The Day The Music Died

"I do the same thing on a one to one basis," replied Heather. "Corporate lawyer."

"Interesting," said the lady, throwing back her brown hair. "You people frequently need my services. Here, take this."

She reached into her pocket and took out her business card. Heather took it and read the name before letting out a low whistle.

"Merchant-Warner, and you're Alicia Warner. You're well known in the corporate circles. Our clients rave about you."

The traffic cleared and Heather drove on, waving goodbye to her acquaintance. A few feet ahead, her car lurched to a stop again, barely missing a rear bumper. She turned on the radio and listened to some jazz. There was a ripple control for her seat which massaged her back. She sighed in spite of the comfort spreading through her lower back. Something was plaguing her.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the face of Fiona Cahill. There had been something about her expression Heather could not shake off. Heather had expected to see fear clouding her face, a nervous twitch and sweating. Her heart rate should have soared and palpitations pounded every blood vessel until she was reduced to a mass of human jelly, bound together by tense nerves. But it was not so. She had the defiance not to roll over and die. Heather had seen it in her eyes.

Heather sighed and punched the horn again, letting out an unremitting blare. She felt frustrated, knowing she could have scared Fiona away had she not been so bullish, but Fiona stood strong, thinking she could take what was thrown at her.

"She's wrong," whispered Heather to herself. "This case will destroy her. I tried to warn her off. She brought it on herself."

She stopped and replayed that last sentence in her mind. As absurd and cruel as it sounded on the surface, it was true. The rich and powerful are ruthless to anybody who dares stand up to them. At their behest, Heather had set events in motion which would make Fiona Cahill regret everything.

'Why the hell do I feel so damn guilty?'

Heather was in a good place in her life. She was almost thirty and had a fabulous job. She was on the verge of buying an expansive Upper East Side apartment overlooking Central Park. All she had to do was quash this case.

Yet when she thought about what she was going to do to Fiona, she felt a strange heaviness in the pit of her stomach. She had no choice, her client would not have settled for anything else. Heather clamped her eyes shut, trying to foresee what awaited the defendant. All she saw was taunting and nowhere to hide. She was about to inflict a fate on Fiona Cahill that nobody deserved, let alone the innocent victim of a rape.

The fight was never going to be fair and Fiona was a fool for thinking otherwise.

"Are you serious?" said Heather's boss, flabbergasted.

"Yes," she groaned into the phone. "I'm almost there."

"You're going to meet the victim without her lawyer present? That borders on judicial misconduct. Do you have any idea what could happen if the ADA found out?"

"Unless he has surveillance on Ms Cahill, he won't know a thing."

"How are you so sure she won't tell him?"

"She won't. Trust me on that," she said dryly but with a firm edge to her tone.

"What are you trying to do here, Heather? Are you trying to scare her off?" asked her curious boss. "It's not necessary, you know. That plan you hatched earlier will make sure her trial ends before it begins."

"I'm trying to see if there is a way I can get her to settle after all. Even the hint of a trial could be damaging to our client and you know that."

"You have a point," came the thoughtful reply. "All right, I'll give you some latitude on this, but I'm going to deny it if anyone asks me later. I hope you know you're playing with fire."

"And that's why you guys pay me half a million a year, apart from the percentage I make off all my cases and settlements," said Heather sweetly.

"Just remember, you're looking at intimidation, witness tampering and so much more if this stunt goes wrong." The call went dead.

Heather put her phone into her jacket and leaned back. The derelict subway rattled on. She had wisely decided not to take her sports car to the Bronx where it would undoubtedly return with several parts missing. In truth, she never visited the rough neighbourhoods.

But circumstances meant she felt coerced into making this trip. For reasons known only to her subconscious, she was on a rickety subway compartment surrounded by a motley group of sleeping drunks and junkies heading into the heart of the Bronx. She dared not rest her head on the wall because of the chewing gum and less savoury items hanging from them. Gauging her surroundings, Heather held her jacket more tightly around her body, not wanting to show her fellow passengers the dress underneath which was probably worth more than their combined bank balances.

'A girl like me is a walking bullseye here,' she thought.

