Always Right (13 page)

“May it please the court,” Amanda said to the judge who presided over the UPA trial.

Of course it wasn’t going to please the court. If the court was sane, it would choose to be outside on a gorgeous fall day like this. The court would rather be lying on a blanket beside a picnic basket, reading a book for fun, staring up and picking out shapes in the clouds.

But the court was stuck here, just like Amanda was. This was a bench trial; there wasn’t any jury. The entire future of UPA sat in the hands of one judge, one man who was stuck inside, just like all the other lawyers on this crisp autumn day. He had to listen to her opening argument, to her structured explanation of what she was going to prove at trial, why UPA deserved to be reimbursed millions of dollars for the unlawful use of its patents.

Amanda looked over to the long table where Harvey sat next to the president of UPA. Both men stared at her with intensity, with absolute certainty that she could convey her message, that she could educate the judge about why UPA must win.

Taking a deep breath, Amanda launched into her summary of the case. She talked. And she talked. And she talked some more.

She knew that every phrase she uttered was supposed to matter. Every word carried unique meaning. She’d crafted her opening argument with care over the past two weeks. It wasn’t like she had anything else to distract her. She certainly hadn’t been ducking out to Rockets Field any more. And she hadn’t needed to get home to see Kyle after any games. To talk to him, when he was on the road. To open her apartment door, her bedroom door, her heart, in the early hours of the morning.

She closed her eyes, and she could see Kyle’s fingers tighten around the green glass of his beer bottle. He wasn’t an alcoholic. That wasn’t one of the demons he had to slay. Rather, he’d refrained from drinking as a reminder to himself, as a symbol of the other battles he’d fought and won. Nevertheless, she was devastated that she’d been the one to make him lose control, that his anger and frustration with her had led him to cash in years of sobriety. Amanda swallowed hard in a futile attempt to push down the sour taste at the back of her throat.

“Ms. Carter?”

She was startled by the gruff question. Her eyes flew open, and she saw the judge leaning forward in his black leather chair. She realized that she’d trailed off halfway through her explanation of the metabolites of UPA’s drug. She barely resisted the urge to shake her head as she responded to the judge’s query: “Your honor.”

“Are you all right, Ms. Carter?”

“Absolutely, your honor.”
I was just thinking about the way I ruined a man’s life. I was just thinking about how I ruined my
own
life.
Yeah. Not any excuses she was going to share here.

“Well,” the judge said. “We’ve been at this for two hours already. Let’s take a brief break and reconvene in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you, your honor,” Amanda responded automatically, even as her mind reeled. She’d been talking for two hours? No wonder her throat felt dry. It was no surprise that her legs trembled, that she longed to collapse into the empty chair at counsel’s table.

“All rise!” called the bailiff, and everyone else in the courtroom climbed to their feet, honoring the judge as he shuffled off to his chambers through the side door of the courtroom.

Harvey grabbed Amanda’s elbow as she came back to the table. At first, she thought he was concerned for her well-being, but the tight pinch of his fingers through the sleeve of her suit quickly told her something else was afoot. He glanced over his shoulder at their client. “We’ll just take a quick moment to talk about one of the trial exhibits,” he said, and then he frog-marched her down the aisle and out the courtroom door.

Once they were huddled in a marble-clad corner, he leaned close. “What the hell are you doing in there?”

“What?” she asked. “I’m giving my opening argument.”

“Are you trying to make us all fall asleep?”

“I’m
trying
to lay out all the facts of the case!”

“Well, you’ve got to focus more. Vary your voice. Find things to emphasize. As it is, you’ve practically convinced
me
our argument has no merit.”

“That’s not fair!” Amanda pushed her glasses up on her nose. Harvey’s accusation made her furious—probably because his words were true. She’d already admitted to herself that she’d just lost track of the last two hours. She was on automatic pilot, and that wasn’t any way to win a trial, especially not one as complex as UPA’s.

