Injustice Read online

  The rest of the night was so busy I didn’t have time to think about much; but as I drove home, I reflected on the conversation with Jess, thinking that someone should do something to help her. I closed the door and threw my bag and myself on the couch.

  The next morning I woke up, still on the couch, to the realization that I should be the one to help Jess. It was something that intrigued me, a challenge that sparked some much-needed energy to actually get up and get moving instead of sleeping the night’s fun off for a few more hours.

  I started digging through the piles of assignments for the coming week of school. It was just the beginning.

  Chapter 5

  Monday afternoon, I loaded my bag and headed to campus. As I walked through the parking lot, now in daylight, my thoughts returned to a few days ago. It seemed like a dream. As I got out of my car, I could see the steady stream of students circling to find parking spaces. One nice car in particular got my attention. An older, very handsome man was driving, and I almost didn’t notice Ali exiting the vehicle. I wondered who the guy was. There certainly seemed to be a lot of men who wanted to be close to her.

  I sat in the back row as usual, high above the professor. I scanned the room for Ali, finally seeing her a few rows below me, on the other side of the room. No matter how much I tried to focus on the material in front of me, I had to repeatedly stop my eyes from wandering to the back of her head.

  After the first class ended, I headed into the hallway to stretch my legs. Since we had about fifteen minutes, I decided to head outside and get some fresh air. The next thing I knew, Ali was by my side. She sat on a bench near me, not saying a word. I didn’t feel like starting a conversation, so we sat in silence. When we went back inside, I saw that she had moved her books to the seat beside me. My heart was pounding so loudly inside my chest I was sure that she could hear it.

  I thought paying attention was hard before, but this was pure torture. I wanted, no, I needed to know what was going on in her head, and I had to wait a very long time to even hope to find out what she was thinking.

  The Torts professor must have seen that glazed look in my eyes so early in the semester, and now she was in a mood to determine if any of my thought processes were still intact. As she called on me, I was drawn back into the classroom with a quickness, kind of like being hit head on, my neck still smarting from the resulting whiplash.

  “Miss Connors, if you pushed someone, and he fell down and hit his head on the ground and died, would you be responsible for killing him?”

  A very good question indeed, I thought. “Did he have an underlying medical condition, or was it simply the force of the impact?”

  The professor smiled, wondering if I was asking the right question or just buying time. I didn’t, however, shuffle through notes, but simply waited for her to reply. “Would that be relevant in this case?”

  How could it not be relevant? I must have delayed too long, because I heard a voice next to me and saw Ali’s mouth moving. “No. It’s not relevant. I would be responsible.”

  I contemplated the exchange while the professor pressed on. “The victim had recently suffered a fall and already had a fracture of his skull. Even the slightest force could have killed him. The force you used would not have killed a person who did not have such an extreme underlying medical condition.”

  I kept my game face on, and my eyes focused on the professor, but my confidence level was waning. I followed Ali’s lead. “Well, I shoved him, so I’m responsible.”

  The professor looked around the room. “Does everyone agree, or do we have a difference of opinion here?”

  A few hands rose. It reminded me of elementary school. The professor chose one of the eager young minds. “I think she’s only responsible to the degree that the shove would have caused an average person injury. It’s not reasonable to think that shoving a person would kill them.”

  The professor remained neutral, returning her focus to Ali, who elaborated as if reading from the text. I felt a little small and lacking, like everyone knew I got lucky with my response. “You take your victim as you find him. It’s called the ‘eggshell skull plaintiff rule.’ I chose to shove him, so even if I’m not aware of his condition, I’m responsible.” She paused. “But if I was aware of his condition, and shoved him, then I’m responsible at a higher level, because I knew that my actions would potentially have deadly results. And I shoved him anyway.”

  The professor was pleased, and the spotlight moved away from Ali as quickly as it had appeared moments earlier. “Any more thoughts?” The class commented back and forth for a few minutes, clearly divided on the subject, and clearly drew a line between those who had read the material for the night and those who understood it. I felt like I belonged with the latter group after only a few minutes of class. Finally, the professor put a halt to the debate. “The concept seems foreign, obviously, but your actions can have unforeseen results, and you are ultimately the one responsible for what you do.”

  Ali smiled at me, and I was pretty sure that I blushed. I managed to stay engaged for the rest of the class, well, kind of. My mind went back to the night that Ali was in trouble. What if that guy had died because I went after him? I knew he deserved it, and there were more rules about that as well. I could have used force proportional to the force being used on Ali, as long as she could have claimed self-defense. It was a transfer of her right to defend herself. I was pretty sure that would trump the eggshell skull plaintiff rule, or at least be afforded some serious consideration.

  Now my mind was working on fixing Jessie’s problem and not getting myself into trouble while I was doing it. Maybe this law stuff had much more use than just in the courtroom.

  As the classes for the evening came to a close, I debated, once again, about starting a conversation with Ali, and decided it would be rude not to at least say something.

  “How are you doing?” she asked quietly.

  I started speaking at the same time. It was almost a comic relief, a tension breaker. “You sounded like you knew what you were talking about. It was impressive.”

