The Ex(10)

“Sweet,” I said, because it seemed like something I should say.

“The Olivia I knew would be more like—” He made a gagging gesture with his finger and laughed quietly. “Hey, I don’t know why I feel the need to say this, but I’m not some blubbering fool who falls in love with a pretty woman at the park. Or, despite all appearances, some imbecile who gets railroaded by police saying they’re on a routine canvass. I mean, how many times have I wondered what you would think of me if we ever saw each other again, and here I am, some pathetic pushover.”

So he had wondered, too. “None of that matters right now, Jack.”

“No, I guess not. But I do want to thank you—for coming here, and for staying. I mean it. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have someone who knows me—who knows I couldn’t have done this—on my side. You scared me with that ‘call my bluff’ business, but I think whatever you said may have rattled him.”

I had given Jimmy Boyle two choices—process Jack as he planned, or call ADA Scott Temple. At that moment, I placed the odds at fifty-fifty.

Once the room fell silent, I was the one getting nervous. I pulled out my cell phone and called the office. Einer picked up, as I expected. “Good afternoon, Ellison and Randall.”

“Einer, it’s Olivia.”

“Hey, mamacita.” For reasons that remained a mystery, Einer Ronald Erickson Wagner, raised by law professors in Connecticut, had decided to co-opt myriad distinctly non-WASPy linguistic styles. “You coming in today? Don was asking.”

I did not want to think about what Don would say when he found out about our new client. “I’m following up on that kid’s call. You got a second?”

Einer was a jack-of-all-trades, but the fact that Don and I were almost completely dependent on him for any computer work that went beyond basic e-mail and Google explained why we put up with his many eccentricities. I gave him an extremely truncated version of the facts: a missed-moment post on the Room, followed by some e-mail messages back and forth. I asked him to find the original post, the e-mails between Jack and Madeline, and, most important, whatever information he could track down about Madeline.

“Sounds like the beginning of a rom-com. This is what that kid was yammering on about this morning?”

“Just do it, okay? Oh, and while I’ve got you—” I said it like there was no connection whatsoever. “Any arrest in that shooting downtown yet?”

“Nope. I’ve been flipping channels and refreshing constantly for any updates, but so far there’s no real news. Only three shot, at least one dead, reporters waiting for confirmation about others.”

We now lived in a country where only three shot was good news. “Nothing else? Witnesses? Rumors?”

“Nah. I mean, they’ve got the usual interviews—the sounds of gunshots, people running. But without any concrete information, they’re already resorting to talking heads debating gun laws and whether New York City is getting more dangerous.”

So Jack’s name wasn’t out yet. That was good. Once his name was leaked, the news reports would create their own momentum and I’d have no hope of stopping the train. “Great. Call me about those e-mail messages as soon as you’ve got something.”

Another call came through before I’d even disconnected. I didn’t recognize the number on the screen but answered anyway. “This is Olivia.”

“Did you find my dad?”

“Yes,” I said neutrally. I didn’t want to upset Jack any further than necessary. “I’m working on that now.”

“Is he okay?”

“Just fine. I’ll know more soon. You found a place to wait?”

“Yeah, I’m at Charlotte’s. You know her, right?”

“Yes,” I said, “from a long time ago. I’ll call you back as soon as I know more. I promise.”

Jack looked up at me as I clicked off the call. “Another client in trouble?”

“Something like that.”


MY CELL PHONE RANG AGAIN within minutes. It was the office. “Einer, you’re a star. You found something already?”

It wasn’t Einer. I heard a familiar gravelly voice, heavy Brooklyn accent firmly in place. “Can you please tell me why I just saw Jack Harris’s name on Einer’s computer screen? Imagine my surprise when he tells me it’s for our new client. Something about a phone call earlier today?”

I signaled to Jack that I needed to step into the hallway outside the conference room. “Don, I was planning to tell you, but this was urgent.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “He’s under arrest. It’s serious.”

“So tell the man to sit on his rights and call him a different lawyer. Why do you have Einer sifting through e-mails?”

“It’s a long story. But there’s a computer trail that could go a long way to clearing Jack.”

“Clearing him? You sound like Perry Mason. We don’t clear people. What is this, a DUI or something? There are other lawyers.”

I found myself chewing my lip. When I was fired—correction, when I was told I would not make partner—by Preston & Cartwright, Don was the one who gave me a job, even though I had never actually been in court and had never handled a criminal case. He took me in because he loved his niece Melissa, and I was Melissa’s best friend.