Philip Vogel, the other partner, and one of only five men in the entire office, clinked his cup against hers. “Another home run, Theo. You had them on the ropes from day one.” An avid triathlete, he could hardly express himself without sports metaphors.
“Come on, it was one of the most blatant cases I’ve ever seen. Jalinda could have won it.” In fact, she’d encouraged her favorite paralegal to go on to law school, but Jalinda was content to remain in the shadows. “That was a brilliant move, by the way, linking the anchor’s salary to punitive damages. It gave the jury a solid rationale.”
An expert in valuation, Philip worked on every litigation case to justify the amount of actual damages and punitive awards. He had a gift for knowing what a judge or jury would find reasonable.
No matter how important their casework, Theo was determined to keep the practice small and manageable, focusing not on billable hours but on the importance of their mission. “It’s a firm, not a farm,” she always said. A family atmosphere made for loyal employees who would stick around and grow. Together, they’d be judged by their body of work and the social strides they made, not their ambition.
On days like this, she considered herself the luckiest attorney in Georgia. Thanks to the dedicated work of her handpicked staff, she was, at thirty-nine, already a millionaire several times over, a luxury that allowed her to choose only those cases with the potential to shake up the status quo for women. Her high-profile work had made her a national celebrity and frequent guest on cable news. That notoriety, coupled with her made-for-TV looks, had once earned her a mention as one of
People
magazine’s 100 Most Beautiful People.
But she wasn’t without controversy. Her reproductive and lesbian rights cases always guaranteed rowdy pickets at the courthouse, as did her status as an out and proud lesbian. She took pleasure from knowing her victories and accolades made her critics’ heads explode.
As she sipped her champagne, Theo scanned the room for her longtime friend and advisor, Gloria Hendershot. Gloria, now in her mid-sixties and working as a part-time consultant, rarely missed a settlement celebration. A renowned women’s studies scholar from Atlanta’s Harwood University, she provided the research and historical context they needed to make their clients’ stories resonate. For plaintiff Teresa Gonzalez, she’d shown with statistics the difficulties women encountered in securing similar employment in the television news industry after having been let go.
“Have you seen Gloria this afternoon?” Theo asked.
Philip shook his head. “She said something about an alumni luncheon with the board of trustees. She was bummed when she heard the check was coming in this afternoon.”
“Coming through, coming through.” Theo’s administrative assistant Penny Lowrey held her arms out to part the crowd as she snaked her way across the room. “Theo, there’s this…a
person
in reception who says…they need to see you, and only you. But they won’t say what it’s about. And they won’t give their name.”
A person who was a
they
. Theo was intrigued, but she rarely spoke with walk-ins because she’d been burned twice by celebrity stalkers hoping for an autograph or photo. “Did you suggest they call back and get on my calendar?”
“There’s something different about him…or her, maybe. He’s kind of feminine…but trying not to be.” She leaned in close enough to whisper, “I think it might be a man transitioning from a woman.”
* * *
Celia Perone straightened her necktie and tucked a loose strand of hair back under her fedora. The disguise came courtesy of the theater department’s wardrobe, and was undeniably a ludicrous charade. She couldn’t risk being recognized, not at this critical point in her career.
“You can wait here. Ms. Constantine will be with you shortly.”
She gazed around Theodora Constantine’s plush office with interest. It had all the personal touches of someone in the lofty role of champion of women’s rights. A framed cover of
Ms
. magazine celebrating one of her victories…smiling photos with Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Meryl Streep and Gloria Steinem. Those were in prominent positions behind her desk, clearly placed so potential clients would know how important she was.
As if the woman needed any more publicity. She was a fixture on cable news talking about her cases and providing expert commentary on issues relevant to women or the LGBT community.
The large mahogany desk held a laptop computer and phone, along with a small framed photo propped in the far corner. Against her better judgment, Celia stepped around the desk for a better look. It was Constantine with three young men. While the woman’s blond hair, cut to her collar in soft layers, set her apart, it was obvious the four were siblings from their strong jaws and deep-set, crystal-blue eyes.
