CHAPTER 7
Joe
For the most part, I liked being an assistant district attorney. It was hard work, but the hours weren’t nearly as bad as what my law school buddies were billing at their big corporate firms—and my cases were a lot more interesting. Instead of arguing over a clause in a contract or reviewing documents for litigation that would never see the light of a courtroom, I was out in the field, talking to cops and witnesses and victims, building a case and preparing for trial. I loved any kind of court appearance. It reminded me of theater in that I had to stand up and put on a really good performance. Sometimes I had a script that I memorized, but I was good at thinking on my feet, too. Basically, I did whatever I needed to do to charm the jury and get a conviction.
In that sense, I had a distinct advantage over my fellow ADAs. Jurors felt as if they already knew me, and for the most part, they liked and trusted me. I could win over most judges, too, many of whom were older and had revered my father. In other words, I definitely benefited from my name. For once, though, I didn’t feel guilty about my advantage, since I felt I was using it to help others. I was fighting for justice, just as my grandmother had wanted me to. Every now and then, she would come downtown to see me in action. Afterward, she’d take me to lunch, and we’d talk about the case. Occasionally, she felt sorry for a defendant and expressed mixed emotions about me getting a conviction.
“I have to say, Joey…I was really hoping that young man would see an acquittal today,” she said one afternoon as we sat in a little bakery.
I chuckled and shook my head. “C’mon, Gary. He was guilty as hell,” I said. “They found the crack in his car.”
“Allegedly. It could have been planted. At the end of the day, you only had the word of one white police officer. That’s not exactly ironclad.”
“Okay. But we also got a confession,” I countered.
She dismissed that, too, and began a whole diatribe about shady police tactics and forced confessions and unethical interrogations.
“And in any event,” she said, “does it seem right to put away that kid for life?”
“Well, he’s eighteen. So technically an adult,” I said, feeling instantly sheepish as I thought of my birthday party and how eighteen hadn’t seemed so old to me then. “Besides. It was his third offense.”
“Right. Because he’s a teenage addict. Addicts typically do things more than once.”
I sighed, then said, “Well, I don’t make the rules. And neither do cops or judges or juries. That’s up to the legislature.”
My grandmother conceded this point but insisted that the so-called war on drugs wrongfully targeted minorities and the urban poor. “Joey, have you ever wondered why the sentencing guidelines are harsher for crack cocaine than regular cocaine?” she asked.
I shook my head, because I hadn’t; I’d just always thought crack seemed worse, somehow more dangerous, more associated with crime.
“Think about it. But for now, let’s put that aside,” she said. “Let’s just talk about pot.”
I smiled, surprised to hear my grandmother use the slang term.
“Okay,” I said, nodding.
“Which file is more likely to come across your desk—an African American teenager smoking pot in Harlem or a white kid getting high at Columbia?”
“Dang,” I said, nodding. “You got a point there.”
“You smoked pot in college, didn’t you, Joey?”
“Gary! C’mon,” I said, smiling.
“Well? Were you ever worried about being imprisoned?”
I shook my head and said, “No. Not really.”
“And if the police had raided one of your little parties, and brought you in, what would have happened?”
I bit my lip, imagining how it would have all unfolded, and how far-fetched it was that any scenario would have included a jail cell. “Yeah. I hear you.”
“The whole criminal justice system is problematic, Joey.”
“Right. Sure. But a lot of the people I prosecute are seriously bad guys, and I feel good about getting them off the street.”
“I know, Joey,” she said. “And I’m not trying to disparage your entire profession. We need principled prosecutors….”
“But?” I said.
Gary shook her head and said, “There’s no but—I just want you to think about the big picture.”
“Meaning what? Do you want me to be a public defender instead?”
“I’m not saying that, exactly.”
“Okay. What are you saying?”
Gary took a deep breath and said, “Well. Didn’t you say that it was all about the laws?”
I nodded.
“Well, then…maybe the laws—and the sentencing guidelines—need to be reformed.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe so.”
“So…we need really good men—and women—as lawmakers, too….”
I smiled. “Gary, you dog. I see where you’re going here—”
My grandmother raised her eyebrows, smiled, and said, “Just something to think about, Joey.”
—
Meanwhile, as I careened into my thirties, my mother returned her focus to my personal life. She would often ask about Margaret, pretending to be casual, making easy-breezy conversation. But the intent was clear: she wanted to know when (not if) I was going to propose. Proposing to Margaret actually felt like something of a given to me, too—we’d even adopted a dog together, a black-and-white Canaan terrier I named Thursday. But it was more of a “far into the future” given than an “any day now” given.
