The Opportunist

  Oh and he hates basketball, just like me. Fabulous right?

  I met him the day I took the Bar. He asked to borrow a pencil. What type of idiot comes to take the bar without a pencil? I think. When I handed it to him he just sat there and looked at me.

  “What?” I said, not even trying to hide my impatience.

  “I need your number, too.” He said it so ‘matter-of-factly’ that I gave it to him. I respected the gall.

  I am happy.

  After the movers leave, we order sushi, or I do, because Turner doesn’t eat ‘raw fish.’ I walk around my new condo in one of his t-shirts because I haven’t unpacked my things yet. We have sex. He takes me to the BMW dealership the next morning and buys me a car as a house warming present. Wowzer, right? At six o’ clock that evening, I drive him to the Ft. Lauderdale airport in my new, red sports car, and we kiss before he gets on the plane.

  “This will work,” he tells me.

  “How do you know?” I say, smoothing the lapels on his jacket.

  “Because we’re going to get married.”

  “We are?” I reply with mock surprise. He always says this, and I always say that.

  “We are,” he affirms and then he gets on his knee and pulls a box out of his pocket.

  I drive home, engaged. I look at the ring all the way there, as if it’s going to bite me. It’s a Tiffany’s iceberg—big and gaudy. It reminds me of something but I can’t remember what since I have soooo completely moved on.

  In three months I have taken the Florida Bar Exam and passed. I start my new job as a Defense Attorney for Spinner and Associates. The secretary oooh’s and aah’s at my ring. She asks me about Turner, what he does, what he looks like. She has a slight gap between her two front teeth which I stare at as she sings the names of her two miniature cockapoo’s: Melody and Harmony. She tells me how her grandmother’s garden gnomes were stolen from her yard in broad daylight. Broad daylight! In Boca Raton nonetheless. I sympathize with the gnome situation and set up a play date for Melody, Harmony, and Pickles.

  When I settle behind my desk for the first time, I feel accomplished. My things are unpacked at the condo, my drivers’ license has been changed back to Florida, I have groceries, and yesterday I visited my mother’s grave to fill her in on my engagement. This is my new life, I realize with mild surprise, and then I lower my head to my desk and cry because it is really my old life with hollow upgrades. I call Cammie to tell her this and to tell her that I made a big mistake moving back here. Big. Huge. She listens to me cry and then tells me that I’m stupid and she’ll be here in three weeks, to hold on and hold down, things will get better.

  “Okay,” I say, but I don’t believe it—not even for a second.

  But things do get better. At first, I adjust to my new routine anxiously. When I fled to Texas four years ago, I arrived practically empty-handed. I built a brand new life there, filling my cabinets with plates and glasses and a new Thomas Barbey print for the hall. There was nothing left to remind me of my adventures in Florida. Now, when I walk through my new home, I am putting on the same lamps and making tea in the same kettle that was part of my Texas life. It is confusing. But with all things new, there is a stage of uncomfortable acclamation. After a few weeks, Sunny Isles becomes my home, Spinner and Associates becomes my job, and the Publix at 42nd and Eisenhower becomes my grocery store. Cammie arrives with Pickles a week later as scheduled. She stays with me for a month before moving into her own place, which is a short thirty-minute drive away. Cammie doesn’t like Turner. Did I mention that already? She says that he is as predictable as a virgin’s period. I mean, she doesn’t hate him, but she could definitely do without him, as she reminds me on many occasions. I like Turner. I really, really do.

  He visits me every two weeks or sooner if his schedule permits. He always brings Pickles a pair of his old socks to play with, which she rips apart in about two hours. I find his sock gifts slightly disturbing, especially when I start finding remnants of the soggy wool stuck in-between the couch cushions. I wish he would just buy rawhide instead. I make this suggestion one night as we are driving to a new restaurant on the south side. The humidity has mellowed and the air that is blowing in the open windows of the car is whipped and cool. It reminds me of a warm winter so long ago.

  “They are chewy bones,” I hear myself say in a slightly bored and detached voice. “She likes them.”

  “Okay, babe.” Turner places his hand on my knee and starts bopping his head to the music on the radio. He has such square taste in music. Square, square. I hum the Sponge Bob Square Pants theme song and look out the window. My body freezes up almost instantly, Turner looks at me in concern.

  “What’s wrong babe?” he asks and slows down the car. Babe.

  “Nothing, nothing,” I smile to hide the salt water in my eyes. “I just got a cramp in my leg—that’s all.” I pretend to rub it.

  But that wasn’t all. While staring out of the window, the spastic blinking of colorful lights has caught my eyes. When I focus in on them my stomach clenches painfully.

  Jaxson’s Ice Cream Parlor

  It was like a door opened and all the memories I had hidden away came tumbling out. Pennies and kisses and pools and all the things I had condemned to Hell. Blast. The last thing I felt like doing tonight was entertaining a sulking heart.

  “Why don’t we go there for dinner?” I say in a fake, cheerful voice, nodding towards Jaxson’s. Turner looks at me like the crazy woman I am.

