Indispensable Party (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller No. 4) (12 page)

“Jeez,” Connelly complained, the
minute they hit the pavement.

It
was
cold. But Sasha had
a destination in mind that would silence all his complaints.

She headed toward Penn Avenue. He
fell into step beside her, and they ran in silence. Their shoes slapped out a
rhythm in the quiet night.

The storefronts were dark, and
traffic was light. Sasha let her mind wander as they passed the Bloomfield
Bridge, ran through the burgeoning arts district and entered the Strip District,
headed toward downtown.

The call with the board of
directors had gone as well as they could have expected. The board had been of
the unanimous opinion that Connelly should share all the information they had
with the task force and that Sasha should file an emergency temporary
restraining order against ViraGene. Tate—who, Sasha was certain, had been
cozily sitting in front of a roaring après-ski fire—had, without consulting his
outside counsel, promised the papers would be filed electronically within
twenty-four hours.

Sasha and Naya had flown into
action after the call, leaving Connelly to set up the meeting with the task
force and then wander around Shadyside brooding. But the temporary restraining
order was in good shape, if Sasha said so herself.

She and Naya were like an old
married couple, anticipating what the other needed and balancing each other’s
strengths and weaknesses. Sasha had concentrated on telling a compelling story
through the brief, confident that Naya was lining up the factual support she’d
need for each legal point.

By eleven that night, they’d had
a work product they were happy with, and Sasha had emailed it to Oliver Tate
for his review and comments. She was tired, but it was a satisfied sort of
tired that came from pulling out all the stops to meet a deadline. She could
tell from the faint smile on Naya’s face that she shared the same feeling.

They’d walked Naya to her car and
extracted a promise that she’d call to let them know she made it home safely.
Then, they’d headed back to Sasha’s place. Connelly had been preoccupied,
quiet. His forehead was furrowed with anxiety, and his eyes were distant and
worried.

She knew he was picturing a
hellscape caused by the release of the Doomsday virus. So she’d decided to do
something to drive the images of death and despair from his mind. The run was
only the first part of her plan.

When they reached the end of
Smallman Street, they hung a left. They jogged past the dark, utilitarian
Greyhound station that sat hunched in the shadow of Union Station. Sasha slowed
her pace to take in the sight of the grand old train station with its
spectacular rotunda and sweeping arches. Beside her, Connelly slowed as well.

She jogged across the busway to
Grant Street and stopped short at the US Steel Plaza. The second part of her
plan loomed in front of them. Long stairs led to a sixty-four-foot wide,
forty-two-foot high stable: the Pittsburgh Crèche.

The crèche filled her heart with
a sense of wonder and faith in humanity every time she saw it. Judging by the
amazement splashed across Connelly’s face it had the same effect on him.

“What in the world?” he asked.

“It’s the only authorized replica
of the Vatican’s crèche. The original is on display at St. Peter’s Square in
Rome. You’re looking at an exact duplicate.”

The crèche filled a good portion
of the plaza in front of the USX Tower. The two dozen figures were larger than
life-sized and intricately crafted. At a glance, the people and the animals
inside the house-sized stable seemed to breathe and move. Soft lighting bathed
the nativity in an ethereal glow.

“Wow,” he managed.

She just nodded. It was
impossible to feel overwhelmed or defeated in the face of such painstaking
artistry. She loved to come to the plaza late at night, when the choral groups
and lunchtime visitors were long gone, and soak in the manger scene’s quiet
beauty.

Connelly finally turned to her
and said, “Thank you. For bringing me here. For this.”

She let a slow smile spread
across her lips. “You’re welcome. It’s going to be okay, Connelly. It really
is.”

He looked back at the crèche
before answering. “I hope so.”

She rubbed her gloved hands
together and bounced on her heels. “It is. You’ll see. Now, what do you say to
a race home?”

She took off, sprinting down
Grant Street before he could answer.

