Chapter 10

As they exited the parking lot, both were quiet for a time while McCoy contended with the heavy traffic. When they were finally in a more comfortable position, he glanced over at her.

"That would have been a lot easier if we were on a motorcycle."

Morgan gave him an unconvinced look but remained quiet.

After another minute, she said, "Before I left home this morning, I started some stew in the crock pot. And if the timer on the bread machine worked, I should have what I need to make fresh rolls." She paused briefly. "It isn't a five star meal but I made plenty. You're welcome to join me for dinner."

He was caught completely off guard. He turned to find her looking at him hesitantly. As he concentrated back on the street, for a minute he was too surprised to speak.

A slow smile came to his face and he glanced back over at her. "I would love to. Thank you."

He wondered briefly at the unexpected turn of events. But the prospect of spending the evening with her pleased him immensely, and he gave himself over to the anticipation.

"Should I take you to your car?" he asked.

"No, that's okay. If it's nice, I'll ride my bike over to the office in the morning and get it then. I have the files I need to work on with me."

"You'll ride a bike in New York traffic, but you're afraid to ride on a motorcycle? That doesn't make much sense," he declared.

"I never said I was afraid to ride on a motorcycle. I said I don't trust some of the other drivers," she said a bit defensively. "When I ride my bike to my office, it's usually on the weekend and I always take shortcuts. I don't ride in traffic. It isn't the same thing at all."

He sounded only slightly patronizing as he said, "Of course it isn't." He gave her a quick smile and saw that her eyes held their usual sparkle.

As they neared the area where her office was located, she began to give him directions. Finally she pointed out, "It's the brick building on the corner."

Noting the sign in front of it, he said, "This is where you live? It looks like offices."

"It is," she nodded. "You can pull into the parking garage."

When he had, she directed him to a lane that was blocked with a parking barrier. After taking the card key Morgan had pulled from her back pocket, he slid it into the designated slot and the barrier lifted.

"It's the last level," she said, beginning to gather her files.

McCoy noticed that each successive level held fewer cars than the one before. When they reached the fourth and final level, it was almost deserted.

"You can park in my spot." She indicated a numbered space next to a door.

Looking around as they got out, he said, "If you had given me this address to find on my own, I would have thought you were trying to ditch me, Counselor."

"If you had come on your own, you would've had to check in with security and park downstairs. Unless you have a key, you can't get in up here. Security in this building is very strict." She stopped in front of the door and held her files out to him.

Taking them, he watched her slide the same card he had used on the gate into a slot beside the door. A tiny red light to the left of it winked out, to be replaced by a green one. She pulled the door open and held it for him. He stepped inside a stairwell and she followed, pushing open another door and holding it while he followed her through. They emerged into a brightly-lit hallway with thick carpeting.

"I usually take the stairs but we can take the scenic route today." Walking down the corridor, they passed several suites of offices on their way to the elevator. "Like many of the buildings in this part of town, this one was once residential. It was renovated when the demand for offices became more lucrative than apartments," she explained, pressing the "up" button.

"How did you wind up living here?"

"Actually, I found this place when I was looking for an office of my own. The owner of this building also owns the one where my office is located. When his agent showed me this space, it was a wreck. But I knew it was where I wanted to live, so I did some creative bargaining. Since it was at one time zoned as 'residental', I didn't have too much trouble."

They entered the opened elevator doors. It had a parquet floor and was paneled in dark rich wood, with a polished brass rail all the way around. She pushed the last button, marked 'five'.

"What would make you want to live in a building full of offices?"

She looked at him curiously. "Haven't you ever walked into a place you had never been before and felt like you were home?"

McCoy looked at her thoughtfully. "I don't know that I ever have," he admitted.

The elevator came to a stop and they stepped out into another hallway as plushily carpeted as the first. She led him past more office suites to a larger elevator door, and pulled a set of keys out of her pocket. Selecting a small silver one, she put it into what looked like a lock, turning it to the right, and the door slid open. The elevator was larger and brighter than the other, with satillo tile on the floor and halfway up the wall, where a wooden rail separated it from the beige wall and ceiling above.

"My only complaint about this place is that this is the slowest elevator on earth," she commented, holding out her hands to take the files from him and thanking him as he relinquished them.

When the door opened, he was immediately taken by the sight. The entire wall on the far side of the large room was made up of a row of almost floor to ceiling windows, each about three feet wide with an old-style metal crank handle. He walked forward, drawn to the view.

