Blindfolded Innocence Read online

  The East Wing, unless they were partying, never stayed past 6pm. The North Wing, Clarke's domain, worked till about 8:30 most nights. We, the West Wingers, were the night owls. Most Broward paralegals stayed till about 9:30pm - I stayed till Broward stayed, which normally ended up being sometime between 10 and 11. It was better than manual work, but still mentally exhausting. I went straight home each night, showered, crawled into bed, and was asleep before my head hit the bed. Eat, sleep, and work had been the last two weeks of my life. I leaned my head on Sheila's shoulder and signed dramatically.

  "Here, here," she said, patting my shoulder. "I promise you, you'll get used to it."

  ----

  The first weekend of my internship, I had wallowed in bed the entire time, eating Sour Patch Kids and watching Cameron Diaz movies. Seeing as how texts and Facebook posts from my friends had started to drop off, I figured I needed to spend this weekend back in the land of the living. Friday evening, getting home at a remarkably early 8pm, I returned two weeks worth of missed calls. After begging for forgiveness and promising to do better, I cajoled my two closest friends into margaritas and mexican food at Los Amigos, a run-down, college hangout four blocks from my house. My plan was to get sloshed on margaritas, then stumble home. In retrospect, that sounds like the perfect "college girl gets snatched by a serial killer" scenario, but at 21 years old, it sounded like a perfectly good plan.

  At 9:30pm, dressed in a blue sundress and Badgely Mischa heels, with my hair loose and makeup subdued, I wrestled through the line outside and made my way into the bar. My skin was paler than usual, due to my recent inability to spend any time at the pool, but I still turned a few heads coming in. I saw Olivia and Becca perched at a high top in the corner. The bar was filling up, and it took a few minutes of squeezing through people for me to get over to them.

  "Hola!" I said enthusiastically, giving them both hugs before climbing onto one of the stools. They both already had ridiculously huge margarita glasses with goofy straws in front of them, and I looked around for the waiter. He came over shortly, a young Mexican with shy eyes and poor English. He took a cursory look at my ID and then disappeared to get us some queso and chips. Becca didn't wait long to start chewing me out.

  "So seriously," she snapped, glancing at her imaginary watch. "It's been almost two weeks since we've seen you - Unacceptable!" She slapped her well-manicured open palm on the table to emphasize her point.

  "Go easy on her Becca," Olivia chided - "she's WORKING, something you wouldn't understand!" she shot a playful smile in Becca's direction. Olivia was right - working was something Becca would probably never understand. Her wealthy parents and their generous funding pretty much guaranteed Becca an easy ride straight to whatever wealthy husband she ended up marrying. With Becca's classic good looks and intelligence, she had basically won the genetic lottery.

  Olivia was more like me - from working class parents, barely surviving on student loans and part-time jobs. I was especially tight right now, due to my full-time unpaid internship. We were all prelaw students - but I was a semester ahead of them, therefore the first to undergo the intern experience.

  We were on our third rounds of drinks and gossip when I felt an arm slip around my shoulders. "Hey beautiful," a voice said in my ear. I pulled back, and stared into Todd Appleton's face.

  "Todd!" I said, surprised to see him out of the office. I hadn't seen much of him in the last two weeks, since I was banned from entering the East Wing. He had stopped in once or twice, but I'd always been too busy to chat.

  "This seat taken?" he asked, gesturing to the other empty stool.

  "Not at all!" Becca said smiling brightly. She flipped her brunette hair over her shoulder and leaned forward, flashing Todd her best megawatt smile.

  I looked to Olivia for approval, and she rolled her eyes good-naturedly and smiled agreeably at me.

  Todd introduced himself to both Becca and Olivia, and then slid onto the empty stool. He motioned for the waiter, and then leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table. Grabbing a handful of chips, he turned to me.

  "All of the interns have been going out a few times a week - you should join us sometime," he said, biting down on a chip covered in meaty cheese.

  I shot him a look. "Sure, I'll just swing by on one of my three bathroom breaks," I said dryly.

  "Oh, so Julia has been ignoring you too?" Becca said, leaning forward and showing her ample, enhanced cleavage.

  "Aw, I'm just kidding her," Todd said. "I know that her attorney buries her under work." He brushed the back of his hand gently down my arm, sending a shiver through me. I moved away. Not what I need right now.

  Becca shot me an inquisitive glance and I sent back a "he's all yours" look. The waiter swung by, laden down with a platter of dirty glasses and plates and Todd put in a drink order.

  "So," I said casually, "what's it like working for De Luca?"

  Todd snorted and nodded enthusiastically. "It is awesome - the guy is an absolute animal! You should see him in the Courtroom Julia - he rips these guys to shreds!"

  "The courtroom?" I interrupted him. "You've been to court?" This is bullshit! Todd gets plush hours and courtroom experience?

  "Yeah!" Todd nodded, "he took me with him this Monday - it was awesome!"

  Five minutes with Todd, and I was already a little sick of the word "awesome". Maybe I was just bitchy about my current situation. Either way, I tried to appear cool and offhand. "What was going on there Wednesday?"