Sasha was
stretching in the living room, when her Blackberry buzzed to let her know Tate
had sent along his comments to the brief. She hurried to silence the phone before
it woke Connelly, and then grabbed a travel mug of coffee and headed to the
office to finalize the temporary restraining order and papers in support.

Naya, not a morning person under
any circumstances, growled a greeting when Sasha walked past her open door.

“Morning, sunshine,” Sasha said
in response to what she believed was a muttered expletive.

“If you say so, Mac.”

“What’s wrong?”

Sasha’s mood was light and
optimistic. She’d paged through Tate’s changes on the Blackberry; they were
minor. There was no reason they wouldn’t be able to make the revisions and get
the papers filed electronically well before Naya’s pageant rehearsal.

Naya exhaled, frustrated. “Nothing.
Sorry. I’ve just been wrestling with this PDF/A thingy that the federal
district court in D.C. requires for e-filing the exhibits. It’s a pain in the
rear.”

Sasha walked into the small, neat
office and came around to peer over Naya’s shoulder at the monitor.

“Are we screwed?”

Naya twisted in her seat to glare
at her boss.

“Not if you back off and leave me
alone. Go make Tate’s changes to the brief. I’ll figure this out.”

Sasha raised her hands in
surrender and backed out of Naya’s space. In her own office, she booted up her
laptop and cranked the Christmas carols at top volume.

She had to admit Tate’s changes
strengthened the papers. Reading through the arguments, she was convinced the
court would grant the temporary restraining order. She found herself whistling “Walking
in a Winter Wonderland” while her fingers flew over the keys. In fact, it was
so strong that she decided to file it under Rule 65(b).

The federal rules governing civil
procedure allowed a court to grant a ten-day temporary restraining order
without first providing notice to the defendant under certain circumstances. In
practice, the circumstances that justified issuance of an
ex parte
order
were rare. The plaintiff had to show that it would suffer an immediate and
irreparable loss before the court could hear the defendant’s side of the story.
Ordinarily, Sasha would have counseled her client to provide notice, but given
the importance of the vaccine contract to national security concerns, she’d
agreed with Connelly and Tate that if they could put together compelling
papers, they should seek the
ex parte
order.

She nodded, satisfied that they
had the goods to justify it. All she’d need was for Connelly to verify the
complaint. After their run and the crèche visit the previous night, they’d
agreed he’d stop by the office before lunchtime.

She checked the time. She was
done—with time for a beverage and some chitchat. She e-mailed the file to Naya
and shut down her laptop, then wandered across the hall to harass her legal
assistant into grabbing a cup of coffee at the corner table at Jake’s on the
first floor of the building.

Naya put up a halfhearted fight,
but the truth was, all they really needed was Connelly’s signature, and then
they could file the temporary restraining order. The tidy stacks of papers
lining their desks and unread emails filling their inboxes could wait until
Monday.

There was no reason they couldn’t
while away half an hour or so with conversation and Jake’s winter blend—a dark,
spicy full-bodied roast. Naya closed her browser and followed Sasha down the
stairs to the coffee shop. Instrumental jazz versions of Christmas songs played
to the mostly empty room.

At the counter, Sasha tried to
wave off the dark chocolate caramel brownie that Kathryn forced on her.

“Jake’s orders,” Kathryn
insisted. “He said you’re getting too skinny again now that Leo’s not cooking
for you.”

Sasha rolled her eyes and grabbed
two forks from the silverware bin.

“You’re sharing this with me,”
she informed Naya as they wove their way into the table they favored, jammed in
between the bookcase and the window.

“Oh, yeah, twist my arm, Mac,”
Naya deadpanned.

They settled into their table and
dug their forks into the dense treat while their steaming mugs of coffee cooled
to a drinkable temperature. Sasha watched through the window as shoppers
hurried through the cold to get from one boutique storefront to the next in the
faint late morning light.

She turned to Naya, about to ask about
her church’s pageant, when Naya kicked her under the table and turned to nod
meaningfully toward the table to their right.