  “There?” he says. The disgust so obvious in his voice, I flinch.

  “Sure. Don’t you ever get sick of all the frou-frou restaurants we go to? Let’s do something different. Come on…” I stick my bottom lip out a little because that usually works with getting my way. He sighs dramatically and turns into the plaza. I wonder what the hell I am doing and why I am such a sucker for punishment. I want to prove to myself that this is just another food providing establishment. There is no magic, there is no escalated romance, and most of all, I want to be able to be in a place that holds old memories and not have a mental breakdown. Hellloooo Jaxson’s.

  It was much the same as it was over seven years ago, the only thing missing from Jaxson’s is Harlow—whose absence is noteworthy. I see his picture on the wall by the register and beneath it are the dates August 10th 1937 to March 17th 2006. I smile at him sadly as we are led to our table by a gum snapping teen. She doesn’t have class. I think ruefully.

  “Nice place.” Turner’s sarcasm is not lost on me as I gaze at the unlucky and lucky table.

  “Shut up. Stop behaving like a snob.”

  He immediately softens up.

  “Sorry sweetheart,” he says taking my hands in his. “I’ll be open minded, okay?”

  Sweetheart. I nod surly and turn to studying the menu.

  So far so good. At least I wasn’t shaking or crying or anything. Maybe I really was okay. We eat our dinner and order desert. I try not to think about the conversation that transpired under this roof years ago, but occasionally phrases like: “because, I cared more about knowing you than I did about winning another stupid game” pops into my head. I sweep them out quickly and look at my wonderful fiancée who has lowered his standards tonight to eat with me here. Blessed. I am so blessed.

  When we leave, I stop at the penny machine and my heart rate accelerates. Maybe Turner will notice it, I think. Maybe he’ll do something cute and romantic with one of the messages. But, Turner walks right out and I trail after him, disappointed. I do not have sex with him that night.

  A week later there is a knock on my office door.

  Ms. Kaspen?” it’s the secretary. “Ms. Spinner would like to see you in her office.”

  Crap! Bernie always sees through me. I compose myself, running my fingers across the front of my Dior skirt. I like to buy expensive things. If I wear something that costs more than a month’s salary, I amply feel that the rotting carcass of me is at least shrouded nicely.

  I head over to her corn
er office, practicing my ‘life is great’ smile. I knock and she bellows for me to come in.

  “I have both good and bad news for you,” she says when I enter. Same ol’ Bernie, she always has cut right to the chase. Gesturing for me to take a seat in one of her cow patterned chairs; I sit and cross my legs.

  “Which would you like to hear first?” she asks. Bernie has silver in her hair now and a life partner named Felecia.

  “The good,” I say biting the inside of my lip. Bernie’s bad news could be anything from “I am shutting down the firm to become a caterpillar farmer” to “I lost the number to my favorite deli.” I feel the need to mentally prepare.

  “The good news,” she begins, “Is that I’m giving you, your first big case—and it’s a big one, Olivia.”

  “Oh…kay,” I say feeling a bubble of excitement well in my stomach. I have the urge to jump up and ra ra sis boom ba!

  “What’s the case?” I say calmly.

  “Ever heard of a little pharmaceutical company called OPI-Gem?” she asks.

  I shake my head “no”.

  “They’re one of the baby pharms. Six months ago they released a new drug named ‘Prenavene’ into the market. Three months after its release date, twenty seven separate hospital reports were filed in which Prenavene was found in the systems of heart attack cases, two of those being under the age of thirty with no prior health problems. “There was a formal investigation and the Feds dug up a whole lotta poop on these people.”

  “What kind of….poop?” I ask.

  “During their testing period, blood clotting showed up in thirty-three percent of their human rats. Thirty-three percent Olivia! Do you know how big that is? It’s big like a two foot cock.”

  I flinch. For a lesbian, she referenced male genitalia an awful lot.

  “Big enough for the FDA to ground the product six months before OPI had a chance to market it.”

  Bernie tosses me a gargantuan file.

  “So how did they get themselves on the market without FDA approval?” I ask.

  “Oh, they got their approval. They falsified data submitted in seeking FDA authorization to market Prenavene, which is a generic drug. They submitted its original version for the FDA tests.”

  Ahhh—the old switcheroo trick.

  “But why would OPI take the risk after what their independent testing found? They must have known that eventually the whole thing would come crashing down around them.”

  “Most fraud in clinical trials is unlikely to ever be detected. Most cases, which do come to public attention, only do so because of extraordinary carelessness by the criminal physician.”

  “Hmmmm,” I say.

  “They’re not our case,” she says plucking the file from my fingers and replacing it with another one.

  “The CEO and co-founder of the company had a massive heart attack and died about two weeks ago. All eyes then fell on his daughter, a twenty something spoiled brat, with an Ivy league education and too much signing power.”

  “Her title?” I ask.

  “Vice president of internal affairs. The DA is coming at her hard. They are building their case against her as we speak.”