Even with this precaution, her demeanour and looks caught stares from the more sober passengers. She looked into her lap, avoiding the bloodshot eyes. The crackling speaker next to her announced that her station was next. She got up and moved to the door, jerking away from a quick feel copped off her firm ass. The rusted door slid open and she walked out. Immediately, her eyes drank in the detritus of society on all sides. The pillars were covered in layers of dust with the names of various couples scrawled into them. Graffiti, mostly obscene, covered the walls. Old newspapers, empty paper cups and wrappers littered the floor and tracks.

Heather walked past the shuffling hordes of humanity waiting for the next train. Some of them gave her a second glance. She climbed up the stairs briskly and took her first look at skid row. It almost looked like a parallel universe. Most of her echelon of society would not believe such a side of New York existed. The roads and buildings were covered in a uniform layer of grime. Menacing looking people with matching tattoos lurked around corners and porches in small groups. Her sharp eyes picked out at least three hoodies surreptitiously passing sachets to others.

She took out her phone and took cover under a ledge to check out Google Maps. Fiona Cahill's building was a few turns ahead. Heather lit one of her Marlboros and blended in with the crowd. There was a dive bar around the corner where she saw a fight between two inebriated patrons spill out onto the street. She gracefully sidestepped them and made her way to the housing project, to be greeted by a graffiti of oversized boobs proudly emblazoned on the wall.

A few more shifty gazes fell her way. She found her way to the decrepit elevator with a few other people. One couple made out for four floors before the woman reached into her paramour's pants and dragged him out at their floor. The whole scene might have been a tad more palatable had they both looked old enough to vote.

Heather got off some floors later and walked to apartment number 5. She stopped for a few moments and stubbed out her cigarette before knocking on the door. A moment later, the door opened and a face peered out under the chain. The expression on the face changed to shock on seeing her visitor.

"You? What the fuck are you doing here?" Fiona yelled.

"I'm here to talk to you."

"You've said enough, lady. Now get out of here."

"It's important, Ms Cahill. I wouldn't have come otherwise," Heather said.

"Oh so now you plan to tell me exactly how you'll humiliate me in court?" Fiona sneered. "Or do you want to ask my price in case someone else wants to rape me?"

"Neither," said Heather, keeping her tone steady. "I've come to help you."

"I think you've helped me quite enough. Now go before I tell Mr D'Angelo you came to see me. He told me to call him if anybody from your firm approached me."

She tried to slam the door. Heather stuck her foot in at the last moment and jammed it. Fiona looked at her through the narrow gap with hatred sizzling in her eyes.

"Just leave, godammit!" she wailed.

"Fiona, this case is going to destroy you even before it starts. You have no idea what lengths my firm will go to to make sure of that. I will most likely lose my job if my boss finds out what I want to tell you."

Fiona glared, but didn't say anything. She kept the door open a few inches. Heather took the hint and began.

"My firm is going to frame you for falsely accusing rape."

"Why should I believe anything you say?" Fiona hissed back.

"Because I came up with the idea, because I have no motive to lie and because you don't have a choice."

Fiona gaped at Heather. Heather broke into a wry smile.

"Can I come in now?"

The apartment was crammed. Paint peeled off the walls and the furniture only added to the sense of claustrophobia. The table had a chipped leg, but still looked in better condition than the rest of the place which was in a state of advanced decay. Wires hung out of the cracks in the plaster.

Heather sat on the couch, careful to avoid the exposed coils. Fiona drew up a chair and sat down looking intently in the other woman's direction. Heather composed herself and began.

"As we speak, some hackers are creating a false email in your name to your boyfriend dated just before the incident. It will detail a plan where you have consensual sex with Lincoln, then go to your boyfriend who roughs you up and gives you bruises you can pass off as signs of rape. The morning news tomorrow will lead with this and that will be the end of your hopes. Over and above the infamy, you will also be prosecuted for false accusations and the sensational media-fed jury will put you away for a long, long time. That's the gist of it."

Fiona's jaw hung open and her eyes bugged out of her head. She wanted to say something, but the words never formed on her tongue. Finally, a hoarse sound escaped her lips.

"Why?"

Heather looked at the stupefied woman.

