Unbreakable (City Lights, #2)(44)
Michael Dooney’s office resembled a museum: tasteful pieces of art peppered the glass-and-steel motif, and the room always seemed ten degrees colder than any other part of the building. Mr. Dooney waited until we were both inside and shut the door behind us. He sat at his glass desk—I couldn’t imagine working on a glass desk—his back to the Los Angeles skyline, and indicated for me to sit in one of the two black leather armless chairs across from him. Mr. Lawson leaned against the other.
There was nothing on Mr. Dooney’s desk but a leather desk set, also in black, and a sleek MacBook Pro, open and facing him. He sat in his chair—a higher-backed version of the one I sat in—and steepled his narrow fingers together as he regarded me with cold blue eyes. Older than Jon Lawson by ten years, he reminded me of Ebenezer Scrooge…before the ghostly visitations.
“Ms. Gardener, you were given Munro vs. Hutchinson because you assured us that you could handle it. No, scratch that. You guaranteed us a win.”
I nodded and said only, “That’s correct, Mr. Dooney.”
After working at Lawson & Dooney for three years, I knew when it was time to speak and when to keep my mouth shut when it came to the senior partner. But inside, my heart clanged in my chest. He can’t possibly be blaming me for being held up at a bank robbery…?
“The word from the courthouse was that your closing statement was quote—like nails in a coffin for the defense—unquote.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Dooney,” I said, and suddenly wondered if things weren’t as terrible as I thought. With Dooney it was impossible to tell whether you were going to get a raise or be fired—his demeanor was the same delivering either news.
“I was glad to hear it too,” Mr. Dooney said, sarcasm tingeing his words, “until yesterday, and then I wasn’t quite so very glad.”
I shifted in my chair.
“Just tell her what happened,” Jon Lawson said, irritated. “She’s been through a terrible ordeal—”
Dooney held up a bony hand, his eyes boring into mine. “When it was first discovered that you were a hostage in that bank robbery, the defense attorney requested Judge Fitzpatrick to question the jury for influence. He did, and found none. Nothing sufficient anyway. Some jurors expressed concern over your well-being, naturally, but all felt they could continue deliberations and come to a just verdict regardless.”
I eased a sigh without showing that I had. My hands were clasped so tightly in my lap, my nails cut the skin. “Yes, I’d heard. I’m so relieved.”
“And then this happened.”
Dooney flipped his laptop around and started a video of a news report from KTLA. The female reporter stood in a darkened underground parking lot along with a dozen or so other reporters milling about.
“By some miracle, only two of the hostages were injured. One—a woman—sustained four broken fingers. The other—a man credited with almost single-handedly ending the standoff between the bank robbers and police—sustained a gunshot wound to the back but apparently is in stable condition. We have just confirmed that another hostage is inside and—”
There was a flurry of movement, blurred images, and the reporter shouted, “Here she comes now!”
I watched the jerky, handheld footage of Drew and me stepping out of the hospital elevator. The reporters converged and Drew shielded me, rushing us to his car, but not before the glare of a dozen cameras lit up the gory splatter of blood all over my clothes.
Dooney snapped the laptop shut. “They’re calling you the Jackie Kennedy of United One.”
“Sorry, kiddo.” Jon Lawson patted my shoulder. “You can imagine what happened next.”
“Defense requested a new line of jury questioning,” I said dully.
“Correct,” Dooney said. “Almost unanimous for influence. Mistrial.” He leveled a finger at me. “We were home free until your little hospital photo-op sunk the case.”
“Mr. Dooney, I…I didn’t know the press was there. How could I know? I had just been freed…” My words trailed, drowned in disbelief that I had to speak them at all.
“It’s not your fault, Alex.” Lawson glared at Dooney. “Is it?”
Dooney ignored his partner. “You know our philosophy, Ms. Gardener. We do not represent our clients solely within the courtroom. We never stop representing them. Not on our days off, not at home, not standing in line at the local deli, and certainly not while the jury is in deliberations for a trial that could have meant millions to our bottom line.”
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders. “Mr. Dooney, I’ll fix it. I know it’s a lot of work—”
“A lot of work.” He sat back in his chair. Another man might have smiled, even if sardonically. Michael Dooney never smiled. “Aside from discovery, we have to start from scratch. And by we I mean this firm. Not you.”
I reeled. “Am I…am I being fired?”
“No,” Jon Lawson said. “No. A leave of absence, only. A paid leave of absence. To give you time to recover from your ordeal. We’ll get Upton to take over Munro.”
Dooney’s lip curled slightly and I knew then that he did want me fired, and that what prevented him wasn’t any kindness in his withered old heart or the mercy of Jon Lawson. It was the fact I would slap him with an unlawful termination suit before the day was over and he knew it. To say nothing of the bad press.