  "Wednesday?" Todd's face scrunched up, like he was concentrating hard. "SERIOUSLY!" I wanted to scream at him - "Smith & Wollensky's, lobster, music, TWO DAYS AGO, and you can't remember?!"

  "Oh!" he slapped his head. "The Hatfield deal! You know the Hatfield family - like the media tycoon? Mr. Hatfield finally settled, so De Luca threw a mini-celebration for the Missus."

  "THAT was a Mini-Celebration?" the words popped out before I could stop them. Todd looked at me surprised.

  "Yeah well, you know - De Luca throws some big parties. We have a huge client party planned out at his house this weekend." He shrugged, like it was no big deal.

  "Are you going?"

  "Of course!" he snorted again. "It's going to be, like, awesome! I heard he's hiring strippers!"

  W-O-W. Super Classy. De Luca seemed to live up to the reputation. I took a big sip of margarita and thanked God that I hadn't been assigned to him.

  ----

  One more margarita later, and Todd was still hot - but now not quite as annoying. My drunken haze had turned his juvenile antics into sexy cool. I was starting to let his hands do some roaming, when Olivia pulled me aside.

  "Seriously Jules, I'm going to do you a big favor and send you home."

  "Whaat…? Why?" My slurred voice sounded drunk, even to me. I waved my hand in front of my face, stopping Olivia from responding. "Never mind, you're right. I'll go." I moved over and hugged Becca, gesturing over the music that I was heading out. She blew me a kiss and waved goodbye.

  I hugged Olivia and Todd goodbye - him holding the hug a few seconds longer than necessary. He gave me an extra squeeze and I moved away. Olivia walked me out and offered to call a cab. I waved off her offer and pulled my heels off, starting the drunken stumble home.

  CHAPTER 7

  In every successful swinger relationship there must be a set of rules so that everyone knows their place, and so that no one is offended or taken advantage of. Different couples practice different rules depending on their own preferences.

  CHAPTER 8

  Tuesday. 10am.

  The Dupont / Murray file sat harmlessly enough in the center of my desk. I walked in my office and stopped short, staring at it. I instantly knew it didn't belong; it was Red, instead of the Blue or Green folders that were used for civil litigation or corporate filings. I picked it up hesitantly and thumbed through it. Immediately I could tell it was a divorce file - Custody and Division of Assets were prominent tabs. I closed the file and tapped it on my desk, thinking.
What to do….

  I could call Ancient Dorothy, tell her that a file has been mis-delivered, but that was just silly. I was less than 20 feet from the East Wing. I could just walk over there and deliver it to the first secretary I saw. It would take less than a minute, and then the file would be properly handled. It was the obvious and responsible course of action.

  Except that Broward doesn't want you going to the East Wing, my conscience nagged at me with a know-it-all tone. What am I, five? I countered, getting irritated at my conscience. I'm perfectly capable of returning a file without getting into any trouble.

  Decision made, I grabbed the file and strode out of my office, ducking past Sheila and practically jogging past the remaining open doors. I felt like the red folder was a giant LOOK AT ME sign advertising my destination. Which, of course, it kind of was. I ducked the folder under my arm and willed myself to be invisible. My concern was unnecessary, no one even looked up, everyone absorbed in the ever-present pile of work. Broward being out of town didn't mean the presses stopped.

  I took an unexpected detour into the restrooms located just to the right of the elevators, and took an appraisal of myself in the mirror above the sink. The light in the bathroom was muted, but it was bright enough to show me that it was not my best day. Whether intentional or not, my knowledge that Broward would not be in this week had caused me to dress down, and not put as much effort into my appearance. I was wearing khakis, a pressed white button-up shirt, and one of my new pairs of sensible, low, open-toed heels. My hair was, as always, up in a bun, and I had opted for glasses instead of my normal contacts. Some might think of glasses as sexy. Those people haven't seen my glasses.

  At age six I started wearing glasses. By age twelve they were officially coke bottles. Around that age I start wearing contacts, and the ribbings from classmates dropped off. Slightly. I bring in that background information to let you know that me wearing glasses does not in any way increase my sexual intensity.

  Getting back to my appearance, I had neglected to put on makeup, which mean I had pale, untouched skin and dark circles under my eyes. I knelt and opened up the sink cabinet and fished around behind the tampon box, reaching into the dark depths and feeling blindly until my hand bumped against what I was looking for, my small cloth makeup bag.

  My first day I had packed an emergency makeup kit - one that includes mascara, lip-gloss and concealer. I had stored it here in case I ever needed to freshen up before a big meeting, or hadn't had time to "do my face" before work. I sent a silent "thank you" up to God for blessing me with such incredible foresight, and hauled myself back up to a standing position.

  Three minutes later I looked reasonably presentable. I still had my coke bottle glasses, but I had long, plump lashes behind them and my lips had some color now. The dark shadows were still present, but minimized by the concealer.

  I grabbed the red file folder, opened the door and scolded my nervous butterflies. Then I straightened my shoulders, pulled open the heavy bathroom door and headed for the East Wing.

