The Dark of Day Read Online Free PDF Page A

tight bodies. It’s not fair, but that’s what it is. You should grab this job before it’s too late. Don’t let it go by.”
    C.J. felt dizzy. The possibilities burst in her head like fireworks. She did want it. She had never wanted anything as much.

chapter THREE

    tischman Farmer and Bates occupied a full floor halfway up Tower One of the Metro Miami Center. The view was impressive, the furniture sleek, and the walls paneled with rosewood. In the hush of the lobby, one would not hear the clatter of the engines of litigation, the crash of multimillion-dollar deals brought to earth, or the twenty-four-seven hum of the billing department.
    As C.J. Dunn strode down the corridor, a ripple of applause followed in her wake. Paralegals and secretaries stood up at their desks. A senior partner in the civil litigation division came out to see what the commotion was about. He nodded to her. “C.J.! Heard you kicked butt today. Can you get me season tickets for the Fins?”
    She laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
    Henry was waiting outside her door. His wide smile said he’d been the one to deliver the news: a verdict of not guilty for Harnell Robinson. She took his hands. “We did it.”
    â€œWe? You were terrific.”

    â€œModesty, Henry, is not a virtue in this business.” She patted his chest and went into her office. “I want you to do a letter to Harnell. Thanks for allowing us to be of service, et cetera. We’ll both sign it, but it doesn’t go out until we get paid. Grab a pen. I have some other stuff for you to do.”
    Henri Jean Pierre, whom everyone called Henry, was of Haitian descent, two years out of Harvard Law, a good-looking man, fluent in four languages. His father had been tortured to death by the Ton-Ton Macoute. His mother, pregnant with Henry, had fled in a wooden fishing boat with twenty-six others. Spotted by the Coast Guard a hundred yards short of Miami Beach, the boat captain forced everyone overboard. Half of them drowned, but Henry’s mother crawled ashore. C.J. made sure this story found its way into Sunday’s edition, the day before trial started.
    She stepped around a file box and over a stack of ABA journals to be tossed. Nobody was allowed to rearrange the mess: papers, books, CDs of depositions, framed photos of the desert still to be hung, and oddball gifts from clients. Across one arm of the sofa lay a Mexican blanket she’d brought from California. She had spent the night on that sofa more than once, too exhausted to drive home.
    C.J. tossed her tote and jacket into a chair and went over to the windowsill and picked up her orchid mister. It was a lovely little thing, brass with a wooden handle. As she walked along spraying her orchids, she gave Henry a list of instructions. Going out, he nearly collided with her secretary coming in with a mug of herb tea and a stack of phone messages. The mug had been a promo item for War of the Worlds. One of the producers back in L.A. had said sure, take it. C.J. thought the title nicely summed up her average work week.
    She leaned over to examine the stem of a phalaenopsis orchid. After one gorgeous burst of yellow petals three years ago, it had stubbornly refused to bloom. She misted the thick roots that snaked across the top of the pot. “Shirley, could you find me a copy of today’s Miami Herald? Just the first section and the local news, never mind the rest of it.”
    Shirley Zuckerman, nudging retirement age, had flame-red hair and a shape like a matchstick. Silver and gold bracelets slid up and down her skinny arms when she moved. Unmarried, childless, and petless, Shirley could spend sixty hours a week at the firm without a complaint. C.J.
had gone through five secretaries before finding one who could keep up with her.
    Shirley had put the messages in order of priority, most important on top. Calls from prosecutors on current cases. One from a