  “What do they have on her?” I flip through the file, my eyes scanning the boring law jargon.

  “Her signature was on the release forms that were turned in to the FDA, which means that she oversaw the entire project. She knew they were testing the real drug and not Prenavene.” I blow out a low whistle in response to this news. The prosecution already had one hell of a case. I plop the file down on her desk.

  “You’ve discovered the bad news without me having to tell you,” she says grimly. “She’s guilty as sin, admitted to the whole thing to us.” I snatch the file back up.

  “We want to take a risk on this one,” she says bouncing a pen off of the wall. “This case is going to be all over the media, it will boost us to the next level of firm.”

  “Sooo, the next question would be…why are you giving a case this size to the rookie?”

  “Two reasons, my prodigal daughter. One, because I like you, and two, because the client asked for you specifically.”

  “What? How?” I had covered many cases in Texas, but nothing that would garner any type of attention to me. I was a relatively unknown litigator.

  “The client was shopping for you.”

  “What’s her name?” I ask, not sure what all of this means.

  “Smith, Johanna Smith.”

  “I’ve never heard the name before.”

  “They might have read about your cases in Texas or perhaps you came recommended by previous client of yours, either way, you’ve got it, kiddo. Don’t screw it up.”

  I stumble to my office with the case file clutched to my chest. Was I ready for this? One good case, correction—one impossible case, if won, would boost me to partner…

  I hole myself up in my office for the rest of the afternoon, re-reading the file again and again until the words become a blur and I have a raging headache. The secretary has left for the day, along with most everyone else. I nod a greeting to the cleaning lady on my way to the car and mentally plan out the conversation that I am going to have with Johanna Smith in the morning. Crap! The case was too big for me.

  On my way home I call Turner to tell him the news and fill him in on the case. He sounds less than thrilled.

  “I don’t know Olivia. The DA is going to come after this girl pretty hard. Are you prepared to lose your first big case?”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I snap into the receiver.

  “Look, I believe in you—I do, but this is a tough one. They have direct evidence tying her to the fraud, they have two witnesses willing to testify that she was involved. If you lose the case you can kiss partner goodbye.” What an ass. I tell him that my boss is calling on the other line. When I hang up, my eyes are pooling with tears.

  “This is my break!” I scream at the car in front of me, “and I’m going to take it!”

  At seven the next morning, I arrive at the office to find a sweet charcoal Jag in my parking spot. I find a space a few spots away and march through the doors wondering who had the audacity to park where it says Reserved Kaspen. The secretary greets me with a cup of coffee and then blocks the entrance to my office with her body.

  “There’s something that I should tell you before you go in there,” she says as I take a sip from my pink mug.

  “Did you poison my coffee?” I ask, peering at her over the rim.

  “No, but—”

  “Then you can tell me while I turn my computer on,” I reach past her and turn the doorknob.

  There is a man in my office. I see his back first, as he is studying the numerous plaques and photographs I have on my wall. I shoot the secretary a look and she mouths “Johanna Smith’s husband” to me, before making a discreet exit. She has lipstick on her teeth.

  “Mr. Smith,” I say confidently, though I am quite flustered at the surprise. My briefing with them wasn’t scheduled for another two hours.

  He turns slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. I see his grey suit, the white collared shirt unbuttoned at the top, the golden tan, and I choke on my coffee.

  “It’s Drake, actually,” he says in an amused voice.

  I back away, trying to catch my breath and find myself pressed against the wall.

  “Surprise,” he says, and then he laughs at the look on my face.

  I shimmy away from the wall because I look like an assault victim and attempt to stroll casually to my desk. I collapse into a chair and stare at him glassy eyed.

  “What the hell?” I say.

  Aside from a different haircut and a few more eye crinkles, he looks exactly the same.

  “I looked for you.”

  “Did you now?”

  “For a year after you left…”

  “You must not have looked hard enough,” I quip, though I know it isn’t true. A year after I left Florida, Bernie called to tell me that a gent
leman was calling the office inquiring about my current whereabouts. She said he had a British accent.

  “I married her Olivia.”

  “Who?”

  “Leah.”

  “I thought you were Johanna Smith’s husband?” My head is spinning.

  “Leah’s her middle name, she’s always gone by Leah and she kept her last name. Johanna Leah Smith.”

  The word “married” rings in my head repeatedly and I rub my temples at the ugliness of it. Caleb was married. Wedded. Bedded. A family man.

  “Caleb,” I choke on his name. “Why are you here? Actually, don’t answer that—just get the fuck out.” I raise my voice and stand up.

  “I wanted to see you, to speak to you before you saw me for the first time in front of everyone.”

  I sit down again.

  “You were the one looking for me? You were trying to find me to take Leah’s case?” He nods.

  “No,” I say. “No way—ever. Never. No.”

  Maybe she never told him about what I did. He just thinks I picked up and left. He still hasn’t got his memory back!

  “Yes,” he says standing. “You’ll do it. She’s guilty and you’re the best liar I know.” Okay, maybe she did tell him.

  I snort and look away.