His hiking boots thumped across the hardwood plank floor. After a few steps, he realized the wall to his left was made up of the same kind of windows as well. He came to a stop and looked out at the city.

Although by New York standards, six stories were not high, in this neighborhood, the building was one of the tallest. He could see the roofs of surrounding buildings for several blocks and the trees and playground of a near-by park. The skyline in the distance was hazy with the overcast conditions.

"If you can afford rent on this as a contract attorney, maybe I work for the wrong employer," he said after a few moments, still looking out.

He was slightly startled by the voice that came from right beside him. He hadn't heard her approach.

"I don’t pay rent. I bought this entire floor. But it didn't look anything like this when I first saw it. I have some 'before' pictures I can show you." Morgan paused a second before asking, "May I take your coat?"

He took it off and handed it to her, noticing she had already removed her own, as well as her shoes. He glanced around the sparsely furnished room. The corner between the two windowed walls was the same red brick as the outside of the building. Tucked into it at an angle, was a large wooden armoire. An oversized sectional in hunter green faced it, with a square coffee table in front, made of the same kind of wood as the armoire. Over his shoulder, a multi-tiered stand sat in front of the windows and held a variety of plants. Behind it, an island bar with six bar stools separated the living area from the kitchen, which was located adjacent to the elevator. There was no other furniture in the space between.

She had hung his coat on one of several wooden pegs attached to the brick beside the elevator door and was peering into a bread machine on the counter. Walking toward her, he stopped, noticing for the first time the area on the other side of the room. The wall perpendicular to the elevator held built-in bookshelves. Beside them hung a large painting of horses. A narrow wooden bench topped with a colorful padded seat sat underneath. From there to the windows, a sheer white curtain hung to the floor from a long wooden rod suspended from the ceiling. Behind it, he could see a door, just around the corner from the bench. The rest of the area ended about twenty feet back, at a solid brick wall. He could make out a desk and chair, and close to the windows, a bed with a nightstand on one side and a rocking chair on the other. The gauzy curtain gave the area a mysterious appearance in the dim light.

He continued to the more brightly-lit kitchen where Morgan was shaping and placing small balls of dough into a pan. His shoes clunked noisily on the floor.

"Mind if I take off my shoes?"

"Not at all. Make yourself at home."

He pulled out a barstool and quickly unlaced and removed his boots, then padded quietly over to the elevator, placing them on the floor next to Morgan's. Hers looked as if both would fit inside one of his.

"Your stew smells wonderful. Can I help with anything?" he offered.

She opened the door of the oven and slid two pans of dough inside. "The rolls need to rise a few minutes. When I start the salad, you can help then. Can I get you something to drink in the mean time? I could make some tea or coffee. Or if you prefer something stronger, you can help yourself to whatever you can find in the last cabinet next to the wall."

"What are you having?"

She turned to the refrigerator. "Water."

McCoy smiled. "I think I'll see what you have in the cabinet next to the wall."

After a few minutes of searching, he pulled out a bottle. "Do you have one that's opened?" he asked, showing it to her.

"Not if you didn't see one." She took a glass out of another cabinet and handed it to him. He placed it on the bar, opened the bottle, and poured a drink.

"Are you sure you don't want something besides water? There are a couple bottles of very good wine up there. I'm sure either would go well with dinner."

She walked over to sit on the barstool opposite him. "No thanks. I don't drink."

He coughed out a little breath. "Never? You have a cabinet full of very good liquor."

"Never," she answered. "Everything there, I either bought for friends, or was given to me by clients. I use some of it to bribe the security guards where I run."

"You don't drink? What kind of attorney are you?" he asked incredulously.

She looked amused. "It's been my experience that in our profession, I'm unique in that regard. In Chicago, I considered having 'designated driver' added to my business cards."

McCoy quickly looked down at his drink. He was incapable of hearing that term without thinking of Claire. He took a large gulp of Scotch. When he met her eyes again, she was looking at him intently with all traces of amusement gone. But when he didn't say anything, she looked out of the window beside them.

He followed her gaze. He was considering telling her about the accident, when she interrupted his thoughts.

"These windows face east. In the summer, I open them to catch the breeze. The air conditioning isn't very efficient in here, but with the windows and ceiling fans, I rarely use it anyway."

He looked up to see fans at regular intervals hanging from the open ceiling. The ductwork and metal rafters were all painted beige. Tracks of small lights were stretched between the fans. A larger track of bigger lights hung above the kitchen.

