Don't Ask My Neighbor Read online

  Throughout my fifty-minute ordeal, my presentation to the Board, I knew I was doomed. My reputation, my hard work, my loyalty to J.B. and the firm all destroyed by a woman’s scorn and desire to have it all, by any means necessary. In that moment, J.B.’s impending failure, which had kept me awake most nights, and held me from making good on all the promises I made to myself to destroy Samantha, disappeared from my mind. Of all persons, he should have known better. He knew I hung my hat on the dream of one day occupying the office of United States Attorney for the District of Columbia, and I wasn’t going to let what Samantha or anyone else had between their legs be my deterrent. He knew only those with honor and dignity would be granted the chance to hold such lofty position. I couldn’t be decorated with scandal and libel.

  I sat behind my desk with my eyes tilted toward the ceiling, tapping my pencil on my laptop, ruminating on my plan to destroy Ms. Wells. I no longer had the keys to the expansive corner office. I didn’t have the large window or the immaculate view that captured my attention as I deliberated my tactics in navigating a challenging case or a cutthroat attorney. Fortunately, I didn’t have to start from too far down, but the top was now farther than it was five years ago.

  I’ve enjoyed the warm October days and cool nights, and Friday’s predicted seventy-six degrees provided no reprieve from what had become predictable D.C. weather. I was looking forward to what had become my usual Friday in the office: reviewing depositions, finalizing my list of potential witnesses, and smelling my first of many cups of coffee that would carry me through the last day of what had been a very long week. Since Tuesday, I had been preparing to meet my client for the very first time since his name came across my desk. This wasn’t going to be an open-and-shut case, but I was certain the prosecutor had hung his hopes on exactly that.

  DeVince Paxton was a twenty-year-old standout athlete from the University of South Carolina who got caught up in a deadly home invasion. I’d checked his records and already gave him the benefit of the doubt. He was too smart to get caught up in something so stupid, but somehow he did. They always did. DeVince was my second case as lead attorney and my fourth since joining Ledger-Houston, Smythe and Troxler four years earlier. After defeating Nixon Lorenzo, a charismatic, shrewd attorney with a Santa Clause-like figure, a low pitch voice like Morgan Freeman, an impeccable record, and a knack for eating young lawyers alive, he gave me an uncharacteristic congratulatory handshake, handed me a business card, and then instructed me to call him if I ever wanted to be on a winning team. I guess it wasn’t yet apparent to him that I was already on a winning team. Many thought Attorney Lorenzo had many of the judges presiding over the cases he prosecuted or defended in his back pocket, but I knew better. I’ve spectated his courtroom antics, and what he displayed was a testament to his knowledge of law, and his willingness to protect his clients’ constitutional rights—that’s why they hired him. He’s represented clients accused of some of the District’s most heinous crimes. I had no intention of ending my tenure with Emanuel, Sullivan and Graybourne, but thanks to Samantha, my intention wasn’t her worry.

  Until my reminder popped up on my computer screen, I had forgotten about my 10:30 a.m. appointment at the Corrections Facility in Southeast D.C. I still had a few minutes to kill before making the drive through traffic across town. I began making a note on a ledger next to my laptop when my door slowly crept open.

  “Do you have a minute?” she asked, and entered without my permission.

  She held two cups of coffee securely in both hands and held a magazine tightly under her right arm. She smiled as she walked closer to my desk. I’ve seen that same walk when she was summoned to a judge’s bench.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure, Ms. Priscilla Benedict?” I asked, standing to meet her.

  She hated when I called her Ms. Priscilla Benedict and knew I did it for that reason only. She never got upset about it, though. She usually gave me that you-got-one-more-time-to-call-me-that stare, though she knew my “one more time” wasn’t too far behind.

