Law of Attraction Read online

  Her mother cut in. “Show her the bruises.”

  Laprea rolled up her sleeves to show the nasty welts on her arms. She spread apart her shirt’s neckline, where a big bruise was forming on her chest. She grimaced as she remembered the thudding sounds D’marco’s fists made as they landed on her body.

  “He must’ve been hitting you very hard,” Anna said.

  “I think he been working out in jail.” Laprea let out a short, bitter laugh. “I ran out the house, but he caught me right outside the door. He smooshed me right there, out on the front porch, for all the world and God to see.”

  “‘Smooshed’?” Anna asked.

  “To grab by the face and push, ma’am,” Green said.

  “It was so embarrassing,” Laprea continued. “I wasn’t even thinking about how much it hurt right then—I was thinking I didn’t want my neighbors to see. I just wanted him to go away. So I told him I should see someone else, ’cause he don’t deserve me.”

  Laprea began crying again. Anna handed her another napkin.

  “Then he grabbed me and threw me against the side of the house and started punching my face. My nose was bleeding, and I couldn’t hardly see out my eyes. He mashed my face into the brick wall so hard, I felt the skin on my cheek burning.”

  Laprea dabbed her swollen eyes delicately. The worst thing about this beating wasn’t the pain, or the shame, or even the heartache. It was how she was going to explain her face to her kids. Other times, she’d told them she walked into a door or fell on the sidewalk. But they were getting old enough that they were questioning her “accidents.” They had seen D’marco lay hands on her. It terrified them.

  She swore to herself that they would never have to see that again. She would do whatever it took. For now, she just had to finish this terrible story. She took a ragged breath.

  “He was holding my face against the wall, and he came in real close. He put his mouth to my ear, like he about to tell me some sweet nothing. And he whispered if he ever caught me with another man—he’d kill me.”

  3

  At five-thirty that night, Anna and Grace closed up the Papering Room and walked across the street to the U.S. Attorney’s building. Anna still had hours of work ahead of her, but at least she’d have quiet and privacy in the office she shared with Grace. As a rookie prosecutor, Anna was responsible for a caseload of about two hundred misdemeanors, the lowest-level crimes. Even cases like Laprea’s were relegated to misdemeanorland. There was so much crime, the victim had to get shot or seriously stabbed for it to be considered a felony.

  A wall of scuffed filing cabinets dominated their cramped office. Anna immediately began to file the twenty-one new cases she’d been assigned that day. Organizing her new files was the only way she could keep up with the caseload. Her officemate had a very different approach. Files, 911 tapes, and designer shoes covered Grace’s desk and the floor around her desk. Despite her crisply tailored appearance, the woman was a complete slob. She was also the best friend Anna had in D.C.

  Collapsing into her chair, Grace kicked her conservative courthouse pumps into a corner and pulled a pair of scarlet patent-leather stilettos from her desk drawer.

  “Those shoes’ll be doing something more exciting than I will tonight,” Anna guessed.

  “Charles is taking me to the opera.”

  “Nice!” Anna had to force the enthusiasm into her voice. She’d be alone tonight, as usual.

  Grace’s husband was a partner at a big law firm, and she could’ve spent her days lunching with ladies and organizing charity events. She’d chosen this job the way some women might take up quilting or belly-dancing lessons—because it was an interesting way to fill the time.

  Anna had taken it as a form of penance.

  “Don’t work too late tonight,” Grace scolded, as she headed out the door. “Get a pedicure, or watch The Bachelorette, or do something frivolous and girly.”

  “Have a great time! I won’t be here much longer.”

  “Liar. But at least you’re a cute liar.”

  Grace left a faint cloud of expensive perfume in her wake.

  As Anna filed, she thought about Laprea’s situation. Of all the cases Anna had seen in her short tenure, this one stuck out. Part of it was the age of Laprea’s children. The other part was Laprea’s injuries. Would Anna always be this upset when she saw someone with a gash on her cheek?

  Anna shoved another folder into the drawer, channeling her anger into the act of filing. She wasn’t a helpless little girl anymore. She was in a position to stop the violence.

