Robert Creely (4 A.M., #21)

Some people, when trying to fall asleep, listen to soft music or simulated sounds of the ocean or a rainstorm.
I listen to my neighbors argue.
I live in a two-bedroom apartment in downtown San Diego. My living room window looks out onto the ocean and the airport, which makes it pretty easy to convince women to come home with me. I simply suggest sharing a bottle of wine while we watch the boats dock or the planes land, and before I can say “Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio” they’re flagging down the valet and ready to go. But that’s another story for another time.
So my neighbors. You can hear them from every room in my house. And you would think that their arguing would be a once, maybe twice, a week thing. But it’s every night. And it always starts at 10:00 p.m.. And it always finds it’s way into their bedroom, which happens to share a wall with mine.
You might wonder how such fights could go on night after night without complaint, if not by me by some other tenant in the building. Here’s where I tell you that the couple fighting is the building owner and his wife…
“You’re tired? From what?” she screams. “Sitting up here on your throne watching Maury Povich, waiting for the phone to ring from someone who needs one of their brand spanking new appliances fixed?”
It’s a brand new building, with brand spanking new appliances, plumbing, windows, doors, et cetera, et cetera. In other words, not much to be fixed.
“And you do so much,” he shouts back. “With all your free time, why don’t you take a cooking class? Stretch yourself a bit beyond Stouffer’s lasagna.”
“Fuck you!”
“No, fuck you!”
One night I actually was fucking a girl while they argued. A girl thicker than my usual taste, but pretty in her own way. “Fuck you,” I moaned. “No, fuck you,” she giggled. “No, fuck you!” I screamed back. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” she yelled, bouncing up and down on top of me.
“Fuck you both!” my landlord yelled while pounding on our wall.
But that’s another story for another time.
I don’t know why they stay together. The wife is hot. She could pull someone a lot better looking with a lot more money. Someone who could buy her some real pearls to replace the fake strand she wears with her leopard print tops and tight black pencil skirts.
One weekend they went out of town, to Chicago to visit her mother, I think. Well, actually I’m sure. There were several nasty fights about what a cunt her mother was and how he’d be glad when the bitch finally ate herself to death.
“Fuck you!”
I was so relieved that there would be two nights in a row when I could fall asleep to silence that I made no plans to go out.
On Friday night, I shit, showered, and shaved around eight, watched a couple Seinfeld reruns, and was in bed by ten.
By midnight, I was still lying there wide-awake.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fall asleep. It was too quiet.
“Fuck you!” I yelled.
“No, fuck you!” I shouted back.
I fought with myself like that for an hour, replaying my favorites of their confrontations. But it wasn’t the same.
By two a.m., I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my blanket and a pillow and set out to wander the halls.
It was Friday night, after all, and the bars would just be closing. There was bound to be a drunken couple somewhere in this building having it out…

Walking (3 A.M., #117)