  Priscilla Benedict was the only offspring of Georgetown Law professor and accomplished author Hope Benedict and Criminal Defense Lawyer Phillip Evan Benedict. We met on my first day at the firm, walking toward the elevator. Although I had a few years of experience under my belt, we were both new faces in the firm. She was fresh out of Cornell Law, ready to blaze her own trail in an area already familiar with the Benedict surname. She was ready to build her own reputation, refusing to rely on the status Phillip and Hope had previously established. She had the smile to melt hearts, but kept that dagger close when she needed to go in for a kill.

  “Please, sit down,” she said, placing one cup of coffee next to my laptop.

  She stood in front my desk and waited for me to comply.

  “You’re going to need to sit down for… this,” she said, dropping the copy of the Super Lawyers magazine on my laptop keyboard. “You didn’t tell me she was…”

  Priscilla paused and took a quiet sip from her AKA coffee mug in its familiar colors. She sat back in one of the two leather chairs facing the desk and held the mug between both palms and close to her mouth. She crossed her legs and stared at me.

  “You didn’t tell me she came back. Is she the reason why you left Emanuel, Sullivan and Graybourne?” Priscilla continued in a brusque tone.

  “Is that your assumption?”

  I reached for the steaming hot liquid and sipped as I waited for her to respond. The taste of sweet Hawaiian coconut offered a quick escape to a familiar place. I returned the mug back on my desk and pushed it away from the edge. In the years I’ve known Priscilla, she was never one to prevaricate.

  “I wasn’t assuming. That was a direct question.”

  “There you go, treating me like a defendant during one of your cross examinations.”

  Priscilla placed her cup on the desk and then stood. She firmly pressed her palms against the desk and leaned her face closer to mine in an attempt to intimidate me. It wasn’t going to work, and to make certain I didn’t promptly surrender to her intimidation, I pushed my chair back and stood with authority. I gawked at her. I knew she wasn’t going to concede. Soon, I broke my stare, and then walked and stood closer to the window with my hands in both pockets. I waited for her to break the silence that crowded the space around us.

  “What happened, Ryle?”

  I pretended her question fell on deaf ears. I felt a freeze overcoming my body as my day of destruction began replaying in my mind. While I showed Samantha what love could do, she spent her time teaching me a valuable lesson in what hate and greed could do, because she must have hated me.

  “Ryle!”

  Priscilla’s voice was closer.

  “She raped me,” I said, and paused.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Priscilla asked, looking around as if someone heard her shout.

  “She raped me of everything I spent my entire life working hard to earn. My dream of one day becoming United States Attorney was destroyed because of her.”

  “How did you let her do that?”

  “Let her?” I said, finally turning around to face Pricilla. “I didn’t let her do anything but walk back into my life when I knew I shouldn’t have. I ignored the lesson I learned the first time. And why?”

  “I’m sorry. You know what I mean.”

  “You think if I could have stopped her, I would’ve let anything she did happen? I didn’t know what she was up to. I was blindsided. A fucking football helmet under my goddamn ribs, and he just stood there, staring at me as I watched my dream crumble.”

  “Who is he?”

  I was going to start talking, but my cellphone buzzed, reminding of my meeting with DeVince at the Central Detention Facility in Southeast D.C. I walked back to my desk, grabbed my briefcase from the floor, and began to carelessly place the files, my laptop, and notebook inside. I walked to the door and removed my suit jacket from the coat rack on the left side of the door. Priscilla stood and
looked at me as if she were looking at craziness and didn’t know how to react to it.

  “Priscilla,” I yelled as I pulled the door open. “Are you coming?”

  “Sure,” she said, quick-stepping toward me. “I just have to grab my coat from my office.”

  “Fine. Meet me in the front of the building,” I said, walking out the door with Priscilla following a few steps behind me.

  I purposely kept Samantha’s actions from Priscilla. If Priscilla were going to be the associate attorney on the cases I defended, I needed to have her trust. I didn’t need any cloud of uncertainty hanging over her head. I knew and believed in my innocence. Unfortunately, those I expected to believe likewise, held firmly to my guilt.

