The calculus was clear. Jail for herself was nothing compared with the lives of her family.
“You’ve got a deal,” she said.
22
The Museum of Fine Arts was free with a student ID, and Madison had spent many a rainy afternoon in high school and college wandering its galleries or studying in the café while nursing an overpriced coffee. Given her workload in law school, it had been a minute since she visited. Under other circumstances, she would be thrilled to be back.
Not tonight.
She walked into the atrium with a belly full of dread. If not for the spiky, forty-foot-high tree sculpted from lime-green glass, she wouldn’t have recognized the place. Dramatic swooshes of colored silk draped from the soaring ceiling, making it look like the inside of a circus tent. Potted palms, lavishly decorated tables with tall floral centerpieces, a bandstand, and a thousand twinkling lights completed the décor. More important, it was jammed with hundreds of strangers who—no surprise for a bunch of successful lawyers—looked a lot alike. More men than women. All decades older than her. Clad in tuxedoes or, like Madison, slinky pantsuits and dresses. Finding her two targets in this crowd would require seeking them out aggressively, which could draw attention to herself. People might remember later, if asked by investigators.
Uniformed staff were passing hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Grabbing a glass, she drank it down, hoping the fizz would steady her nerves. It didn’t. There was no point in stalling. This wouldn’t get easier. If she wanted to save her brother, she needed to jump in the deep end and pray she floated.
A waiter carrying a tray of lobster in puff pastry approached and handed her a cocktail napkin. Taking a canapé, she made a snap decision about which target to start with.
“Thank you. Can you point me to the Bixby, Kessler, and Moore table?”
“Tables seventeen and eighteen, right under the Chihuly.”
She pressed onward toward the glass tree, savoring the rich lobster and flaky pastry, admiring the beautiful clothes, noting the famous faces. A TV news anchor, a U.S. senator, the mayor of Boston. This could be her world, so long as what she did here tonight didn’t destroy her.
She recognized Douglas Kessler from twenty yards away, despite having seen him only once before at a law school event where he received an award. The managing partner of the law firm she’d be clerking at next summer, and Chloe’s father to boot, he had that master-of-the-universe look. Silver-haired, unnaturally tan for the season, wearing a perfectly tailored tuxedo, with the sharp profile and hawk-like gaze of a powerhouse of the bar. He was holding court, surrounded by a gaggle of fans. She moved closer. It would be difficult to get a word with him at all, let alone privately. A managing partner didn’t normally speak to lowly summer associates, even if they happened to be classmates of his daughter. But in a stroke of luck, it turned out he was discussing a case he’d argued before the Supreme Court years before that she knew by heart because it was taught in her Securities Regulation class. She waited for an opening and then asked a pertinent question, making a show of listening raptly to the answer. Kessler looked her up and down as he spoke. When he finished pontificating, he asked her name.
“Madison Rivera. Pleased to meet you, sir. I’ll be a summer associate at Bixby starting in June.”
She held out her hand. He took it, drawing her aside and looking into her eyes in a way that made her wonder if he followed the firm’s anti-fraternization policy. She should’ve known he’d be a hound.
“Very pleased to meet you. I see our recruiting team hasn’t lost its touch. That was a very astute question you just posed. You’re interested in securities litigation, I take it?”
“Very much so. I’m taking Securities Reg right now at HLS. Your daughter Chloe is in my class.”
He dropped her hand like it was radioactive.
“A Harvard woman. Glad to hear it. At Bixby, we like our lawyers bright and ambitious. Good luck this summer.”
She’d lost his attention with that comment. He was looking over her shoulder for someone else to talk to.
“Sir—”
“Pleasure to meet you, Madeline,” he said, moving away.
“Judge Conroy sends her regards.”
His eyes flicked back to her warily. “Oh? How do you know her?”
“I’m taking her class and also interning in her chambers this semester.”
“Very nice. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“She asked me to give you a message.”