“The world’s not fair,” Harvey said. His expression was grim. The tight lines beside his eyes made her realize he was questioning her commitment, her ability to bring home this win. Harvey might have been her mentor for the last seven years, but even he wasn’t sure she could get the job done.

“I can do this,” she said quietly.

“I know you can. If I had any doubt, I never would have let you get this far. But get your head in the game, Amanda. You know as well as I do that first impressions can make or break your case.”

Head in the game
. She’d used the exact same phrase when she’d been fighting with Kyle.

No. She wasn’t going to think about Kyle now. She couldn’t. Her career was on the line, and she had to buckle down, give this case everything she had to give.

“I’ve got this, Harvey.”

He nodded, and he turned back to the courtroom. But for the first time in her professional life, Amanda began to wonder if she
did
have the skills to complete the job.

She couldn’t afford to listen to those evil whispers. Instead, she clamped down on all her stray emotions. She told herself to focus on the logic and order of her argument. She made herself forget about feelings, about all the messy details of her personal life. And she marched back into the courtroom, determined to win her case.

~~~

Kyle stood in the outfield, looking up at the scoreboard.

So, this is what it felt like, playing in the World Series. This is what he’d worked for, all those years of Little League, of high school ball, playing in college, working his way up through the minors.

Sure, there were lots of great players who never got a chance at a ring. A guy could make it into the Hall of Fame without ever having won the Series. But that wasn’t the way he wanted his career to go. He wanted to be able to say he’d done it all. He’d played his best. He’d brought victory to his teammates, honor to his team’s owner.

He wanted to feel
something
.

Maybe he would care more if his hitting streak had continued. If Amanda was in the stands.

Well, he had to get his head out of his ass. Amanda wasn’t going to be in the stands, not now and not ever again. If he was planning on mooning around like a lovesick kid, he might as well hang up his cleats right now.

This game wasn’t about Amanda. It wasn’t about the shitty things he’d said to her, the crappy things she’d thrown back in his face. The World Series wasn’t about a goddamn pair of sunglasses or a dinner at Artie’s or all the feelings he thought had grown between them.

He took a deep breath. This was his job. And he was going to do it as well as he could—because that’s what he owed himself. That’s what he owed his team.

He was still telling himself that when he dropped an easy pop fly from LA’s eighth place hitter, a move that cost the Rockets an out. And he was repeating his little mantra when he got fanned at the plate. And he was chewing on the words, bitter as burnt coffee, when he joined the team in the clubhouse after they lost their first game in the best-of-seven series.

~~~

Get it together, Carter
.

Amanda stood by the long table, staring at the notepad that held her notes for her closing argument. After a week, she felt like she’d been born in this courtroom. She’d lived out her entire life inside its mahogany-paneled walls. She’d stood by this table forever, offering up evidence, structuring arguments.

Over the course of the trial, she’d made some good points. Dr. Phillips’ testimony had gone over well; she could see that the judge was swayed by everything the expert witness had said. Amanda’s charts had illustrated her points; her timelines had made it clear just what UPA had invented and how long they should have had exclusive protection under the law.

It was all clear, like the bones of a skeleton. She’d laid out the structure of her argument and guided the court from A to B to C.

But she knew that wasn’t enough. She needed the judge to understand why it
mattered
. She needed him to see why he should care.

Oh, it would be great if she could tell him, “Decide in my favor because my entire fiscal world depends on winning this trial.” She needed to win so she could pay her rent, so she could pay her mother’s mortgage. She needed the case to go in UPA’s favor because Hunter needed to continue his treatment. She needed a victory because her mother needed to rehab her back, needed care from the best therapists money could buy.

Not that the judge cared about any of that.

The door at the far end of the courtroom opened, and everyone stood out of respect for the returning judge. Amanda shuffled her notes, tapping them into neat, controlled order. She collected her thoughts, rehearsing the specific facts she needed to pound home.

“Ms. Carter? Are you ready to make your closing argument?” She heard a little dread in the judge’s voice. He sounded as if he longed for a cup of coffee, a gallon of Red Bull, anything that would help him stay awake for the next few hours.