  I rode the elevator in silence. I leaned against the hardwood handrail and concentrated on my image in one of the full-length mirrors on either side of the elevator cab. I fixed the knot in my tie and pondered my imminent conversation with Priscilla. I’ve had this conversation formally with four others in the firm, which included Nixon Lorenzo. As if they took an oath of silence or had been issued a gag order, the other employees in the firm had spoken no evil since my arrival.

  Ten

  _____

  Second Time Around

  Samantha

  “IF I WERE TO ASK YOU to marry me, what would you say?” Jelani asked between a bite of his Atlantic Skate filet, brown caper-lemon sauce, endives, potatoes, and shitake mushrooms.

  I hated when men talked about marriage in the hypothetical. I mean, if those four words were somewhere between your tonsils and the tip of your damn tongue, buy a ring, get on one knee, and pop the damn question. Have some confidence. If she were going to say no, you would have gotten several hints along the way. When it came to Jelani, I don’t think the word “no” existed in my lexis.

  “It depends,” I said, smiling. “Is ‘no’ an option?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I guess we already know the answer to that question.”

  I leisurely placed my fork on the white cloth napkin beside the platter, extended my arm across the table, and dangled my ring finger in his face. We both laughed. In the back of my mind, the waiter had arrived, balancing the small heart-shaped red box on the service tray. My face glowed as Jelani slid the white gold Sareen diamond engagement ring on my finger.

  The week had been flying by and it only seemed to slow when I was with Jelani. I loved saying that man’s name. Dinner with him on Tuesday night at Bastille in Alexandria was just the beginning of what turned out to be a very action-packed evening. After seeing him that morning, besides work, sex was the only thing on my mind, and those provocative thoughts only seemed to heighten the moment I saw his face again that evening. Preparing for what I hoped would happen, during dinner I picked at the Coq au vin and sipped on glasses of Chassagne-Montrachet. There was something unladylike about having sex on a full stomach, but since alcohol took ecstasy to another level, I continued to indulge in my other favorite pastime. He wasn’t doing anything and I was already moist for him. For dessert, he wanted to dip spoons in brandied raisin compote, caramel ice cream, and walnut crisp. I wanted him to plunge himself in me. There’s nothing like a girl getting her way. That night I was daddy’s good girl in a very bad way, and the next morning he was thanking me for the smile I left on his face. I loved doing my man.

  Needless to say, Jelani left a grin of satisfaction on my face, too, and I wore it all day at work on Wednesday. A wrinkle in my newest case couldn’t make me frown. Even Felicia and her idiosyncratic demeanor failed to put a grimace in my L’Oréal. After another taste of Jelani’s amazing sex, I was able to ignore Parker’s attitude on Thursday; the same one he’s tried to mask behind his half-smiles. If he had an ironclad plan to fuck me over and get away with it, he would have done so by now. But I had secrets about him he didn’t know existed, and he knows that I never laid all my cards on the table. I was playing a game of five-card poker, and I had a royal flush at all times. I was waiting for him to join force with Felicia, since she seemed to be developing a deep dislike for me by the minute, but for whatever reason, Parker stayed clear of that possible bond. Maybe she repulsed him just as much as she did me.

  Felicia and I walked around the firm as if we were strangers, even though we’ve been working closely for more than three years. She was still an enigmatic presence. Her record was squeaky clean—I wouldn’t be Samantha Wells if I didn’t do my investigation—she’s even managed to stay clear of the normal childhood blemishes most of us had become familiar with.

  She walked into my office on Friday morning looking as if I had slept beside her in her cold bed; as if her menstrual was three days late and a dollar short. Or maybe she was mad because I’d stood in her closet and handed her that hideous ensemble she sported. It’s hard to believe she actually stood in front of a mirror and convinced herself the things she wore actually looked good on her.

