Page 22 of The Wrong Side of the Law

It’s distinctly possible that I’ve said the wrong thing.

“Well, that’s what the other girls in the paralegal pool call it. A case to get on television.”

“I see,” Cooper says. “I see. And what, exactly, do they say about these ‘television cases’?”

I did say the wrong thing.

“I’m sorry, it’s just gossip. There’s just, y’know, people talk in the office.” Why am I apologizing for having justheardother people talking? It’s not like I was spreading any of it. Even if I was some gossipy type, I don’t know enough about anything to even contribute anything useful!

“People always talk,” he says. His voice is still mild. Too mild. “Again: what, exactly, are they saying?”

“That you’re looking for an upgrade,” I answer, suddenly aware that I’ve gotten stuck in the middle of the very office politics that my father had so despised. “Some people think that you’ve got it out for the State Attorney. That you’re…” My voice trails off.

Cooper frowns at me but doesn’t say anything. Is he waiting for me to continue?

“Okay, then.” I hesitate, but—remembering what he’d said at the interview about valuing candor—I take a deep breath and continue. “They—” I emphasize the word heavily “—say that you’ve been trying to get your face on television. That you don’t really care about the people or the cases, and that you’re just out for yourself. That you’re out for the State Attorney’s job, and the hell with anyone that gets in your way.”

The frown on ASA Cooper’s face darkens progressively as I speak, and by the end of it there are clouds threatening thunder and lightning in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. Dammit, woman, quit apologizing! “You told me you valued honesty and candor.”

“Andyou,” he barks, “assured me that you knew not onlyhowto keep your mouth shut, but alsowhento do it.”

I can’t help but flinch at his venom. What the hell? If looks could kill, there would be nothing left of me but smoking wreckage. It takes a moment before I can catch my breath and look him in the eyes again, but he’s already turning away, going back to whatever he was doing on his computer when I came in.

“Got it,” I say to the back of his head.

He says nothing while I gather up his files and add them to my pre-existing stack of work.

I don’t say anything either. I’ve learned my lesson on that. Rita was right about this guy: he might be hot, but he’s a toxic son of a bitch.

I’m halfway down the hall to the elevator before I hear the angry clatter of Gabriel Cooper’s fingers on the clicky keyboard again.

“It’s no wonder your wife left you,” I mutter, shifting my grip and wishing I had a cart to carry the heavy load.

What an asshole.

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