It’s the fourth mention of all the great deals at Costco by my mother-in-law that causes me to excuse myself and sneak out the back for a walk. Usually I can tolerate Janice, but not tonight. Tonight her voice is like nails on a chalkboard and the touch of her hand on my shoulder makes me bristle. I need to get out of here, and knowing she is adamant about being in bed by nine, I don’t plan on returning until close to ten. Who cares if it is only 7:30? There is a coffee shop a few miles from here that stays open late. I’ll have a cup then call Jared to come and get me. On second thought, I’ll have to call Mya, our daughter, because she won’t give me a lecture on how impolite it is to just disappear when we have company, regardless of what happened today.
As I descend the deck stairs I have to stretch my left leg out to clear the gap between the fourth and first step, and am further irritated that Jared has yet to cut the boards to replace them. Of course he has been a little busy lately.
As I make my way to the gate, Logan, our German Shepherd, trots up to greet me. He expects to be invited along, but even though I usually enjoy his company tonight I just want to be alone.
The air is crisp, and I’m tempted to go back for my sweater, but the chance of running into Jared or Janice in the kitchen propels me forward. As my feet hit the hard pavement there is the faint crunch of sediment that has chipped away from the parts of the asphalt that were recently repaved. The smell of fresh cut grass permeates the air reminding me that it is only Wednesday, the day most of the neighborhood residents have their gardeners come.
We moved to this neighborhood because it was the only one left in town where all the houses weren’t built to look the same. I start to remember the day, three years ago, when we drove around looking for a place to call home. By the third cookie cutter cul-de-sac Jared started to sing, “Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky!”—the beginnings of the theme song for the Showtime hit Weeds. I thought that by escaping the “little boxes all the same” we’d also escape the problems that ended most marriages. I was wrong.
The road starts to incline and I feel a pull in the back of my thighs as they strain to meet the challenge. I walk Logan everyday, usually in flip-flops and only long enough for him to do his business. It’s been awhile since I’ve really exercised and I start to wonder if I’ll even make it to the coffee shop. My right hand glides up to my left hip and moves across my midsection, around to my back, down my butt, and then falls defeated back down to my side. I’ve really let myself go. No wonder this happened.
My thoughts are interrupted by the hum of the streetlights as they flicker to life in succession, one after the other like dominos. I think back on the events of the day, also falling like dominos, the letter the last of a long line of disappointments.
It had been placed under the windshield wiper of my car. At first I thought it was a ticket, but there was my employee-parking pass hanging from my rearview mirror, so then I thought it must be a flyer or an ad. But as I got closer I saw my name written in cursive—Laurie—the loops of the “L” exaggerated and a long tail extending off the “e”. Maybe a note from Syl saying she wasn’t going to make yoga. But she usually prints in all caps…
My foot inadvertently kicks a rock and it skitters a good distance down the street before coming to a halt against the curb. Her curb. The flag on the mailbox is up and I open the door to see what is being sent off. The gas and electric bill, the gym payment, and a letter to her sister sealed in a pale pink envelope, which I rip open wondering if I’ll find more then what was left in the letter to me.
It wasn’t so much a letter as it was a note. Two simple sentences—Jared and I have been having an affair. He plans to leave you.—and her name at the bottom in that same, careful cursive. There was also a photograph enclosed in case I was hesitant to believe her confession. The two of them wrapped around each other on a lawn chair by a pool.
The letter to her sister details her excitement over the truth being revealed. She worries Jared will be mad that she’s exposed them, but knows it will be worth it in the end. “He was going to do it, really he was, but I just couldn’t wait any longer because… well, I haven’t even told him yet, but I will have before this gets to you, so what the heck—I’m pregnant!”
My knees buckle at those last two words. I stuff the mail back into the box and slam shut the door. My legs propel me forward, but not in the direction of the coffee shop. I was never really headed there anyway, I knew that. I march up the walk, which is littered with grass clippings, and ring the bell. I hear someone descend the stairs, then the drag of the chain against the door as it’s being unfitted from the lock. Finally the door opens tentatively, and there she is.
“Laurie, hi. I’ve been—“
Before she can finish, I punch her square in the face. Then I turn and head for home. My watch says 8:05. Janice will still be awake, but I feel more up to talking with her. She can’t very well go to bed before hearing the news that she’s going to be a grandma…

The Letter in the Desk (4 A.M., #176)

