Going There by Ennis James Sheehan

Going There by Ennis James Sheehan

Martina Scandilla was smart. She knew she was smart. Everyone around her knew she was smart. Smarty smart smart. Smartness went before her like an escort of proud white poodles, one on either side who looked neither left nor right, but straight ahead as if cutting a path with unstoppable laser-like precision.

“Make way for smart Martina!” they would proclaim (if they existed and could speak). “Make way or suffer the consequences!”

Of course this was all in her head. It was the way she walked down the street. You could say – by way of analysis- that it was merely a defense mechanism. But if she was headed in your direction, it was about as defense oriented as a well aimed torpedo. She was beautiful, yes, usually in that severe sort of way that suggests an Evita in the making. Long, straight dark hair, often tightly pulled back to accent the high cheekbones with the near martian like skull that remained exotically attractive. She was petite yet somehow supremely threatening at the same time. This conundrum seemed to envelope her entire character and presence; she was fill in the blank, but at the same time fill in the blank.

To those capable of serious discernment, this bookending of traits indicated not so much a “fascinating person” as it did a calculating self propagandist – anxious to touch all the bases as in “got there first! (way ahead of you!)” Maybe it was picked up in law school – or at least the fine finish was applied there after years of careful hot house-like cultivation in various sheltered and affirming institutions beginning with her life as a single child of a single mother who knew nothing about tennis other than who she admired most in the game and named her child “Martina.”

The last name was from her absent father – a former investment banker last heard from his (not quite so large) yacht/home on the Mediterranean. If you really wanted to see her dark eyes glowing in directed rage, try pronouncing it like “Scan-dee-ya”. She didn’t even bother correcting most people who made that mistake. She would simply turn away as if someone had called her something unmentionable, leaving a horrified underling to whisper in the ear of the stunned offender; “It’s Scan-DILL- ah! Dill, like in the pickle!”

“Ahhhh!” the malcontent would inwardly moan in despair as Martina faded down the hall, watching her go with the nagging thought within that “I have destroyed my career!

Other people simply wrote her off as a terminal gaslighting narcissist and went about their day.

To those who held senior positions over her she was – yes – smart, efficient, hard working, over-anxious to please. But they still looked after her as she left the room as one might look at a downed high tension wire snaking across the lawn from the safety of the living room window. You needed that electricity but you weren’t about to go near it.

Martina was mysterious by design to most of the people she worked with at the law firm where she was an up and coming associate. She almost always kept her door closed and only emerged at a full walking gallop, document in hand, on a bee-line for whoever she had to do business with, making it quick – as if she was holding her breath, unable to obtain oxygen again until she was back in the confines of her space.

Yes, there were – and had been – men in her life. Most of them lived elsewhere, scattered about the world – which pretty much meant the financial capitals of Europe or Silicon Valley. She went for the hired gun type; men who couldn’t sit still but were always angling for new opportunities and quick, no nonsense high yield consultant gigs. They came, they saw, they re-organized … then they were off to tilt at new windmills and new women, which Martina – seeing herself as a stone cold realist – accepted without a dignifying comment. She was like a participant in a chess tournament who considered herself above “playing games.”

If he was divorced? Different story. In fact she considered them the best case scenario. Divorced men had moved on and had the paper to prove it. They had been sufficiently beaten down, the edges rounded but the brain still ever sharp – on the lookout for trouble. They had the intriguing timbre of prey mixed with adventurer at the same time – in particular those who had retained a healthy “post-war” investment portfolio. They were at least interesting. She also preferred them without the attendant baggage of children. Having physically no chance at motherhood herself, the idea was already foreign and off the table as in “for other people.”

Yet there were more goals to conquer for this most goal oriented climber with the soul of a worker bee. For one, she was determined to make partner at her employing firm of Smitters and Marks before the age of thirty five. Her nose wasn’t only in the air for effect. She was also busy sniffing out the remote scent of opportunity. One had to be like an insomniac general in the night, listening for the disposition of the enemy camp while prowling the perimeter. Only her alertness could discern the moment she should make a move against any opening in the opposing ramparts.

But there was something about Keefe Brantley that she could not resist. It wasn’t that he was so great looking (he wasn’t terrible on the eyes either). It was the development of the man that she keyed in upon. And not so much the development either, but the apparent – to her anyway- gradual deconstruction of the man.

“You know he’s available,” she heard one secretary say to another while pouring a cup of tea in the break room.

“No!” the other gasped, hand fluttering to her neck. “What happened?”

She left him. Or he left her. Or it was mutual. All I know is, it’s over.”

“That’s so saaaaaaad! Any kids?”

“No. Only a Cocker Spaniel. She got it … and the house in Westchester.”

Martina had been way ahead of the news, even though this was the first she heard of the specifics, if you could call it that. She was not interested in Keefe Brantley vis a vis any potential romance – or even feigning as much. He was a good guy and stuff. More importantly he was a partner … and a wavering partner at that. In other words, he was exactly what she’d been looking for; a tree about to fall – or so she hoped.

She got to work right away – ahead of the curve! – in true Martina style. While everyone else was pretending that Keefe was fine and sympathetically trying to keep the gossip to a minimum, she was busy gathering data. She was like an author collecting information on the sly for a massive biography. Her “goal” in this case was to learn even more about Keefe Brantley than he knew about himself.

To most people, that idea might sound like pure rhetoric. Martina knew otherwise. She had researched enough defendants and plaintiffs to the point where they could be rendered slack jawed in a deposition room when subtly presented with facts in their history that they had relegated to the subconscious – in some cases many years prior.

All of that was simple “Law 101” and well understood. The case of Keefe Brantley required great delicacy. It was an impossible to resist challenge for Martina. Something new! And it stood to reap great rewards. Martina Scandilla: Partner!

Unfortunately for her, the cosmos and it’s attendant karma – or simple predictable results – often determine that people like Martina always go a Bridge Too Far. She was doomed long before she ever suspected it. She was walking to the precipice by her own design. There would be no one else to blame. Martina would find out everything about Keefe Brantley but every step of the way involved a loss of knowledge of herself. As if she had much to lose to begin with.

