The Night Shift(20)

He kisses her and tries to sound sufficiently enthusiastic. “This is too much. Thank you, Clare.”

“Maybe you can wear it tonight,” she says.



* * *



So he does. The last thing he wants is to embarrass her with her friends. She’s conveniently bought him expensive shirts, a belt, shoes, and even cuff links to go with the ensemble.

The soiree is at a partner’s apartment that makes Clare’s seem modest. At these functions, he always finds himself talking to the bartenders or women who carry around the trays of over-complicated hors d’oeuvres.

But tonight, he’s been cornered by M&A guys from Clare’s department. These types always are fascinated by public defenders like Chris. Occasionally it feels patronizing. But tonight, they seem genuinely curious.

It starts casually enough. Alpha small talk. Them gossiping about the party host’s bad Botox, which gives his face that look of perpetual surprise. Then there’s the colleague they call “Dunning Kruger,” a reference to an affliction that causes the least capable people to think they’re the smartest in the room. A few comments about the pretty bartender with the long legs. Then, inevitably, they turn to Chris’s job.

“Do you, like, go to court?” a guy named Thad says.

His name tells you nearly everything you need to know about him. At Cramer Moorhouse, even the litigators won’t see the inside of a courtroom for the first ten years. Granted, they’re trying cases worth billions, not defending a purse-snatching drug fiend. But still.

“Yeah, I’ve had two dozen trials—mostly drugs and guns, which is what we do the first couple of years for training. I should get my first violent-crimes case soon.”

Thad says, “I don’t think I could sleep at night. I mean, aren’t most of them guilty?”

Chris decides to spare him the usual spiel about believing in the system. And he also doesn’t make the observation that Cramer Moorhouse’s corporate clients—environmental polluters, predatory lenders, etc.—hurt or kill far more people.

Clare must sense trouble; she swoops in to save him. “What are you guys talking about?” She rings her arm around Chris’s.

“We were just marveling that Chris actually has seen the inside of a courtroom.”

This time it does sound patronizing.

“He is pretty amazing,” Clare says.

Thad gives a razor smile. “Speaking of criminals … Did you all see that awful story about the ice cream shop in New Jersey? As if Jersey wasn’t already bad enough.”

They all laugh. If you’re from New Jersey, you’re used to this from New Yorkers, even the transplants.

“No,” Clare says. “What happened?”

Before anyone answers, Chris says, “I’m going to get a drink. Get you all anything?”

He weaves his way through the crowd to the bar. The pretty bartender gives him a fake smile, which turns genuine when she watches him down the vodka in a single gulp.

Chris orders another as he scans his phone, looking for any new posts from the traveler.

“Is that Mr. Nirvana?” the bartender asks, obviously spying on him.

Chris is surprised, but he shouldn’t be, he supposes. The vlogger has a big following. He nods.

“Any new posts? He’s been hinting that he’s going to reveal his identity soon,” she says.

“He posted something earlier today, but nothing new tonight.”

The waitress gives a fleeting smile. “What I wouldn’t give…” She doesn’t have to finish the sentence. Freedom. Adventure. No M&A assholes.

Chris glances over to Clare and her friends. “You and me both,” he says.





CHAPTER 16


ELLA





Ella sits in a booth at Corky’s Tavern, studying her gin and tonic and making a conscious effort at resting bitch face. She’s wearing the only casual clothes she had at the office, jeans and a sweatshirt that is hardly form-fitting. Even so, she’s already had to fend off the parade of men asking to buy her a drink. It’s a strange blend of suitors. The regulars include men with callused hands and their names embroidered on their work shirts, overgroomed hipsters, and (more) Scotch-drinking businessmen.

There’s a loud moan from the bar. The patrons reacting to something on the TV. Sports. Ella never understood the fascination. A professor explained that it’s the human need to belong to something. A tribe. Ella’s never felt that need.

She nurses her drink, waiting for the FBI woman, Agent Keller. Ella and Keller—it sounds like a 90s hip-hop group. Or bad cop drama. It reminds her of Candy and Mandy.

Glancing about the bar again, she feels a surge of melancholy as she recalls Candy telling her that Stevie had been a pathetic regular here. That girls led him on to get free drinks and he never scored. She remembers Candy’s gravelly laugh.

“The poor dweeb. Hey, Mandy, maybe you should take pity and give him a hand-job in the break room.”

“Gross!”

“Ella?”

The voice jolts her back to the bar. At her booth stands a woman. A very pregnant woman. Before Ella replies, the woman wedges herself into the booth.

“Agent Keller? Oh my god. If I knew you were … I wouldn’t have suggested getting a drink. We can go somewhere else if you’d—”