  Her thoughts turned to Nick Wagner. He’d seemed like a decent guy. How could he keep defending his monster of a client? She understood the system needed defense attorneys, but she couldn’t get why anyone would want that job.

  Sure, it was a coveted position. Public defenders often got a bad rap, but Washington’s Office of the Public Defender was the most prestigious defender’s service in America. Like the U.S. Attorney’s Office, OPD had hundreds of applicants every year for a few openings. Both offices were famous for providing young attorneys with the best litigation training and trial experience in the country. Both organizations took their pick of graduates from the best law schools.

  But brains alone didn’t get anyone a job at OPD. The organization prided itself on being one of the most zealous defense shops in America. D.C.’s public defenders believed that the system was stacked against their clients; that the police were racist, fascist, or corrupt; and that mass imprisonment, not crime, was the real problem with D.C.’s poor communities. OPD lawyers were famously devoted to getting their clients off—in any way possible.

  The result was bitter acrimony between OPD and the U.S. Attorney’s Office. In other cities, it was common to have friendships between prosecutors and public defenders, casual softball games, happy hours. But not in D.C. They were adversaries in the tradition of cats and dogs, Montagues and Capulets, Angelina and Jennifer.

  That morning, for just a moment, Anna had felt a real spark between them. Now Nick Wagner was just one of a hundred lawyers she had a case against. She would have no problem treating him just like any other defense attorney.

  Anna’s phone rang, and she stepped to her desk to pick it up. “Hello?”

  “This is security calling from downstairs. A Mr. Nicholas Wagner is here to see you.”

  Her heartbeat sped up—which wouldn’t have happened if it was any other defense attorney.

  Damn.

  • • •

  “Come on in. Have a seat.” Anna gestured to Grace’s desk chair and pulled a box of 911 tapes out of the way.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place,” Nick said, stepping over a pile of Grace’s shoes.

  “We were going for a postmodern, deconstructionist look.”

  “If this was any more deconstructed, you’d need a FEMA trailer.”

  She laughed. They both sat down and faced each other across the cluttered office. “Seriously, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  “I just wanted to touch base with you, since we’re going to be working together on this Davis case.”

  “Not together, exactly. More like against each other.”

  “Maybe so.” He smiled. “But still, I wanted to check in. It was a rough morning. For everyone.”

  “Everyone except D’marco Davis.” Anna’s words were sharper than she intended.

  “I know prosecutors don’t believe this, but a day in the central cellblock is no picnic. It’s a filthy, dangerous place. And now D’marco’s behind bars for the next few months, at least until trial. I’d say that’s a pretty bad day.”

  “I doubt a few more months in prison will mean much to a thug like him.”

  “He’s a human being, Anna. He just hasn’t had all of the advantages you and I have had.”

  “Oh, come on.” Anna thought about the trailer home her family had moved into after they lost the house. What advantages did Nick imagine she’d had?

 
; “There’s another side to the story, you know,” Nick said. “You saw how aggressive Laprea got this morning in the courthouse, just from seeing me. She could’ve started the fight with D’marco.”

  “Oh come on. I’ll bet D’marco didn’t have a scratch on him, did he? She’s tiny! How much of a threat could she be to him?”

  “All I’m saying is, she’s no angel. She’s got a criminal record that shows she can be violent.”

  Anna pulled D’marco’s file out of the cabinet and handed Nick a printout showing Laprea’s criminal history. “She had a couple minor arrests when she was a teenager. No convictions. Then she graduated high school and got a steady job. She’s raising two kids with her mother’s help—but not much help from D’marco. I wouldn’t have a job if everyone in D.C. lived like Laprea Johnson. On the other hand, look at your client’s criminal record.”

  Anna held up the thick rap sheet. D’marco had a string of drug-related arrests. He was on probation after serving a year in jail for armed drug dealing. He’d also been arrested for a series of escalating assaults on Laprea—but never convicted.

  “Well.” Nick sighed. He kicked clear a spot on the floor, stretched out his long legs, and laced his hands behind his head. “What are we going to do about this?”