Some day she would look back and remember the very moment she skipped merrily into hell. It was late one week night at the firm. She was on yet another after hours document binge for a founding partner, currying favor as always. On one of her frequent forays to the copy machine in the hall she happened to go a different route, for variety’s sake, and was surprised to see the light on from under the door of Keefe Brantley’s office. Her pace slowed as she drifted in silence past the door, like a shark casing a rowboat. Why was he here at this hour? The thought was defensive – as if Martina ruled the night around here, jealous of anyone else treading the darkened water in her presence.

She returned to her office, closing the door quietly behind her and consulted her instincts. Her Keefe Brantley folder was burgeoning. She could write a short biography with what she already knew: Keefe Chesterton Brantley, native of Southern Indiana, Catholic by birth (the middle name was a giveaway), undergraduate at Indiana U in Bloomington, Law degree from St. John’s (the boy wanted to practice in the big city, good for him). Martina knew there were some family connections with the firm – an uncle on the mother’s side, now retired.

Brantley was the youngest partner at Smitters and Marks, in his mid-forties after putting in over two decades at his desk. He was known as steady, reliable, with good mid western values, not a party animal and hardly ever seen with a drink in his hand (how un-New York!) at various functions. He wasn’t “the art of the deal” type of guy but he could analyze a deal right down to it’s bare DNA if it came to that. And he could find fifty reasons why it was illegal – or alternately – why it successfully exploited every legal loophole known to God, man or the Constitution.

He made clients feel safe but Martina figured he had put little of his vaunted analytical ability into the deal he’d made with his wife of ten years, Eliza. Every man has his blind spot. Like Achilles, Keefe Brantley was still limping around with an arrow in his heel shot from her jewel encrusted bow.

Eliza Brantley (nee Kester) hailed from Long Island and was a former payroll executive with Smitters and Marks who had shimmied herself into the life of the hardworking bachelor from the Hoosier State. She quit her job a year after the marriage – about the time that Martina came on board with the firm. They had been a quiet, unassuming couple – at least as far as any scuttlebutt in the hallways.

Eliza was seldom seen, tucked away into the leafy confines of Westchester as the years rolled on and her husband’s work took precedence, as it tends to do in New York. As far as Martina knew, Brantley had confided in no one at the firm about his personal life of late. Such talk was considered a weakness, and rightly so, she thought. Lawyers at the top of their game – and in the most competitive market in the world – were Spartan at heart. They gutted it out. They strapped on the armor every day, picked up the sword and went into battle with banners flying. And if they didn’t? Well, they got slaughtered by the Spartan on the other side of the courtroom.

Gosh, she thought to herself in a rare but exciting moment of pity. Keefe Brantley must really need someone to talk to…

She would never admit to herself to feeling intimidated. What if he saw through her intentions? Was that even possible? Nobody saw through Martina Scandilla. She had spent a life time erecting her own interior obstacle course. She had nothing to worry about. She had only to be herself (whoever that was). Now get in there and get to work!

She knocked gently on his door. Let the battle begin.

There was no response. It was like he hadn’t heard her at all. Or maybe he was fast asleep. Maybe he had gone home hours ago and forgot to turn off the lights. She knocked again. Still no response. A burst of anger shot through her, as if he had been wasting her time all along. How dare he! She quickly saw the illogic in her thinking and recovered. Still, there was a lingering residual effect. Martina hated to be made a fool, especially if she was doing it to herself. She stepped back, shook her head as if hitting a reset button, then slowly turned the handle of the door, pushed it open wide enough to get a look inside.

He had his back to her, sitting in his traditionally minded black upholstered designer chair… at the center of a classically appointed hardwood desk, surrounding him on three sides. His hands were up, massaging his temples and he seemed to be staring out at the bejeweled midtown night, maybe at the distant line up of planes filing into the runways of LaGuardia Airport across the river like descending angels from the darkened heavens. For a moment she thought he might be weeping. That was a problem. It necessitated a quick and extra silent retreat. Still – it was good information to file away for future use …

There was a sudden squeak of his chair as the angle of Keefe’s head shifted left. A pang of terror flashed through her as she realized he was staring at her reflection in the plate glass while she stood in the open door framed by the subdued light from the hallway.

He swung his chair around and searched for her eyes, prying wireless buds from his ears at the same time. Martina had to think faster than a panicked humming bird – but she was well practiced in the art.

“Hey, Martina,” Keefe smiled.

Well, that was unexpected and it threw her way off her game- but it helped at the same time because she now appeared more vulnerable and innocent even as she chastised herself. He wasn’t weeping, you idiot. He was probably listening to some old John Mellencamp on iTunes …His high school yearbook said he was a fan of his fellow Indianian. Or whatever the hell you called them. Hopefully he wouldn’t start talking about Larry Bird and Bobby Knight…

“Hi,” she gave a little nod. “I’m sorry… I was … I saw the light on and I thought … well, I was going to make some tea and wondering if you would …” So quick and easy with the lie. That’s why she was smart.

Keefe smiled and lifted a steaming cup from his desk. “Waaaay ahead of ya.”.

Ouch. This was really bad. She had already lost the battle without firing a shot. But she smiled back at him. “Oh!”

“Come on in,” he got up from his chair and moved towards a black marble topped counter that held a tea caddy with cups and saucers to the side of a stylish electric kettle. “It’s still hot. Let’s see … you like herbal? Earl Grey? English Breakfast? I stay away from the chamomile at night when I’m working – but I got that too.”

She demurred. “I don’t know, I’m sorry to interrupt you. I just thought -”

“No, no, have a seat, please! I need a break and I’m sure you do too. Let’s par-deeee!”

“Ummm… okaaaay, I’ll go with the Earl, thanks…” She took a plush vermillion upholstered chair with ornate carved dark wood arm rests – one of a twin set facing his desk, pleasantly surprised at it’s comfort. It would never go in her office which was a strictly modern affair, all high end angles, spotless steel and glass and comparative discomfort – all of it looking otherworldly fabulous, like something straight out of MOMA, and about as functional.

Keefe had a lot more clients in and out of his office and he clearly strove for comfort as a priority. Nothing says “solidness” like tradition. But she still thought her office looked a lot smarter. She wasn’t into making visitors comfortable. She wanted them impressed to the point of intimidation. Then she wanted them to leave.

