day off—teacher trainin’.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“She’s gettin’ ready for work.”

“Put her on the phone.”

There’s a rustle, muffled talking and then my daughter’s back on the line. “Momma says she’s late for work, she’ll call you back.”

I don’t think so.

“Presley,” I hiss, “tell your momma I said to get on the goddamn phone right fuckin’ now.”

There’s a shocked pause. Then a hushed whisper. “You want me to say that?”

“Say exactly that,” I urge. “You won’t get in trouble.”

With a little too much enthusiasm, she yells, “Momma! Daddy said get on the goddamn phone right fuckin’ now!”

I can practically hear Jenny stomping to the phone. “Have you lost your mind?” she screeches seconds later. “Tellin’ my daughter to cuss at me? I will cut you!”

“You’ve already cut me!” I unleash. “What the hell am I lookin’ at right now, Jenn?”

Obviously she can’t see what I’m looking at—not my best opener—but it’s hard to be logical when you’ve been kicked in the nuts.

“I don’t know, Stanton, what the hell are you lookin’ at?”

“Well it looks like a fuckin’ wedding invitation!”

She sucks in a mouthful of shocked air. “Oh my lord.” Then in a growl not directed at me, “Momma!” An inaudible argument ensues with sharp tones and angry pitches. Then she comes back to me. “Stanton?”

My grip on the phone tightens. “I’m here.”

Jenny swallows with a gulp. “That news I was gonna tell you about this weekend? I’m gettin’ married, Stanton.”

It’s like she’s speaking another language—I hear the words but they make no sense.

“Sonofabitch!”

“I was gonna tell you . . .” she rushes out.

“When? When the golden anniversary rolled around?”

She tries to soothe me. “I know you’re angry . . .”

But I’m gone. “I passed angry so far fuckin’ back it’s scary!” I look over the card again. “Who in the holy hell is James Dean? And what kinda name is James Dean anyway?”

Brent chooses this moment to comment softly. “The same as one of our finest American actors. Rebel Without a Cause, Giant with Elizabeth Taylor . . .”

“Elizabeth Taylor,” Jake pipes up. “She was hot when she was young.”

I ignore the idiot ramblings and focus on what Jenny is saying.

“We’ve been seein’ each other for a few months now. He asked me three weeks ago.”

An unsettling thought occurs to me and goes straight out my mouth.

“Are you pregnant?”

Offense rings clear in Jenny’s tone. “Why would you ask that? You think bein’ pregnant is the only way I could get a man to marry me?”

“No, but between you and your sister—”

“Don’t you talk about my sister!” Now she’s yelling too. “Not when you got a brother livin’ in a trailer sellin’ marijuana to high school kids!”

I kick my desk. “I don’t want to talk about fuckin’ Carter or Ruby! I want to talk about this ridiculous notion that’s runnin’ in your head.” Then another, worse thought flashes through my brain. “Has he . . . been around Presley?”

She breathes slowly, whispers guiltily, “She’s met him, yes. He comes to the park with us sometimes.”

“He’s a dead man!”

Dead. Gone. Done. I think of every perfect murder scenario that’s ever been suggested simultaneously, and plan to inflict each one on James fucking Dean.

“Stop yellin’ at me!” she screeches.

“Then stop bein’ stupid!” I rail.

I pull the phone away from my ear, as Jenny’s volume threatens to rupture my eardrum.

“Fine! You wanna yell? Let’s both yell real loud, Stanton, ’cause that’ll solve everything!”

Sofia rushes to the desk and furiously scribbles on a legal pad.

Stop! Take a breath. You’re badgering—that will get you nowhere.

My nostrils flare and my face feels like stone. But I close my eyes and do as directed—swallowing down the arsenal of insults that were locked and loaded on my tongue.

“I’m sorry for yellin’. I’m just . . . this is a shitload to try and take in.” But I get a little louder with each word. “And the idea that some fucker, that I don’t know, has been around my daughter . . .”

