Page 3 of Everything We Thought Was True
“You sure you don’t want this one? You’re perfect for it. I’m surprised you’re not jumping at it. Heavy dockets never stopped you before.”
“I know. But I want to nail this Hawke case and really focus my attention on it.” I hesitated. “I think Brad can handle the Fletcher one. And you know he’ll jump at the chance.” I rolled my eyes.
“Oh, he’ll jump at it—that’s for sure.” Marcus snickered. “But I really think the Fletcher case should be yours. Besides, I think we’ll be in good shape for the Hawke case. What gives?”
Damn, he’s not letting this go. “I just think I should focus on the cases I already have. The Hawke case is consuming me more than I thought it would. Why don’t we give Fletcher to Brad? I can provide backup if he needs it.”
Ugh. That was the last thing I wanted—to help Brad shine. But I could also tell I didn’t want to take on the Fletcher case.
Marcus nodded slowly, hand to his forehead, processing my request. It was a gesture he often made when he was thinking, almost like he was trying to access his brain waves. He then nodded more vigorously, and I knew I’d won. “Okay, that’ll work. But let me know soon if you change your mind, before Brad digs in.”
Yes. I felt relieved but didn’t want that to show on my face. “Will do. Thanks, Marcus. I appreciate it.” I left it at that. He didn’t like when his attorneys harped on issues and offered unnecessary explanation.
“One other thing,” Marcus added. “The Los Angeles Bar Association dinner is next month on July 15. Unfortunately, I can’t make it, as I’m already booked as the keynote speaker for the UCLA Black Law Students Association event. Can I put you down for the bar dinner in my place?”
I cringed. I hated schmoozing at legal events, but it was an honor to be asked to go on behalf of our division.
“I know you hate these shindigs, but I can’t be in two places at once. Besides, you’re good at them once you get there and stop worrying about it.”
“I wouldn’t gothat far,” I said.
“It’s a free meal,” he added.
“If you call rubber chicken a meal,” I said. He mockingly stared at me, waiting for me to give in. “Fine, I’ll go. But I’d much rather be at your event, listening to you give that keynote, to be honest.”
“Nothing you haven’t heard before,” he said dismissively. “Okay, enough admin crap. You ready to go? Take your place, counselor.” Marcus gestured to the podium.
“Aye-aye, Chief,” I said, saluting him. I walked across the room, stood behind the podium, stared out at my imaginary courtroom, and began. “May it please the court, my name is Lena Antinori, and I am the deputy United States attorney for the central district of California, representing the plaintiffs in this case.”
No matter how many times I went to court and got to recite that opening, it still made my skin tingle with excitement. I loved hearing my name next to that title, although I’d shortened my first name to spare the judge and jury the religious association thatMagdalenaconjured. My father was always so proud that I’d kept my maiden name when I married Kevin. Dad liked to remind me it was his last name, after all. I mostly kept it because I loved my Italian heritage. And since Kevin and I had decided not to have children, I didn’t see the need to have the same last name as my husband. Also, Magdalena Ryan? It didn’t exactly roll off the tongue. A complete mismatch.
Istirred my concoction ofpasta e piselliand watched the peas bobbing like little green buoys in the pot. I’d always made my mother’s signature dish on June 29, even though it came with a huge serving of one very bad childhood memory, being the anniversary of that fateful night when the spaghetti flew and our family’s story was forever split intobeforeandafter. If someone had told me, when I was a child, that a plate of spaghetti and peas splattering against the dining room wall would be the defining moment in my family’s life, I wouldhave called them crazy. But my family was anything but typical. Loving? Yes. Honest with each other? Sometimes. Crazy? Most of the time. But typical? Definitely not.
Sometimes, I thought I was a masochist. No matter how many times I told myself I wouldn’t make this dish on this day, I always did. It comforted me and reminded me of my mother and of thebefore.
My mom used to say, “You can never really know what’s going on inside someone else’s marriage.” Yet at thirteen, I’d known exactly what was going on in the sham of my parents’ marriage.
My phone buzzed with a text message from Kevin:Hey, babe. Won’t be home before you hit the sack. Save me a plate of that infamous pasta dish. Team is ordering Domino’s—I know you’d kill me for eating that crap. Night night. Love you.
My tech-geek husband was working on a big special effects project with his team at Disney Studios that I couldn’t even wrap my head around. He loved his work, which made it much easier for me to be as career focused as I was. Ambition was something we had in common, fortunately. Our mutual understanding that spending time in fulfilling careers didn’t amount to spousal neglect made our marriage one without a ton of drama. Well, that and not having children, another pretty important decision to agree on for a successful relationship. It was probably for the best that Kevin was working late and couldn’t point out that I was being melodramatic in resurrecting the dish that included family trauma among its ingredients. I could wallow in self-pity with a glass of Chianti.
Cheers, Mom, I thought as I took a sip of wine.
Our black Lab, Atticus, whined and stuck his wet nose under my elbow, trying to get me to pet him. I absentmindedly rubbed under his chin and sighed. Atticus echoed the sentiment, letting out a satisfied groan.
Yeah, buddy, youget it, don’t you?
It had been a long workday of opening-statement prep, and I felt depleted from Marcus’s constant interruptions. There was a lot more to do before I would feel confident delivering that opening statement in court. I was relieved to have more than a month before the trial. I still had to prep my witnesses, compile exhibits, and review hundreds of pages of depositions. The prep would be relentless.
Speaking of relentless... Dad. I had to call him back. He’d called a second time, and I’d let it go to voicemail. He would call again if I didn’t call him back. Kevin always wondered why I didn’t just pick up the phone.
“You know he’s just going to call you again. Besides, he’s a man of few words. Just rip off the Band-Aid, and call him.”
Kevin was right. My dad was very much a get-to-the-point kind of person. Sometimes to a fault. I lowered the temperature on the stove so the gravy didn’t overcook.
“Lena, my love,” he said, greeting me with his signature New York Italian accent.
My dad had relocated from New York to the LA area a few years before me, making us both West Coast transplants—something I never could have predicted years ago. His accent still lingered, like a badge of pride, while I worked hard to erase any trace of that telltale sound from my voice. But apparently not with total success—Kevin liked to tease, “You can take the girl out of New York, but you can’t take the New York out of the girl,” when theNew Yawkdialect crept back into my speech.
