Page 50 of The Trust We Broke
The first step of my plan today, unpack suitcases, immediately gets bumped by brewing a pot of coffee. The nutty smell fills the kitchen, and it already feels like home.
In between sips, I take my time arranging my things into closets and dressers and onto shelves. It’s a pretty apartment, arguably bigger than I need, but I already have plans to use the second bedroom as an office.
I open a small jewelry case that holds a few precious items. My grandmother’s pearls. A pair of earrings I bought with my first paycheck. And there at the bottom, my first engagement ring.
I tug it out and let it rest on my fingertip. The small diamonds need a good cleaning, but it’s still as pretty as I remember. If I close my eyes, I can almost feel the tender way Grudge slid it onto my finger.
I let it drop back into the case and close the fastener.
When I’m done unpacking, I take a ride to the grocery store and do a large stock-up shop. On the drive there, the weather forecast said more snow was coming, and I don’t want to get caught without supplies. I hadn’t realized just how expensive it is to start a pantry again from scratch. Seasonings, oils, and vinegars force me to rethink my whole get-whatever-you-want strategy and start thinking about what I’m actually going to eat and drink if I end up snowed in.
For some reason, I feel a little as though I’m back in my first-ever apartment. That feeling of being out on your own in the world, where your choices are your own, where no one messes up your space or touches your things. There are no compromises to be made over TV volume or what to have for dinner.
The whole thing feels liberating.
After lunch, I dive back into the files of my father. Now I can sort the columns on my spreadsheet, I look for recurring initialsand shorthand codes. There are patterns, but nothing totally concrete.
The name Hooper is mentioned, and I wonder if I should ask Grudge if he knows the man.
Assuming he will talk to me after I tell him everything else I know.
But Hooper’s name appears next to three sets of initials.WG,AG, andRD.
There are monthly payments for the same amount. Four thousand dollars. I’ve watched biker and mafia shows on television and I wonder if they are protection payments. Or perhaps a monthly retainer for services rendered.
But I feel like I’m grasping at straws. Even when I compare this to my father’s client roster, I don’t find any correlations.
Before I stop for the day, I make a list of all the steps it will take to try and get some post-conviction relief for Grudge. I grab the sentencing packet and tug out the contents, laying them flat on my desk. I need to move on this for Grudge before my father regains the ability to speak properly, before he can interfere behind the scenes.
It bothers me that most of the files from my father’s secret drawer are old, because I’m certain—given my mom’s concerns and my own run-ins with the Midtown Rebels—that their relationship with my father has been on-going all this time.
A part of me wonders if it’s because technology has changed and my father has digital back-ups elsewhere.
I make a note to check his office and wish I could get my hands on his laptop, but he has it with him in the hospital.
Some of the messages are vague, but then, I notice one of them, asking for payment for the Loeb job, is signedWG.
I look up at the spreadsheet.WG.
It can’t be a coincidence, and my heart skips a beat.
Now, I just have to figure out who WG is. And the only person who can tell me is my father.
This is the part of the law I enjoy…piecing details together, finding missing pieces or identifying parts of the narrative that no longer fit. A kernel of an idea springs to mind, whereby I start my own law firm. I could poach Nancy and Jasmine from my father.
And Grudge should be my first case.
As I look through the paperwork again, I can see I have grounds. It’s easy to separate the evidence out into constitutional violations, prosecutorial misconduct, fraud on the court, and falsified evidence.
I never call a case a slam dunk to my clients. It breeds a false sense of security, and nothing about the law is certain. But this is very close. I have multiple data points in each category, plus, my own testimony.
I’m not sure how many appeals, if any, Grudge went through. But if all appeals and post-conviction deadlines have passed, I’ll even file a writ of coram nobis petition if I have to demonstrate that with the new information we have, the trial outcome would have been different.
Wait…I won’t be able to do any of it. It will be a conflict of interest to have my witness testimony, as well as being the lawyer on the case. But I can prepare it. Seal it up so tightly that whoever Grudge hires at my expense will be able to walk through the process with him.
By the time I’m finished working, I reach my hands over my head and feel my muscles ache as I pull on them. A glance out the window tells me the wind has died down and the snow isn’t more than a centimeter deep. A careful run, followed by a hot shower, then some homemade soup for dinner sounds like a brilliant idea.
It takes no time to find all my nicely organized running gear. At some point, I’ll have to get the rest of my things out of the storage locker in New York. But that feels like it should follow a decision on where I’m actually going to live.
