Sexy Lies and Rock & Roll by Sawyer Bennett
She died almost a year and a half ago, just a few months before I finished law school. She didn't get to see me graduate. She didn't get to see me pass the bar.
She didn't see me land a job that I just don't like. I can't talk to her about the fact I'm completely unhappy with my career at this point. I really can't talk to my dad about it either, because he loves it here at Knight & Payne and thinks I should too.
My gaze travels around The Pit, which is a classic example of how very different I am from the core being of this law firm. Knight & Payne is probably the most watched law firm in the state of North Carolina. Currently up to sixty-eight lawyers, the tagline "Come any poor soul needing help" pretty much says it all. This is a firm that gets down in the trenches and helps the common man.
I find that to be very brave, very inspiring and it's what I respect most about this firm.
But in taking that stance, Midge Payne, the only surviving original partner, decided that her firm would be as unique as her open arms policy. The firm takes up the twenty-seventh and twenty-eight floors of the Watts Building, also owned in its entirety by Midge. I'm on the twenty-seventh floor in the civil division, and I work in what's called The Pit. It's a large open area taking up the very center of the floor with nothing but rows of desks grouped in sections of four with no dividing panels or cubicles. This is a collaborative design, with the intent to foster discussion and promote teamwork. Lawyers work right alongside secretaries, with nothing to distinguish the two from each other except the educational degrees earned. You certainly wouldn't be able to tell people apart by the state of their dress because Midge Payne has no dress code. People are allowed to wear whatever they want, which means most people dress uber casual.
I look down at my own crisply tailored Anne Klein black crepe suit with silk stockings and sensible black pumps. This is what an attorney should wear in my opinion.
To my right, Krystal Nichols, who is an attorney, is wearing a pair of green camouflage spandex pants with bright red heels and a gauzy, cream-colored top. It screams redneck tramp. She's currently talking on the phone to an insurance adjuster and threatening to eat his balls for lunch. She graduated at the top of her law school class from Duke.
To my left is Fletch Stiles. He's a big, burly dude who has been a secretary here at the firm for the past fifteen years. He's probably in his mid-forties and does bodybuilding competitions. His fashion sense is still stuck in the 80s as evidenced by the acid-washed jeans he's wearing that barely fit over his bulging thighs. His Led Zeppelin t-shirt is equally stretched over biceps that are roughly the size of hams. Fletch is snarky and slightly abusive, even to the attorneys who work here, and he intimidates the hell out of me. Thank God he doesn't do any work for me.
In the seven months I've been here at Knight & Payne, I've not been able to get used to this work environment. It's noisy and I can't concentrate. I don't like people being able to listen in on my conversations, and I can't stand the laughing and joking that goes on throughout the day. It's not how I envisioned the way I would practice law.
I thought I'd have my own office like my mom did, complete with wood-paneled walls, a lustrous mahogany desk, and shelves lined with law books just begging me to read them. I imagined I'd work hours upon hours poring over legal documents and trying to figure out loopholes so I could impress my clients. I'd have fancy lunches in the Capital Club with my peers, and we'd discuss the law and politics. I'd call my mom up at night, so we could argue and debate. I'd be looked upon with respect and eventually, I'd meet a nice man with similar interests and ambitions, we'd get married and have three kids, and maybe a dog.
At least, that was the game plan.
Instead, I accepted a job here at my father's law firm because I wasn't given an offer anywhere else. Instead of pursuing corporate law, I'm doing grunt work for Leary, who's always off crusading to save some poor schmuck's dignity.
Not to say there's anything wrong with her practice of law. It's admirable, no doubt.
It's just not what I wanted.
I look around The Pit again.
I don't want any of this, and I'm biding my time until a better opportunity comes along.
My phone chimes on my desk, jolting me out of my thoughts. I look around guiltily to see if anyone noticed I'd been daydreaming a bit, but everyone's busy with either their own work or discussing cases. While Midge gives a ton of personal freedom to the people who work for her, no one ever takes advantage of it. I will have to say this is the hardest-working group of people I've ever encountered in my life.
I reach out and pick up my phone. Pulling the receiver to my ear, I say, "Emma Peterson."
"Emma." At the silky smooth woman's voice coming through, I immediately go on hyper alert. While I don't get much interaction with her, I would recognize Midge Payne's voice anywhere. I'm stunned because she doesn't ever deal with the associate attorneys, and my heart starts an erratic beat.
"Um... yes, Miss Payne... what can I do for you?" I ask, my voice trembling.
"It's Midge," she says curtly but not unkindly, a quick reminder we are all on a first-name basis here. This is another example of how this law firm is not meshing with my ideals of what a law practice should look like.
For example, Fletch should call me Miss Peterson, not Squirt, which is apparently the nickname he'd pinned on me due to my diminutive size. I dare not correct him.
"Yes, of course, Midge," I stumble in apology. "How can I help you?"
"I need to see you," she says. "In my office. Now."
And then she hangs up.
I stare dumbfounded at my phone for about three seconds, then lift my head so my gaze focuses on Midge's office door in the eastern corner of the twenty-seventh floor. Probably at least twenty Pit desks are lined up between Midge and me right now, yet I feel I need more protection for some reason.