“You do know him!” Jenn replies quickly, as if that makes it better. “He went to high school with us, a year younger. But back then he went by the name Jimmy. Jimmy Dean—he was the manager for the football team.”

Her words sink in, conjuring the image of a skinny, dark-haired little shit with Coke-bottle glasses.

And we’re back to the yelling.

“The water boy? You think you’re marryin’ the fuckin’ water boy?”

On the periphery of my rage, I hear Brent say, “He’s losing it.”

Jake watches me, fascinated. “Total meltdown.”

“Shh!” Sofia scolds.

But I’m on a roll.

“We used to call him Sausage Link cause his pecker was so small! He used to pick up the jock straps from the locker room floor! You were the homecomin’ queen, for Chrissakes! Homecomin’ queens do not grow up to marry the fuckin’ water boy!”

“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this! You’ve lost your mind!” Jenny fires back.

“You’ve made me like this! Packed up my balls in your purse and driven my mind right over the edge into Bat-Shit-Crazy Town!”

Sofia sticks another note in my face.

Get a grip!!! Make a plan!! State your points or you’ll lose her.

It’s the last words that slap me in the face—right on point. I scrub my hand over my face and breathe deeply, feeling like I’ve run a marathon.

Jenny’s voice is cold as ice. “I have to go to work. We’ll discuss this later.”

“I’m coming home, Jenn,” I tell her.

She turns panicky. And I can almost see her flailing her arms, the way she does when she’s upset. “No! No, Stanton—you stay in DC and just . . . cool off. I’m workin’ twelve on, twelve off for the next three days. I won’t have any time to see you . . .”

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” I insist. “That gives you twenty-four hours to tell James Dean you’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Or what?” she challenges.

“Or I’ll kill him,” I tell her simply. “I swear on Jesus, either break it off or you’ll spend your weddin’ night with a goddamn corpse.”

“Necrophilia is so 1987,” Brent comments.

And Jenny hangs up on me.

I slam the phone down and fall into my chair.

“Shit.” I push a hand through my hair. “Motherfucking shit! My girl . . . my girl’s gettin’ married.”

It’s only then, when I say the words calmly and aloud, that they sting. But before the pain rises, Sofia makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat.

“What in God’s name was that?” she asks with derision.

“That was the Iceman melting,” Jake answers.

She ignores him, stepping closer, arms folded, eyes hard. “You are a criminal defense attorney, Stanton. A professional arguer. And that was the most pathetic display of arguing I’ve ever seen.”

“This isn’t a case, Sofia! This is my fuckin’ life.”

She spreads her arms. “The whole world is a court case . . . and we’re all . . . defendants.”

Brent squints. “I don’t think you’re using that quote correctly.”

“Did you really think calling her up and yelling at her would score you any points? If anything, you just set yourself back. If you called me stupid, I’d tell you to go fuck yourself.”

“I don’t know what I was thinkin’, okay!” And with more scorn than I intend, I throw out, “And Jenny’s not like you.”

But Sofia’s not perturbed. “Obviously she’s a little like me, since she hung up on your sorry ass. But the question you have to ask yourself is—what are you going to do about it?”

She’s right. I have to get out in front of this—make my case, hold my claim, get my shit together. I have to talk to Jenny—better this time—and convince her not to get married. And I can’t do that from Washington, DC.

“I have to go home. I have to see her—face-to-face. Find out what the hell’s been going on. I have to fix this.”

Sofia puts her hand on my shoulder. “Take it one step at a time—build your case. Win her over to your side. Be charming. Be . . . you.”

I stand up. “I’m going to human resources, to get time off.” I look at the three of them. “You’ll cover for me?”

“Sure.”

“Of course.”

Jake nods.

Before I step out through the door, Sofia’s voice stops me. “Stanton.”

I turn back. Her eyes are encouraging, but her smile seems . . . forced. “Good luck.”

I nod. And without another second of hesitation, I get ready to go home.