  Anna liked the way he said “we.” Like they were a team, working to find the answer to a tough problem together. She shook off the thought. There was no “we” here. She and Nick were in as adversarial a position as two people could be. Especially because she felt more invested in cases like Laprea’s, where the woman was a longtime victim of abuse but kept going back to her abuser. Men like D’marco just got more violent. If he wasn’t stopped, D’marco might very well kill Laprea.

  “Your client could plead guilty,” she suggested.

  “Can’t do that. He’s on probation for that drug case. So if he gets convicted of assault, he’ll get all the backup time in the old drug charge. In effect, he’ll serve six years for a crime that carries less than a year. How ’bout a DSA?”

  “He can’t get a Deferred Sentencing Agreement with his record. You know that’s our office policy.”

  “I guess we’ll just have to fight it out in court then.” Nick threw his hands up in the air. “Hate to do it—I still remember the trouncing you gave me in Moot Court.”

  “Hey, I just graduated from law school a few months ago. You’ve been doing this for two years. It’ll be a fair fight.”

  “I have learned a few tricks.” His eyes were laughing. What did he know that made him so confident?

  Nick sat up suddenly, his attention caught by something on her desk.

  “Are those Krispy Kremes?” he asked.

  “You want one?” She held out the box and he reached for a chocolate frosted. “I bring snacks to Papering for the police officers. Especially the ones working midnights, who haven’t been home yet in the morning. They’ll wolf down cookies, candy, even week-old pizza. No one touched these, though.”

  Nick swallowed a big bite. “Bet it’s the stereotype about cops and doughnuts. Mmm,” he said, licking his fingers. “Their loss.”

  She laughed and chose a sugar-glazed.

  “Don’t fill up now,” Nick chided. “You’ll spoil your dinner.”

  “This is my dinner.”

  “Oh no, you’re not getting away that easily, Anna Curtis. I asked you to dinner. You said yes. A prosecutor has certain duties of honesty in dealing with defense counsel. Backing out now would be prosecutorial misconduct.”

  Anna laughed. “I don’t think people from my office have dinner with people from your office.”

  “I’m not trying to make an historic peace accord here.”

  “I’m just saying. I’m not sure I should go out with you.”

  “We’re not ‘going out.’ I just want to catch up with an old friend.”

  She glanced at the clock to have a moment to collect her thoughts. It was just after six; she normally stayed at the office past nine. Having dinner with Nick was probably a bad idea. On a professional level, she was nervous about socializing with a defense attorney. On a personal level, it wasn’t wise to spend any more time with an adversary this attractive. She found it hard enough to trust men who weren’t on the other side of a criminal case.

  “There’s no rule that says a prosecutor and a public defender can’t talk over food,” Nick continued. “Anyway, we won’t talk about the case. It’s good to see another HLS grad who chose public interest over a firm, even if we are on opposite sides of the courtroom.”

  Anna thought about how quiet the office got after seven o’clock. Nick was right. There was nothing wrong with them having a meal together.

  “What’ve you got in mind?” she asked.

  • • •

  They went to Lauriol Plaza, a popular Mexican restaurant in the Adams-Morgan neighborhood. Crowds of young professionals gathered there, still wearing their suits. Waiters steered trays of margaritas around clusters of people waiting in the bar area.

  Anna and Nick scored a table by one of the big windows overlooking 18th Street. Their waiter arrived with chips and salsa and took their order. When he left, Anna scooped salsa onto a warm chip and smiled at Nick. She had spent so many nights alone at the office, immersed in the worst things that happened in the city. She was glad to be out for a change, surrounded by the happy chatter and bustle.

  Nick, she noticed, looked a bit less lawyerlike with his suit jacket slung on the back of his chair and his tie loosened. Anna had draped her own suit jacket on her chair; underneath, she wore a sleeveless ivory shell. She noticed Nick’s eyes skimming her bare arms. She looked away and smoothed back her ponytail, suddenly self-conscious.