  CHAPTER 9

  Rule 1: She is kept blindfolded for the first meeting. If the blindfold is to be taken off, it must be done by her alone.

  The heavy East Wing double doors opened to a sea of noise and activity. People were everywhere, and everyone seemed to be very important, very busy, or very emotional. I stopped just inside the doors and tried to get my bearings.

  The room was large, dominated by three large curved secretarial desks that created a semi circle at the back of the room. To get to the secretaries, there was a wide, wood path that was flanked on either side by leather seating clusters. Both seating arrangements were full, one seemed to hold a meeting in progress, the other had two leggy blonds and an older man in a suit, apparently waiting. To the right was a large, glass conference room, a meeting in progress. I could hear muted tones of what sounded like an argument coming from that side. On the left were offices, probably holding paralegals and Todd. Behind the secretaries was a large office with floor to ceiling windows, from which I could see the downtown skyline. I could also see a man, standing at his desk, a phone to his ear. From the size and the view of the office, I assumed that was De Luca's office. Okay, Julia. Get in, Get out, and Stop Gawking.

  I moved quickly and (I hoped) confidentially toward the secretary cluster. Their three desks were elevated, and I felt like a defendant approaching the judge. The secretaries all seemed cut from the same cloth. Old, dignified, and spicy, headmistress-style seemed to be De Luca's preference. Or perhaps HR's preference for De Luca. The center headmistress worn a red suit and had a brass nameplate on her desk that indicated her name was Carol Featherston.

  She looked up as I approached, and her sharp gaze immediately locked on the red folder in my now sweaty clutches. She skipped a greeting and held out her hand. I passed the file meekly over. Her phone started to ring. She ignored the phone and flipped quickly through the file, then snapped it shut and looked back at me.

  "Where did you get this?"

  "I'm Julia Campbell, from Broward's office. I -

  "Where did you get this?" Her piercing gaze and shrill voice told me to get to the point.

  "It was on my desk, ma'am."

  "Alright, I'll handle it. Thank you." The snappy response seemed to indicate that I was done. I couldn't imagine this women planning stripper-filled parties. Todd must have been exaggerating. I smiled politely at the woman and turned to leave. My exit was interrupted by a large rapping, knuckles on glass. I paused, mid-turn and glanced back at Ms. Featherston. She held up a finger and glanced over her shoulder. I followed her gaze.

  A bear of a man stood at the glass window of the large back office. He had the build of an ex-athlete, impossibly broad shoulders and muscular arms that his $1000 dress shirt couldn't hide. He had olive skin and a thick head of hair. Strong handsome features, he would have been too good-looking if it weren't for the fierceness of his features. He looked like the kind of man who chased confrontation down and then ate it for breakfast. Phone to his ear, his knuckles were still rapping the glass when my eyes met his. He pointed one finger at me and then motioned for me to come, turning his back and pacing away without waiting for a response. Uh-oh.

  I must have had panic on my face when Ms. Featherston turned back to me. Her stiff expression softened slightly, and her tone was a little kinder, but still firm.

  "Go on in," she said. "He wants you."

  Ms. Featherston returned her attention to the file. I glanced around, looking for an escape, and then, wobbly made my way around the secretary stand, and to the door of De Luca's office. "Brad De Luca" was printed on a brass nameplate located in the center of the door. Broward is going to kill me. I opened the door without knocking, and walked in, shutting it quietly behind me.

  I stood by the door, hands together in front of me, waiting for De Luca to get off of the phone. His office was long in length, and there seemed to be a silly amount of space between where I stood and where he paced. I'm not moving a damn step closer to this man if I can help it. I felt like I was having trouble breathing. My chest was tight, and beads of sweat were forming on my upper lip. I tried to discreetly wipe them off. What the hell am I so nervous about? He's not going to eat me, for Christ's sake.

  He finished his conversation and hung up the phone, staring at me. Still standing, he picked up a stress ball and squeezed it while looking at me. I felt like an innocent little fawn, stuck in the lion's gaze. I stayed quiet and waiting for him to say something.

  "I need a car," he said. His voice was sexy and deep, definitive. He sounded like a man who had never second-guessed a single action, his entire life.

  "A car?" my voice came out a little higher than I had intended, almost a squeak.

  "Yes. I know the Casino typically handles my transportation, but I plan to go on a side trip this weekend, and want a car. The normal type will do." The last sentence was said rather dismissively, and seemed to indicate that our conversation was over. He picked up his ph
one and started to punch in a number. Then he paused, looking at me again.

  "Have you done something different?"

  "Different?" I didn't really know what to say. This was the strangest interaction I had ever had with someone. I'm sure he was blown away by my verbose and witty conversation.

  "You look different."

  "I'm wearing glasses." I felt like I was in Crazy Town. Has he seen me before?

  De Luca looked at me again, then shrugged and continued dialing the number. He turned away from me, and I understood that our interchange was over.

  That was freaking weird.

  I walked back to the center desk and waited for Ms. Featherston to look up. She did, after a moment.

  "Mr. De Luca asked me to reserve a car? For this weekend?" I sounded inept, even to my own ears.