Unfit to Practice

“Sure. I was just on my way out the door. Big football game tonight at Carmel High School. Can you tell me what’s up right now? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. It’ll wait until tomorrow.”

But Paul made her give him the outline, and from the long silence on the end of the phone when she finished she knew he, too, was grappling with what to say.

“You go on,” she said. “You’ll miss the game. And I have to get home.”

“Wait, Nina. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to call an old buddy of mine who happens to be certified to practice in the state-bar court. All he does is lawyer-discipline cases. He can help us sort this out.”

From the new relief she felt, Nina knew he was on the right track. She needed information. “That sounds great. But is this attorney good? You know this person well?”

“He’s been around. Left private practice two years ago and does this exclusively now. Lives in SF and loves to come down to the Monterey Peninsula. Big talker, big ego, but you see plenty of that in your business.”

“What’s his name?”

“Let me call and see if he’s available first. Meanwhile, pack light. My big plan for the evening won’t involve di

Nina’s bed did not offer its usual comforts that night. Instead of resting, she journeyed bleakly through times she had screwed up or swerved into the windy side of the law. Green sunglasses-two years ago, she had hidden this evidence of one client’s presence at a crime scene. Hypnosis-she had assured another client it would remain private. She had been wrong and Misty Patterson had almost been convicted of murder because of it. Bob’s No Fear cap, recognized by her at another crime scene-she had never told the police about that. And then there were the pieces of a dead man out there buried under the pine trees of Tahoe-a murder had been committed to protect her and Bob.

She had thought of herself as a good lawyer, good enough to look for the spirit behind the letter of the law sometimes, looking for the real rule that ought to govern the situation, trying to be brave about applying it.

She had been accused of recklessness many times, but she had always managed to pull the right result out of the situation before. Sometimes, she had to admit, she had taken risks that were more suitable to a horse track than a law practice. All in the service of the clients, she told herself.

Last night? She hadn’t even identified the risk in advance. She had been careless and lazy.

How hard would the clients get hit?

How hard would she get hit? For the first time, she let her most private, selfish fears loose, and the thought came:

Fuck! I could get disbarred!

And then what would I be?

She opened a bleary eye to the green clock light at 2:30 A.M., then rolled and tumbled until dawn in the twisted sheets. Gut-wrenching self-doubt, the whole night long.

7

“Y OUR BAG?” PAUL said, peering into the backseat. He must have been watching for her, because he had appeared the moment her car pulled up. Paul lived in a neighborhood called Carmel Heights at the top of the hill high above the ocean. Dry fir trees around his townhouse condo whistled and creaked in a hot wind. Behind them lay the hills that led to Carmel Valley a dozen miles inland from the central-coast community of Carmel-by-the-Sea. Beyond the trees of his parking area, the Pacific twinkled in the sun. Even in the shade the air felt heavy with heat.

“This is it.” She shouldered a small duffel. She had stuffed it with her weekend needs early in the morning: a toothbrush, a nightie, swimsuit, and a few other items, imagining herself as Grace Kelly in Rear Window, reaching into her minuscule designer case to pull out a fluffy negligee, making Jimmy Stewart’s eyes bulge. She unzipped a corner and showed him a bit of transparent chiffon.

“Ah.”

His eyes didn’t exactly bulge, although he gave her a squeeze that made her jump. “You won’t even get a chance to put it on,” he promised.

“No, no, I insist that you tear it off me.” Satisfied, she stuffed her nightie back into the bag. “Is your friend coming?”

“We’re driving down to Big Sur with him for lunch tomorrow.”

Inside, he pulled the door shut behind her and did exactly what she had imagined he might do during the long drive from the mountains to the ocean, lifting her off her feet until their faces matched, kissing her with the passion she found so moving.

She licked his neck, lounging in the spot where his hair curled slightly, and ran her hand down the dip in his back as far down as she could reach. They swayed in the doorway for some time before he set her gently down.

“I have a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in the fridge. Do you know that you can take the cork out of that thing and let it sit all night and the next day it’s still fizzy? It’s a wonder. Let’s get started. Even if it is four in the afternoon.”

“I’m hot. Long drive.”

“The towels are clean in there.”

She went into the bathroom, stripped down, and jumped into the shower. Paul’s decor followed his stated principle about himself: What you see is what you get. Simple and direct with a touch of whimsy in the forties’ posters of guns and molls, the room had white walls, a black-and-white-tiled floor, and white towels.

She heard Paul pop the cork off the balcony deck. He had put on the Michael Hutchence CD they both liked and was humming along. He was happy to see her. The evening would seem to stretch on forever, and that was how she wanted it: di

She needed this night away from everything. Just this one night, she told herself. So it always went with Paul. “You’re already married,” he would tell her. “To your briefcase.”

As she hung the damp towel neatly on its rack, she admitted something to herself: Their relationship had changed forever on the day, just a short time before, that she realized that Paul had saved her life by killing a man who was trying to kill her. She trusted him now in ways she didn’t trust anyone else, even her brother and father. In the face of his extraordinary act, she had surrendered much of her resistance to him. She felt bound to him in some primitive way that she had better sort out fast. Coming to him now, when she was so vulnerable, felt natural and right.

She needed him. Before, he had needed her. Her need for his solidity, his loyalty, was begi

This feeling is new, she thought to herself, looking in the mirror. Was weakness driving her so urgently to him now?

Did it matter?

Sun poured through the window. She looked at the black teddy. It wouldn’t do. The 1950s were dead, R.I.P. Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart, but viva the new century! She would at least skip the underwear.

Pulling her shorts and tank top out of her duffel, she dressed swiftly, giving one final glance to the woman in the mirror, the physical one that seldom communicated with the cyborg of the office, the one with nipples obvious under the thin material of her top, the one with tangled brown hair and bare feet. This woman could be irresponsible without dire consequences because she knew it-Paul would never hurt her. She could relax into a blur of sex and pleasure with him, if just for tonight, sleep dreamlessly in his arms, and store up power for Monday.

Out on the deck, Paul grilled teriyaki tuna and steamed asparagus with butter. She fed the blue jays, letting them do the chattering. They ate at a patio table covered with a red cloth, the candle flame flickering in the breeze. As the sun moved west across the ocean and the moon revealed herself, splendid and yellow, Nina ended up on Paul’s lap. They moved right along into the bedroom and Paul finally revealed the rest of his big plan.