I said as much to my mother one day at brunch, and she looked appalled, insisting that girls like Margaret shouldn’t have to wait until their thirties to marry.
“Mom, thirty is not old. Maybe it used to be, but these days people are waiting to get married.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Waiting until they’re ready, Mom.”
“Ready for what?”
“I don’t know, Mom. Financially ready—”
“You’re set financially.”
I knew it was true, but I still winced inside. “Emotionally ready, I meant.”
“Please, Joseph. You’re thirty. And Margaret is even older.”
“Only by four months, Mom.”
“Still…it’s not fair to her.”
“Margaret is fine,” I said, thinking that I couldn’t remember a single instance in which she’d pressured me, questioned me, or even so much as dropped a hint. In fact, at the last wedding we went to together, she didn’t even get up from the table to participate in the bridal bouquet toss shenanigans—which I thought was pretty darn cool.
“She’s pretending to be fine, Joseph,” my mother said. “And just because she’s not giving you an ultimatum doesn’t mean there isn’t a deadline in her mind.”
“Okay, Mom,” I said, eager to change the subject.
“I just don’t want you to lose her, Joseph.”
“I’m not going to lose her, Mom,” I said. “Everything is great. We’re great. In fact, we’re thinking about moving in together.”
I braced myself for her reaction.
“Joseph, no. That’s a terrible idea.”
“Why?”
“It’s so disrespectful to her. She deserves better.”
“Don’t do the why-buy-the-cow thing, Mom. Please.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“It’s old-fashioned.”
“I am old-fashioned. And so is Margaret’s mother.”
“Well, we’re not, Mom. We aren’t that way.”
“Joseph, trust me, she is. She just doesn’t want to rock the boat. She wants to make you happy.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” I said, keeping my voice light. I didn’t want to upset her—or myself.
“Look, Joseph,” she said with a weary sigh. “Just don’t let her get away. I think you’ll be really sorry if you do. You need a partner in this life, and I know you think I’m always nagging and pressuring you—”
“Because you are,” I said with a laugh.
“I don’t want you to have any regrets. I don’t want you to ever look back and think, ‘Could I have done more? Been more? Done it differently, better?’ I’m just trying to help you—”
“I know, Mom,” I said, my voice firm. “And I appreciate your concern—I really do. But I got this under control.”
—
Just a few weeks later, Margaret told me that one of her best friends from high school had just gotten engaged, after dating the guy for only six months. She seemed a little upset—maybe even jealous—and I wondered if maybe my mother had been right after all.
“Whoa. Six months? That seems a bit fast,” I said, treading carefully.
“I disagree,” Margaret said, holding my gaze. “I think…when you know, you know.”
I knew what she was getting at. More important, I knew that she knew that I knew what she was getting at. I had to say something. “Yeah. That’s true…but every relationship is different. Every situation.”
“Obviously,” Margaret said.
I pretended not to notice her annoyed tone as I added a footnote. “And who knows, maybe she’s pregnant!”
“Oh?” Margaret said, her eyebrows rising. “Because that’s why couples get engaged? Because they have to?”
“No. I just meant…I don’t know…I just don’t want you to feel bad that they got engaged before we did,” I said. I’d finally addressed the elephant in the room.
Margaret stared at me for a few seconds before nodding. Then she said, “Should I feel bad about that?”
“No,” I said.
“Well, then,” she said wryly. “I guess I won’t.”
—
A few months later, as I felt myself getting closer and closer to pulling the trigger on a ring, Margaret had to go out of town for a conference, so I went to the Hamptons for a long weekend and a little final soul-searching.
The morning I arrived, I headed straight out for the beach, taking Thursday for a long walk. About a mile up the shoreline, we came across a photo shoot of some sort. I planned to pass on by, but as we got closer, I spotted a gorgeous blonde who looked vaguely familiar. I lingered in the general vicinity for a moment, tossing the Frisbee I’d brought along for Thursday while trying to get a better look.
It crossed my mind that this wasn’t something I should be doing—using my dog as a prop to meet a woman—but I told myself that it was harmless. Besides, just because I was about to get engaged didn’t mean I had to stop interacting with half the population of the world. I was capable of meeting someone without it leading to flirtation, let alone sex. Heck, I could even view this as a test. If I couldn’t handle a simple interaction with a stranger on the beach, it would be a clear sign that I wasn’t ready to get engaged. Better to find that out now rather than later.
