Mistress of Justice

paralegal,” Carrie said, sounding as if she devoutly meant it. “You do trial work, you can kiss personal time so long.”
    “Look at this.” Taylor frowned, tapping the “Paralegals” column on the case roster. “Linda Davidoff.”
    Carrie stared silently at her frothy drink. Then she said, “I didn’t go to her funeral. Were you there?”
    “Yes, I was.”
    Many people at the firm had attended. The suicide of the pretty, shy paralegal last fall had stunned everyone in the firm—though such deaths weren’t unheard of. The subject wasn’t talked about much in Wall Street law circles but paralegals who worked for big firms were under a lot of pressure—not only at their jobs but at home as well: Many of them were urged by their parents or peers to get into good law schools when they in fact had no particular interest in or aptitude for the law. There were many breakdowns and more than a few suicide attempts.
    “I didn’t know her too good,” Carrie said. “She was kind of a mystery.” A faint laugh. “Like you in a way. I didn’t know you were a musician. Linda was a poet. You know that?”
    “I think I remember something from the eulogy,” Taylor said absently, eyes scanning the time sheets. “Look, inSeptember Linda stopped working on the case and Sean Lillick took over for her as paralegal.”
    “Sean? He’s a strange boy. I think he’s a musician too. Or a stand-up comic, I don’t know. He’s skinny and wears weird clothes. Has his hair all spiked up. I like him, though. I flirted with him some but he never asked me out. You ask me, Mitchell’s cuter.” Carrie played with the pearls around her neck and her voice flattened to a gossipy hush. “I heard you were with him all day.”
    Taylor didn’t glance up. “With who?” she asked casually but felt her heart gallop.
    “Mitchell Reece.”
    She laughed. “How’d you hear that?”
    “Just the rumor around the paralegal pen. Some of the girls were jealous. They’re dying to work for him.”
    Who the hell had noticed them? she wondered. She hadn’t seen a soul outside his office when she entered or left. “I just met with him for a few minutes is all.”
    “Mitchell’s hot,” the girl said.
    “Is he?” Taylor replied. “I didn’t take his temperature.” Nodding at the papers: “Can I keep them?”
    “Sure, they’re copies.”
    “Can I get any of this information myself?”
    “Not if it’s in the computer. You need to be approved to go on-line and have a pass code and everything. But the raw time sheets—before they’re entered—anybody can look at. They’re in the file room, organized by the attorney assigned as lead on the case or deal. The other stuff … just tell one of the girls what you want and they’ll get it for you. Uhm, Taylor, can you, like, tell me what’s going on?”
    She lowered her voice and looked gravely into the eyes of the young woman. “There was a mega mix-up on the New Amsterdam bill. I don’t know what happened but the client’s totally pissed. It was kind of embarrassing—with all the merger talks going on and everything. Mitchell wanted me to get to the bottom of it. On the Q.T.”
    “I won’t say a word.”
    Taylor put the rest of the papers into her attaché case.
    “Ms. Satin Touch?” Dimitri called from behind the bar in a singsongy voice.
    “Brother.” Taylor grimaced. “Gotta go pay the rent,” she said and climbed back under Dimitri’s homemade spotlights.
    A trickle of fear ran through her as she began to play.
    Who else had seen Mitchell and her together?
    Taylor suddenly gave a brief laugh as she realized the title of the tune she found herself playing, selected by some subconscious hiccup.
    The song was “Someone to Watch Over Me.”

     
    “Hey,” the young man shouted over the music cascading from the club’s million-decibel sound system, “I’m sorry I’m late. Are you still speaking to me?”
    The blond woman glanced at the chubby man. “What?” she called.
    “I can’t believe I kept you waiting.”
    She looked over his smooth baby-fatted skin, the newscaster’s perfect hair, the gray suit, wing tips, Cartier watch. He examined her right back: red angular dress, paisley black stockings, black hat and veil. Small tits, he noticed, but a lot of skin was exposed.
    “What?” she shouted again. Though she’d heard his words; he knew she had.
    “I got held up,” he explained, hands clasped together in prayer. “I can’t really go into it.