"Because they can..."

Fiona looked pale. She bit her lower lip, trying to digest the words. Heather spoke again.

"This is real life, Fiona, not an episode of SVU where the rapist gets convicted. In real life, the rich and powerful get away with it. The victims are supposed to take the money and run. You didn't do that. You stood up for yourself and wanted a trial. You tried to beat a broken system that is always going to victimise you. Take the deal now, otherwise you'll see your face on the morning news."

Instinctively, Heather reached out and placed her palm over Fiona's hand. They looked at each other for some time before Fiona asked the one question burning in the chaotic mess of thoughts within her head.

"Why are you doing this?"

Heather shrugged and said: "Sometimes scumbag lawyers have a conscience too, I suppose."

Heather's hand locked around Fiona's and the hard line around her mouth softened. She said wistfully. "It's dark and ugly out there, Ms Cahill. The only kind of justice is the one that the Lincoln McCarthys of the world want there to be."

"You're wrong," retorted an angry Fiona suddenly. "This is just some sort of trick to get me to give up. I thought you bastards would try something like that."

Heather quietly took out her tablet. She ignored the ranting in front of her and opened the appropriate Word file. She held it out to a clearly livid Fiona who snatched it away. Fiona read the contents of the file and her anger was slowly replaced by a cold dread. Her hands were shivering by the time she finished.

"What is this?" she whispered.

"It's a press release," said Heather. "It has all the details about how you framed Lincoln for rape, including a screenshot of the email you never sent. If you don't drop the case tonight, you can look forward to seeing this on the front page of the Times tomorrow. Think about it."

Fiona gripped the sides of her chair hard. Her eyes clenched shut before she looked straight at Heather. Something snapped within her.

"It's not fair."

"It was never fair," Heather stated simply. "You have no idea how much I wish it was."

Fiona looked at her opposing lawyer closely. Right from the moment she first entered the settlement room, she had the nagging feeling that she had seen her face somewhere before. She tilted her head from side to side, trying to remember that face from the news. Finally, the penny dropped.

"Wait, you're the woman who took medical custody of a dying lady last year and took her around the world. I remember the Wall Street Journal had a piece on the whole thing."

Heather groaned inwardly, praying for her pseudo-celebrity status to die down. At least the questions and looks everywhere had subsided to the rare glance on the street as the public returned to worrying over the real news issues, such as starving actresses with drug problems and whether Brangelina are finally getting married.

"I'd rather not talk about it," she said dismissively.

"How can you keep fighting for the bad guys?" Fiona asked, her interest piqued.

"It's all I know how to do. I hardly feel it any more," Heather shrugged. "I've cried all my tears out long back and I don't have any left."

"Should I feel sorry?" said Fiona derisively, still not completely trusting the lawyer.

"Don't be. You're the victim here and I'm trying to help you like I should have from the beginning."

"Thanks," Fiona replied in a forlorn voice. The steely determination of earlier was replaced by a resigned futility as she finally came to grips with what she was up against.

"This city is going to eat you alive, Fiona. Take the money and go back to Poughkeepsie."

It almost chipped Heather's cold heart to see Fiona nod in defeat. Tears still eluded her, but the look of hopeless despair was worse. Heather reached out and cupped her chin.

"Hey, the file said you liked drugs. Are there any in your apartment right now? We could both use a cheer after this bitch of a day."

Fiona forced half a smile but shook her head. Heather pressed on.

"Can you get some from your dealer right now?"

"Maybe, but I don't have any money."

"Wait a sec," said Heather, reaching into her purse. Fiona peered inside and was shocked by the sight of a wad of bills.

"Are you out of your mind? Bringing that much cash into this neighbourhood."

"Well, I don't plan on coming again," Heather said, taking out a roll of bills. "Here. Make sure you get the good stuff."

Fiona nodded and walked away with the money, dazed and unsteady .

A FEW JOINTS LATER

"The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
... And whispered in the sounds of silence ..."

Heather sat silently for a few seconds, letting the haunting melody settle inside her head. Fiona strummed the last few chords before letting her head hang.