  She stared at me, acknowledging the compliment, barely, and brushing it off at the same time, while waiting for a response to her inquiry.

  I met her gaze. “I’m fine. How about you?”

  She averted her eyes. “I’m fine.”

  I nodded, both of us knowing it wasn’t true, and headed out. “Do you need a ride?”

  She hesitated, and before she could answer, a voice behind us cut in sharply. It was Dan. “Hey, a few of us want to set up a study group, and we want to include you, if you’re interested. We’re going to have a few drinks and blow off some steam and talk about how it would work. You guys want to join us?”

  I was not really a joiner, per se, but there was some value in being part of the right study group in law school. That said, there was very little value and lots of trauma in being in the wrong one. If I was going to consider doing this, drinks were a good way to see whether it was a good fit.

  Ali smiled at the now-growing group. “Sure, I’m game.”

  Chapter 6

  So a short time later I found myself in the middle of a crowded bar, surrounded by new friends. The conversation centered around all things legal, with speculation about what our futures would hold. Ali seemed very comfortable, and she engaged each and every person at the table. They were all consumed by the law and their role in how it was administered. I wished that I was like them, but I had already realized that I wasn’t. I went to law school because I was in love with the idea of the law, but I had already learned some very harsh lessons about how justice was really administered. I smiled and sipped at my drink, absorbing everything around me. They were so intense and so into it. Night students were a little different from the traditional day students, in that we typically continued to work full-time while attending school. Some, however, just wanted to take a lighter course load, to reduce the pressures that befell full-time law students.

 
Floyd was fortyish, longish straight brown hair, reminding me of a surfer. Having worked for his brother’s multimillion-dollar company for years as an accountant, he now wanted to explore another world. His wife was a dental hygienist and made a nice living. He drove a new BMW and lived in Littleton, a suburb south of Denver.

  Dan was around my age, I guessed—short brown hair, thin, muscular build—and was a government engineer and Army Reservist.

  Kristie was probably the youngest one of us, had dark brown medium-length hair, kept her makeup to a minimum, and was almost as tall as I was. She had a plan to go into health law defending the big companies that she currently pedaled pharmaceuticals for. She was struggling to work and keep up with her school work.

  Carina was perhaps the most colorful one of the bunch, with her obviously dyed red hair, coupled with some animal-print outfit, a loud British accent, and a way of seeming like nothing really bothered her. She owned a painting company and often sported the color of the day on her hands.

  And then there was Ali. She, not unlike me, was more of a listener, not really spilling a lot of information about herself. From what she did say, she would have you believe she was just average. I knew better, but I didn’t have any basis for my opinion, which was clouded by my ever-growing feelings for her.

  The party started to break up after a while, as we all had a lot to do. We agreed to meet again the next night and dish out assignments, each of us outlining certain materials so that the rest could benefit without having to put in the excessive hours that it required.

  Ali and I walked out to the car, and as I opened the door for her with a grand gesture, she grinned like a school girl. “What a gentleman.”

  I got in and looked into her eyes. “Where to, ma’am?”

  She was flirty. “To your place, of course.”

  I could feel the flush on my own face as I turned the key and managed not to stall the car as I pulled away.

  Once inside, this time, she headed not for the couch but for the bedroom. She was much more tipsy than I realized, and this was not what my plan was for the evening; but what was I going to do about it? I was going to follow her and see what she was up to—that’s what. She was lying on the bed, and there were numerous articles of clothing missing. As I got closer, I could see the bruises and scars that clearly told her story. Anger rose up in me, but I did my best not to let it show outwardly. I leaned over and pulled some covers over the exposed skin, as Ali closed her eyes. Sometimes I really hated being ethical, especially right at that moment. As I sat down beside Ali, she wrapped herself around me. I stroked her hair, returning the embrace, not daring to move until she was asleep. Despite the lateness of the hour, my mind was in high gear, ready to launch a plan to keep Ali from suffering any more physical or mental abuse. My mind also wandered back to the guy who had dropped her off earlier. One could certainly jump to the wrong conclusion there. As I slid away from her and perched myself at the desk, using only the small light to see, I jotted down some ideas about how to approach some of these difficult situations. The glow of the night light coming from the bathroom door, adjacent to the bedroom, revealed her still form in the shadows.

  Chapter 7

  I woke to an empty bed and listened to the sounds of the ancient apartment building. The foundation settled, doors opened and closed in the hallway, kids squealed, and the occasional car started outside my second-floor window. Part of me sighed, again disappointed because the day’s sounds were coming from outside my space and I was alone. I heaved myself out of the bed and made my way into the living room, wondering how my shirt had come off in the night. Quickly replaying the evening, I was confident that Ali didn’t have anything to do with my half-dressed state and that I should score some major heaven points for being an ethical gal and not taking advantage of the situation. I wondered if Ali was straight, as her relationship with Tommy would indicate, or if she was gay or bi. The whole situation was confusing, and I reminded myself to not read anything into her actions.

