Page 30 of Counting Backwards

As I started down the stairs toward the train, I wished I could be as much of an optimist as my friend. Instead, I was focused on all the things that could still go wrong.

***

The next day at work, I caught sight of Dustin walking past my office door and almost called out to him. He was carrying a paper coffee cup in one hand and what looked like a box of bakery treats in the other. I could just imagine all the admins swooning over him as he dropped off the croissants and muffins he’d picked up for them. There was something so self-important about him that just got under my skin. I closed my mouth before calling his name.

An hour later, I forced myself out of my chair. I still hadn’t come up with a better idea for interviewing Jacinta Morales in a language I didn’t speak. I couldn’t allow my personal feelings to interfere with the investigation, not when so much was at stake. As I walked toward Dustin’s office at the other end of the hallway, I passed his office mate, another first-year associate named Helen, fawning over the box of pastries with a few others in the kitchen alcove.

When I reached his office, I knocked lightly on the open glass door.

“Hey, do you have a sec?”

Dustin looked up from his computer, swiveling in his chair to face me head-on. He wore his typical uniform of khakis and a French-blue button-down shirt with silver cuff links. His sandy hair was perfectly in place as always, curling just a little at the collar. I imagined he’d gone to great effort to achieve the admittedly disarming look.

“Sure. What’s up?”

I was quiet for a beat too long as I gathered my thoughts, and his eyes began to narrow.

“You’re about to saddle me with more document review, aren’t you? It’s fine—I can make time if it’s too much for you.” He started clearing some space on top of his desk.

Right, because the great Dustin Ortiz could handle anything. Despite my urge to scoff at his “anything you can do, I can do better”attitude, I forced myself to stay on task.

“No, not at all,” I said, noting that I was suddenly nervous to tell him what I needed. The issues I was researching about the women at Hydeford felt private. It was unnerving to share my thoughts on the topic, especially with a man—and a man I didn’t care for at that.

“Do you think Helen would mind if I sat for a minute?” I motioned toward the empty desk chair.

“Please.” Dustin held out a hand in invitation.

I tried to steady myself with a deep breath as I turned the chair to face him and sat.

“So you know how I’ve been working on an immigration case?”

“Yeah, I heard that.” He nodded, leaning toward his desk to pick up a small blue stress ball nestled beside his penholder. He started tossing it from one hand to the other as his dark eyes surveyed me.“It’s impressive that you’re finding time for pro bono work with all the other cases you’re staffed on. You’re the lead on, what, four other cases right now?”

I couldn’t decide if he was being snarky or genuine, so I just plowed on with what I’d come to say. “I might have stumbled upon some medical abuse at the detention facility, but I’m not sure. There’s a woman who may have useful information for the case. Truthfully, I don’t know much about her except that she’s living in Brooklyn. And I want to interview her, but she doesn’t speak English.”

“Ah.” Dustin’s head moved up in the start of a slow nod. “You want me to be your interpreter.”

I nodded back, hoping he was on board.

“But the case is non-billable,” he said.

“Correct.” Of course he’d want to hound the point that I’d sunk to the level of asking the great Dustin Ortiz for a favor.

“So then”—he put out his empty hand, palm up—“what’s in it for me?”

“Ugh, forget it.” I popped up from my seat so fast that the chair banged against the wall behind me. “I knew I shouldn’t have asked you,” I snapped as I turned on my heel.

“Wait, Jessa. I’ll do it.”

I paused and turned back to face him.

“I just meant, like, can I track these hours as if I’m on the case with you?”

“You should be aware,” I answered in a defensive tone, “that your pro bono hours won’t count one iota toward building a track record for making partner. Sometimes you can just do someone a favor without a quid pro quo.”

“Look, I wasn’t trying to be a dick,” he said, “but you know as well as anyone that it’s a rat race out there, and we’re not all as good at juggling as you are.” He paused, glancing at the little ballhe was still holding. “Impressive stress ball demonstrations aside.” He smiled sheepishly, and my bravado dimmed.

I was the one who needed help, after all, and I could try, one more time, to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. “Sorry, yes, of course. I’ll tell Don Halperin that I needed you, and I’ll make sure to let him know afterward that you were invaluable. We’ll just try to keep the hours down for you so I’m not depleting firm resources. In the meantime”—I walked back toward him and held out my phone—“can you please text this woman and tell her we’ll be there on Wednesday night?”