“Did it mention I can juggle?”

“Nope.” She gives a grand shake of her head. “You can juggle?”

“Nope.”

She claps her hands together and laughs. This is going well, and I’ve hardly spoken. Maybe there’s a lesson there.

“Maybe I Googled you, too,” I say.

“Oh, wouldn’t that be exciting?” she says. “An only child, grew up in five different cities, went to three high schools, got an associate’s degree from Tripton Community College—Go, Trojans!—and now I lead the glamorous life of a court reporter, where I transcribe what other people say and sell their words back to them.” Her smile lingers for a while, and then she looks at me sheepishly. “I shouldn’t say it like that. It’s a good job. The hours are flexible, pay is decent, sometimes the stuff I transcribe is interesting. Your hearing was interesting, for example. You actually made me feel sorry for a rich suburban white kid.”

I finish my shitty drink. Alexa is still working on hers. Probably best I not get too far ahead of her on the drink count.

“Do you believe what you said in court?” she asks me.

I think about that. “That’s not a question I ask. I ask, can I sell it?”

“I know. But do you believe it?”

“I believe the cops saw this clean-cut white kid and thought he stuck out like a sore thumb in the Eagleton Housing Projects. They figured he had no business being there, except an illegal one. I’d have thought the same thing. I don’t blame that cop at all for what he thought. But the law says you can’t base probable cause solely on race, and the cop did. That’s the loose thread in their case, and my job is to find that loose thread, wind my finger around it, and yank and tug on it as hard as I possibly can.”

“Does it bother you?” she asks. “Getting guilty people off?”

I scrounge through the remnants of the truffled popcorn while I think that over. It’s a simple question, after all. The simplest ones are often the hardest. I go with the stock answer.

“I’m part of a system. A system that would be very scary indeed if someone didn’t stand up for the accused. If we just took the government’s word that someone is a criminal . . .” I raise my hand. “Someone’s gotta stand post at the wall.”

She watches me, like she’s waiting for more. But she doesn’t push. She smiles, nods, sips her drink, enjoys the breeze across her face.

Sometimes, I do not say. Sometimes it bothers me.

“So you’re an only child,” I say, changing the subject.

She nods. “My parents married late. My mom was forty when she had me. Back then, forty was considered ancient to have kids. She said she didn’t want to push her luck and try for more kids.” She looks down, runs her finger over the rim of her glass. “They retired to Florida and died within a year of each other. Cancer, both of them.”

“I’m sorry.”

The waiter comes by and asks me if I’m having another. My eyes pass to Alexa’s.

“Well, we’ve had our one non-date drink,” I say. “Are you game for another?”

A pause. A momentary appraisal. I don’t know if she’s debating or if she’s just feigning reluctance to keep me guessing. I used to watch a suspect react to a question during an interrogation and I knew, I knew whether he was lying before he even spoke. I can look a client or a witness in the eye today and, nine times out of ten, I can read everything he’s thinking. But stick me at a table with a beautiful woman and it’s like I’m trying to decipher hieroglyphics.

“Give us a second,” I say to the waiter. “She’s trying to decide if I’m worthy.”

She laughs. The waiter leaves.

“You’re not trying to get me drunk,” she says. Part question, part flirtation. A certain part of my anatomy takes note. Jesus, how long since that happened?

“The thought never crossed my mind, Ms. Himmel.”

A smile appears and evaporates. “I should warn you that I’m an old-fashioned girl.”

“Good,” I answer. “Perfect. We’ll shake hands good-bye. I’ll let you in on the secret lawyer’s handshake.”

The smile returns. Sincere, I think, not just polite. But again—like translating an ancient Chinese scroll. For all I know, she thinks I’m a complete asswipe.

“Seriously, no pressure either way,” I say. “This has been fun. I’d love to keep hanging out, but either way, I’m good.”

I catch the waiter’s eye. He returns, the question still lingering.

“I think we’ll just take the check,” Alexa says.

“Please,” I say to the waiter, not skipping a beat, with as upbeat a tone as I can manage, like my chest isn’t burning. Have I been rejected or is this a See you again, take it slow thing?

“This was fun,” I manage. “Here.” I slide a business card across the table. “You probably already have one of these, but here’s another one, my cell is on it. I’d love to get together again sometime, but no pressure. The ball’s in your court. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, Jason. You’re a really interesting guy.”

Great. I’m interesting.

She’s better off. She’s making the smart move.

Run, Alexa, run.

The check comes. I already have my card out for him. Alexa digs into her purse and pulls out her cell phone. Already making arrangements for the rest of her evening? She’s actually making a call, or checking her messages, right here in front of me?

Then my phone buzzes in my pocket. I look down, then back up at her. I reach for the phone and answer it. “Hello?” I say, my voice playing back through Alexa’s phone as well.

“Hello, Jason?” she says.

“Yes?”

“This is Alexa Himmel. You remember, from the drink?”

“Oh, sure. The non-date. I’m really interesting, and you’re old-fashioned.”

“That’s right. Hey, I was wondering what you’re doing tonight for dinner?”

“Oh, I’d love to, Alexa. But unfortunately, you’re not a lawyer, so you’re probably not smart enough to hang out with me. I’d have to keep explaining things to you.”

“But I thought you’d like being the dominant person in the relationship. Smarter and more successful. Isn’t that what all men want?”

I punch out my phone and make a face, mock injury. “That’s cold, woman. That is arctic.”

She bursts into laughter. “You should have seen the look on your face when I asked for the check. You should have seen it. I’m sorry.” She puts a hand over her mouth but is still giggling. “I’m so sorry, that was rude.”

I’m here to entertain.

“I mean, you’re obviously this really nice guy and super impressive. I’ll bet—I’ll bet nobody’s ever done that to you. Turned you down like that.”

I’m blushing, of all things. She got me.

“Jason Kolarich,” she says, clearing her throat and addressing me with mock formality, “I would be very grateful if you’d join me for dinner tonight.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I should warn you that I’m very old-fashioned.”

“Then I’ll let you pay.”

This woman matches me jab for jab. That’s probably going to be a problem for my ego. But she looks so casually elegant in her summer dress, and that edge to her, that sarcasm, that challenge, is much too much to resist.

“I’m powerless to say no,” I answer.

14.

Jason

Wednesday, June 12

I handle a couple of court appearances in the morning, a bond hearing on a cannabis possession—the brother of a law school classmate whom I’m representing as a favor—and a status hearing on an armed robbery, a kid who was whacked out on meth who held up a strip club and got as far as the front door before the gun discharged into his foot.