TITLE: The Mistake
Against the advice of my mentor, I keep a gun in my drawer.
Harvey says a lawyer with a gun in his desk will eventually use it either on a client or on himself. Harvey's over 60 and thinks he knows everything. He wouldn't think a female lawyer—let alone his own daughter—would need advice about guns.
Yet here I am.
I open the drawer and stare.
That's how much time I asked Kate to give me before my next appointment. Although I've spoken with Agent Schmidt twice on the phone, this will be our first face-to-face. He thinks I'm going to cooperate with him just because he's FBI, but things are complicated.
The gun beckons. I reach in, hesitate, and then pick it up. I aim it at the antique clock, the flower vase, the Mayan calendar. The diplomas. The vanity photo-ops.
I gaze into the Ruger's barrel and caress the trigger.
Last year a grateful client nick-named me "quick-draw" and gave me the Ruger after I blew holes in our opponent's case. That's how a trial should go: surprise your opponent with something she never thought about, watch the blood drain from her face, and gracefully accept victory.
I'd fool no one if I claimed winning didn't matter, but this thing with the FBI is different. No one wins. It's all about avoiding defeat.
Suddenly, I gasp and drop the gun on the table. My baby kicks hard—caught me by surprise.