Page 39 of Irish Reign

The hearing goes downhill from there.

When I was in law school, I was taught to appreciate interruptions from judges. Their questions offer opportunities to explain my case, to clarify my clients’ points of view. Questions prove judges are engaged, are actively considering every argument made.

The ethics panel doesn’t give a damn about how I answer their demands. It’s clear all three of them made up their minds long before they entered the room. If they weren’t inclined toyank my license when they first heard about my case, they were absolutely certain I needed to be disbarred after they read the recent newspaper coverage. I’m only grateful this proceeding is closed to the public.

After forty-five minutes of making no headway explaining even one of my points, I ask for a recess to consult with Sonja—the one thing she said we shouldn’t do. She waits until we’re outside the conference room, standing in a corner of the all-too-public hallway before she mutters something.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“You’re fucked,” she announces.

“So what do I do?”

“Go back in there, spread your legs, and think of England.”

“This is what I’m paying you for?”

“And I can promise, you aren’t paying enough. Because after we walk out of here today, I’m pretty sure I’ll never be able to bring another client in front of that board. Lube up. This won’t be pretty.”

She’s right.

It’s brutal. And two hours later, when they’ve dragged me back and forth over the facts, when they’ve ground my answers into powder, when they’ve willfully misinterpreted every single word I’ve said and cut off every attempt I make to rephrase, Board Member Number Two leans back in his chair with a sigh so heavy I wonder if he has extra lungs where his heart should be.

“All right, Ms. Canna. We’ll take some time to confer among ourselves. You can expect our written opinion within ninety calendar days.”

Ninety days. I wonder why they don’t just shoot me in the head right now.

Sonja and I shake hands outside the hearing room. I ask her to send her final invoice, and then I pretend to need the restroom so she can take the elevator downstairs on her own.

I realize I should reach out to Teddy Newland. Tell him about this disaster of a hearing. Warn him that my criminal case just became infinitely more difficult.

I don’t have the heart.

When I finally get out to the street, I’m surprised to see Liam Murphy waiting at the curb with the new Bentley. I actually forgot that he drove me down from Philly four hours ago. A lifetime ago.

He’s leaning against the sign that says, “No Stopping. No Standing.” The instant he sees me at the top of the stairs, he opens the back door of the car. He must be able to read my face as he hands me in, because he says, “There’s a cooler on the seat. Ice, Jameson, and soda. Himself said you might want a snort when you were done.”

My laugh sounds slightly hysterical. I want to ask if Braiden thought I’d be celebrating or drowning my sorrows, but it’s not fair to put Liam on the spot. “Thank you, but I’m fine,” I lie. “I do need to stop by the office, though, before we head home.”

I don’t need anything at the freeport. But I can’t bear the thought of sitting at dinner with a busy, happy Aiofe. The idea of yet another perfect meal from Fairfax turns my belly to stone. I can’t imagine how I’ll tell Braiden I’ve failed.

Liam doesn’t care about any of that. He just makes his confident way through afternoon traffic, getting me to the freeport in record time.

My assistant, Mary, has taken the afternoon off for a dentist’s appointment. Liam settles into his chair outside my office, beyond my range of view.

That means I can sit at my desk without interruption. I stare at the walls, not seeing the files around me. I count my breaths, starting over from one every time I lose track.

I’m finally up to twelve when there’s a light knock on my open door. “Oh,” Alix Key says. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“I am.” My voice sounds strange. High. Thin. Like I’m trapped on top of Mount Everest.

“I was going to drop off these brochures with Mary, so she could send them up to Philadelphia. I want Braiden to see how we’ve promoted similar auctions in the past.”

“Auctions?” I ask, because I think I’m supposed to say something.

“He called this morning to say he—” She cuts herself off. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head. “Sure,” I say. I realize something’s wrong there, that I was supposed to nod, but there isn’t an easy way to make things right.

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