"This place is incredible," he commented. "I know people who would give an arm and a leg to find something like this." He looked at her closely. "Exactly what kind of 'creative bargaining' did it take to get it, anyway?"

"That part wasn't so easy," she admitted, sliding off the stool and walking to the bookshelves. She took a small photo album off of a shelf and returned to her seat. Opening it, she turned it around and placed it in front of him. "For one thing, I'm renting my office space at a premium price. But as you can see from the photos, this place needed a ton of work when I first saw it. The previous tenants had absolutely trashed it. The owner would've had to spend a small fortune to make it fit for humans again. So I offered to take it off his hands as it was, at an amount slightly above fair market value, considering the shape it was in. And as part of the deal he gets his business-related legal advice at a ridiculously low fee."

"I would think that could end up being the most expensive part of your bargain, Counselor. New York landlords don't have the most sterling reputation."

"Oh I checked him out first. He had no criminal record, no outstanding warrants, not even any lawsuits. And I made it clear it was business-related advice only: no personal disputes and definitely no divorces."

McCoy looked up from the photo album. "You have something against divorces, or just divorce attorneys?"

"Both." The timer on the stove went off and she got up.

"Sounds like there's a story in there," he observed.

After checking the rolls, she returned to stand beside her chair. "There is, but it will have to wait if you want to help with the salad. You can wash up in the bathroom, through the curtain to the right."

He nodded and stood up. Indicating the photos, he said, "I can't believe this place used to look like that. And I can't believe you wanted to live here after seeing it in that shape."

"Even the first time I saw it, I didn't see it like that." Motioning to the room behind him she said, "I saw it like this."

He was standing so close, he could smell her perfume again. It was a clean scent, not at all flowery. "I'd better go wash up," he said with a smile.

Once inside the bathroom, he flipped the light switch. After the large room and exposed ceiling of the rest of the apartment, the dropped ceiling of the bathroom made it seem small. But it was compactly arranged and like the rest of the apartment, everything was clean and uncluttered.

When he turned off the light and made his way back to the kitchen, he noticed several plastic containers on the bar. Morgan was taking salad bowls out of the cabinet.

"I have several kinds of lettuce and some cucumbers for the salad. If there's anything you see that you don't like, speak up." She put the bowls on the bar as he sat down.

"I'm pretty easy to please. The kind of salad I'm used to eating comes in a plastic bag, already cut up."

She returned with two jars of olives, one green and one black. "That kind of salad tastes like a plastic bag, too." She began to open the various containers. "This is butter lettuce, that one is romaine and the other is red leaf. The big bowl is iceberg. Choose whatever you want." She sat and began to pull leaves off of a head and tear them into small pieces.

"Your place is spotless," he commented. "It makes me see how badly I need to find someone to clean my own. Maybe you could give me the number of your cleaning person."

"You already have my card."

"You clean your own apartment? Where do you find the time?"

"I make the time. It doesn't take long. It's only me, and I'm not here enough to make a mess, especially lately. Besides, I have this rule about someone else cleaning up after me."

"Another rule? Let's see, besides this one that makes five that I know of. There's the one about lunch, which I really like. There's one about not discussing your personal life at business meetings that I can live with. The one about not eating out more than once a day, I'm not sure I understand. The one about not trusting a guy who doesn't look you in the eye, I guess I do understand. And then there's my least favorite: no dating," he added, watching her carefully.

She glanced up from her salad, but before he could read her expression, she looked back down at her work.

"How many more of these rules are there?" he asked.

"I've never really counted. Most of them have to do with lessons I've learned the hard way. But then, I learn all my lessons the hard way; that way they stick with me."

"So tell me some more of these rules," he encouraged as he reached for his drink. "I don't want to be guilty of inadvertently breaking any."

Morgan studied him thoughtfully for a minute. "Well, some pertain to dating, which I don't have to worry about at the moment," she said pointedly. "Like, don't mess with married men. And then there's, be careful of a guy who tries to get you into his apartment with the old 'I-forgot-my-coat' routine."

He gave her a dismayed look. "That was a legitimate mistake, Counselor, and I didn't even suggest that you come in."

Her eyes were twinkling. "I'm only giving you general rules. I'm certainly not making any accusations."

McCoy added some olives to his salad and prompted, "What else?"

She leaned on her folded arms. "Trust your instincts. And even though the only person you can really count on in this world is yourself, try to find something good in each person you meet. Oh," she said, rolling her eyes, "one of the most important: never dance with anyone who's drunk."

