Maybe I could talk her into a New Orleans trip. Kennedy would love her; I was certain of that. Wash would be a hard sell because of our history, but it was worth a try.
Late in the afternoon, I got a notification e-mail from the court. Evan had filed something in the case. I pulled it up on my laptop, accessing the online filing system to get a look at whatever procedural bugaboo she’d dreamed up. I knew it would be good. Underestimating her wasn’t an option.
I double-clicked the file. It was a pro hac motion—one meant to qualify an out-of-state attorney to serve as co-counsel on a case. She didn’t list who the attorney was but requested a hearing for the next afternoon. My phone buzzed again; it was the clerk of the court, granting the hearing and setting it for 1 p.m. What was she up to? In my review of her case files, I’d never seen her take on co-counsel from outside of her own firm, much less out of state. I marked it on my calendar and put it aside. I wouldn’t know the details until the hearing, so there was no point spinning my wheels over it.
I spent the rest of the day working with one of my expert witnesses on the timing of money transfers in and out of Castille’s accounts, and how those correlated to the accounts of his victims. I needed a precise statement of every transfer, every dime that was taken. Any misstep in the math or the chain of causation could send a jury in the wrong direction. I had to keep reasonable doubt from sneaking in through a carelessly unlocked door or seeping through a crevice in my evidence. I could only win with an airtight case, but I would see to it.
The day grew late. It was almost time for Evan to leave work, if she hadn’t already. I watched over her every night, keeping tabs to keep her safe. I left the courthouse a little after eight. A light mist floated through the city and made halos around the streetlights. I didn’t have an umbrella and made do with my light jacket and my briefcase over my head. I found some shelter in a doorway on the street Evan frequented for her nightly takeout. It was only a few minutes before I saw her jump from a cab and dart into Taj. Indian night for her, it seemed.
After she’d safely nabbed her dinner and retired to her penthouse, I rode the subway up to my shabby apartment.
On the train, even though I was worn out, I spared a few fatigued neurons to wonder who she could possibly be trying to add to the case, but came up empty each time. I was too tired to really dig deep.
I made it back, showered, and crashed into my bed. I thought of Evan as I drifted off to sleep. I imagined her fresh out of law school, doing pro bono work, doing her best to help those in need. One day I’d figure out what changed, what happened to her to cut off that bright future and give her this one instead.
The next day was more of the same work with experts, chasing down facts and figures. My phone pinged, reminding me of the hearing with Evan. I hadn’t forgotten it, just let the time get away from me. I took the courthouse steps two a time, not wanting to bring down Judge Crane’s wrath by rolling up in her courtroom too terribly late.
I smoothed my suit and fastened my top two buttons before pushing through the wooden doors. The courtroom gallery was empty; no one came to see run-of-the-mill hearings like this. Nothing doing, really.
Evan sat at the counsel table to the left, a man next to her.
He was familiar. Too familiar. My mouth went dry.
I reached the balustrade and pushed through.
He turned. “Linc.”
“Wash. What are you—”
“Now that Mr. Granade has decided to make his appearance, are we ready to proceed?” Judge Crane’s sharp voice cut through my surprise.
I glared from Wash to Evan. She kept her eyes forward, wouldn’t look at me.
“Yes, Your Honor, I’d like to move for the admittance of Washington Granade. He is—”
“Granade?” Judge Crane peered over her spectacles. “Any relation?”
Washington gave an easy smile. “Yes, ma’am. Lincoln’s my brother.”
“Well, isn’t this an interesting turn of events?” Judge Crane looked at me and back to Washington. “I can certainly see the resemblance.”
Washington was only an inch or two shorter than me. His eyes were blue, and he had lighter brown hair. He had dimples and had always been a charmer. Given the way Judge Crane looked at him, the charm was already hard at work.
“Go on, Ms. Pallida. You were saying?”
“Yes, Judge. Mr. Granade is admitted to the practice of law in good standing in the State of Louisiana. He meets all the standards and fitness criteria to be admitted pro hac vice in the Southern District of the State of New York. I’ll have my secretary file his bar license and other paperwork.”