Page 15 of Bad Situation

“Sir, if I may—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“I know, I know. You do things differently.” He sits behind his desk and levels his eyes on me, surveying me more as an opponent than a subordinate. “And quite frankly, I look forward to my numbers benefitting from your savvy investigation methods.”

“If I can just suggest—”

“You’re off the investigation, Pettit. This isn’t New York City. Get used to it. You don’t get to pick your cases and I don’t give a shit what you want.”

Fuck. If he wanted to put me in my place, he did a bang-up job of it.

I stalk out of my new boss’s office and head back to my damned cubicle. After I went head-to-head with Bree this morning, I’ve been officially removed from the Montgomery case. Which would be a good thing if Jen would take my fucking calls. My gray area is shading darker—I didn’t give one fuck that I wanted to warn her of impending arrest. I have questions for her no one else is willing to ask—questions she should answer in front of her attorney. If she answers the way I think she will, then we need to talk—preferably alone—so I can explain what happened that night at the bar.

If Jensen Montgomery is guilty of insider trading and wire fraud, then I’ve lost my edge and my intuition.

I’ve got to find a way to get her to talk to me because, right now, I bet she’s downtown being processed with fucking drug dealers and murderers who deserve to be there. Since I’m officially off her case, there’s no way I can insert myself into the middle of her hearing without drawing unwanted attention. My gut might tell me she’s innocent, but there’s always that chance I’m wrong.

I just hope to fuck I’m not.

*****

Jen

Never in my life have I imagined a day like today.

I’ve been arrested by the FBI, processed by the United States Marshals Service, had an arraignment hearing in federal court, and thank God, the prosecutor didn’t seek detention. Apparently, I’m not a flight risk despite my access to funds. I can even leave the state on business, should I need to.

Go figure, they don’t fingerprint defendants with the black ink like they do on TV. It’s all done by scanner. Who thinks about shit like that? Not me. But since I outfitted myself this morning in a sheath dress the color of wheat right before harvest, I appreciate the fact my fingers aren’t stained.

It was a miracle, but Callie finally got her head out of her ass long enough to find Patrick. He must’ve broken every traffic law getting there, because he was waiting on me when I was ushered into federal court along with a small army from Lehmans and, shortly after, my father and Donny. All the money we’ve paid in retainer fees over the years must really hold some clout or else my attorneys at Lehmans are hungrier than Bree Newman. They got down to business fast.

For the love of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness—they might as well have been speaking a foreign language. Some things they agreed with. Other things they impressively refuted. Motions were made, appeals were issued, they disagreed, and they conferred. Then some other courtroom mumbo-jumbo went down and I was hopeful this all meant good things for me.

Although, after the last two days, good is a relative word.

All I know is three hours later, I was walking down the front steps of the federal courthouse. My black Christian Louboutins with the delicate strap around my ankle were extremely happy to have not stepped foot into a jail cell today.

Given the way things could have turned out, I’m pretty thrilled as well.

I climbed into the back of the Escalade followed by my father and all his red-hot anger. Donny slammed the door and we were off as fast as a seven-year itch into Dallas traffic.

“Has anything come out today about the Birmingham acquisition? Is the SEC going to put a hold on the process?” I ask my dad.

He roughly rubs his face in frustration. “We found out this afternoon the SEC has their own investigation into the shares. We’ll see how that plays out in the next few days. Robert has been getting me up to speed this afternoon.”

Feeling a loss of control in every way possible by being accused of something I haven’t done and my fate in the hands of attorneys whose language I don’t speak, I turn to Donny. “I need to go to the office to get my things and my car.”

“You’re not going back to the office,” my father barks. “Reporters are parked out front and PR is still getting a handle on it. And you’re not driving yourself to work until this dies down.”

I shake my head. The damn press.

Donny glances at me with sympathetic eyes through the rearview mirror. “Tell me what you need, Jenny. I’ll go back and get your things and bring your car to you.”

I close my eyes and let my head fall back.

“I had a word with Patrick on the way out. I’m hiring a private investigator.”

My head pops up and I look at my dad. “Really?”

“Darlin’. We’re not going to flop around like a fish out of water and wait for this shit to work itself out. You’ve been set up and hell if I’m gonna go around my elbow to get to my thumb wasting time. Lehmans works with an investigator who specializes in cyber-crimes. They’re making the call as we speak.”

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