Dead Even Page 42
She sat on the edge of his bed and took his hand. “It’ll work out.”
“It’s like riding a constant roller coaster: we’re up, then we’re down; we’re happy, then we’re sad; you have a job, then you’re going to be fired; I get a new client, he turns out to be a psychopath; you shoot him, I get fired.”
Sara laughed. “At least you have your sense of humor.”
“I’d trade it for a job.”
“I know exactly how you feel. But after everything we’ve been through, I’m convinced of one thing: There is a grand plan. If I hadn’t gotten fired, I would’ve never been a prosecutor, which is right now the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me professionally. If you didn’t make partner, you weren’t meant to work at that law firm.”
“And if you weren’t standing here next to me, I’d have real problems to contend with. You’re absolutely right. I just don’t like having someone else make the decision for me.”
“Never again, my dear. All the rest are up to us. Besides, once the mayor comes in here for his photo op, your phone is going to start ringing off the hook with offers.”
“The mayor’s coming here?” Jared asked, sitting up straight.
“Sure, now you’re excited,” Sara said. “You’re going to be lapdog to the head honcho himself.”
“What time is he getting here?” Jared asked, flattening out the covers on his bed. He reached for his legal pad and smiled. “This could really turn things my way.”
Sara shook her head. “Let me give you a piece of advice: Play down the opportunism and play up the brave-but-injured hero. It’s a lot more appealing.”
Without answering, Jared flipped to a new page on his legal pad. “How much pull do you think the mayor really has?”
“I can’t believe you,” Sara said. “Why would you want to go back to a law firm? Even with the prestige factor, we both know that Wayne and Portnoy was terrible. Your hours stank, your work was unappreciated, you hated your bosses—the only reason you were there was for the money that comes with partnership, which was always promised, but never delivered.”
“That’s why I’m not looking at law firms.”
Sara stopped, surprised. “You’re not?”
“Nope.”
“Then where’re you looking?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, if the mayor can pull some strings, I was thinking of taking a look at the district attorney’s office.”
As a skeptical grin crept up her cheeks, Sara laughed out loud. “You sneaky son of a bitch,” she said. “That’s what that whole sad act before was about. You were trying to get sympathy so you could spring this idea in my face.”
“What’re you talking about?” Jared asked with a smile.
“See, I knew it. You never let up, do you? It’s always competitive.”
“What’s competitive? I want a great job that’s satisfying; you have a great job that’s satisfying. Don’t you think there’s room for two prosecutors in a family?”
“There’s certainly room for two prosecutors in a family—just not this family.”
“And why’s that?” Jared asked. “Are you jealous?”
“Of course I’m not jealous.”
“Then what is it? Are you nervous? Intimidated? Worried I’ll steal your thunder?”
“Listen, lover boy, you couldn’t steal my thunder if you were knee-deep in a kiddie pool, sucking on a lightning rod.”
“Do you realize how many Freudian references you just made in that one statement?”
“Don’t try to change the subject. I’m not the pushover I used to be,” Sara said. She grabbed the small device that controlled the positioning of Jared’s hospital mattress. “If you’re not nice to me, I’ll fold you up in that Craftmatic adjustable bed before the nurses can even hear you scream.”
“And that’s supposed to scare me?”
Sara pushed a button on the control, and Jared’s bed slowly moved into a V formation. “Okay, okay, you’re not a pushover. I take it back. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be a prosecutor.”
“I never said you couldn’t. And if you really want to join my office, I’m not going to stand in your way.”
Jared stared suspiciously at his wife. “You’re not?”
“I already got what I want. We both did.”
“So you’ll love me even if I’m a prosecutor?” Jared asked.
“Yep.”
“And you’ll love me even if I go back to defense work?”
“Yep.”
“Then I win either way, don’t I?”
“It was never about winning.”
“I know that—I just want to make sure we’re back.”
She moved closer and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “Jared, even with everything that happened, we never left.” Laying her hand on the nape of his neck, she looked him in the eyes. That’s when she saw her husband. As she used to see him. As she’d always see him. “Lucky for us,” Sara said, “some things are permanent.”
At that moment, there was a soft knock on the door. A man in a black double-breasted suit stuck his head in and said, “Mr. Lynch? I’m Richard Rubin, assistant to the mayor. Can I come in?”
“Sure,” Jared said, smoothing his hair.
Carrying an empty glass vase, Rubin headed straight for Jared’s nightstand. He hid the jar of pickles under the bed, dumped Jared’s wristwatch in a drawer, and brushed Jared’s discarded notes into the garbage. As he put the vase on the nightstand, he explained, “The mayor’s bringing flowers.” He then walked over to the window and pulled open the blinds, filling the room with a blinding shot of sunlight. “He’s waiting down the hall with the news crews—we want the first shot to be of him walking into your room.”
“How spontaneous,” Sara said.
Rubin didn’t flinch. He headed for Jared’s bed and tucked the sheets meticulously under the mattress. When he was done, he stepped away from the bed and surveyed the scene. He then looked at Sara and Jared. “So, are you two all set to go?”
Jared turned to his wife and smiled. “How do I look?”
“Bedridden and unshaven—but in a cute way. How about me?”
“Baggy-eyed and frazzled—you have sort of an exhausted-starlet thing going.”
“Perfect,” Sara said. She grabbed her husband’s hand and nodded at Rubin. “Bring it on, baby. We can’t lose.”
About the Author
Brad Meltzer, recent Columbia Law School grad, has been the subject of a major profile in The New York Times, has written speeches for President Clinton’s national service program, devised marketing strategies for Games magazine, and married his high school sweetheart. He’s been compared to John Grisham, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Scott Turow by The Washingtonian and The New York Times. He lives in Washington, D.C.