Before I could change my mind again, I flung the Frisbee in the general direction of the woman, knowing that Thursday would lead a merry chase. He did, of course, and a few seconds later, I was standing next to her, trying, quite unsuccessfully, not to stare. To put it bluntly, she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen—which was really saying something, as I’d obviously seen plenty of gorgeous women in my day. Everything about her glowed. Her skin, her pink lips, and her long, shiny hair that looked like sunlight. And that was all before she glanced up to meet my gaze with these huge, intense pale blue eyes that melted me. For a few seconds, I couldn’t speak. Then I somehow got it together, stumbling over my words as I mumbled a vague apology for my dog. She gave me a remote smile that said she knew what I was up to—like, Listen, buddy, I’m no dummy; I’ve seen this dog trick before—and in that instant, I could tell she had a little edge. Meanwhile, if she knew who I was, she pretended not to.
Over the next several minutes, we introduced ourselves and made small talk. Yet even as she answered all my questions, she retained an air of mystery. Like she didn’t want to be known. Not by me, anyway.
Fortunately, she had a makeup artist with her, and he seemed more than eager for our conversation to last as long as possible. He kept chiming in on Cate’s answers with additional color commentary. As we talked, I kept studying her face, and suddenly realized that I had seen her before—on a billboard near LaGuardia. I blurted that out, resisting the urge to also tell her that she was even more beautiful in person, somehow knowing that a statement like that, although totally true, would sound like a line.
Meanwhile, I knew I was running out of time—and that she had to get back to work. Any second, I was going to have to say goodbye and might never see her again. It made me panic a little inside. I had to see her again.
There was really no way, though, not without breaking my cardinal rule about cheating. Even if I kept it platonic, it would still be cheating given what I was thinking. I had never believed in love at first sight—how could you love someone you didn’t know? But this woman gave me that feeling. Like a chemical reaction. A little explosion in my chest.
As I stalled for a few final seconds, I told myself to think of Margaret. That worked for a moment but then backfired, as I had to face the fact that I’d never, not for one second at any point in our relationship, experienced anything approaching this feeling. The realization made me a little sad, then gave me the justification I was so desperately seeking.
“So I know you have to get back to work, but I’d love to, you know, get together sometime…. Do you think I could get your number?”
She stared at me for several seconds, as if genuinely contemplating the pros and the cons. Then, just as I thought she was going to reject me, she nodded. Before she could make a move, the makeup artist was eagerly jotting a number down on the back of a business card.
“Here you go,” he said, handing it to me.
I thanked him, then looked back at Cate for permission. “So I can call you?” I said.
She gave me a little smile, then shrugged and said, “Sure…why not?”
In that instant, I knew I was screwed.
—
The next day, after Berry had driven out to the Hamptons last minute to join me, I made the mistake of casually telling her that I’d met someone “interesting” the previous day.
She shook her head, frowned, then said, “Oh, Lord, Joe. I know that look.”
“What look?” I said, doing my best to hide my smirk.
“The I-met-a-hot-girl look,” she said.
“I didn’t even say it was a girl.”
“Well? Was it?”
“Yeah,” I said, I’m sure looking as sheepish as I felt.
“Okay,” Berry said. “And…was it a hot girl you had no business talking to?”
“That feels like a trick question,” I said.
“Ugh, Joe,” she groaned.
“What?”
“C’mon, spill it. Who is she?”
“Her name’s Cate.”
“What’s her story?”
“She works in the fashion industry.”
Berry raised an eyebrow. “The fashion industry? So another model, huh?”
I stared back at her and blinked, feeling a stab of guilt.
She shook her head and said, “Did you get her number?”
When I didn’t answer, Berry groaned again. “Shit, Joe. You’re going to throw things away with Margaret over a model?”
“Whoa, now, Berr,” I said. “No one is throwing anything away…and there’s no need to denigrate the woman’s profession.”
Berry took a few deep breaths and said, “Fine. You’re right. Her job is beside the point. The point is—if you call that girl—any girl—things with Margaret will be done. Forever.”
“That seems a bit extreme.”
“It’s true.”
We stared at each other in a stalemate that she broke. “Do you love Margaret?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, picturing her sweet brown eyes. “I do.”
“Then get your shit together, Joe,” my best friend told me. “Once and for all.”