“A spot of tea,” Keefe said in a comical British accent as he set the cup on a saucer before her, with a packet of honey and a small silver spoon on the side. “It’s the cure for what ails ya.”

“Thank you” Martina smiled. She stirred a drop of honey into her cup and sipped. She was trying to orient herself, still stunned inwardly at how the tables seemed to have turned, yet unaware exactly how. Was he bullshitting her already? Somehow aware of her ultimate intent? Or maybe he was simply a natural nice guy. They were the worst.

“I suddenly have a lot of time to work late nights,” Keefe gave a good natured sigh as he took his chair again with tea mug in hand.

“So I’ve heard,” Martina stepped knowingly into the danger zone. “Are you doing okay?”

He gave her a long look of inspection, as in, what has she heard? What does she know? Why is she the first person around here to ask me about this, other than the small handful of fellow partners?

But something about the late hour, the fact that they were the only ones in the office aside from a cleaning crew laboring elsewhere – everything combined to confer a sort of safe zone where inner thoughts could be expressed – and tacitly disowned tomorrow if necessary. It had already almost reached what constitutes a one night stand in a profession that puts an ultra-high priority on circumspection, especially when it comes to partners and associates under the same shingle.

“I’m good,” he said, and repeated quietly as if to himself, “I’m good.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “I don’t mean to -”

“No, no, it’s okay,” he said – as she knew he would. Martina was finding her range. It wouldn’t be long before she had him at her mercy. Charm was called for – or at least should be unlimbered and awaiting the signal for attack. Yes, she thought, he’s a man who can parse every syllable of a contract with the eye of a master surgeon. But seriously, he’s a big ol’ farm boy from Indiana – and that’s the person she was aiming at.

“I guess it’s hard to keep secrets around here,” he shrugged. “Not that it’s much of a secret.”

It was a comment that seemed to request a response – at at least a small permission to advance a step or two.

“Well, you know how we are. I guess the point is to make sure that everyone’s okay.” This was a lie – or at least a throw away line. They both knew it. But it was an acceptable lie. This was New York … and it was Hollywood and it was Washington. Everyone professed that the point was to make sure you’re okay … even if that same terminology was used on his patients by Josef Mengele in mid-experiment. They wanted you to be okay, until the point where they wanted exactly the reverse.

But she really didn’t know if Keefe saw through the remark or not. He seemed to be distracted, looking down at his desk and fiddling with a letter opener. She watched him turn it in his hands, first with the sharp point lightly stabbing a manila file folder on his desk, then the blunt handle end doing the same as he turned it one way and then another. Some people might read too far into a man toying with what could be a dangerous weapon. Martina realized it was the only prop in sight that he could employ to distract himself. At the moment, she couldn’t afford to read anything more into it than that. It was way too soon for jumping to conclusions.

“So what’s keeping you so late tonight?” she changed the subject.

Keefe nodded at a stack of document boxes piled against his desk. “Keene versus Regneri” he said. “It’s a ball buster. But then I guess I have some personal expertise in that…”

She let that one slide, and leaned over for a better look at the boxes. It pretty much matched the scene in her own office.

“You’re the one with the reputation for burning the midnight oil around here,” he smiled. “Don’t know how you do it.”

“You get used to it as an associate,” she said. “Paying dues, blah, blah, blah.”

“You’re handling that case for Jerry Stillman?” he raised an eyebrow. Stillman was about as big as you could get around here without your actual name on the firm’s letterhead.

“Yep. Judge n’ Jury Jerry, the man himself.” Stillman considered himself a master at analyzing every personality in the courtroom. Every case was like rewriting Charles Dickens. Strangely enough, it often worked in his favor – thanks to associates like Martina who slaved day and night to get it done.

“But working for him is kinda fun, isn’t it?”

“Oh,” Martina laughed, a bit too loudly. “It’s a barrel of monkeys.”

She always laughed too loudly in front of partners. Keefe winced only slightly, but she missed it.

“Anyway,” she sipped her tea. “If you need some help on stuff – let me know.”

“You? Are you kiddin’ me? Where do you find the time?”

“I’m smart,” Martina shrugged.

Now he laughed, and she allowed it. She had intended as much. And she knew the exact moment to back off as well. The teacup was nearly empty and so was her list of conversation points.

“I better get back to work,” she placed the cup gently back on the saucer. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time either.”

“Not a problem,” said Keefe. “I’m glad you showed up.” He stood like a real midwestern gentleman and even opened the door for her. This was either quite gallant or a clear message that he was happy to get her out of the room. Martina was going with the former.

He paused and gave her a thoughtful look. “Are you close to wrapping up with Jerry?”

She pretended to calculate as she looked towards the ceiling. “About another week and we should be done – or at least on a break. There won’t be another motion filed for a few months I think.”

“Well … if you’re still interested maybe you could come over with me on Keene and Regneri. I can clear it upstairs.”

She made a thin smile. “I think I like that idea,” she said. It was an unspoken rule anyway. You never said no to a partner. That was like cutting your own throat.

“It’s a deal,” he smiled. “I think.” They shook hands.

“You know me,” she shrugged. “Like Jerry says, I love the smell of oil at midnight.”

Keefe laughed. “I’m stealin’ that one,” he said.

“That’s okay,” she smiled back. “That’s what we do – or at least that’s what they say out there in the world.”

“Yeah,” Keefe shrugged. “The world. Sometimes I’d rather be here … even if it’s midnight.”

“I know what you mean,” she said with a voice full of meaning – even though she had no idea what he meant. Keefe Brantley had just been screwed out of a marriage, a house and a cocker spaniel – and likely a bank account or two. She was hoping to use that as leverage to a partnership. It was as simple as that. She was honest with herself. If he couldn’t see that, well she knew nothing about restoring sight to the blind. She only knew how to capitalize on it. The way she saw things, you were put on earth to do what you know.

“G’night, Keefe,” she gave him a little punch on the shoulder and headed down the hall, as his door shut silently behind her.