"That was amazing, Fiona," blurted out Heather, applauding. She knew the singing was good even without the two helpings of cannabis assisting her appreciation of the soulful rendition. Every word that sprang from Fiona's lips caressed her skin and made it ripple. She closed her eyes and let her relaxed mind lose itself in the myriad of euphony enveloping them.

Fiona got down on the floor and sleepily hugged her guitar. Her eyes closed and her fingers clutched the fret tightly.

"I've had this guitar for years now. When I was in high school, my dad hocked it to pay for his next few bottles. I tracked down his friend, who was the new owner, and begged for it back," reminisced Fiona. "He gave it to me only after I let him take my virginity. I've lost count of how many times I've traded in my body since. For rent, for food, for an audition... everything. My cunt is my only currency."

Heather scooted closer to her and reached out to place a palm on her shoulder.

"I hated Lincoln from the moment I met him. He is a sadistic control freak who thinks he can push people around for fun. He made it clear that the only way I was going to stick with his label was if I let him have his way with me whenever he wanted. I was so desperate, I actually did it. Last week, for the first time, I refused him."

"And he raped you," Heather completed emotionlessly.

"He reminded me who I was and who he was. He didn't like the idea that someone could defy his control. Part of me is relieved that I'm finally free from him."

Fiona lowered her tone to a conspiratorial whisper. "Can't you do something to him? You're rich and you understand the law."

"That's the problem," sighed Heather. "Because I understand the law, I know that it's tailor made so that the rich and powerful can get away with anything. People like me, we are hired to exploit these strategically placed loopholes."

"What about something outside the law?" whispered Fiona. "Can't you call in a favour with one of your former clients?"

"That's the drugs talking," laughed off Heather. "No, I can't do that."

"Bummer," sighed Fiona dramatically, lighting up her next joint.

They sat on the floor, smoking silently for some time. Heather saw her world distort around the edges. She blinked and forced her eyes open, letting the walls swim around her.

"I know how cheesy this must sound, but all I ever truly loved was my music. More often than not, the tune in my head got me through the day and my guitar was the only reason I didn't have to cry myself to sleep at night. I would have probably killed myself way back if it wasn't for my music."

Heather's fingers clasped her shoulder more tightly. Fiona let a few droplets appear under her lashes.

"I let that monster fuck me so many times just so that I could make more music. His label was going to launch me so high that finally, all I would have would be my music. I came here with so many dreams."

"Welcome to New York, where dreams come to die," said Heather loudly, holding her hands out to mime a road sign. "It's our official motto."

They laughed at each other in their drug-induced stupor. Fiona reached out and put an arm around Heather's back.

"What's your story?" she asked.

"Nothing much," shrugged Heather, exhaling a puff of smoke.

"Tell me about you and that woman you spent all of last year caring for."

"I idolized her once upon a time because she gave me the courage to dream," said Heather. "She was all I had left of that dream and I couldn't bear to see her die alone."

"So you had a dream once as well?"

"Yes I did," sighed Heather contemplatively. "I've learnt from that mistake."

They looked at each other silently, drinking in the conversation.

"I'll text my boss now, let him know you took the deal."

SEVERAL JOINTS LATER

"Your turn now," giggled Fiona.

Heather rolled her eyes and cracked her neck.

"Truth."

"Have you ever..." said Fiona, thinking of something suitable. "... been part of a threesome?"

"Once, back in Yale," came the frank reply.

"Wow.. who with?"

"Wait for your next turn," said Heather drowsily. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth."

"Have you ever had sex in public?" asked the intoxicated lawyer.

"This one time when I got particularly stoned, I did it in a movie theatre, the parking lot outside and on the subway coming back here," laughed Fiona. "The best part was that it was three different guys."

"Truth," said Heather, smiling at her new friend's exploits.

"Who were the others in your threesome?" shot back Fiona immediately, beaming with a smoking joint in hand.

"My dorm study group," replied Heather plainly. "We snuck in some weed to celebrate the end of our midterms and that set the ball rolling."

"Wait, all three of you were from the same dorm? That means three girls, right.... Oh!" she spluttered to a halt at the smile of assent from Heather.

"Does that mean you're gay?" Fiona asked in a small voice.