He chuckled. "That sounds like one you learned the hard way."

"Definitely," she answered, snapping the lids back onto the plastic containers and stacking them up.

"What is the one most important rule in your life?" he asked, putting the lids back on the olive jars.

Although her smile remained, it no longer reached her eyes. "Is there anything else I can get you for your salad?"

He looked at her for a second before he answered. "No thanks, this looks great."

Morgan carried most of the containers to the refrigerator and he followed with the rest. After depositing all of hers she took his, thanked him, and put them in as well. He remained where he was so that when she closed the door and turned back to the bar, he was standing in front of her.

"Does not answering my question mean you're thinking about it, or does it mean it's none of my business?" he asked quietly.

She shrugged. "It means I don't know you well enough to share that information with you."

He nodded. "Fair enough."

The timer went off again and she turned to check the oven.

"The rolls will be done in about twenty minutes. We can start on the salad now if you want. I was going to make a vinaigrette, but I have other dressings if you'd prefer something else."

"Vinaigrette sounds fine with me."

After preparing the dressing, they sat across from each other as they ate.

"You're right about the salad. This is definitely better than the stuff in the bag," he commented. "And the dressing is great. What kind of seasoning did you put in it?"

"It's a garlic salt blend. But you don't need much."

"I'll have to remember that. So what do you have against divorce cases?"

After taking a sip of water, she answered, "I handled one when I was just out of law school. One was enough."

"You didn't care for the old 'he said, she said' story?"

"More like, 'he slept, she slept'. It was the first time a client ever lied to me. I learned several valuable lessons from that case. And believe me, they were all the hard way."

"Like what?"

"Let's see," she said, counting off on her fingers. "Clients lie to their attorneys. People will go to any lengths to get even. They hide their assets when they think they might have to share them. From the photos that caught my client and her husband with various other partners, I got an education I could have done without. And don't eat before a confrontational meeting."

"Don't eat?"

"I lost my lunch after our first sit-down attempt to work out an agreement."

Her candid admission took him by surprise.

"Have you ever handled a divorce?" she asked.

"Only my own," he smiled. "It was pretty simple. She wanted everything and I gave it to her."

"I'm sure she has her own side to that story."

"No doubt," he agreed. Then turning more serious, he added, "It was actually pretty amicable."

"And you have a daughter?"

"Yes. She wants to attend law school. You would think that with her mother and I both being attorneys, she wouldn't want to have anything to do with that. But she's a determined young woman."

"You must be proud of her."

"I am," he answered quietly. "We're not as close as I would like, but she's growing into a remarkable person."

The timer on the stove and a wonderful aroma signaled that the rolls were done.

Morgan took a basket out of the cabinet and a cloth out of a drawer. After taking the pans from the oven, she slid the rolls into the basket and covered them quickly.

"Can I help with anything?" McCoy asked, bringing his empty salad bowl to the sink.

Handing him a trivet, she said, "You can put this on the bar for the stew."

Taking soup bowls out, she placed them and the basket of rolls on the bar as well.

"I'll carry that," he offered, as she was preparing to take the ceramic bowl from the crockpot.

She handed him potholders and followed him to the bar with spoons and a ladle. Once the stew was dished out and she had made them each a glass of iced tea, they sat again.

Taking a bite of a roll, he commented, "These are wonderful. I think I could make a meal of these alone. If I hadn't watched you, I wouldn't have believed you made them from scratch."

"Thanks. I'm glad you like them."

After tasting and complimenting her on the stew as well, he asked, "Is it a secret recipe, or could I persuade you to share it?"

She smiled. "It isn't a secret. I'll be glad to write the basics down for you. But it's one of those things where you use whatever you have on hand. I change it almost every time I make it."

"When I just throw things together, it never tastes like this. You'll have to show me how you do that sometime."

She glanced at him, but didn't comment.

"What made you decide to become a lawyer?" he asked.

"Perry Mason," she answered quickly.

"Perry Mason?"

"Of course. He was always so logical. There was never a case that was too difficult for him to figure out. And he had those incredible eyes. You could tell they were blue even though the show was filmed in black and white."

He shook his head sadly. "I was sure you were going to tell me of some defining moment where your destiny was suddenly revealed to you in a flash of insight."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Counselor," she smiled. "What about you? Why did you make that choice?"

"Becoming a lawyer was not my choice. That decision was made for me, by my father."

"I thought your father was a cop."