When it rains it pours – at least that was true in the life of Keefe Brantley. He was still negotiating a settlement with his ex when his longtime secretary Brianna suddenly up and quit. Her husband – who had been unemployed for months – had come upon a new job in Denver and she barely had time to give notice. Martina made sure to show up again at Keefe’s door to offer her sympathies and – this time – with the solid offer to assist him, at least until he found someone to replace his right hand lieutenant in the office.

Keefe was philosophical about the loss, but she could see the stress in his eyes. She was going to suggest that he take a vacation – but that would hardly be in line with her ultimate goal in this situation. She didn’t want him resting. She wanted him collapsed.

“I should have offered her husband a job in the mail     room,” he laughed with a shrug. “You never realize how dependent you are on someone like that until they’re gone.”

All things considered, the loss of Brianna was a good thing for Martina. Like the best secretaries, the woman had been super protective of Keefe in his day to day business. She was older than most of her colleagues and – like him – the Old School was strong within her. Martina hoped for someone less well armed and malleable to take Brianna’s place.

She was – she realized – becoming focused if not obsessed with forcing Keefe Brantley gently out into the good night. His own sense of fairness, decency and honor only made him an easier target in her mind. Every time she stepped into his office she was measuring the curtains and placing furniture. It was almost double the size of her own space and she would have to do some homework on additional furnishing. Perhaps even a high end black leather couch with a glass coffee table framed in gold. At such moments she hated herself for her scheming. But she couldn’t help it. If Martina wasn’t supposed to be in the position to do this kind of damage…well, they should never have allowed her in the door. Her killer instincts were valued, but she was a lab leak in process.

“I can’t honestly foist this stuff on you,” Keefe slumped with a frustrated look. “The truth is I’ve already overwhelmed any available paralegals downstairs and with Brianna gone, I just -”

“Don’t worry about it, Keefe,” she held up a hand to stop him. “Gimme whatever grunt work you got.”

“You sure?”

“Name it. The time will come when I need you to back me up.”

“You got it,” said Keefe. “You should know that already.”

“So?”

He sighed and swept an arm towards the growing stack of boxes in the corner. “Take your pick. I just got ten depositions from the copy room I need digested yesterday – and more on the way. Those four boxes right there are all docs that have to be chron filed. I gotta get to work on the two boxes over there, preparing exhibits.”

She made a firm look with her mouth, with hands on hips. “Okay. What’s the most immediate?”

“Everything,” he smiled.

“Let me knock down some of the chron files. There’s more of that than anything. Then I can do some digesting.”

Keefe smiled again. “A fine choice! I’ll have Tommy the stock room guy come by and cart the stuff into your office.”

Chron files were the most time consuming yet easiest of tasks. There were paralegals who spent years doing little more than that. It was monotonous as hell, but important. If you couldn’t pull the correct document at a second’s notice in court to go with any given date, you were in trouble. Judges had no patience for it. And it could upset the momentum in an unfolding legal strategy quicker than a flat tire on a freeway. Clients payed Smitters and Marks way too much money for their attorneys to look lazy or unprepared in court. Anyway, Martina found the job relaxing. She had a mind that could meditate on other matters while her hands quickly sorted out the dates on memos, letters, pages from journals and stack them accordingly. To her, building chron files was like knitting a sweater. Or – in this case – a strait jacket.

It still wasn’t clear to her how she was going to achieve her ends. Martina was the type who went in well trained, armed and ready to exploit opportunities, which is most often the way successful warfare works. She was of the Mike Tyson school of battle: “Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.” Her opportunity would arrive – she knew that much. It always did. And it arrived in the form of Talia Durbin.

Talia Durbin; petite, brunette, crisp and even “smart” in Martina’s book – which was saying a lot. She already knew upon the first meeting that Talia had a deep emotional response to life – although not such that it would cripple her or cause her any disadvantages. Her resume, which was slipped to Martina by a friend who owed favors in HR, was more than respectable for a legal secretary.

She had been through at least two of the top firms in midtown- always with partners up to their retirement or their lessening of responsibilities. Her recommendation letters glowed with accolades. Whatever you could say about Keefe Brantley – he had a great recruiting agency in his corner.

Talia was also beautiful and single but no nonsense, with an NYFD smoke eater boyfriend in Brooklyn (another little fact to file away courtesy of Martina’s HR connection). She handled obvious flirtations from testosterone fueled paralegals and younger associates like someone spiking a volley ball with enough force to leave a hole in the ground – and yet delivered it with such muted direction, even with a single soft spoken word, that she left no doubt as to where the next shot might land.

Martina perceived that Talia was also inherently a good person – who even wore a small gold cross around her neck. She wasn’t composed of the hard core unreasoning steel of Keefe’s former secretary, a woman who offered no quarter. She was willing to listen and Martina could see already that the younger secretaries lingered around her, deep into short conversations about their lives and loves and their cats and dogs … whatever. Talia was trusted right off the bat. It was a rare talent and – to Martina’s way of thinking – one easily manipulated. Time would tell, and she wasn’t waiting around. She figured it couldn’t be long before Talia’s natural sympathies were directed at the embattled Keefe Brantley. He was younger than her previous employers and – more importantly – he was available whether he knew it or not. The Firefighter boyfriend and Brooklyn were a long way off from Park Avenue.

As for Martina and Keefe – they understood without question that there was no chance of romantic involvement between them – even if there had been any remote spark to begin with. In truth, everybody at the firm felt somewhat threatened by Martina Scandilla, even though they rarely admitted it to themselves. She interpreted it as respect. That she was wrong about that made little difference for now. She was waiting for something to click between Keefe and his new secretary. She felt a bit seamy that the matter had been reduced to a soap opera level. She preferred things to be more Cat Woman and less Days of Our Lives. You played the hand you were dealt.

It broke upon her like a storm, like heavy steady rain – with a knock on the door and a sobbing Talia Durbin. The simple act of turning the handle to reveal her tear streaked face was delicious. It was happening. It was on. It was like the ground work was being magically done for her – but Martina could only respond with a convincing look of shock and concern. Who knew? Maybe Keefe had gotten her pregnant, or better yet had tried to rape her in the middle of his office. What would it be? It was like watching a roulette wheel spin at a small town fair.

“Talia?” This is how it’s done. You say the other person’s name like you’re not even sure it’s really them. Like they are so unrecognizable in their grief that – at the moment – the only thing you can think to do is call an ambulance.