  Felicia sat the coffee mug on the desk to her left and handed me a printed copy of my schedule. A meeting with Jelani and the other partners was scheduled for 10:00 a.m., and I was due in court by 1:00 p.m. for a bond hearing.

  “You should probably check your email before your meeting, if you haven’t already,” Felicia advised before turning back toward the door.

  “Why, am I losing my partnership?” I asked, smiling.

  She didn’t find my question amusing.

  I sat in the chair and crossed my legs right over left. After punching a few keys to access my firm email account, a message from Emory Sullivan sat in first position in my inbox.

  Attorney Wells, Congratulations on being named Trial Lawyer of the Year. Ms. Wells, we at Emanuel, Sullivan and Graybourne are extremely proud of your accomplishments. We look forward to celebrating you, as you begin your membership to this exclusive club.

  Mr. Emory Sullivan

  I wanted to scream from the pit up my stomach, but instead I gave a confident oh-hell-yeah fist pump. Where was my Obama when I needed one?

  “We’ll have to celebrate.”

  My suggestion stopped Felicia in the midst of her exit. Although she was aware of my award, she maintained a reluctance to revel in my delight. She turned to face me.

  “We? Celebrate?” she questioned with an awkward grin.

  “Yes. Give us time to get close. This is as much your award as it is mine,” I said, picking up my coffee and walking closer to her. “Plus, in the three years you’ve been here, I’ve never heard you talk about kids.”

  I took a sip of my coffee and then held the cup close to my mouth.

  “Or a husband.”

  Felicia took a few steps closer to me. She kept her eyes locked onto mine. She looked at me as if I had just asked her to jump off a bridge with me, as if I had asked her to make the ultimate sacrifice. I stared into familiarity, again, but I still couldn’t put my French manicured finger on it.

  “I try not to mix business with pleasure, and quite frankly, I don’t take pleasure in discussing my business with you,” Felicia spoke without a smile.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” I said, attempting to sound apologetic.

  I took a step back from her, turned, and then walked back toward my desk. I kept my ears open for a retort; I was certain one was coming. I sat in the chair, twisted my body to a comfortable position, and then overlapped my right and left legs. I folded my arms in my lap and patiently waited to hear her voice again. I was getting to know Felicia Hailey, but she was still a mystery. She was hiding something. You and I know only the dead kept secrets, and although she could be buried in her outfit, she was very much alive.

  “Well, you did,” Felicia finally spoke. “My personal life is never up for discussion; at least not with you. We’re never going to accompany each other to the ladies room, stand in front of a mirror, circling our mouths with Guerlain lipstick, laughing at women who want our men but are pissed because they can’t have them. Whether or not I have a husband or kids is never bathroom chatter. NEVER
,” she emphasized with clenched teeth.

  Like she had just delivered an award winning performance, she twirled and began her familiar walk toward the door. I allowed silence to fill the space between us, but I wasn’t going to let her have the final word. It was obvious she had an itch to scratch, and I was going to help her do just that.

  “I’m sorry, Felicia. Did I do something to you?”

  She paused in her exit. In her stillness she pondered the best response to my question. She turned and delivered her reply as she strode unhurriedly toward me.

  “I’m sure you know the answer to that, Samantha. Who haven’t you done something to around here?”

  “Wait a minute.”

  “Even though you’ve already wasted enough of my minutes.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “Finally, a moment of truth,” Felicia squealed. “Confused is not the only thing you are, Samantha. You’ve obviously managed to fool some very smart people around here, including Attorney Graybourne. But I can see through your costume and rehearsed lines. Everything you do is a performance, but I’m not here to give you a round of applause or a standing ovation. You’ve been winning because everyone has been seeing you through your eyes.”

  “Is that the talk around here?”

  I stood and began my approach in Felicia’s direction. Though it wasn’t an ideal conversation—if you could call it a conversation—that was the most Felicia has said to me that wasn’t work related.