Bright Young Women(86)

“Nice to see you, sir.” Brian was nearly a foot taller than my father, but next to him he always appeared diminished and nervous. Like an elephant afraid of a spider.

“Monsieur Armstrong,” Dad replied archly. My father was a first-generation Irish immigrant from Woodside who spoke with long o’s and w’s, just like Ed Koch. Southern niceties sparked suspicion.

We sat and I sipped my ice water. It tasted like home, pure and clean. Brian asked for a Budweiser, which they did not have, so he settled for a whiskey and soda.

“Sorry to hear your mother isn’t feeling well,” Dad said.

“You two were up late,” Brian said. “Gabbing away in the kitchen.”

Alarm coursed through me. “You heard us?”

“A word here and there,” Brian said. I stared at him, wanting to ask which words, but then the waiter came over with menus and a recommendation for the oysters, arrived on ice from Montauk that morning.

“So,” my father said after we’d decided on a dozen for the table, “I’m hearing Farmer is on board.”

Millard Farmer was a hotshot civil rights attorney from Atlanta who spent much of his career representing Black people in high-profile capital punishment cases and making sure everyone knew he represented Black people in high-profile capital punishment cases. The Defendant had written to him, asking if he would join his team of defenders in Leon County. Farmer had readily agreed.

“What I don’t understand,” Brian said, “is how come he even needs Farmer if he’s planning on representing himself again?”

“It’s a complex litigation,” I answered.

“I’d love to hear your thinking on it, sir,” Brian said, straight across the table, as though I hadn’t spoken at all.

Dad turned up a palm, coolly. Could be any number of reasons. “A case with stakes this high requires a team. The witness list will be long. No chance one person could handle all those depositions, documents, transcripts. In short”—he grinned in his own hotshot way—“it’s a complex litigation.” He tucked his napkin into his collar. The oysters had arrived.

“What if Farmer is the one to depose me?” I worried. This was the thought that had been keeping me up at night, ever since I learned about this infamous addition to The Defendant’s legal team. It would be so easy to destroy my credibility, based on the scintilla of a second when I thought I’d seen Roger at the front door. It was the jugular I would go for if I were the one to depose me.

“You and I will prepare for that,” Dad said portentously, “together.”

“Hold on, though,” Brian said, his hand raised like a traffic cop’s. “What if he’s the attorney who deposes you?”

I had a flash, what I realize now was a premonition, of The Defendant sitting across from me in a spiffy oatmeal-colored suit. As quickly as I saw myself at that table, I dismissed it. That would be outlandish. The court would never allow it.

“I believe one must pass the bar before one can be called an attorney,” Dad intoned.

“Fine. What if he’s the law student who deposes you,” Brian amended.

Though that was an unearned rank as well. The Defendant had applied widely to a number of reputable programs, but his admission scores were so poor that the only place that would take him was a night school called Tacoma Narrows, located in a shared office building in downtown Tacoma. He fell behind almost immediately, stopped attending classes, and the next quarter scrubbed all mention of his time there on his application to the University of Utah, where he got one year under his belt before he was arrested and charged with the kidnapping and attempted murder of Anne Biers. That was three years ago. He’d been a convict for twice as long as he’d been a law student.

“I’d almost prefer if it was The Defendant who deposed you,” Dad said, not joking in the least. “I very much doubt Shorebird Law turns out the best and the brightest of the legal profession.”

I busied myself, squeezing lemon all over the oysters, giving Brian a moment to recover. He was flushed a girlish pink.

“No, Dad,” I said, passing the platter his way and gesturing for him to dig in first. “Shorebird is the name of the school Brian and I are attending in the fall. The Defendant was at a place called Tacoma Narrows.”

My father smeared an oyster with horseradish, seemingly oblivious to the offense he had just caused. But I knew he was not. My father took great pains to appear laid-back, but that was a tactic too, one that belied his meticulous diction. His comment had been a deliberate, targeted attack on Brian, meant to remind him—his daughter had gotten into Columbia Law, but his daughter’s boyfriend had not.

“It’s those aquatic-sounding names.” Dad brought the wide end of the shell to his lower lip, tipped, and chewed before swallowing. “Tough to keep straight.” He pushed the platter in Brian’s direction, a peace offering.

“Thank you, sir,” Brian said quietly.

My father waved the waiter over, ordered another round of drinks, then insisted we all have the filet, though I knew Brian preferred the strip.

“Dad,” I said when the waiter had gone, “I’d love to pick your brain about something.”

Dad brought a fork to the side of his head, pretending to twirl his thinning blond hair. Pick away. I gave him the half laugh he was after.