“Can … can I come in..” Talia whispered, eyes large, looking like she was trying to escape from a gunman loose in the hallways. It was Friday afternoon and most of the office had already emptied out with the exception of the truly dedicated – or the hopelessly overworked.

“Of course, of course! Come in!” Martina felt strangely flummoxed at the same time as she perceived her opportunity opening wide. No one had ever come near her door for simple advice, much less with a deep personal problem. She was a fish out of water and a bit out of control herself. She was used to pulling the trigger on her own clock. But this would certainly do.

“Please, please sit down,” she guided Talia to a leather and steel limited edition chair before her desk. It wasn’t exactly suitable for crying – unless you were pleading for mercy. Martina would make up for that with her all consoling presence. She grabbed a box of tissues from the corner of her desk and put them in Talia’s lap… “here, here you go …”

“Thank you,” Talia blew her nose. “I’m so sorry to come in here like this. I just … I just …” She looked around the room as if unable to proceed.

“It’s okay, hon.” Martina half sat on her desk facing the distraught secretary who was peeling strands of tear soaked hair away from her face. She held out a hand and rested it gently on Talia’s forearm.

“Can you tell me what’s going on, sweetie? What happened? Did somebody hurt you?”

It could be anything. Most likely there was a man involved, Martina was sure. Sometimes people got like this when their cat went to the hospital but Talia wasn’t the type.

“I have to … I have to tell someone. I know I shouldn’t. It could cost me everything …” She pulled out another tissue and sobbed into it.

Martina waited. “It’s okay. Take a deep breath. You can tell me whatever it is. Nothing will leave this room. Do you understand that?”

Talia took a deep breath and straightened in her chair. “Okay. It’s … it’s about Keefe.”

“Okay,” Martina nodded, disguising the absolute thrill that shot through her body. Then ever so gently; “What happened?”

“Well … it’s not so much about him … directly.”

Martina cocked her head, but said nothing. She relied on her questioning look to elicit more information. Not so much about him? The plot thickened.

Talia looked at the floor and frowned. “There’s just no going back after I tell you this. But I don’t know what else to do.”

“Okay. If you’re not ready to …”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’ve gone this far. This has to come out.” She lifted her head and seemed about to address the ceiling.

Martina gazed at her waiting.

“It’s about Eliza. His wife.”

“Yes. I know her … well, I know of her anyway. They are divorced?”

“Just about.”

“Okay”

Martina knew the status of the marriage. Based on everything she had gleaned she had diagnosed it as terminal. It was all over, pending an agreement on finances. Keefe had indicated as much over the last few weeks of working with him – at least the barest details. Whatever. She didn’t care if it was over or not. She only cared if there was trouble that could be exploited. And she was about to be rewarded. Bigly.

“He’s been hitting her,” Talia blurted out. “A lot …”

Martina took that in. It was the last thing she expected to hear. Keefe hitting his wife? A woman? Anyone? It had never entered into her assessment of the man as even a remote possibility. Her look must have conveyed as much – at least it was authentic this time.

“I know,” said Talia, reading her face. “But it’s true. She’s been calling me the last few days. We talked about it.”

“Keefe? I don’t believe it? Has she called the police?”

Talia shook her head. “She won’t. I’ve tried to convince her to do it, but she’s afraid.”

“So … is she saying he hurt her? Like, badly?”

“She’s been to the ER a couple times. Black eye. Bruises.”

Martina paced. It really was hard to believe. But why would Talia make up a story about her boss? She had no such history. And she truthfully looked shocked to be bearing this knowledge by herself. She sat there looking hopefully up at Martina – as if now something would be done. It was out of her hands.

“I came to you, because … well … you’ve been working with him too. I figured you might know what to do. I don’t know where to go with this. I feel like he’s really going to hurt her bad. Real bad.”

Martina paced some more, arms folded, looking at the floor. Something didn’t make sense.

“How did she know to call you?” she looked at Talia again.

“We started talking a while back,” said Talia. “She would call when Keefe was working late, asking stuff like when he might be leaving for the night. It was innocent at first. We’d get into girl talk stuff. It wasn’t till the other day that she told me what was really going on.”

Martina could see that happening just so. Talia was a good conversationalist, open and trustful. She had already earned a solid reputation as such around the office. People opened up to her.

“So… what’s she saying? He comes home and -”

“They’re not living together. She’s in their house in Westchester. He has access. They’re fighting about the money.”

“Did she try changing the locks?”

“She’s afraid to. She thinks it will enrage him even more.”

Martina sighed and shook her head. It was so … un-Keefe. But, she reasoned, people have their secrets. Look at me, she very nearly chuckled to herself. Maybe he was a true dual personality. Not that Martina subscribed to such psychological gobbledygook. It always led to a rabbit hole. And besides, in her case, it was a little too close to the bone.

She took a hard look at Talia and she decided to go with it. Analysis and the usual back and forth on the topic were of little profit to her. She could proceed armed with this new knowledge and – if it backfired? Well, the brunt of any blow back would be on the petite little secretary sitting before her. It was a win, win. Or in the worst case scenario – lose, win. Talia was her insurance policy if she needed to bail.

“Okay,” she nodded. “You’re gonna have to let me think about this for a bit. It’s big. Really big, as far as this firm is concerned.”

Talia nodded, absorbing the words.

“-and it’s really delicate, as I’m sure you know.”

“Should we bring it to the partners?”

Martina had anticipated the question. But no. It was too early to be kicking this thing upstairs. It would take it instantly out of her hands. And who knew when another opportunity like this might come along?

“I’m gonna suggest – strongly – that we keep this between ourselves for now. If she’s not going to call the police for her own good – I’m not sure how we can help -”

“But -”

Martina held up a hand. “I’m not saying we won’t help. I think we can. I think you need to keep talking to her. You are her confidante. That’s something I can’t do. I need you to keep me advised what is happening.”

“What if – “

“Obviously if it gets worse we will have to make the call ourselves – for her own safety. And we will do that if we have to, okay?”

Talia nodded. It wasn’t a solution, but at least she wasn’t alone with it any longer. “Okay,” she said.