The massive wooden door swings open slowly, revealing the reclusive yet beautiful woman known as Midge Payne. She's the only attorney in this firm who rates an actual office with real walls that give her complete privacy. All other offices are bordered by glass walls. She stares at me directly with the silent message of, "Get your ass up and get in my office."
I'm surprised my legs can even hold my weight as I slowly stand up from my desk and walk her way. Past the other Pit desks, the noise of people talking and laughing and debating. Past her cool-as-a-cucumber secretary who looks like she stepped out of the pages of Vogue and I realize I have no clue what her name is.
Midge steps backward into her office, motions me inside, and closes the door behind me.
It's an ominous sound, and I wipe my sweaty hands on the crepe material of my skirt.
Without a word to me, Midge walks around her desk and takes a seat in a feminine high-backed, executive chair done in cream leather and cherry wood. I take one of the guest chairs opposite her, thankful for the desk separating us. I can't remember ever being this intimidated before, and that even includes Professor Loughlin standing me up in Contracts class my first year of law school and grilling me for three days straight on a case.
She stares at me now, her blue eyes not unfriendly but still on the cool side. I've always thought Midge Payne was a beautiful woman. I have no clue her age, probably in her mid-sixties, but you'd never guess that. I swear she looks like she could pass for late forties. This is only the second time I've talked to her--the first being at the firm's Christmas party a few months ago. She wished me Merry Christmas as she handed me a bonus check.
"I have a case for you," she says.
Her voice cracking the silence startles me so much, I practically jump in my chair. I wipe my sweaty hands again.
"Um... sure," I say, my voice almost squeaking with unease. To my knowledge, Midge Payne has never handed a case down to a lowly first-year associate. To my knowledge, Midge Payne has never even talked to a lowly first-year associate outside of handing out Christmas bonuses.
I know most young attorneys would be thrilled to catch th
I don't fit in.
Maybe I'm not even worthy to fit in, and that's something that's actually been weighing my conscience down.
"I need you to get over to the Raleigh Police Station. They're bringing in Evan Scott for questioning in an alleged homicide case," she says, tone matter of fact.
My jaw drops.
Evan Scott?
Homicide?
I can't help it. My head swivels slowly around, my body shifting slightly until I can see behind me. I have to make sure she's not talking to someone else.
Another attorney.
Someone better than me. Someone with more experience, which would be just about any attorney out there in The Pit. Someone who likes people better than lengthy contracts.
Even better than that, she should choose someone in one of the outer offices. Like my dad, for Pete's sake. He's an amazing attorney, and this is Evan Scott we're talking about.
Sexy indie rocker with a voice that hypnotizes.
Not that it's ever happened to me before.
But he's like a really big deal and has risen to mega-star fame this past year. I have his first and only album and I'm dying for the next one.
"I don't understand," I say, my voice so clogged it comes out in a rasp. I give a cough to clear it. "Why me? This case is way too big for someone like me."
Midge merely cocks her eyebrow at me, leans back in her chair, and crosses her arms over her chest. "Emma... I don't allow anyone to work here who can't handle any case thrown at them."
"I work here because my dad's a partner here," I point out softly. Because it's true... he got me the job.
"No, you work here because I gave the okay to hire you," she counters. "I wouldn't have done that if I didn't think you could cut it."
For the first time since I started here, I feel a tiny measure of belonging. Granted, it's minute... almost infinitesimal. I have a hard time believing it as I look at this stunning woman in designer jeans with the body of a Victoria's Secret model and the face of one as well, who is so brilliant and fierce that she has personally shaped many of the current laws in our state.
There's no way.
But Midge appears to think otherwise. She uncrosses her arms, stands up from her desk, and says, "You need to head over there now. He's probably already there and the longer they have him alone, the more chance he'll talk."
"But wait," I blurt out as I stand up, completely wigged out by the prospect of this case. I even hold my hands out to her in a defensive posture. "I don't know what to do. I've never even handled a criminal case before."
"Did you take Criminal Law in school?" she asks.
"Yes, but--"
"Criminal Practice and Procedure?"
"Yes, but--"
"Do you have immediate access to some of the best legal minds in this state if you were to call back here with questions?"
"Well, of course--"
"Then what's the problem?" she asks in exasperation.
"It's just... Evan Scott... I mean, this is huge. The media repercussions alone..."
"I understand that," she says, and I almost detect a hint of empathy, but not an ounce of reluctance to send me. "But what's the first rule of thumb in any criminal case when a suspect is being interrogated by the police?"
"Don't talk without an attorney," I say automatically.
"Exactly," she praises as she walks around her desk toward me. "And would you ever let a client talk to the police?"
"Not until I found out what happened from the client," I say.
"Well, there you go," she says with a nod. "Get over there and talk to Evan. Find out what happened. Find out what the police have in the way of evidence. If you feel confident to let him talk, do so, but be prepared to jump in if anything sounds fishy. I'm quite sure they have nothing at this point to make an arrest, so he should be walking out with you."
