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Duncan’s financial planning firm occupied the first floor, Kyle’s law practice the second and Ivan’s psychotherapy practice was on the third. The street-level space was transformed to include a gym with showers, a modern state-of-the-art kitchen, a dining room and a game room.
Kyle climbed the stairs to the entrance, unlocked the front door and disarmed the alarm. Closing the stained-glass doors behind him, he reset the alarm and took the stairs to the second floor instead of the elevator. He was seated behind his desk, perusing a case file when his legal secretary stuck her head through the partially opened door.
“Good morning, Kyle.”
He glanced up, smiling. Cherise Robinson’s neatly braided sandy-brown hair framed a light brown face with an abundance of freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. Her cheeks were bright red, which meant she’d spent some time in the sun.
Cherise had come highly recommended by an elderly neighborhood attorney who’d suffered a mild stroke. On the advice of his wife and doctor, the attorney had decided to retire. Kyle hired the man’s legal secretary, paralegal and office manager. Not only had the three worked together for many years, but they knew the ins and outs of a legal practice.
“Good morning, Cherise.”
“What time is this morning’s staff meeting?”
He glanced at the clock on the credenza. It was eight-fifty. “Is everyone here?” Although usually easygoing, Kyle was finicky when it came to being punctual. He allowed for the occasional bus or subway delays, but not the mundane excuses of oversleeping or broken alarm clocks. He paid his employees well and expected nothing short of perfection from them.
“All present and accounted for.”
“Tell them we’re meeting at nine-thirty.”
She nodded. “I’ll let everyone know.”
Kyle returned his attention to the file in front of him. He’d spent the past ninety minutes reading and rereading all the notes on the case of a nineteen-year-old boy charged with robbing and assaulting the owner of a local bodega. The owner of the store had identified his client in a lineup as the one who’d hit him across the face with a gun, fracturing his jaw and knocking out teeth, before jumping the counter and taking several hundred dollars from the cash register. His client, despite having protested his innocence, had had an argument with the store owner the day before, telling him he was going to “come back and get him.”
Although he had witnesses who said his client was with them during the time of the robbery, the A.D.A. claimed the pictures from a closed-circuit camera put his client at the scene. Initially, the hard-nosed assistant district attorney refused to grant bail until Kyle insisted that his client didn’t pose a flight risk. Unfortunately his client’s witnesses weren’t model citizens, all having priors for petty crimes.
Kyle knew there was something his client was withholding from him, but so far he hadn’t been able to crack the hard shell the teenager had affected so as not to appear “soft” to his “boyz.” It wouldn’t matter whether he was hard or soft once he was sent upstate to a prison with men who’d been incarcerated more years than he’d been alive.
There was something about the teenager that reminded Kyle of himself when he’d run with the wrong crowd. Elwin’s “you’ll come to no good end” echoed in his mind. The difference was that at fourteen he was a juvenile and therefore he’d been given a second chance. But if he didn’t find something to prove Rashaun Hayden’s innocence, then the boy would become another one of the growing number of young men warehoused in state prisons.
A slight frown creased his forehead. Leaning over, he punched the speaker button on the telephone console. “Cherise, please get in touch with A.D.A. Clarkson and tell him I need a set of photos from the Hayden robbery.”
“I’m on it, Kyle.”
“Thank you, Cherise.”
Kyle had glanced at the grainy photos, but thought they needed closer examination. He closed the file. The trial was scheduled to begin in another month, but four weeks wasn’t enough time to prepare a case when most of the evidence pointed to Rashaun’s guilt.
He went through the other files, reading the updates until Cherise returned to tell him that everyone had gathered in the conference room. “I’ll be right in.”
Pushing to his feet, Kyle gathered the files, walked out of his office and into the conference room where he held meetings and met with clients and their family members. A gleaming cherrywood table and eight leather-covered chairs sat in the middle of the large room. One wall of built-in shelves was stacked with law books and journals. A trio of tall windows occupied another wall, while the remaining two were brick, one with a large working fireplace. An assortment of breakfast breads, fresh fruit, pitchers of freshly squeezed juice and carafes of coffee and hot water for tea filled a corner table.
The office manager had gotten the staff to donate a few dollars each week to have breakfast in the office to offset the exorbitant prices for specialty coffees and sweet breads until Kyle instructed her to take the money out of the office petty cash.
He filled a cup with coffee, adding a dollop of cream, and carried it to the table, which had been covered with place mats to protect its surface. Sitting down, he stared at his staff. Kyle marveled at the fact that he’d inherited an intelligent, experienced group of people who came to work on time and utilized their skills to grow the practice. With the exception of Cherise, who’d recently celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday, everyone else was older than him.
He opened a file. “We’re going to start with Hector Lonzo’s hit-and-run.” Kyle looked at Mercedes Quiñones, the full-time bilingual paralegal. “Did you get Mr. Lonzo’s wife’s statement?”