He regarded her for a second, wondering again who had given her what seemed to be a good deal of his entire life's story. "He was, and I wanted to be a cop as well. But my father decided that wasn't good enough for his son, so he sent me to law school instead of the police academy." He paused to take a drink of tea. "That's one reason I've never tried to talk my daughter out of going to law school, although I would prefer to see her choose some other career. I remember how it felt to have that choice taken away from me."

"Maybe your father saw something in you that you couldn't see in yourself. Even though their children don't always agree at the time, sometimes parents are right. And if what I hear about your courtroom skills is correct, it would seem your father made a good choice."

His eyebrows arched. "Did I hear a compliment in there somewhere?"

Her eyes were sparkling. "I can't really compliment you on something I have no firsthand knowledge of; right now, it's all just hearsay."

"Well I hope after Monday, that won't be the case," he said, matching her expression.

"Did you always want to be a prosecutor?" she asked, ignoring his comment.

"Always. I figured if I couldn't be a cop, at least I could work on the same side of the law." He took another roll from the basket. "What about your parents? What did they want for you?"

Her expression changed and she stared at her bowl for a minute before answering. "I'm not sure. I know my mother wanted both my brother and me to go to college. Every week, she used to put a few dollars of the grocery money into a savings account for us. She encouraged us to contribute to it as well. She always told us she wanted us to use it specifically for our education."

"I'm sure she and your father are proud of what you've become."

She shrugged. "They never knew. My parents and my brother were killed in an automobile accident when I was young."

He stared at her in shock. "I'm sorry. I didn't know." He paused and then asked gently, "How old were you?"

"Twelve." She was sipping her tea, avoiding his eyes.

In the course of their conversations, he had learned to gauge her feelings and reactions through her expressive eyes. The fact that she wouldn't meet his now made him wonder if she realized that fact about herself as well.

"That must have been traumatic. Did you have other family to live with?"

"My father's parents were my only living relatives. I stayed with them until I went away to school."

"Are they still alive?"

She shook her head. "My grandmother died when I was in college and my grandfather a couple of years later, when I was in law school."

He was quiet a moment, trying to comprehend what she had told him. "I can't imagine what it must be like to not have relatives. My parents both came from large families and besides my immediate family, I have more aunts, uncles and cousins than I can keep up with. Every year, my father's side has a huge family reunion. My mother's relatives don't get together quite that often, but they keep in touch." He paused before adding, "You must really miss them."

Morgan nodded. "I do. But it was a long time ago. And in some ways, I think what happened has helped me. I don't know that I would have become a lawyer if things had been different. Where I grew up, it was sort of expected that a girl would get married and start a family soon after high school. My past has made me stronger and more independent. I think it's also made me appreciate the people I care about more. I try not to take my friends for granted."

At her last statement, she finally looked at him. There was no trace of sadness in her voice, but she couldn't as easily erase it from her eyes.

"If the same thing had happened to me, I don't know if I could share your attitude. I don't think I would take it quite so well."

"Like I said, it's been a long time. I've had a lot of years to put things into perspective. It isn't like I'm the only person without family. And there are a lot of people in this world dealing with things much worse. I'm certainly not the only person who's experienced some sort of tragedy."

He had been accused of obsessing over Claire's death on more than one occasion and as a result, had become hesitant about bringing it up. But somehow, it seemed like the right thing to do at the moment.

"I suppose most of us have known that feeling at some point. A drunk driver killed someone I cared a great deal about. But even though she's been gone more than four years, I'm still not sure I've put it into perspective. I guess some of us aren't as good at that as others." He gave her a hint of a smile.

She was studying him carefully. If she had prior knowledge of Claire's death, she gave no indication. Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke. "Four years isn't very long, Jack. You have to give yourself some time. And you have to consciously look for ways to allow what happened to do you some good, whether it's by just trying to see the world around you in a different light, or by living each day to its fullest. Personal tragedies change us all in different ways. The important thing is to try to let it be in a positive direction."

McCoy looked into her sincere eyes. "Where did you get all this wisdom, Counselor?"

She smiled slightly. "The School of Hard Knocks. I told you, I learn all my lessons the hard way."

Her humor helped to ease the serious turn their conversation had taken and he found himself smiling at her. He felt that in sharing such personal experiences, they had come to a new understanding of each other. He also had a sudden feeling of closeness that he was anxious to explore. He watched as she took a drink. Her lips were very dark and there was no trace of lipstick on her napkin, making him wonder if she wore any; and leading him briefly to the thought of a way to find out.