“Yes, your honor.”

Maybe it was because she’d just been thinking about her mother. Maybe it was because she was worried about her nephew, the boy she’d last seen in the close little kitchen of the house where she’d grown up. Maybe it was because she’d thought of Kyle, of the way he’d wanted her to be at the ballpark, of the power and support he said she gave him, game after game, for the better part of the baseball season.

But Amanda pressed her hand flat against the table. She flexed her fingers three times, lifting her wrist and dropping it, like she was completing warm-up exercises for piano. Once, for all the things she’d learned. Again, for all the things she was going to teach others. And one last time, for fun.

It was a ritual. A rite she’d completed before every public presentation she’d ever made in school—from her welcoming speech at Parents’ Day in fourth grade, to her science fair demonstration in seventh, to her valedictorian address as a senior. She’d flexed her wrist and counted to three before she started every lab in college, before she started moot court in law school.

Somewhere along the way, she’d forgotten the game. Somewhere she’d told herself she was wasting her time, distracting herself from the true core of whatever she hoped to accomplish.

But the second she flexed her hand, a steady flow of confidence opened in her body. She
knew
this case, inside out. She
understood
her arguments with every fiber of her being. She could convince the judge. She could tell him why UPA was right, why it deserved to win.

“Your honor,” she began. “We’ve spent the past week talking about facts and figures. I’ve recited metabolism rates and I’ve presented statistics. But this case isn’t just about numbers. This case is about
people
.”

The judge looked up, apparently surprised by her new line of argument. The spark of interest on his face gave Amanda the courage to continue, to improvise. She explained, “We’re here today to preserve the spirit of creativity that is the heartblood of American business. We’re here to protect the drive of individuals to create new things, of people to innovate in their chosen fields of endeavor.”

The words were
right
. They were powerful. Amanda felt emotion swell inside her chest—pride and satisfaction and the humming thrill of accomplishment. She gave herself over to that power, that energy. “Your honor, UPA’s scientists had the vision, the inventiveness to see new ways to save lives. And you alone have the ability to reward that effort, to preserve their patent.”

The judge leaned forward, clearly intrigued by Amanda’s emotional appeal. She left her notes on the table—all the facts, all the numbers, all the cold, hard, logical justifications—and she stepped forward to complete the most important argument of her career.

~~~

Four days later, Amanda stood in Harvey’s office. “Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” she said.

But she wasn’t ready. She couldn’t watch him click on the file from the clerk of court. She couldn’t listen as he sucked in his breath. She couldn’t swallow past the pounding of her heart, couldn’t fill her lungs. But somehow, she managed to ask, “What does it say?”

And Harvey read from the screen: “In the matter of United Pharmaceutical Alliance versus Axtor Pharmacies, the Court finds in favor of UPA and awards statutory damages in the amount of…”

She’d won.

After all those months, after all the late nights of plotting and planning, after all the endless days of reading documents, of organizing data, she’d won. Statutory damages. Compensatory damages. Punitive damages. More money than she’d ever garnered for a client before, more money than she’d ever dreamed of bringing in to the firm.

She made the calculations automatically, measuring the percentage she’d split with her partners. There’d be enough to give all the staff a bonus. Enough to make the DC office viable for years to come.

And UPA would continue its business for those same years—maybe for decades.

She should feel thrilled. She should be overjoyed with the news. She should be shaking Harvey’s hand, leading the troops out to the high-end bar on the ground floor of their office building. She should buy drinks for everyone who’d had a hand in the victory, accept drinks from everyone in the firm.

But Link Oster wasn’t where she wanted to be. She didn’t want to share her victory with Harvey, with the associates and paralegals who had slaved beside her, with her long-suffering assistant Shay. Winning a fortune for UPA didn’t feel any better than cashing a check from Kyle. Blackmail, litigation, it was all the same—all a way for her to make arguments, to structure thoughts, to boil facts down to money.