Daisy was taking a long time to come downstairs. He'd told her to pack lightly, that they could always buy the things she needed when they got to Charleston. They had decided to run away together. Daisy needed to get away from this place, from Tom, from the awful memory of hitting that Myrtle woman with the car.
He waits on Daisy's side of the solid mahogany Derby partners desk in the sitting room, tracing the intricately carved daisy designs of the drawer pulls. Glancing through the sliding doors towards the stairwell, Gatsby slides open the top drawer. There he finds a carefully organized array of office supplies-- paperclips, pushpins, and fasteners all settled into origami folded paper boxes; pens and pencils lined up carefully in a row; floral stationary with Daisy Buchanan embossed in gold cursive along the top. He takes out a piece, folds it in half again and again until it is small enough to slide into the inside front pocket of his lapel. He's about to close the drawer when he notices a stray envelope laying upside down in the bottom right hand corner of the drawer. When he turns it over, he sees his name written in a shaky hand-- Jay.
It is because Daisy is always so careful in her penmanship, and because it is taking so long for her to pack a bag and come downstairs, that Gatsby feels a twist in his stomach. Again, he glances out toward the stairwell, then frantically opens the envelope already sure of what he'll find...
My Dearest Jay-
I don't know how to go about explaining this to you in a way that will make any sense. After all that has happened, you're going to think I'm crazy for wanting to stay with Tom-- and I very well might be. But the truth that has always been is that he is the man I love. We've both made mistakes, mine maybe the worst of them all, but during that time you were away fighting the war, Tom and I fell in love and that love shaped us into the people we were meant to be. Granted, we are both our worst selves right now, but I believe it was the pressure of living up to the expectations placed on us--by family, friends, society, each other and ourselves-- that we began to grow apart. While I admit to having feelings for you, they aren't the kind of feelings that you have for me. I'm drawn to the parts of you that remind me of my Tom before he grew cold and distant. You hung on my every word, romanced me, made me feel as if I was the only girl in the room-- just the way he did in those early years of our relationship. I needed that, and so I let you in. But when you talked, I heard Tom's voice. When you touched me, it was Tom's soft hands I felt on my skin. It was his sweet breath I felt on my ear, then my neck, my lips. It was Tom I tasted.
I'm getting carried away. I don't mean to hurt you. I only hope you can understand. I'm staying, Jay. My home-- my heart-- is here.
Love,
Daisy
Gatsby's hands shook. He crumpled the letter and left it with the envelope on the desk. When he was able to catch his breath, the wind having been knocked out of him by an unexpected blow to the gut, he stood up slowly and headed towards the door. He stopped at the bottom of the stairwell, contemplated taking the steps two at a time up to the room she shared with Tom and banging down the door, taking her violently into his arms and kissing her roughly on the mouth.Instead, he turned, walked out the door and headed back to his house intending to clear his head with a swim.

The Fun in Funeral (4 A.M., #104)