Martina frowned. It was time for the root canal. “I need to know one more thing – and please understand that I mean nothing malicious about it, or any questioning of your character.”

Talia already knew where she was going. “No. We are not having an affair,” she said. “My boyfriend would kill him. And then me. Anyway I believe in trust.”

Martina looked at her carefully. People who believed in trust rarely said so. (And, if she really believed in trust, the last person she would run to was Martina Scandilla). But, she reflected, Talia hadn’t advertised it on her sleeve. She had been prompted. She probably thought that Martina had suspected an affair from the moment she had walked in the door crying. And she was right.

Martina decided to believe her. Talia simply glowed with that intelligent yet naive manner that informed her personality and the personalities of all good people. Good people. What were they good for? Martina knew the answer to that question and had lived it for many years. Good people were good for fuel. You could take their goodness – and it could take you to the moon with it if you did it right. Then you discarded them as you would an empty fuel canister. That was life. Ask Darwin.

But Martina was still calculating; ramifications, responsibilities, legalities. There was a lot to consider. She was playing with the proverbial fire no doubt. This kind of stuff was supposed to be reported without delay. If she was perceived as stalling in retrospect– and if Eliza was truly hurt or worse – then it might fall on both her and Talia with equal force. Except it would have more impact on Martina’s career because – let’s face it. She had a lot more to lose than a legal secretary.

“- and Talia?” She stopped her as the secretary headed for the door.

Talia turned to her again.

“We will do something about this and very soon, okay? This is going to end.”

“Okay.”

“Are you expecting a call from her again soon?”

“She calls almost every night that he works late. I guess she wants to be prepared or something.”

Martina shivered. The idea of a woman preparing herself to take a beating from her separated husband made her stomach turn. If it was me, she thought, he would already be in his grave with a fireplace andiron through his head. It was her first feeling of true sympathy for another person she had felt in memory. But it was quickly dissipated by her unshakable belief that people who allowed bad things to happen to them pretty much deserved what they got. By the end of this drama, she hoped she would be thankful to Eliza Brantley – or what was left of her – for giving her a new career.

At any rate, things were ramping up to her speed, which is a hundred miles an hour of pure warfare. She already knew that Keefe was working late tonight – which meant that Talia would be delayed as well – and taking a call from Eliza. She sat behind her desk, letting the room settle around her. A private counsel of war. She was prepared. Fully.

She did not want to see Keefe tonight. He might only distract her from her path. She had no moral judgements about him beating his wife. As she saw it, he would get what he deserved anyway – thanks to her influence in the matter. Was there any drug that could equal the ultimate high of plotting someone’s destruction? She didn’t think so. Under the influence of this drug you could drive a car, you could function to a point of perfection, you could go anywhere, do anything, say anything – because you would always be watching yourself winning. She kicked off the campaign with a short text to Keefe – letting him know that she was locked down in her office finishing one last big chron file which would be on his desk in the morning. He already knew that the terminology used was a diplomatic way of her saying “don’t bother me and let me work” and he respected it.

“No worries!” he texted back from his office. “Chron on! I’m headed home.”

That was interesting. She would give it another hour and see what developed. Hopefully his soon to be ex Eliza was prepared. Or – better yet – hopefully not.

She got busy, sorting the dates, creating paper piles of the weeks and months to ultimately file in perfect unassailable and flawless order. But her mind was elsewhere. And a smile was on her face. This was a time to savor.

Two hours later there was a knock on the door. It was Talia, white as a ghost. Stammering.

“What?” Martina froze in anticipation.

“She’s in the emergency room.” Talia sank into a chair and held her head in her hands. “I knew we waited too long.”

Martina dropped her pen and sat back. “You spoke with her?”

“She called me right after he left the house. She said she was bleeding from the nose, possibly broken …”

“She called an ambulance?”

Talia shook her head. “She wouldn’t do it. She took a cab. Holding a towel and ice to her face all the way there.”

“Okay. I’m glad she’s talking anyway …”

Talia stared at her, incredulous. “I am reporting this to the police. I’m letting you know. I’m not hiding this any more. He could kill her!”

Martina nodded in sympathy, thinking fast. “You’re right.”

“What do I do? Call 911.”

“No,” That’s for peasants, Martina wanted to say. But she kept her manner extra gentle. “Listen. I know some people downtown, who can take care of this pronto. They can pick him up tomorrow and haul him in front of a judge.”

“Really?”

“I’m thinking he’s done his damage for the night. She’s in the ER and safe anyway. He only seems to go after her at night – so sometime during the day tomorrow, yeah. We get him at least in a holding cell.”

Martina was not certain that would happen. In the best case scenario she was betting she could pull it off. But she would need some strong legal back up.

“Really?” said Talia again.

“Look,” Martina pulled out a fresh legal pad. “I’m gonna have to take a statement from you. Everything. Every phone call and communication that you can remember and what was said.”

“Then what?”

“We’re gonna do an affidavit. I’ll get it in shape, then we sign and I’ll get it notarized tonight online. I know a judge I can get it to personally.”

“Really?”

If she says that again, Martina thought, we might have two people in the emergency room tonight.

“Yes. Really.”

An hour later she had it all. Turned out Talia had an excellent memory for detail. She had lost a lot of sleep over the matter, repeating the conversations mentally until she had all the gory details memorized.

It was impressive, Martina had to admit. The list of threats, beatings and broken furniture would convince any judge of the necessity to act. She would get it to her connections at NYPD and the Manhattan DA simultaneously and fan the flames even higher. After that, the media. This was her Pearl Harbor, and Martina was intent on hitting all the targets. Hard. She had one chance. It was go.

“It’s all there,” Martina looked down proudly at the typed and printed statement produced with more than her usual lightening speed on her desktop computer. She pointed to the bottom of the page. “You sign right there and I’ll sign under it. We should have a third party as a witness, but I think we’re gonna be okay with this.”

“I hope this works,” Talia signed. She seemed to doubt anything would come of it.

“Trust me hon,” said Martina. “This is going nuclear.” She signed under Talia’s signature and sat back. “Now, you know you have to be prepared to testify, okay?”

“I figured as much.”

