Page 143 of Dial L for Lawyer
"I love him," she repeats, and I can hear the echo of that night three weeks ago when she first said those words to me in private. But this—this is her declaring it to the world. "Not because he was my lawyer. Not out of gratitude. I love him because he sees all of me—the messy, imperfect, terrified parts—and he’s never once asked me to be different."
Tears are streaming down her face now, but she doesn't wipe them away.
"I love him because he waited for me to be ready instead of pushing. Because he made me laugh when I wanted to hide. Because he held on when I wanted to run. And he fought for me when I couldn't fight for myself."
She sits back, hands steady now. "So yes, we slept together before the case was officially resolved. Yes, he made dinner a condition of representation. And yes, it was unprofessional and messy. But I fell in love with him the first time I saw him, months before. Just like he fell in love with me. And I was too damn scared to accept that love from him then. But I can accept it now." She pauses and looks around the room, suddenly seeming unsure of herself. "Anyway, that's why I'm here. Because I'm not ashamed of it, and I never will be, no matter how it looks on paper."
No one breathes. Even my lawyer has gone pale, slack-jawed at how Serena flipped the entire room into a hostage audience for her confession. Someone coughs and then I realize it's me, choking on both pride and disbelief.
Whitman folds his hands and studies the table. "Thank you for your candor, Ms. Morgan." There's an awkward shuffle of papers as if he's suddenly desperate to look at anything except the raw, radioactive honesty sitting three feet from him.
Ritchie clears her throat. "That will be all. Unless you have further comment?"
Serena dabs her eyes, almost regal now, not a waver in her hands even as her mascara ghosts a line beneath one eye. "I'm done," she says. "Unless you want to hear how good he is in bed. But I'm guessing that's not the 'intimate detail' you meant to explore."
There's a choked noise from the end of the table. Even Whitman can't keep a straight face.
They thank her and dismiss her from the room. I want to move to her side, to gather her up and never let her face another firing squad, but she smiles at me as she leaves, a tiny, lopsided thing. It feels like a promissory note. Or a dare.
My attorney taps my arm. "You'll want to appear emotionally neutral," he whispers, but my jaw refuses to slacken. My hands tremble from holding them so tight for so long it feels like I might break every finger if I try to flex them.
"May I speak?" I ask.
Whitman nods slowly.
I stand, straightening my tie, finding my voice. "Everything Ms. Morgan said is true. I fell in love with her the night we met. I spent three months pursuing her then six months trying to forget her. And when she walked into my office needing help, I saw my chance—not to take advantage, but to finally stop running from something we both knew was there."
I look at each partner in turn.
"I've been with this firm for thirteen years. I've billed more hours, brought in more clients, won more cases than almost anyone else in this room. I became a named partner faster than anyone in the firm's history. Not because I played it safe, but because I fought for every client, every case, every minute. I don't apologize for doing the same with my personal life." I hear my own voice ringing off the steel and glass. "If the price of loving someone is my name on the door, I'll pay it. But don't for a second think it was exploitation. Not for her. Not for me."
I let the last sentence hang, refusing to look away or soften it. Ritchie's eyes narrow, but there's something like respect in the upturn of her mouth. A few of the others—Park, especially—look as if they weren't expecting me to own the mess so completely, to set fire to any way to deny it.
When my attorney signals to sit down, I do, slowly, carefully, until I'm clasping my hands in front of me. I want Serena back in this room, but I also want her nowhere near it. The thought of her sitting through more of this, being dissected by old men and women who've trained their whole lives to sidestep empathy in favor of procedure, makes me want to break something. I settle for breathing.
"We'll need to deliberate," Whitman says after a long pause.
"We will," Miriam agrees, still scribbling notes.
"Thank you, Mr. Kingsley," Park says, almost kindly. "We'll notify you of the committee's decision before end of week."
Dismissed, I walk out to the hall, my attorney trailing behind.
Serena's on a bench by the elevators, heels kicked off, legs curled beneath her like a college sophomore cramming for finals. She's staring at nothing, shoulders hunched, a tissue balled up in one hand and a determined set to her jaw. When she sees me, she straightens, wipes her nose, and meets my gaze without flinching.
"Well?" she asks.
"They'll decide by Friday." I sit next to her, close enough that our hips touch, and let the silence settle between us. She's shaking, but it isn't fear. It's adrenaline, coiled and hot.
"I said too much," she says finally. "I made it weird. I always make it weird."
I shake my head, unable to keep the smile from my face. "You were perfect. You made Whitman laugh. You made Park blush. I think you even scared Ritchie, which I didn't know was possible."
She leans into me, and I can feel the last of the adrenaline leaving her system. "So what now? We just wait?"
"We wait." I pull her closer. "That gives us three full days before Friday."
"What do you want to do for those three days?"