Celia wondered if the men in the family had made their mark in the world the way their sister had. It took a special kind of upbringing to produce a woman capable of arguing before the Supreme Court at the age of thirty—albeit four years older than Sarah Weddington, who, at twenty-six, had argued the landmark abortion case
Roe v. Wade
. Constantine’s case was
Crossman v. The Town of Jeffersburg, Georgia,
which set a precedent regarding maternity leave. Jeffersburg had held open its city manager’s position until assistant manager Kimberly Crossman went on leave, after which they hired a man under her supervision, one who lacked her experience and qualifications.
What impressed Celia most wasn’t that Crossman was handed the promotion and back pay. Rather, the sweeping ruling had put cities across the country on notice that the practice would not be tolerated. That’s why Celia had come to Constantine and Associates—she needed someone to make waves, someone who could take on a case with a sledgehammer that would strike fear into every university in America.
Voices in the hallway startled her and she scurried from behind the desk to take a seat in one of the wingback chairs upholstered in deep green.
Constantine entered and closed the door. She was larger than life in person, her hair lighter, her eyes brighter. Already taller than most women, she wore heels that made her even more imposing. A navy blue dress, its high round collar draped by a string of pearls, hugged her slender body like a diver’s wet suit.
“Hello, I’m Theo Constantine. How may I help you?”
Celia took the offered hand, noticing the woman’s eyes as they drifted downward, likely in response to the incongruous softness of her skin against the absurdity of a man’s dress. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Perhaps not,” she replied, a small smile turning up from the corner of her mouth.
“I look ridiculous, but I promise you there’s a good reason for this getup. I can’t let anyone know I’m here.”
The attorney guided her back to the chair, and instead of moving behind her desk, turned the adjacent chair to face her. When she sat, she crossed a leg comfortably and placed her hands in her lap as if ready to chat with an old friend. “In this day and age, it’s hardly unusual to see a woman dressed as a man…or vice versa. I already assumed you had a good reason.”
Even with her experience onstage in costume—playing everything from a medieval witch in
MacBeth
to a drag king in
Victor Victoria
—Celia couldn’t help feeling ridiculous in front of such an accomplished woman as Constantine. Especially since her disguise had crumbled the moment she opened her mouth.
“I was worried about security cameras. They’re all over your building. You never know who has access.” She listened to herself and sighed. “Shit, now I sound paranoid. Maybe I am.”
“What brings you here?”
“Okay, I’m an idiot.” Celia removed her hat and shook free her shoulder-length dark hair. Then she loosened her collar and tugged off the necktie in hopes of also shedding her lunacy. “I’m Dr. Celia Perone. I teach performance studies at Harwood University. The disguise is because I’m up for a promotion this year. Full professor. I can’t afford to jeopardize that, but I have to tell somebody what’s going on there. It needs to be stopped.”
“Something related to your employment?”
“No, it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
It was unlikely Constantine had heard of Hayley Burkhart, a lovely, talented performance studies student with a smile so grand it could be seen from the balcony. Her suicide had come the same night the Harwood Hornets had won the national championship in basketball. Atlanta’s media, focused on the celebration, had relegated Hayley’s story to less than an afterthought.
* * *
Though she’d known all along Celia Perone was a woman, Theo was stunned by the transformation when she removed her meager disguise. There was something familiar about her face…the sparkling green eyes and dainty, round lips. However, the name didn’t ring a bell. She certainly would have remembered a woman so attractive.
“One of my students killed herself last week. They found her in the bathroom of her sorority house the night Harwood won the basketball championship. She’d slit her wrists and bled to death. Hayley Burkhart was her name. I don’t suppose you read anything about that?”
Theo had been in Tampa taking depositions from BoRegards executives for the wage theft case. She’d watched the game in the hotel bar with Kendra and several of the paralegals, some of whom were loyal alums. “No, I’m so sorry to hear that. I was in Florida last week. It’s difficult to keep up with local news when I’m on the road.”