“Okay. All you have to do is repeat everything on this paper. No more, no less. Just tell the truth. He will fight back and you will lose your job, but I’ll be able to get you something better somewhere else. Besides, after this is said and done, you’re going to be a hero in this town.”

“I don’t even want to work for him any more,” said Talia. “Are you kidding? I want him in jail.”

“At the very least,” said Martina with certainty, “he’s outta here. Take it to the bank.”

As testament to her pull in the right places – not to mention the fact of coming from one of the most reputable law firms in town – Martina’s affidavit was already top of the pile on the desks of all the right people – all alerted on a Saturday morning no less. She took a few calls at home and re-confirmed Talia’s story yet again to various movers and shakers in town. She also alerted the partners to her actions, saying that the affidavit was on an emergency basis. Talia – said Martina – had been determined to make the call on the spot for Eliza’s safety, and it was late night already.

The partners considered and confirmed to her that she had made the right move. No need to let the story out going sideways before it even got started. What Martina never told them – and what they never suspected – was that she wanted total credit for getting it out. They enthusiastically congratulated her on her foresight. Martina hung up the phone on the conference call and punched the air with a fist. Partnership here we come!

NYPD also wanted to get a jump on the story ahead of the press. They were of the same mind as the partners at Smitters and Marks. The tabloids would be having a field day with this story as it is. Why let those bastards get the first shot?

Their first move was to arrange an interview with Eliza to make sure she was willing to press charges. Working with police in Westchester, they prepared to send their best negotiators to her house, armed with Martina’s affidavit. The team was composed of male and female – with a woman lieutenant taking the lead in hopes of keeping Eliza comfortable.

They wanted to bring Talia along but it looked like she had shut her phone off and was keeping under wraps for the day. That was utterly predictable and one could hardly blame her. Talia was an honest type who despised the spotlight. That was fine with Martina – it would only highlight her all the better. In fact, she practically skipped with delight out of her apartment to the street as she was picked up by the team in their no nonsense looking black SUV.

She was substituting for Talia at the last minute, but NYPD figured she was the next best thing – maybe even better. They reasoned that a bonafide attorney who had worked patiently with many timorous clients could only reassure Eliza that getting Keefe into custody was the best option.

Eliza lived on a quiet block of well manicured lawns and solid looking homes. Looking around Martina marveled at the troubles that could fester behind those lovely facades. It was a cliché that you could appreciate the city because at least everything – good or bad – was right there in your face. Generally true of the street, she supposed. But in a law office, not exactly. A law firm like Smitters and Marks is a tabernacle of guarded and sacred secrets sealed with dollar signs and muted prestige – like a gilded hospice for the terminally wealthy.

Yes, you could take people like Eliza and Keefe out of the city – but that only meant that their crimes weren’t in your face. They lay behind white picket fences waiting to be exposed. And today Eliza was going to get the bandaid ripped off her broken nose for the world to see. For her own good. For Justice. And, in particular, for Martina Scandilla. So be it.

It was shortly past noon as Martina and the team filed up the walk past the well kept flower beds to Eliza’s front door. Two cops led the way in a subdued manner. Their presence was simply policy. But they wanted to make it extra clear to any neighbors who might be looking on that they were not busting a crack house with guns drawn. Martina was happy to be last in line – letting the cops, the police psychologist and the officer in charge make all necessary introductions. She had the feeling that she would only be used as the last playing card if it came to that. This was fine with her as long as the charges were filed.

At the last moment, the lady lieutenant turned to her and asked her if she would mind waiting outside and they would call for her if needed. They didn’t want to put a lot of pressure on Eliza right off the bat. This too was understandable. Martina nodded her head and walked back to the car, leaning against it as she watched the door open and the team file inside. She craned her neck but could not get a good look at Eliza. She was momentarily enveloped by a feeling of frustration – like she had bet on a favored horse but was precluded from watching the race.

She tapped her foot nervously on the curb as she leaned against the SUV, then tried to quiet the excitement in her head by looking around, taking in the surrounding nature. Spring had arrived and the trees were beginning to bud. The high branches reached up from the woods behind the houses where small flocks of birds flitted about. One could get used to a location like this she thought, maybe after her new senior position at the firm – and a subsequent boost in earnings – she could look into getting a weekend place out here. It would soon be within her reach.

Who knew, maybe this very house in front of her would be on the market at a bargain price within weeks. She chuckled to herself. That would be too ironic. At least for Keefe anyway. She checked her watch. They had been in there almost twenty minutes. Must be a lot of negotiating and emoting going on. She cocked her head as she heard the sound of muffled laughter coming from somewhere. From Eliza’s house? She doubted it. But it seemed odd.

The front door slowly opened as the lady lieutenant stood on the top step with her head still turned towards the group inside as if giving last minute instructions. She looked towards Martina and motioned with her hand to come inside. Martina smoothed down her blouse, composed herself and headed up the walkway. She was needed to close the deal. And she was well prepared.

There was something about the lieutenant as she waited, with a slight frown. As Martina approached she heard no voices, only total silence. It must be bad. Maybe Eliza had locked herself in her bedroom and nobody knew what to do. Martina was ready to handle anything –

-except for the scene that presented itself as she stepped into Eliza’s living room.

The team stood, relaxed, curiously waiting. Martina did a quick scan of their questioning faces and then nearly stumbled as she took in the centerpiece of everyone’s attention. There sat Eliza and Keefe, his arm around her and her hand resting on his knee. They looked stunned as if the police had raided the wrong address on an otherwise quiet Saturday afternoon.

Martina took in Eliza’s face fully, as if investigating every pore. There was not a mark on her. No broken nose, no disheveled look, no red eyes. They looked like two people on a relaxing weekend who had been sitting around reading the papers and drinking coffee. For a moment she wondered if it was really Eliza, she even said her name out loud, like someone seeing a ghost.

“Eliza?”

“I guess that certainly would be me.” Eliza was not happy. She was a forty something slim woman with a short hair style of loose coiffed curls in jeans and t-shirt. And she looked like she was ready to break someone’s nose herself.

For the first time in her career, Martina was speechless. She looked around the room at the officers, hoping for some kind of explanation. But they only regarded her with embarrassed silence. Nobody offered her a chair – and she was feeling like she needed one. She swayed a bit on her feet but held on.