"Would you like some more stew or rolls?" she asked, stacking her soup bowl into her salad bowl and standing up.

"I've had two bowls of stew and more rolls than I care to count. It was delicious, but I can't eat another bite, thank you," he said, picking up his bowl as well.

She carried her dishes to the sink and he followed with his own.

As she continued to clear the bar and put things away, she said, "I obviously didn't have time to make anything for dessert, but I have several kinds of ice cream in the freezer. There's some cranberry sherbet that's very light. Just stay away from the blue stuff with the colored balls in it. It's bubblegum flavor and I promised Jace I wouldn't let anyone eat it; not that I think you would want to."

"I'm fine for now, thanks," he said, taking her the last of the dishes. All that remained on the bar was their drinks and the bottle of Scotch.

"If you change your mind later, let me know."

He was glad to hear her say "later". He didn't want to overstay his welcome, but he was by no means in a hurry to leave.

She excused herself after she finished putting away the food.

While she was gone, he took his glass of Scotch and went to stand at the windows, looking out at the sea of lights. The low-lying clouds reflected the city's glow, making everything appear hazy.

"Too bad there's not a thunderstorm tonight." Her voice came from nearby again. "Sometimes I turn off the lights and just watch. I've always liked lightning."

"Even as a kid?" he asked, turning to walk to the sofa. "My sister used to be terrified of thunder and lightning when we were growing up."

"So was my mother. She could never sleep when the weather was bad. I was the opposite. I always found storms comforting." She placed a water bottle on the coffee table and settled into the bend in the sofa, sitting cross-legged.

He sat near the end, turning to face her.

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I always slept best when I could hear the sound of thunder, or coyotes howling."

"So you really are a country girl."

"Definitely. It's the sound of sirens and the thought of what some of the people out there are doing that keeps me awake at night." She reached for her water. "Of course, some of the things those people are doing keeps you and me in business."

"True," he agreed wryly. "In your entire career, what was your worst case?"

She didn't have to pause to think. "A date rapist. He thought if he bought dinner, 'no' didn't count."

"Was he convicted?"

"Twenty to life."

"For a rape?"

"It was a little more complicated than that. After he raped this girl, she was so upset that she ran out and was hit by a car. The D.A. added murder to the charge."

"Good call," he agreed. "How did you end up with a case like that?"

"The man was referred by one of the firm's regular clients. The other partners thought he would get more sympathy with a woman handling his defense. One of those times I had to pay partnership dues," she added pointedly. "But he swore he didn't do it, and had a solid alibi. There was no conclusive DNA, only a couple of people who saw them leave a party together, and a witness who said she saw the two of them going into the woman's apartment shortly before she was killed. We had the case all but won when some new evidence came to light." She took a sip of water and added quietly, "Second time a client lied to me."

"So you lost the case."

She shook her head slowly. "That would depend on your perspective. As far as I'm concerned, justice was served and society as a whole, including me, won. And I plan on being at his first parole hearing along with the D.A. If I have to, I'll gladly put in my two cents worth to make sure the guy stays where he is."

Noting the conviction in her voice, he warned, "Sounds like an attitude that could get you censured."

She shrugged. "Sometimes a person has to do the right thing, whatever the consequences."

"You won't get an argument from me on that point," he said convincingly. "There was a man I helped convict of rape who was released on parole, even though I appeared at his hearing to argue against it." He paused a second. "You know, some people are sent to prison for making a mistake. They do their time and come out willing to do anything not to go back. There are even people who are actually rehabilitated by the system. And then there are those that mind their own business, do their time quietly and seem to change for the better, when all they're really doing is biding their time. That's what this man was doing. While he was locked up, he had no opportunity to commit his crime. But I knew as soon as he was out and the opportunity presented itself, he wouldn't be able to resist."

"How did you know he hadn't changed?"

"Because he was a predator; people like that don't change. And even though I sometimes give women a hard time about their intuition, I guess we guys have something similar. But we don't call it something sissy like 'intuition'. We call it 'going with your gut'. Sounds better."

"Oh, much better," she noted, rolling her eyes. "Were you right about him?"

"Unfortunately, yes. He raped and killed one girl and attacked another before he was stopped." He shrugged. "It was one of those cases where I bent the rules almost to the breaking point."

"Was that your worst case?"

"If I had to pick one, I'd say no. But it would be hard to pick only one. There have been so many that would qualify."

"For instance?"