On Thursday mornings Herman made a pot of coffee and sat down at the dining table to scan the obituaries for which funeral he was going to attend that weekend. His selection was usually based upon which cause of death most intrigued him, but today it was a name that caught his attention: Marigold Malgahyde.
Marigold, or “Goldie” as she was referred to by close friends and family, died of liver cancer at the age of 43. No doubt a raging alcoholic, thought Herman, which could result in some very interesting guests attending the service. Drinking companions swapping stories about how she danced on tables and closed down the bar, taking home and bedding whichever lucky gentleman was strong enough to carry her the few blocks to her apartment. Lovers she fucked passionately, and then threw things at when they slipped on their shoes to head home to their wives. Friends who praised her to her face but gossiped about her “little problem” incessantly behind her back. Her favorite bartender at Moe’s who’d just recently named a drink after her—the “Golden Negligee,"- a mix of apricot and apple brandies with gin, orange juice, and grenadine served in a martini glass, the rim dipped in sugar. Her parents who’d more or less disowned her after her fourth stint in rehab, and after she’d stolen their car and two days later returned it by crashing through the living room wall.
Of course these were just assumptions on Herman’s part. Marigold Malgahyde could have been a saint. But he doubted it.
On Saturday, the day of the service, he took out his navy blue polyester suit, shinned his shoes, slicked his hair to one side, shaved, and headed over to Allen Brothers Funeral Home. He’d thought about picking up some flowers, not something he was really in the habit of doing when he came to these things, but the idea of walking in with a basket of daisies mixed with goldenrods amused him. It seemed clever, somehow. But he was running late so didn’t stop, and found when he got there that there were others who were feeling just as clever that day. There were baskets and vases of goldenrods everywhere. It was like a can of yellow paint had sat in the sun too long and exploded. He almost went back to the car for his sunglasses.
Herman took a seat in a center pew on the left hand side of the chapel. He wouldn’t make his way up to the front to view the body until after the service. He wanted to get a sense of who the woman was before he took a long look at her and made any rash judgments based solely on her appearance. It only seemed fair that way.
He closed his eyes and listened to the murmurings going on around him. The first of what he heard was usual funeral talk. Such a tragedy, it was just so sudden, those poor kids, he seems to be holding up well… that sort of thing. But it wasn’t long before some juicy gossip started to surface. “It ran in the family. It’s what killed her mother, you know. After she died, Frank was never really all there. Kept Goldie fed, a roof over her head, clothes on her back, but never really had a relationship with her. Took her first drink at 13. I know because I was there. Thanksgiving, found her out behind the shed with a bottle of, oh what was it now? Brandy? Scotch? Whatever it was, she developed a taste for it. Looked for all the answers at the bottom of her glass. When there weren’t any, she’d fill it up and try again. Didn’t get her very far.”
Herman opened his eyes and looked in the direction of the voice laying the path of Goldie’s demise brick by brick for whatever unfortunate soul had mistakenly chosen to sit next to her. It was an old woman, late sixties, early seventies, wearing a royal purple hat with a blazer to match. On the lapel was a gold broach—a lady bug with red rubies spotting the wings. She was turned around, her hands clenching the back of the pew. The young man she was speaking to was Herman’s age. The man was wearing the same blue polyester suit as Herman, which he thought was an odd coincidence. The old woman glanced over at Herman, and then croaked out at him, “How did you know Goldie?”

A Canticle for Leibowitz (4 A.M., #14)

There is one thing that is always in Henry’s back pocket—the shopping list written by his wife the day she died.
There isn’t much about the day he remembers. He had come upon the accident unexpectedly on his way home from work. He recognized the car immediately. Sarah had already been taken to the hospital. There are tiny scars on his knees from when he dropped down to the pavement, covered in glass. The officers called to the scene had taken her purse, but various items were still strewn about the wreckage. The list lay about a foot in front of him, her careful script blurred by the tears welling up in his eyes…
He’s careful to take the list out of his pocket before tossing his pants in the wash. He smoothes it out on his dresser face up, the b’s as pregnant as her belly, the slants of some letters resembling the curve of her back.
Fusilli pasta, shallots, garlic, shrimp, oranges, arugula… for the recipe she’d seen on Giada at Home and had been talking about making all week.
Tiger lilies… for the banana bark vase he’d brought back from Bolivia for her last summer. She had a thing for fresh flowers, wanted them in every room in the house. Dried petals circle the vases that still hold brittle stems. Sometimes Henry will stop in a room and finger the petals in his hand, always surprised that they crumble. He expects, or maybe is just hoping, to find a soft, smooth, delicate spot that indicates they were in fact alive once and very beautiful.
Batteries… for the flashlight by the bed. She often stayed up several hours past his ten o’clock bed time reading, but knew the light from the table lamp made it difficult for him to sleep. One night he awoke to find the light from the flashlight dancing across the ceiling and along the wall. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Light show,” was all she said, as if such a simple explanation made perfect sense.
Mint chocolate chip ice cream… his favorite.
Matches… for the candles she’d stuck in the antique holders that stood on each side of the banana bark vase in the middle of the kitchen table.
Milk, bread, cheese, yogurt, avocado, almonds, peanut butter, creamer, coffee, hummus, crackers, baby carrots, pickles, cereal… staple items that always made the list.
It was a Wednesday. An ordinary Wednesday. Nothing special about it. It wasn’t an anniversary or a birthday. He hadn’t received a promotion at work. But the ingredients for the meal, the flowers, the ice cream, the candles—all seemed to suggest a special occasion. That Sarah was putting together a special evening because she had some kind of news, something she wanted to share with him.
It wasn’t until he’d gotten to the hospital that he found out what this news was.
Twins.
A boy and a girl.
They'd survived the accident.
He sat down at the kitchen table and started his own list.
Formula, diapers, wipes.
Milk, bread, cheese, yogurt, avocado.
Almonds, peanut butter, creamer, coffee.
Hummus, crackers, baby carrots, pickles, cereal.
Tiger lilies.
Rocky Road.