  Ali had slipped out at some point, and I found a Post-it note stuck to the coffee pot. “Thanks for the great conversation last night. I had a great time. Call me later.” The note was signed with a smiley face and an “A.” Of course, I conducted a thoroughly unnecessary analysis of the note. “Thanks for the conversation…” was that in reference to the bar or back here? Did we talk about appropriate topics? Was I conversational, witty, and intelligent? “Great time…” that’s better than saying she had a good time. But again, was Ali talking about the bar, the conversation, or the apartment? Did she remember the apartment? No mention of daytime plans in the note…why did she escape in the middle of the night? That was concerning. Smiley face…good. The “A” was casual, yet possibly intimate. “Call me later” was always a good sign, but I needed to wait strategically and not leap for the phone in the next hour. And where was my shirt?

  All this streamed through my head even before the first sip of French mocha. I laughed out loud, realizing once again that I was indeed crazy but that this was the first time I had let myself feel the first twinges of liking someone since Jane and I had broken up. Too bad I didn’t know if the object of my affection was gay or straight, I thought.

  I gulped the coffee and changed into running clothes. Working at a bar and going to law school had forced me to prioritize my time, and I had initially let the workouts slide. At twenty-eight, I knew I needed to get a handle on my workout schedule, to make sure I didn’t turn into a blob of fat. Ten extra pounds and too many drunken, drama-filled nights followed by debilitating hangovers had taught me to at least make an effort at keeping my body in shape.

  My morning run took me through the area surrounding the state Capitol, and I was once again pleased at my choice to live downtown. Denver wasn’t a huge city compared to New York or Chicago, but it had its own level of activity and a certain level of quirkiness, especially in my neighborhood. Bungalow homes were mixed with older buildings that had been converted to apartments or lofts. The residents were a combination of every demographic, as students and younger couples lived next to older residents who had probably lived in the neighborhood since the area was developed in the 1930s. The one thing that was readily apparent was the level of activity that seemed socially mandated for anyone within the area. Even at the early hour, the neighborhood was alive with people walking dogs or running. The atmosphere was positive, and the early hour felt good as I moved among my neighbors, some of them waving as I ran by.

  Almost finished, I turned through the commercial part of the neighborhood and ran by the bar, noticing how dirty the front door was and making a mental note to clean it later that afternoon when I went in. I skirted Colfax Street and turned back toward my building, passing the gay bookstore, a medical marijuana dispensary, and Smiley’s Laundromat. As I ran by the third and final Starbucks in the area, I heard my name called by someone sitting on the sidewalk patio.

  “Riley! Riley!”

  Really? I was running—the point of running is to run, I thought, irritated at the interruption. I pulled up short and turned back, searching for the voice.

  Jessie sat alone at one of the tables. An empty coffee cup rested in front of her hands. By the dark glasses and her wild hair, I figured Jess had found the Starbucks after a long and rough night in a bar. She gave me a halfhearted smile as I walked up.

  “Hey, Riley. How’s your run going?”

  I shook my head, “Good, Jess. It was going well. What are you doing up so early…or so late?”

  Jessie looked at me for a second before speaking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even stop to think that I was screwing up your workout. It’s no big deal. I can find you later at the bar.”

  I pulled a chair away from the wrought iron table and sat, looking at Jess more closely. She looked like hell. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess, and she looked pale and in need of a few days of sleep. It was barely forty degrees out, and Jess was in jeans and a light t-shirt. The scruffy flip flops she had kicked off und
er the table only confirmed that she was unfazed by the cold. Girl trouble, I thought; it was always a girl. I was going to need more coffee.

  “You want another cup? I’m going to grab something, and then we can talk.” I stood and found the twenty dollar bill I kept stashed in my running pants.

  Jess looked relieved for a second and smiled. “Yeah. Just a cup of coffee would be great. Thanks, Riley.”

  I stood in the line, already long for a Saturday morning, listening to people order the most complicated drinks and again knowing that there was no way in hell I could work in a Starbucks. I counted to ten as the woman in front of me asked for a cappuccino-something-or-other with extra air and extra foam. The most complicated thing I ever ordered was a nonfat latte, which the little baristas insisted on calling a skinny latte, probably to make me feel either really cool or fat. I could never decide.

  When I returned, Jess took off her sunglasses and stirred a raw sugar into the coffee. Her eyes were bloodshot, and I prepared myself for yet another edition of a dyke saga. I sneaked a glance at my watch. Hopefully I could dole out some generic yet helpful advice and be back at the apartment in under an hour. I was already starting to shiver from the sweat drying against my skin, so I wrapped my hands around the warm cup.

  “I was fired yesterday.” Jess seemed to shrink even smaller as she said the words, and was struggling not to cry.

  “Shit.” I tried to regroup quickly and think of a more appropriate response. My assumption had been way off—and not for the first time, I reminded myself. I needed to stop that, as it inevitably set me up for a nasty surprise. “Shit,” I repeated. Brilliant. Good thing I was going to become a lawyer.

  Jess bailed me out. “Yep. Remember when I was telling you in the bar that I was having problems at work? Well, my boss called me in his office and read a termination notice off a piece of paper in front of the HR director and then had security walk me out of the building. I didn’t have any warning.”