Sasha smiled. She and Naya both
loved to people watch. When they’d worked at Prescott & Talbott, they had
both traveled extensively, working on cases that were pending in jurisdictions
scattered throughout the country. Whenever they were assigned to a trial team
together, they’d passed countless hours sitting in mediocre restaurants and
swinging night spots watching the natives.

And, now—right under their noses,
in the coffee shop in their building—they’d been given the gift of a couple
having an awkward blind date just one table away. Sasha leaned back and picked
up her coffee as she appraised the pair. Naya, whose back was to the couple,
scooted her chair over next to Sasha’s under the guise of sharing the brownie,
so she, too, could have an unimpeded view of the date unfolding at the next table.

Both the man and the women were
probably in their early forties. The woman was tall and thin with thick,
copper-colored hair that sprang back from her face in a tangle of curls. She
sat facing Sasha. When she spoke, she gestured broadly with her hands. She had
an eager, hopeful smile pasted on her face. The man looked kind. From what
Sasha could see, he had a boyish face and most of his hair.

The blind nature of their date
was obvious from the halting, biographical questions the two lobbed back and forth.
Sasha learned that she was a labor and employment attorney employed by the City
of Pittsburgh. He was an architect. They were both divorced. He had a
seven-year-old daughter. She had two sons, four and two years of age. She was a
Pittsburgher, born and raised; he’d moved to the city with his ex-wife and didn’t
seem to be impressed by its many hidden treasures.

For the first few moments, Sasha
thought the two might be a good match, but then Naya’s right eyebrow flew up
her forehead as if it had wings.

“What?” Sasha asked. Her mind had
wandered to Connelly briefly, and she must have missed something.

“Just listen to this jagoff,”
Naya muttered, stabbing at the brownie.

Sasha leaned forward to hear what
he was saying.

“So, you have no hobbies, no
outside interests? Nothing at all?” he said in a disbelieving, disapproving
voice.

The woman smiled even more
broadly and tried to explain, speaking quickly and gesturing all over the
place, nearly tipping over her mocha. “I work really long hours, and that keeps
me away from the boys a lot. When I have free time, I want to spend it with
Henry and Charlie. I feel like I miss so much as it is.”

He shook his head, dissatisfied
with her answer. “But what about the weekends when they’re with your
ex-husband? Why don’t you take a pottery class or take up a sport or something
to fill that time?” he demanded.

Sure, Sasha thought, and the
laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping, and all the other attendant tasks involved
in raising two small children would just magically take care of themselves.

The woman flicked her eyes away
from him and caught Sasha’s gaze. Sasha saw a hint of exasperation before she
looked away, so she was hopeful the woman would put him in his place.

Instead, she murmured, “I guess I
could use that time differently.”

He straightened in his chair and
launched into a speech about his horseback riding class, his card club, and his
judo class.

Sasha rolled her eyes at Naya,
who whispered, “Bet you could whip his judo-loving hiney.”

Sasha swallowed a giggle and took
a quick sip of coffee to hide the laughter. She bet Naya was right.

The Renaissance man hit the woman
with his follow up question, “Don’t you worry that by having your identity so
wrapped up in being a lawyer, you run the risk of being combative and unpleasant?”

Sasha and Naya waited for the
woman to unload on him, but she took her time answering. Finally, she said, “Well,
I don’t just identify as a lawyer; in fact, I think I principally see myself as
a mother.”  The wide smile stayed fixed in place.

But that, apparently, was no
better an answer. “Please, don’t tell me you’re one of those adults who claims
to enjoy crawling around on the floor stacking blocks and racing toy cars
around. My ex always maintained she enjoyed that stuff. Let’s be honest, here.
Child’s play is fun for children, not grownups. I mean, children are inherently
selfish. Take Emma, my daughter. She always wants me to do things she’s
interested in, never what I want to do. She’ll ask me if I want to play with
Legos. Of course, I don’t want to play with Legos. But I will occasionally do
it so that she can get the interaction that she seems to want. I have a clock
running in my head, though, so that I do it for the minimum amount of time that
I have to in order to check that box.”