The Argument (3 A.M., #44)

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “People are starting to stare.”
The man smirked. “Since when don’t you like an audience?”
That did it. She threw her drink in his face. He didn’t seem surprised, like any of this was new. I tried to avert my eyes and give them a little privacy, even though nobody else seemed inclined to do the same. It wasn’t really their argument I found so interesting, but the way their eyes were telling a different story. Their words were daggers, each line cutting deeper then the first, but there was no anger in their eyes. There was nothing.
“Is this caffeine free?” the man asked, licking his lips. “You know I’m not supposed to have caffeine. It keeps me up.”
“That would be an improvement.” The cashier stifled a laugh.
“Explain it to me, John, because I’m not understanding,” she continued. I glanced up and searched her eyes for a sign that she actually cared. There was none.
“It’s gone. All of it.”
“How can it be gone? Where did it go?”
“Does it really matter?”
Now we were getting somewhere.
“Of course it matters.” But still, nothing. He must have believed her, though because he sat up a little straighter in his chair and attempted to explain why whatever it was was gone.
They had been coming here for awhile now. I had told them about the place when they moved into the building. Today they didn’t wave when they came in.
“I don’t really know where it went. One day I woke up and realized it was missing.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Don’t be coy with me, John. What did you do about it?”
“What could I do?”
“There was a lot you could have done. There is a lot you can still do.”
“Not really.”
I believed him. Whatever it was, it was gone, and it wasn’t coming back.
“Isn’t there someone who could help us find it?” she asked.
“Why don’t you call your mother? She’s good at nosing around.”
She reached for her glass, and then remembered it was empty.
Unlike the other bystanders, I knew how this argument would end because I heard it everyday through the wall that separated our apartments. She would continue to blame him for their loss, and he would continue to make careless remarks. It was a well rehearsed script to a mediocre show, one to which the curtain fell with no resolution.
When it was over, she usually showed up at my place. Sometimes she brought a bottle of wine. Always, I’d go down on her. Once I tried to fuck her, but she said she’d lost interest in dick a long time ago.
But John hadn’t. He liked dick a lot, and showed up within a few hours of Claire leaving. He let me fuck him, sometimes more then once.
“John, I’m having an affair.”
My head snapped up from the paper I’d been pretending to read. The cashier dropped a mug.
“With Richard.”
Neither one of them looked back at me, but continued to hold each others' gaze. Then John started shaking, with what I thought could only be rage. What escaped his mouth next took everyone by surprise.
John broke into laughter. He held his gut from the pain of it absorbing his breath. Tears streamed down his face.
“What’s so funny, John?” Claire asked. “You think Richard couldn’t possibly find me attractive? You think Richard couldn’t possibly want to fuck me? Well, ask him. Go ahead, he’s sitting right there!”
I sunk lower in my chair as John fell out of his.
“John!”
It took awhile, but he finally pulled himself together. “Well, I guess we’re not so different after all!”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve got news for you Claire,” John heaved. “I’m fucking Richard too!”
I felt the weight of the curtain press down on me.