Eliza held the affidavit high in the air like an indictment of the damned. Sitting next to her, Keefe had barely moved the entire time, but simply kept his shocked gaze locked on Martina. What in the world,? his eyes asked. What on earth is going on?

But Eliza was going to speak with a lot more than her eyes.

“What the fuck is this about me being in an emergency room last night! And … and Keefe beating me all these times?! What the fuck is this bullshit!”

Martina’s mind instantly moved to Talia but she could barely process her thoughts and turn them into any kind of speech. She pointed at the affidavit and opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

From the street they heard the slamming of doors and voices calling to each other. One of the cops swept a curtain back from a window and they saw at least two TV live trucks hoisting their microwave antennas and cameramen unlimbering their gear. The doorbell rang insistently. The lieutenant nodded at two of the cops who went out the door, ordered reporters back and stood guard on the sidewalk. The lieutenant closed the curtain again – and silence once again enveloped the room as the psychologist pulled out her phone and gasped.

“They’re all over it,” she whispered to the lieutenant showing her the screen. “All the dailies and social media sites. Somebody leaked.”

The lieutenant took the phone and read out loud. “Attorney at top city firm accused of shocking domestic violence. Arrest eminent.”

She handed the phone back to the psychologist in disgust and nodded at the street. “Anybody want to go out and explain this to them. Because I sure don’t.”

Once again, all eyes found their way to Martina.

She said only one word. Followed by two more words. “Talia,” she said. “Talia Durbin.”

“Who the fuck,” Eliza wanted to know “is Talia Durbin?”

At this point, Martina had no idea who she was either. And – apparently – she never did.

It was the day that never ended. Through the haze of disbelief and the alarming contemplation of the complete death of her career, Martina managed to scrape together something of an understanding of what was happening.

Most of the team had left the scene, likely laughing all the way home, leaving the cops to handle the front lawn press conference headed by Eliza herself – anxious to clear her name along with her husband’s. Keefe stood next to her in silent support.

The Brantley’s, said Eliza, had endured a short, mutual separation and there had been no domestic violence. They had reunited only recently and would be reviewing their legal options in light of this “malicious slander.”

The details were lived streamed on Twitter – as a despondent Martina watched along on her cell phone in a cab. There was no way she was going to endure the mocking silence of the team all the way back to the city in their SUV. She needed time to clear herself of the debris. A partnership was certainly out of the question at this point. She knew it would be down to saving herself from being disbarred.

Meanwhile, the piranha-like tabloids had picked up the investigation where the cops had left gaping loopholes. Not a single emergency room within a fifty mile radius had any record of Eliza being treated. Neighbors reported no suspicious behavior.

The desperate search for confirmation of the scandal led to an exhaustive scouring of the city for Talia Durbin. One front page the next day featured her resume, leaked by someone in HR at Smitters and Marks. She had never been employed at any of the top flight law firms featured in her work experience. All of her glowing letters of recommendation were forged with the “authors” denying ever knowing anything about her. Even her address was fabricated. Talia Durbin it seemed, did not exist. And the woman who had portrayed her had vanished.

For one long night, Martina paced her apartment putting together her case. She had been duped, clearly! Nobody could find fault with her actions. Talia Durbin, or whoever the hell she was, had her own motives. She alone carried the guilt for the attempted setup of a reputable attorney.

Martina was prepared to sit through any amount of depositions, court hearings, even media interviews. Put me on Oprah! Whatever it took, she was prepared. I’m a Scandilla dammit! The next morning she was fresh and prepared for battle again. She would begin by approaching the partners at work, for which she would show up early – just like any normal day.

But she never got into the building. She slid her card and it was rejected at the front door. The head of security asked her to wait a moment, then retrieved an envelope from his office and handed it to her. Inside was a letter with on the firm’s stationary asking her to proceed to a location on the Lower East Side. What was that all about? Cloak and dagger stuff? She was being summoned to a meeting off the record at a remote location. What in hell was happening here? It had all the elements of an FBI sting – and she was part of it. Play along, her unfailing instincts told her. This is going to go your way in the end.

She exited the cab on a lonely block full of warehouses and went to a gate with the address provided in the mysterious letter. It felt important. Like she was about to be recruited into the CIA on a matter of national importance, something that reached far beyond the little world of Smitters and Marks. She could feel it in her bones, and she was rarely wrong about this kind of thing. Destiny was about to make it’s grand entrance in this most unlikely of places.

The guard at a booth looked at the letter and nodded as if he had been waiting for it. He opened the gate and led her through a lot to a boxy looking container – one of several lined up in what looked like a storage area. It had a door that you might find in the entrance to a small house. Who knew who was waiting inside for her – but she would know soon enough, and her new mission in life would begin.

The guard looked around then opened the door. It was not locked. He stepped inside. Martina took a deep, excited breath and followed him. Once inside he snapped on a light and stepped back. There was a jangling sound from the street at the front entrance to the lot and he turned to head back to the gate.

“They paid for the first month,” he said as he backed away. “After that it will be billed to you.”

With that he was gone. Martina barely heard him, or the alarm still ringing back at the gate. She only stared uncomprehending, then lifted the corner of a giant tarp in front of her, pulling it to the ground and exposing there, stacked haphazardly – almost as if tossed inside by impatient, uncaring brutes; every bit of furniture that had occupied her office, the priceless designer glass, the steel, the tokens of success and wealth, piled like former riches in the ancient Egyptian tomb of a forgotten Princess – for whatever good they might do her in the afterlife.

On a beach in Southeast Asia – otherwise known as heaven, a young bathing suit clad woman with a gold cross around her neck and a frosted drink in her hand takes an envelope from a resort employee. She waits until he disappears before she looks inside: A banker’s check filled out for an amount that can keep her in the highlife here for the next fifteen years, if she so chooses. A consideration from all the partners at Smitters and Marks. “Thank you ‘Talia’, at the bottom in handwriting she knows as Keefe Brantley’s. She smiles to herself and sits back, feeling the breeze and the soft incantations of the surf. She only feels bad that she couldn’t say goodbye to him. What a nice guy!

* * * * THE END  * * * *
Copyright Ennis James Sheehan 2024