"Well, there was a case where two men robbed a liquor store and then hijacked a car to get away. An off-duty police officer was killed in the attempt and one of the thieves was shot. After the police caught up with him, he and his attorney blackmailed us into a plea agreement, in exchange for the whereabouts of the kidnapped driver."

"A defense attorney is supposed to look out for the interest of the client," she reminded him.

"This attorney crossed the line. She even called the driver's wife and told her we were dragging our feet about signing the deal that would free her husband, when she knew all along that the driver was already dead. I think the hardest part of all, was the fact that at one time she worked with me as an A.D.A. I have a hard enough time dealing with prosecuting attorneys who switch sides, but it was really difficult to accept that she could have changed so much from the person I had known."

"So you're saying she may not have technically broken any ethical rules, but she definitely stepped over a lot of moral boundaries?"

"Something like that," he nodded. "But at least she didn't kill anyone. We had a divorce lawyer who did kill someone, then framed a client for the murder."

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me as much as it should. It takes a special kind of person to be a divorce lawyer." She unfolded and stretched her legs. "Can I interest you in some dessert now? The cranberry sherbet is definitely calling me."

"I could probably go for some myself," he agreed, as she stood up.

He helped her dish out a bowl for each of them. When they returned, instead of sitting on the sofa, she threw a pillow from it onto the floor and sat at the coffee table. He did likewise.

"This is really good," he commented. "I don't think I've ever had cranberry sherbet before."

"It's one of my favorites, next to chocolate."

They were quiet for a moment. He thought about asking her why she didn't date, but was reasonably sure she wouldn't answer that question.

"Speaking of divorces," he said slowly, "who handled yours?"

She glanced up briefly. "I thought we were talking about ice cream."

He shook his head. "Turnabout is fair play, Counselor. I've answered all of your questions and I told you about my divorce. I think I'm entitled to an answer to my question as well. After all, this isn't a business meeting. I'm not breaking any of your rules; at least none that I know of." His voice was teasing but persuasive.

He could see the hesitation in her eyes when she looked at him. But after a moment, she answered.

"I drew up the papers myself. But there wasn't much 'handling' to it. In my case, I asked for nothing and he was only too happy to oblige."

"How long were you married?"

"A little over fourteen years."

His face registered his surprise. "That's a long time. Why did you divorce him?"

As she regarded him, it was obvious she was not thrilled with his question. "Irreconcilable differences," she answered flatly.

"Funny, that's what it says on my divorce papers. And is that why you left Chicago?"

"Let's just say, I needed a change of scenery," she replied quietly.

Her answers were only raising more questions in his mind, but her mood was definitely darkening. He decided to steer the conversation to more neutral ground.

"I'm certainly not complaining, but why did you choose New York?" he asked lightly.

For a second, she didn't answer as she looked at him intently with serious eyes.

"Actually, Peter is the one that talked me into it. He had already been here about two years and said he was unhappy with the attorney he had been using. He promised me not only his business, but also assured me he could get me other clients if I would be willing to make the move. So I did."

"It sounds like the two of you are really close," he observed, wondering exactly how close.

"I've known Peter since he was sixteen. I put him in touch with one of his first investors when he was just starting out and even invested with him myself. I attended his wedding, and the first time I held his daughter, she was three weeks old. The first time I held his son, he was less than two hours old. I told you before, this is not an ordinary case for me and Peter is not an ordinary client."

"I think I should tell you, if you're trying to make me feel sorry that I'm prosecuting him, it isn't going to work," he warned.

"Don't worry," she said, finally showing a hint of a smile. "That isn't how I play the game. I only want you to know what you're in for so you can prepare well. I'd like at least a little bit of a fight before I win this case."

"Oh really?" He leaned forward. "I don't need your charity to give you a good fight, Counselor. And I finished trying a case in court only a few weeks ago. I don't think I'm the one who needs to prepare well, considering the fact that you haven't been in a courtroom for four years."

"I'm sure it will all come back to me just fine," she countered, with her usual sparkle. "And don't forget, I have the truth on my side."

"We'll leave the decision as to who is telling the truth to the jury. And as for preparation, I seem to remember hearing you say that you hadn't even finished your opening statement."

"I said I was going to work on my opening statement, not start it," she argued.

They sat sizing each other up.

"So are you nervous?" he asked.

"Hardly!" Then she added a bit more seriously, "But I'm sure I'll have a few butterflies, come Monday morning. Openings are always the hardest for me."

"Really? I've always found closing arguments to be the most difficult."