Mercedes nodded. She’d recently cut her curly black hair, much to the chagrin of her husband of twenty-eight years, because she claimed long graying hair made her look older. “I spoke to her late Friday night. I have everything on tape, and I just have to translate it.”
Kyle smiled. “Good.”
It took less than an hour to go over the case-file updates, and when everyone stood up to leave the room Kyle asked Cherise to stay. “I need you to send a bouquet of flowers to someone.” He scrawled Ava’s name and address on a sheet of paper, handing it to her.
Her reddish eyebrows lifted. “What kind of flowers do you want?”
He thought for a moment. “See if they have peach-colored roses. If not, then pink. The message should read: Hope you are feeling better, and my name.”
“How many roses do you want to send, Kyle?”
“Two dozen and I’d like them delivered before this evening.”
“I’m on it.”
A hint of a smile parted Kyle’s lips at Cherise’s trademark rejoinder. “I know you are,” he said.
She blushed furiously then turned and walked out of the room. Kyle knew he’d embarrassed her but he hadn’t meant to. When he’d bragged to Duncan and Ivan that his employees were superior to theirs it had begun an undeclared cold war among the childhood friends. Kyle felt closer to Ivan and Duncan than to his career-army-officer brother Kenneth, with whom he seldom spoke. Although Kenneth was stationed stateside, it was his sister-in-law who sent Kyle Christmas cards with updated pictures of his school-age nephews. His sister Sandra had a special place in his heart. She’d recently moved to Arizona with her husband and toddlers, and never failed to e-mail pictures of her adorable little girls.
He’d poured his second cup of coffee when Duncan Gilmore walked in. Duncan was the most complex of the trio. An even six feet, he cut an incredibly handsome figure in his Brioni suit and accessories. However, all of the sartorial splendor couldn’t disguise the sadness in Duncan’s beautifully modulated voice and occasionally too-bright smile. Women of all races and ethnic groups were drawn to his olive coloring, chiseled features and close-cropped curly black hair.
His friend had suffered a series of losses, beginning with his single mother, who died from a blood clot in her lung the year Duncan turned fourteen, to losing his fiancée on September eleventh. Having never known his father, Duncan had gone to live with a schoolteacher aunt in Brooklyn who had recognized his mathematical genius and encouraged him to work beyond his potential. He graduated with honors from Brooklyn Technical High School, then enrolled in Baruch College for a degree in business. He had returned to college five years later to earn an MBA from Pace University.
It’d been eight years since Duncan had lost the love of his life, and he had yet to form a lasting relationship with any of the women he dated. He had been the least commitment-shy of the three, but that had changed.
Kyle was shocked when Duncan had announced after his fiancée’s death that he intended never to marry or father children. Ivan went from being a friend to being a therapist, but Duncan had refused to listen to him. They’d allowed their friend to grieve in private, and nearly eight years later he was still grieving.
The two men bumped fists, a gesture they used when greeting each other. “What’s up, DG?” Kyle asked Duncan.
“That’s what I came to ask you,” Duncan countered. “How was the wedding?”
Kyle smiled. “It was spectacular. The bride was beautiful, the groom handsome and the bridal attendants were luscious-looking.”
“Did you meet anyone?” Duncan asked, smiling.
“The bride’s sister was really gorgeous, but unfortunately I didn’t know at the time I was trying to hit on her that she was already taken.”
“I guess you win some and you lose some.”
“It’s okay, because she’s what I consider geographically undesirable. The lady lives in White Plains.”
Duncan whistled softly. “Westchester County roads can be a bitch. Some of their parkways flood quickly and the one time I tried driving along one of the local roads in the snow I almost wrecked a rental car.”
Attractive lines fanned out around Kyle’s eyes when his smile widened. “I don’t have a problem dating Big Apple sisters or those from the other boroughs.” Duncan nodded, but didn’t say anything. “What are you doing for the Fourth?” This year the Fourth of July fell on a Saturday and Kyle planned to close his office that Friday and not reopen until Tuesday to give his employees a four-day holiday weekend.
Duncan picked a stray raisin off the table and popped it into his mouth. “Right now I’m open, but Ivan mentioned something about having a cookout at his place.”
Ivan owned a brownstone in the Mount Morris Historic District two blocks from their offices. “If he doesn’t want to do it, then I will,” Kyle volunteered. “I haven’t sat outside or used the grill since last year.”
Resting a hand on Kyle’s shoulder over a starched white shirt, Duncan leaned closer. “Please tell Ivan you’ll do it. If I have to eat another hockey puck masquerading as a hamburger I’m going to go ape-shit and hurt Dr. Ivan Campbell. The man can’t cook for nothing!”
“Hear! Hear!” Kyle intoned, bumping fists with Duncan. “That settles it. We’ll hang out at my place.”
Duncan flashed a wide smile. “Thanks, buddy. You just saved a thirty-year friendship.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to meet a client in a few minutes. We’ll talk later.”