Mistaken Identity (3 A.M., #79)

“Rick!”
I look up as a beautiful dark haired woman comes running across the terminal toward me, then go back to reading my paper as I am not the man she seems so excited to see.
“Rick?”
I look up again to find that she is now standing right in front of me.
“Jeez, what a welcome,” she says. “After all this time you’d think you would at least stand up.”
Hypnotized by her stunning green eyes, I do as she asks.
“How about a hug?”
I move awkwardly into her embrace. She smells like honey and rain.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asks, a hesitant smile breaking across her face. She reaches up and brushes away the hair that had fallen over my eyes, and then leans in for a kiss.
I imagine Rick—who is obviously late—moving through the crowd to see his gorgeous…
What?
Was this his wife? Fiance? Girlfriend? Lover?
I would think intimate relationships like these could not possibly lead to such a mistake.
Her tongue forces itself between my teeth. I can taste the mint she must have popped in her mouth before exiting the plane. I have no idea where to put my hands, so I just let them hang there at my sides.
When she realizes I am not going to kiss her back, she pulls away.
“Don’t tell me I flew all this way for you to end this at the airport,” she says.
“No, I—“
You aren’t Rick. Say it you asshole.
“What is it Rick?”
“Of course I’m not ending it.” What exactly is it that I’m doing?
“Then why don’t you seem happy to see me? We’ve been waiting for this chance for months.” Lover. “And now, I’m finally here, and you’re acting like, well, like you don’t even know me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I laugh. “Let’s go.”
I take her by the hand and lead her toward baggage claim. I had come to Vegas for just this very reason—to meet a woman and have an affair. It hadn’t worked out the way I had hoped. There were hundreds of girls in Vegas, sure. But every time I tried to approach one of them I lost the nerve. Now here was this stunning woman throwing herself at me. Ok, not me. Rick. But still. This was my chance.
“That’s mine, the red one.”
As she bends over to collect her bag, I try not to think of my wife who in a few hours will be leaving our home in Rhode Island to pick me up at T.F. Green International Airport. I try not to think about poor Rick who is here somewhere, probably with a dozen red roses, nervously waiting for…
What is her name?
“Ready?”
I don’t even know this girl’s name.
“Yes,” I say, reaching to take her bag. “Let me get that for you.”
I scan the red Samsonite expandable upright for some sort of name tag.
Julia.
Juila Bunk.
“God, how I’ve missed you Julia,” I breathe as we move toward the exit.
She stops.
“What?”
I turn around to see a quizzical look on her face.
“I said I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you Julia,” she retorts. “You said ‘I’ve missed you Julia.’”
“Yes,” I say, nervously. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing, except that my name isn’t Julia.”
I feel sweat begin to bead on my forehead. My first instinct is to drop this woman’s bag and run.
“Yes, yes. That’s what I said. Julia. Your name is Julia.”
“No, Julia is my sister’s name.”
Drop the bag. Run away.
“Then why—I mean, right here it says—“
“That’s my sister’s suitcase,” she says, eyeing the name tag I’m now turning over in my fingers. “I’m borrowing it because I needed a bigger one.”
“Evelyn?”
The woman, Evelyn, spins around towards a man that looks a lot like me carrying a dozen red roses.
I’m going to be arrested. After, of course, this guy beats the shit out of me.
Evelyn turns back towards me. A smile slowly creeps across her face.
“Just walk away,” she says, and laughs a little.
“I’m really—“ I start, but she cuts me off.
“Just go.” She turns around and runs into Rick’s arms. I let go of her suitcase and make my way back to the terminal gates. I’ll have to go through security again, but I don’t mind. I can’t stop thinking about how lucky I just got. But then again, it is Vegas.

Invisible Woman (3 A.M., #42)

“Mam?”
“Yes?”
“Mam?”
“Yes?”
“Hey Blake, did you see where that woman went?”
“Which one?” I heard Blake respond.
“The one with the pink jacket.”
“I’m right here,” I said.
“No,” Blake said to the boy at the counter I had just given my money to. “Maybe she’s in the restroom.”
“I’m right here,” I insisted.
“Well, if she comes back, give here her change. I’m going on break.”
The boy at the counter turned and walked away.
“I’M RIGHT HERE!” I screamed. But it was no use. He was gone.
I turned and walked over to a man at a nearby table.
“Can you believe that guy?” I asked.
He didn’t seem to hear me. “Excuse me, sir?”
Nothing.
I moved closer. “Sir?”
Still, nothing.
I put my mouth right up to his ear. “Hello?”
Again, nothing.
I’m invisible…

