The Ex(50)

I hit the Send key. Or, at least I thought I did. I’d have to check the next morning when my head was clearer.


I’M REVIEWING MY NOTES ONE final time at counsel table. When I reach the end, I smile to myself because I know every line of my open ing statement cold. I even hear the intended inflections in my head—it’s the “government’s burden,” not the “government’s burden.” When Judge Amador enters the courtroom, we all rise, and I straighten the jacket of my best suit—the black Escada crepe with the zippered front. Everything is perfect.

ADA Scott Temple’s opening seems to flash by in an instant, as if it never even happened, and then it’s my turn. Good morning. My name is Olivia Randall, and I represent Jack Harris. The ADA makes this sound simple—black and white, cut and dry—because that’s his job. One of the jurors coughs, and then I hear another one talking to his neighbor before a few others join in. If I could have your attention. But they continue talking. I look to Judge Amador for assistance, but he shrugs. Temple smirks at me from the prosecutor’s table.

Again, ladies and gentlemen. They are speaking so loudly now that I can’t hear my own voice. My client has a right to be heard. I am screaming but the din of the courtroom grows louder. I start pounding on the railing before the jury, and the man closest to me—juror number six, I’m certain he’s a product manager for a soap company, but can’t remember how I know that—begins to laugh. I knock on the wood so hard that my fist aches. “I think I broke my finger, Your Honor.”

Somehow that one sentence is heard, and the judge tells me to exit through a door at the side of the courtroom so a nurse can check my hand. When I walk through the door, I’m in my old apartment—the one on Mercer. The one I shared with Jack. I walk through the living room into the kitchen, then back through again to the bedroom.

Jack’s brother, Owen, is lying in the bed, his bare chest tan and lean against the crisp white sheets. He rolls over, turning his back to me. I see blood on the pillow.

I open the closet door, and find a room I never knew existed. It is larger than the entire apartment combined, but is filled with taped boxes and cotton-draped furniture. Jack is standing in the corner. He looks young, like when we were in college.

“Olivia, everything’s fine. I hear you. Can you hear me?”

I know these are the words he is saying, but I can’t actually hear him. “No, I can’t. But I know, Jack. I know.”

His lips keep moving, but I can no longer make out the words. I tell Jack that something is wrong. The room is silent.

Suddenly he’s the one standing in the jury box, pounding on the wooden railing. The knock is quiet at first, then becomes louder and louder. I can tell he’s yelling, but no sound comes from his mouth. I can only hear the pounding.

“Olivia!”

I reach for him and feel something cool and hard against the palm of my hand, and then it’s gone.

The wine. Somehow I know it’s the wine.

When I opened my eyes, I realized the pounding was real, and it was coming from my front door. A half bottle of Cabernet was seeping into the carpet next to my bed. I grabbed what was left and balanced it on the nightstand, then pulled off my T-shirt and used it as a towel to try to sop up the wine.

The knocking continued, and I heard my name again. Wrapping myself in the robe from my bathroom, I made my way to the front door. Thanks to the distortion of my peephole, Einer’s nose looked inflated, like one of those dog-shaped balloons.

“What the hell—,” I said, opening the door. I saw my building super, Vladimir whose-last-name-I-could-never-remember, standing behind him.

“This man who looks like clown said it was emergency. You need 911 or something?”

“No, Vlad. I’m fine. Thanks. This idiot works for me.”

I could tell Vlad was amused as he walked toward the elevator.

Einer was also amused as I stepped aside to let him in. “You know what doesn’t go with that outfit? A boyfriend.”

“Einer, what are you doing here?”

“You didn’t answer your cell. I must’ve called ten times in a row. And you’re like the only forty-year-old I know who doesn’t have a landline.”

Einer had a way of saying “forty” like it was a hundred and two. I blinked a few times, hard, trying to clear the clouds from my throbbing head.

“I just overslept.”

“Well, I can see that now. Don got all worried, saying you always answer your cell. And then I started thinking about that lady in Queens who had a stroke and spent seven hours immobile on her kitchen floor until someone came to check on her. I mean, you don’t even have a cat or anything.”

“Nice to know you care, Einer.”

I looked around and saw my cell phone on the kitchen counter. Rookie f*cking move.

Sixteen missed calls. And it was nearly noon. “I must be coming down with something.”

“I call it the tequila nod.”

“Not funny, Einer. And don’t repeat that to Don.”

“Fine, none of my business. Jack Harris has been calling the office, saying it’s important. Something about the woman who sent those e-mails.”

Right. Madeline. I e-mailed her last night. At least, I thought I had.

My cell phone was ringing again.

“You want me to answer that?” Einer asked.