"If I've presented a good case, my closings write themselves. I have more trouble establishing that first link with the jury. They don't know you and you don't know them. Twelve pairs of eyes on you, waiting expectantly for you to say something brilliant. It's a little intimidating." She stacked her empty bowl into his.

Her honesty was disarming. Sitting across from her, staring into her eyes, he found himself having another of those close moments.

Noting his intense look, she looked away. When she looked back, her guarded look was carefully in place.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asked politely.

"No, thank you." He knew he should probably think about going, but he really wasn't ready to leave her company. "Tell me about your favorite case," he prompted.

They talked for a long while, sitting on the floor at the coffee table. They discussed cases and trials, sometimes engaging in the friendly arguing of a point from their relative and opposite perspectives.

He had finished telling her about a case when he saw her stifle a yawn.

"Am I boring you?" he teased.

"Of course not; I'm just tired," she smiled. "Jace spent the night last night and was up at the crack of dawn. Why don't little kids ever sleep late?"

"I can't answer that question," he said, glancing at his watch. "But maybe you're tired because it's already tomorrow."

"What time is it?" she asked, stretching.

"1:00 A.M."

She looked surprised. "You're kidding. I thought it was only about eleven."

"Time flies," he smiled. He stood up and picked up the bowls and his glass, carrying them to the sink.

Morgan followed with her water. As she put away the Scotch left on the counter, he retrieved his shoes and sat on the little bench next to the bookcases to put them on.

She came to stand nearby, hands stuffed in her pockets.

"I had a great time today, Jack," she said quietly. "Thanks again for taking me to the zoo."

He stood up and followed as she turned to walk to the elevator.

"I enjoyed the day as well, Calea. Thank you for dinner. And don't forget, you owe me a recipe."

"I'll bring it with me on Monday." She took his coat from the wall. "And thank you for coming to dinner and helping me with my homework."

"Homework?"

"Now that you've told me how you handled all those past cases, I'll be even more prepared in court."

"So dinner was just a ploy to get me to talk?" he asked, taking his coat from her.

"Worked well, don't you think?"

He looked into her eyes. "I'd say today worked well for both of us, Counselor."

If he had spent the same evening with any other woman, he wouldn't have hesitated to initiate a goodnight kiss. But she had made her feelings about an involvement very clear, and even though he may wish otherwise, he wasn't about to backtrack on the small steps he felt they had taken. It was strictly her call.

She pressed the button on the wall and the door opened.

He stepped into the elevator. "Good-night, Calea."

"Good-night, Jack. See you on Monday," she said as the door closed.

***Driving home, he tried to sort through his conflicting thoughts.

Over the last four years, he had dated several different women, even establishing a relationship with one that had lasted for several months. But his heart hadn't been in it, a fact the woman in question had eventually realized, and she had ended the affair, quietly and kindly.

It had been a long time since he had been this interested in a woman. He had felt the attraction almost from the first time they had met. He couldn't understand how someone whom he felt had so much to offer, could voluntarily choose to be alone. It was one thing to do so for a time due to a specific situation, but she had indicated her choice could be permanent. And he found that difficult to live with.

He had to admit, his feelings could have something to do with always wanting what he was told he couldn't have. He remembered the day he and Claire had begun working together. When she had confronted him about his affairs with other assistants, she had been so adamant that she was not going to follow suit. And something about her declaration had made him begin to look at her in that way almost immediately. He had requested her as his assistant due to her reputation as a skilled A.D.A., which she had certainly lived up to. But it hadn't taken him long to realize that she was much more than that, and it hadn't taken the two of them long to begin a nonworking relationship.

Now he found himself in a different situation. He didn't think Morgan's reluctance to go out with him had anything to do with his past. He was reasonably sure it had something to do with hers. But without understanding the reasons behind her decision, it was difficult to overcome her objections.

Then again, she had given him the opportunity to share dinner with her in her home and get better acquainted. He had thoroughly enjoyed her company and there had been a couple of times during the evening when he was sure he felt a connection between them both, not only on his part. But each time, she had seemed to withdraw or change the subject. He knew it hadn't been his imagination.

He sighed. Maybe he was expecting too much. If Carmichael was right, she might only need time. Hopefully, this evening had been a way for her to get to know him. And not just for the advantage it might give her in the courtroom, as she had indicated. The thought of that claim made him smile, as did the thought of spending almost every day of the next few weeks in the same courtroom with her. He hoped that would bring more opportunities for the two of them to get better acquainted.