I nod, my head spinning with her advice and also a strange tingling low in my belly that is either nerves, indigestion, or perhaps it's the prospect of meeting Evan Scott.
I'm actually going over to the police station where I'll be given an officious visitor's badge and sit in an interrogation room with an observation window that looks like a mirror, but every suspect and attorney knows it's see through so they can watch and judge body language.
Midge gives a subtle nod toward the door, my cue that I need to get going. I turn away from her, but she stops me. "Oh, and Emma..."
I turn to look at her with raised eyebrows.
"I'm also going to make you point of contact for all media inquiries. I expect there will be a circus if he gets arrested," she tells me.
"But..."
"No 'buts'," she admonishes and turns her back on me as she walks to her chair. "When you get done today, have Evan call me."
"Call you?" I ask, confused as to why she would ever request such a thing.
She reaches her chair, turns, and sits down, leveling me a grim smile. "He's my nephew. I want to talk to him and make sure he's okay."
"Your nephew?" I ask--okay, practically screech.
She chuckles, and wow... she's even more beautiful when she laughs. "Yes, my nephew. My very dear nephew who I'm exceptionally close to."
Is that a warning not to fuck this up?
That tingling in my stomach turns to nausea. "But... why aren't you representing him? You're like the best attorney in the state."
"At this point, I believe you can handle this," she says calmly, and then picks up a file from the corner of her desk. I watch as she lays it before her, opens it and starts reading a document.
She doesn't say anything else to me either.
In essence, I've been dismissed.
CHAPTER 3
Evan
It's actually cliche.
Small room with a lone square table in the middle. Two chairs, one on each side. Fluorescent light above that flickers periodically. Obvious darkened mirror-glass cut into the wall that reflects the stark interior to me, but clearly lets them watch me unobtrusively. Although they probably aren't watching me, as I'm doing nothing more than staring at my clasped hands on the tabletop.
They led me in here about fifteen minutes ago, asked me if I wanted anything to drink, which I declined because I've seen enough Law & Order during my poor, struggling years as a musician to know they'd steal my DNA from the cup when I was done.
I haven't seen them since. I'm thinking the fact I called my aunt Midge from the backseat of their unmarked car on the way to the station has something to do with that.
I didn't have to admit to her on the phone that I was a little wigged out. She could hear it in my voice and reassured me, "It'll be fine. I'll handle everything."
After I hung up, I told the two detectives I wouldn't be giving a statement until my attorney arrived. Turnbull was driving and Kasick turned to look at me over his shoulder. "Who's your attorney?"
"Midge Payne," I said and wasn't surprised when Kasick's eyes flared wide.
"Guess a music star deserves a hot-shot attorney, huh?" he said to Turnbull as he turned back to face the front.
"She's my aunt," I muttered, but they didn't say anything in response.
And other than the offer of something to drink, I haven't heard a peep. Perhaps Midge was out there right now waving some magic jurisprudence around that would make this all go away.
I hear the door behind me open and I turn slightly in my chair to look, expecting either one of the detectives or Midge to be walking through. Instead, a short, petite woman dressed in a prim black suit walks in carrying a slim briefcase. I immediately peg her as an attorney, although for the life of me, I have no clue why she's in this room with me as she's most definitely not my attorney.
Glossy blond hair that's on the warm, golden side, but worn in a sleek bob that sits above her shoulders and is parted on the side. Her eyes are a light brown and framed with dark lashes, which appear to be unadorned with makeup of any kind. In fact, I don't see any eyeshadow or blush. Just a clear face with remarkably soft-looking skin, a slight smattering of freckles across her nose, and that's it.
Beautiful... in a wholesome kind of way. Clearly buttoned up and looks to be wound tight. I bet it would take a crowbar to wrench those legs apart.
"Mr. Scott," she says, and she can't hide the soft, southern twang of a North Carolina girl. I know this because I have the counterpart accent, having been born and raised in this state as well. "I'm Emma Peterson and I'm from Knight & Payne."
She walks boldly into the room, shutting the door behind her, before leaning over and sticking her hand out for me to shake. I notice her hand is delicate with slender fingers. She wears a thin gold ring on her middle right finger with an amethyst stone, but that's the only jewelry other than tiny gold studs in her ears. All very sedate and in line with the way a traditional lawyer would look, which is not typical of a Knight & Payne attorney. In fact, I know no attorney there that dresses that way.
"You're not with Knight & Payne," I tell her assuredly as I ignore her outstretched hand.
"I most certainly am," she says with indignation and reaches efficiently into the side of her briefcase, pulling out a card. She hands it to me, and I reluctantly take it.
Emma Peterson, Associate Attorney
It looks official enough with the firm logo and tagline below it. I throw it on the desk and ask her, "Where's Midge?"
"At the office," she says and walks past me to the chair on the opposite side of the table. "She asked me to handle this."
She sits down, places her briefcase on the floor beside her chair, and leans over for a moment. When she straightens back up, she has a yellow legal pad in her hand and a generic black pen. Placing the pad before her on the table, she sits ramrod straight as she looks at me. I can just imagine those prim little legs crossed at the ankles and clamped tight under the desk.