  “So,” Nick said, taking a pull from his Corona. “How does a bright and beautiful lawyer from Michigan end up slaving away for a government wage in D.C.?”

  She was more touched that he remembered where she was from than by his flattery. “I was never going back to Flint,” she said. Too many bad memories. “I looked at a few cities and fell in love with D.C.—its American history, and the idealism of the people who follow politics like you might follow sports.”

  “But why not go to some fancy law firm? You have something against mahogany desks and six-figure salaries?”

  She liked Nick too much to give her half-true stock answer about wanting to be in court instead of reviewing documents in a warehouse. But she wasn’t ready to tell him the real reason yet. She guessed it would shock him.

  “I wanted to do something good with my law degree,” she said. She grinned at Nick as the waiter set down their food. “How ’bout you—did you grow up wanting to set criminals free?”

  He didn’t seem to take offense. “I like to think that I can see the good in everybody. If I give a voice to someone who might be going down the wrong path, maybe I can help him turn around instead of harden in prison. But let’s not talk about work. I have a much more important question: How are those fajitas?”

  She laughed. The fajitas were great. Their conversation moved to gossip about classmates and funny childhood anecdotes. Nick told her about mischief he and his friends had gotten into at St. Albans, a private school in D.C. Anna reciprocated with tales of the hearty Midwestern things that East Coast people liked to hear. She told him about GM’s annual summer picnic, and how as a nine-year-old she’d gotten in trouble for galloping away on one of the ponies from the pony rides.

  “That’s when you needed a defense attorney!” Nick said.

  They ordered coffee and kept talking long after their plates were cleared. When the busboys started stacking chairs on the tables, Anna noticed with embarrassment that they were the only diners still there. This was the best time she’d had since moving to this city.

  Emerging from the restaurant into the cool winter night, Nick asked if he could walk her home. Telling herself they were just two old law school acquaintances reconnecting—certainly not a conflict of interest—Anna pointed Nick in the direction of her
apartment, a few blocks away. Although it was a Monday night, Adams-Morgan was still busy. Groups of suited Capitol Hill staffers, interns in high-heeled boots, and Ethiopian men from the neighborhood all vied with each other for elbow room outside the bars and restaurants.

  Anna and Nick walked comfortably side by side, talking and joking. She was surprised by how easily she let her guard down with him. Maybe it was the very fact that she was professionally prohibited from dating Nick that put her at ease. As long as they were on opposite sides of a pending case, he wasn’t an option—so he was safe. In any case, Anna didn’t want the night to end. Too soon, they turned onto Wyoming Avenue, a quiet street lined with trees and stately brick town houses. She pointed to one of the elegant homes.

  “It was advertised as an ‘English basement’ apartment,” she explained, pointing down a flight of steps to a subterranean entrance. “I was hoping there’d be fish ’n’ chips.”

  “Nope, ‘English basement’ is just a fancy way of saying ‘medieval dungeon.’”

  Anna laughed and looked up at him. Although she was five eight, she still needed to tip her head back to meet his gaze. He had beautiful eyes, brown with green and gold flecks. “I had a lot of fun tonight. Thanks for getting me out of the office.”

  They stood facing each other, their breaths making cloudy puffs in the cold night air. She found herself leaning forward at the same time he did. Coming to her senses at the last minute, she stepped back and stuck her hand out to shake his. “I’m still not dismissing your case, though.”

  Laughing, Nick tried but failed to look hurt. He took her hand and held it for several beats longer than a handshake. “Fair enough, but how about dinner on Friday?”

  She pulled her hand away. “I don’t think so.” Her skin tingled where his fingers had touched. She couldn’t hang out with him anymore, that much was clear. “Call me if your client wants to plead guilty.”

  “Mm, not gonna happen. But I will call you when our trial is over.”

  “Good night, Nick.”

  She rushed down the little walk, down the three steps to her front door, and let herself in. When she was safely inside, she turned and looked back. He waved and walked away. She contemplated his receding figure. It was too bad they had a case against each other. She hadn’t felt so attracted to anyone in a long time.