Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 25827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
"Here's your coffee, Mr. Bell."
"You're always so kind, June."
"And you're always so nice to say that."
It's a script. We've been running it since my first month here. The day Mr. Bell forgets his line is the day I'll know one of us is dying.
Alan, our clerk, jogs in next, twenty-six years old and chronically nine seconds late, his tie crooked in the specific way of a young man who hasn't yet been loved by a woman who fixes ties. He drops the docket on his desk, mouths ‘sorry’ at Mr. Bell, and starts laying out the morning's exhibits.
Linda comes in behind him, our deputy, broad-shouldered, a coffee in one hand and a granola bar in the other. She nods at me—she's not a talker before nine—and takes her post by the door.
And then there were four, I find myself thinking, and almost smile. If you’re an Agatha Christie fan, that might sound ominous. But for me, the four of us is the shape of every Monday I’ve known for twelve years, and that’s the kind of shape I like.
The gallery starts filling, and I hear them before I see them: the shuffle of leather soles, the snap of a purse opening, the low murmur of a wife telling her husband to put the phone away, Chris, and Chris, presumably, putting the phone away. The gallery, technically, though in my head I've called it the bleachers since my first week, because that's exactly what it feels like when a high-profile divorce is on the docket and twelve cousins from both sides of the family arrive ready to root for their team.
Then Elliot walks in.
He’s not the type of man to turn heads, and sometimes he gets teased about it, too, thanks to a Tribune profile that described him as ‘charmingly average.’ But if courthouse gossip is anything to go by, charmingly average is exactly what attracts women by droves.
Anyway...
Elliot’s approaching, and I’m already feeling bad—
"Good morning, Junebug.”
For both of us—
“Is it just me, or are you looking more beautiful every time I see you?"
Because he’s just been so, um, obvious about his feelings—
"It's just you."
That people have actually started making bets about us. Would they or wouldn’t they? Would she or would he?
"I'll pick you up for dinner at seven."
He's also a big flirt, which is why I don't take anything he says seriously...even if, technically, as an attorney, he's not supposed to lie.
Alan, in the meantime, has stopped arranging exhibit tags by case number, and he’s looking at us with interest because he’s one of those people. “Is that a date?”
"Yes," Elliot says.
"No," I say at the same time. "Mr. Wheeler's just joking, Alan.”
Alan’s face falls. Like I said, he’s one of those people, and judging by his expression, he’s also one of those who’s convinced it’s only a matter of time (and money) before Elliot and I start dating.
Elliot wheels his chair close to my table. "I wasn't joking, though." He gives me his best puppy-eyed look, and a part of me is distracted. Not because it has an effect on me or anything, but I just suddenly remember overhearing some of our interns talking about Elliot’s puppy-eyed look, and I guess this is it?
The one they can’t resist?
Is it because I’m twice their age that I can, well, resist it?
“I’m always serious with you, Junebug.”
I take my morning's case file out and pretend to study the caption page, even though I've already read it twice on the L.
"Counsel's appearance for the petitioner," I say, in my official-record voice, "is noted."
“Come on, Junebug,” Elliot says cajolingly. “It’s just one date.”
I look at him with exasperation. “How many times—”
He doesn’t even let me finish. “As many times as it takes,” he assures me cheerfully, “to get you to say ‘yes’.”
I can only shake my head. He’s a good man, really. We’ve only known each other for two years, but his life is such an open book unlike—
Strike that, please.
My brain automatically works like a courtroom reporter, striking out every thought I’m not supposed to think. And honestly, it’s been a while since I last thought of him. A really, really long while, and so I wonder...
Why now of all times?
It’s like having someone walk over my grave, but I tell myself it’s nothing. It’s been nothing for eighteen years, and it’s going to stay nothing, too.
The door at the back of the courtroom swings open, and I feel more relieved than I should when Judge Iverson finally makes his appearance, his robe still settling around his shoulders, and his reading glasses pushed up on his forehead.
Mr. Bell calls the room to order. The gallery rises. Alan straightens his tie, and then it begins.
Monday shifts into work mode as my fingers find the keys.
The first case goes for an hour and twenty minutes. The second one goes for forty. By lunch I've transcribed the dissolution of one twenty-four-year marriage, the contested custody of a Yorkshire terrier named Mr. Pibbles, and a deposition from a man who used the word allegedly so many times I started typing it with my eyes closed.