“Not that you’d have noticed. Or that anyone else would,” Celia added bitterly. “Harwood obviously cares more about sports than the lives of its female students. Hayley came to me for help after she was raped.”
The mention of rape caused Theo’s light demeanor to shift. “Tell me what you know about the details.”
Celia visibly relaxed as she fell into her story, as though relieved to get it off her chest. “It happened a couple of months ago at Henderson Hall on campus. That’s the jock dorm. There was this big party after the Vanderbilt game, and Hayley went with one of her friends. Michael Fitzpatrick’s his name…he’s one of my students too.”
A story so profound surely had many layers. While Theo wasn’t concerned at the moment with specific details, she noted the degree to which Celia remembered them.
“The last thing she remembered from the party was running into a couple of her sorority sisters. She woke up the next morning in one of the common areas on the third floor. Her panties were gone, and she could feel that she’d been violated.” Her expression hardened to a snarl. “When she turned on her phone, the bastards had taken a picture of her half naked, sprawled out on the couch. She showed it to me.”
Cases like this one sparked a deep rage in Theo. Nonetheless, they were criminal matters for the prosecutor’s office. There was little—if anything—her firm could do. “Did she go to the police?”
“Yeah, but as soon as she told them where it happened, they backed off…said they couldn’t do anything without proof.” She drew a thumb drive from the pocket of her blazer. “So about a week later, her friend Michael got hold of a video from a secret list only the basketball team could see. It shows exactly what happened. It was three players. You can see them plain as day—Matt Frazier, D’Anthony Caldwell and Tanner Watson.”
Theo recognized all three names as stars on the Hornets’ national championship team. She took the drive and walked around her desk to insert it into the USB port on her laptop. “Is it possible this video is ambiguous? Or that it’s been edited in any way…perhaps to remove a segment where Ms. Burkhart suggested consent?”
“Just look at it!” Celia said sharply. Then with obvious contrition, she added, “No way she consented to this.”
The video, a mere twenty-three seconds long, was sickening, one of the starkest pieces of criminal evidence Theo had ever seen. A young woman lay prone on a couch—her eyes closed, mouth open and one arm hanging limply to the floor. There was no question she was completely out of it, incapable of consent.
A young man grunted and laughed as he hunched over her. From his distinctive shaggy red hair, this indeed was Matt Frazier, Harwood’s All-American point guard. The others—Caldwell and Watson—jostled in front of the camera arguing playfully over who was next.
“Hayley took this to the campus police as proof. You know what they said? That they talked to the players and all of them said she was into it, that
she
came on to
them
. That’s a bunch of bullshit. I knew her and it’s not who she was.”
As far as Theo was concerned, the video was damning proof of sexual assault. Someone in authority at the university needed to step in and force the campus police into action.
“Dr. Perone, you need to take this to the administration at Harwood. All the way to—”
“I did that. I thought they’d listen because they all know me from the faculty senate. We see each other at cocktail parties, for Christ’s sake.” She shook her head with disgust. “They wouldn’t touch it. As far as they’re concerned, the police looked into it and the case is closed. That’s why I came to you. You have to do something.”
Though she roiled at the desperation in Celia’s voice, Theo’s legal mind shot through several alleys of dead ends. With the young woman now deceased, it was difficult to imagine a legal cause of action.
“Look, Ms. Constantine. Hayley killed herself because of what they did—the guys who raped her, the cops who looked the other way…and then the assholes in the administration who wanted to make sure they got their basketball trophy.” Her voice shook with fury as her face reddened. “They threw her out like garbage. Until somebody makes them pay, no woman is safe at Harwood.”
“I get it,” Theo said, nodding pensively as she recognized the potential impact of this particular case. Coddling athletes who committed sexual assault was a national problem, its ramifications serious enough to warrant at least an assessment from her firm.
Wrongful death was difficult, if not impossible, to prove after suicide. From a financial standpoint though, they could inflict some damage. Frazier and Caldwell were projected as first-round picks in the upcoming NBA draft, and on the cusp of becoming multimillionaires. They’d probably settle quickly to avoid a high-publicity civil trial.