Page 19 of To Have and to Hold

If you asked me if I ever thought my first case as a rookie prosecutor would bring down five multi-million dollar attorneys, I would’ve laughed in your face. But, my boss didn’t have to know that.

Since then, Abrams had been monitoring my progress and testing my skills with more complicated cases. One time, he’d asked me to dinner with his wife and Noelle had torn through our closet with scorpion-whipping speed. Abrams had that convivial personality that—when initiated—was irresistible. The conversation would start about the weather but before you knew it, he’d be inquiring about your grandmother in the hospital or your cousin who was sporting an injury while playing through a championship. Abrams was a fast talker, combining laughter with loud arcs and dips. I’d felt, since he and his wife had no children, that he was treating me somewhat in the way he would a son. Full of stern encouragement and unflinching logistics, he imparted advice, and I catalogued it in droves. His wife, though, was another matter, often regarding me over our bimonthly dinners like the adopted stray she never wanted, and no matter how often I attempted to chip away at her arctic tolerance with beguiling smiles or plot-driven anecdotes, she didn’t melt an inch. The only thing she liked was my girlfriend, more because Noelle was willing to talk about anything cocker spaniel related, since she’d had two growing up as a child. It was lucky Abrams could drive the flow of conversation, or maybe that was what Eugenie Abrams expected and she didn’t give a shit how or where the chatter would go.

“Sir,” I greeted, angling to get past him but politely enough so he wouldn’t fire me. “It’s an emergency. I have to—”

“Torro resumes in ten minutes.”

“I know, but this can’t wait.”

“You’ve got nowhere to be but in front of that judge, son.” Abrams clapped a hand on my arm.

“Nothing could keep me from that courtroom.”

“Good. That’s what I like to hear.”

“Except for this.”

Abram’s brows slashed down.

“An old friend is missing.”

“Missing?”

“Taken against her will. Yes.”

If Abrams were any other man, he may have faltered in surprise. But this wasn’t a simple family emergency or medical issue. Even Abrams couldn’t smooth this kind of excuse out. Instead, he asked, “Isn’t that something best left to the police?”

“In any other circumstance, yes. But I can’t just leave it alone. She’s…”

“Ah.” Abrams’s brows relaxed. “I am deeply sorry to hear about this. But it’s too late to replace you on this case. Judge Anderson sure as hell wouldn’t allow it and you know what, neither would I. You know Ms. Marks’s situation back to front and sideways. More to the point, you care about the outcome.”

My shoulders were so tense I was sure chords in my neck were popping out. “I’d never step down, sir. I’m only requesting the day. Nicholas has been with me the entire time. I’m confident he has the skill to handle the roster this morning.”

“You must let the detectives do their work, Spencer. Just as you have to do yours.”

I shook my head. “Sir, I—” Abrams’s voice, readily gravelly and booming whether in a library or a stadium, did not change in tone, but his words carried a warning. His thick, greying brows came together, his ice blue eyes shining with intelligence, concern, and the expectation that people always did as he bid. “I’ll have my receptionist check in with the precinct often. If he hears anything, I’ll have someone give you the message immediately.”

“That’s very kind of you.” My expression, while bland, hid the hoards of clockwork gears spinning in my head.

“There’s nothing you can do but wait.” Abrams’s hand came back to my shoulder. “And you might as well fill that time with the type of busywork that will have years of positive effects if achieved.”

His hand slid from my shoulder and he stepped around me. Abrams’s words, and their meaning, joined the steady ticking in my head. The district attorney approved of my theory that Torro was indeed deeply involved with a crime family, though no actual evidence proved as much. Which was why he wanted me to continue as the front man in Torro’s trial, because at this point, nothing else could break up his syndicate.

Abrams was correct. The future success of Torro’s trafficking hinged on whether I could put him away or not. There was the potential that countless lives could be saved. If I broke into this drug ring by hounding and piling so much attempted murder evidence on Torro that he’d be forced to take a plea, pounds of Fentanyl-laced heroine could be confiscated.

My star witness, Cerise, and her twelve-year-old brother were just two of the many that could be saved.

I rubbed at my eyes, stared at the elevator doors until they opened. Clutching my case by its handle, I bypassed the clusters of prosecutors, victims, and lawyers alike as they spoke in the court’s hallways or just outside courtroom doors.

Once in the Criminal Term of New York County Supreme Court, I headed to the courtroom and strode in. The galley was half full, Sandoval and his client were already seated on their side, and my second chair, Nicholas (who, he made sure to tell me, was never “Nick”), practically melted into his chair in relief once he looked over his shoulder and noticed me. Nicholas was a tall, sturdy guy with the gelled-back hair and white-toothed smile of a privileged upbringing. The son of a prominent lawyer turned news anchor, he was the type of guy who grew a beard in the winter and shaved completely in the summer, preferring seasonal routine and crudité plates to scruff and potato chips. My wish was to have him using those capped teeth to tear defense attorneys to shreds, except he was the type to mash up his meals rather than use fangs. But, because his father went to law school with the district attorney, he was my trial BFF, now and always.

“All rise,” the bailiff said as I laid my briefcase on the prosecution’s table. Nicholas popped up beside me, bringing with him a waft of stale mint bubble gum, a scent he always seemed to carry.

“Good timing, Spencer,” he said.

Without encouragement, Nicholas deemed it necessary never to call me “Spence.”

Judge Anderson entered through a door behind his podium, casebooks tucked under his robed right arm. Once seated, he asked, “Does counsel have anything they’d like to discuss before we begin?”

---