My first instinct was to panic. But then I realized the gift God—or whomever—just handed me.
I could see and hear everyone around me, but they couldn’t see or hear me. Imagine what I could do, what I could witness.
I didn’t know why or how this was happening, but I wasn’t about to waste the opportunity.
I hurried back to my office building, but instead of getting off on my floor I continued going up. I got off on six and walked down the hall to Merv’s office. Merv was the head of this law firm where I’d been working as a prosecutor for seven years. He would be meeting with Jack Cooper (another defense lawyer I was partnered with for a high profile case) soon, so I waited outside until Jack arrived and I could slip in with him.
Five minutes later, the elevator door opened and Jack breezed down the hall right toward me.
“Hi Jack,” I said.
Nothing, just as I had hoped.
Jack checked in with Merv’s secretary.
“Mr. Cooper is here for your appointment, sir,” the big haired woman said.
I liked Jack enough. He was a smooth talker with sharp features, and he wasn’t too cocky even though he knew he had a handful of judges in his back pocket. The case would have been given to him no questions asked, but he was on vacation when it came our way. Merv reluctantly put it on my desk, but as soon as Jack got back into town he suggested that I let him partner on with me because I “could always stand to learn something.”
“Send him in,” Merv’s voice crackled over the speaker.
Jack entered Merv’s office, his shadow and I in tow.
“Merv.”
“Jack.”
“How’s Ethel?”
“Cut the small talk, Jack. Is it done?”
“Yes, I got the call this morning. She took the deal.”
I knew it.
It was a sexual harassment case. Joan Trife, a female officer for the San Diego County Police Department, accused Police Chief William Morales of wrongful termination, believing she was fired because she turned down advances made by Morales during the department’s Christmas party.
Both parties had a history (all incidents amounting to hearsay and rumors yet to be proven, of course)—Trife of performing sexual acts on partners, both male and female, during stakeouts, and Morales of making advances on female employees during department social gatherings.
But Trife wasn't Merv’s cousin by marriage—Morales was… a fact not known to the public. As far as I knew, only Jack and I were aware of this information and weren’t told until Trife came to us for representation.
“Represent her, but push for a deal,” Merv had advised.
Despite Trife’s shady past and Merv’s what I took to be a warning, I had been pushing for this to go to trial. As a prosecutor, I had formed relationships with several people, male and female, within the department. Two female officers had at different times during my career confided in me about Morales’ questionable and inappropriate behavior, but were scared to come forward because they didn’t want to be placed in the public eye.
But Trife was willing, and if this went to trial and we won, Morales would be out of a job. If it settled, he was free to keep victimizing women.
Then Jack got back and Merv filled him in, making the outcome I was hoping for less of a reality. I spent long evenings with Jack going over our case and letting him on a few occasions go over my body—a sacrifice that turned out to be a lot more enjoyable than expected. I thought I had convinced him not to settle, that as prosecutors it was our duty and obligation to protect the victims and put away the bad guys. But as we moved closer to trial, Jack became more and more reserved about the details of this case. He seemed reluctant to strategize.
“You want this,” he told me. “I’m leaving it in your hands.”
And then I got wind that he had an appointment with Merv this morning and knew something wasn’t right. I suspected Merv must have made him an offer he couldn’t refuse—partner—and that he went behind my back and convinced Trife to settle.
“Excellent,” Merv said. “You’ve done good work, Cooper. You’ll get what’s coming to you.”
One day, I thought.
I waited until the meeting ended and followed Jack out.
“You son-of-a-bitch,” I said as I followed him to the elevator.
Jack spun around, wide-eyed. I was visible again.
“How—“
I didn’t give him an explanation. Instead, I strode by him, took the stairs, and headed back to Café Rio for my change.