Kyle waited for the financial planner to leave before gathering his files and returning to his office. There was something Mercedes had said that made him believe Rashaun Hayden was covering for someone, someone who might have threatened him if he decided to snitch. The street code of “snitches get stitches” prompted many defendants to take the rap for someone else.
The elder Haydens had emptied their bank account to hire private legal counsel for their only child, feeling that a public defender wouldn’t fight to keep their son out of jail. Kyle was charging them half his hourly fee because he believed Rashaun was innocent. Sitting down at his desk, he picked up the phone and dialed the Hayden residence. Rashaun answered after the second ring.
“Hey, this is Ras.”
“It’s ‘Hello,’ Rashaun. How do you expect a jury to believe you when you come across like that?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. C. I thought you was one of my boys.”
Kyle wanted to ask the teenager if he cut English classes, because he invariably screwed up his verb tenses. “The name is Chatham, not C, and, Rashaun, I need to see you.”
“When, Mr. Chatham?”
“I want you to ask either your mother or father to call me so I can set up an appointment.”
“Do I have to come?”
“Yes, Rashaun, you have to come.”
“What do you want to talk about, Mr. Chatham?”
Kyle leaned back in his executive chair. There was a thread of anxiousness in his client’s voice that hadn’t been there before. “You’ll find out when we all meet.”
“Have you found out who really jacked up that lying bitch?”
“I want you to listen real good, Rashaun, because I’m only going to say this once. Clean up your mouth or I’ll have the judge revoke your bail and you’ll find yourself back in Rikers at the mercy of some inmate who’d be happy to make you his bitch before he passes you around to his buddies for cigarettes.”
There was complete silence on the other end of the line. Kyle knew he had gotten through to the cocky young man who believed doing a “bid” would enhance his street cred. What Rashaun failed to understand was that going to prison was not a walk in the park. He was facing a sentence of ten to fifteen years, with the possibility of parole in eight years. And a lot could happen to him in eight years.
“Now that I have your attention, please let your parents know I called and that I want them to contact me as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Mr. Chatham.”
“Thank you, Rashaun.”
Kyle ended the call, annoyed that he had to go there with the young man. He didn’t know where Rashaun had gotten the idea that going to prison was a badge of honor. Kyle had grown up with boys who’d gone to prison, only to return either hardened or broken men. Some were never able to assimilate afterwards and become a part of society, shut out from certain jobs because of their criminal backgrounds.
The intercom rang and he pushed the speaker button. “Yes, Cherise?”
“I ordered the flowers. They’ll be delivered to Miss Warrick before three today.”
“Good.” Kyle made another call to the owner of one of his favorite neighborhood restaurants.
“Good morning. This is Leroi’s”
“Good morning, Pearl. This is Kyle Chatham. Is your husband available to come to the phone?”
“Sure, Kyle. Leroi’s right here.”
“What’s shaking, brother?” said a deep, booming voice.
“I need a favor.”
“Name it,” Leroi said without hesitating.
“I want to buy a steak from you.”
“Buy a steak or you want me to cook a steak?”
Kyle knew Leroi probably thought he was losing his mind. “I want to buy two uncooked strip steaks from you. I’d prefer if they were aged.” He usually ordered his steaks directly from Peter Luger’s butcher shop, but the dry-aged strip and porterhouse steaks in his freezer were frozen solid. He’d suggested to Duncan they have the cookout at his place because it’d been a while since he’d entertained outdoors and he wanted to broil those steaks before they developed freezer burn.
“How large do you want them?” Leroi asked?
“Not too large.” Kyle planned to make steak au poivre.
“I have a few aged ones weighing approximately sixteen and twenty ounces.”
“Don’t you have anything smaller?”
“Nope. It sounds like a lot of meat, but it won’t be after you broil it.”
“Wrap up two for me, and I’ll pick them up around five.”
“I can have someone run it over to you, Kyle.”
“You don’t have to do that, Leroi.”
“Yeah, I do. After all, you helped me out when you got that fraud to drop her lawsuit when she claimed she found bugs in her salad. I’m sending the steaks and think of them as a gift from me and the missus.”
“Only this time, Leroi.”
“No problem, brother.”
Kyle hung up. Normally he wouldn’t accept a gift or gifts from his clients, but he knew it was useless to argue with Leroi, and he needed a premium cut of thawed beef.
The morning and afternoon passed quickly for Kyle. He stopped long enough to order a Caesar salad with grilled chicken from a nearby deli. Mrs. Hayden returned his call, and he set up an appointment to meet with her, her son and husband the following week.
Tonight his focus was on seeing Ava again. He stopped at a local grocer to pick up what he needed to go with his steak dinner, and then he hailed a taxi to take him to Morningside Heights.
A different doorman was on duty when he stepped out of the taxi. He gave the man his name, waiting while he called Ava’s apartment. “Miss Warrick is expecting you, Mr. Chatham.”
The doors to an elevator opened as he approached and Kyle stepped inside and punched the button for the fifteenth floor. When the doors opened and he saw Ava Warrick standing there waiting for him, he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her or how fast his heart was beating.
Chapter 4
