Woman of the Night

"You got that right," she agreed. Suddenly, without premonition, she leaned toward me in an attempted kiss. I bucked my head backward and avoided her lips. "Woah," I said, alarmed.

"Sorry," she uttered, her eyes shooting toward the sky.

"I think there's a misunderstanding," I said. "I'm—"

She blurted, "sorry, I don't know what I was thinking."

"I'm not eager to move so quickly," I finished my statement. "This is just our second date and— and I'm just not ready for that."

She drooped her head. "I know. I don't know why I did that."

Neither of us said anything for a few moments. My throat was tight. "Let's walk," I suggested, my voice anxious.

"Sure," she said awkwardly. I tugged at the leash, and Zeus reluctantly followed, being sure to keep his distance from Jenna.

The rest of the evening was off. What started as a friendly conversation quickly turned into an edgy dance of awkwardness. There was silence between each comment or statement. And I answered each of her questions with brevity.

She asked, "how's the lawyer business going?"

"It's going," I sighed.

"That didn't sound too confident," Jenna said.

"Na, I love the job."

"Oh," she breathed.

"In fact," I added. "I probably should go home soon. You just reminded me of all this stuff I need to have done by tomorrow morning. And Laila—" I paused.

"Laila?" Jenna murmured. "Your assistant, right?"

"Yeah. She works harder than me, so if I'm tired, then I know she must be."

"Good employees are hard to come by nowadays," Jenna added. "You're lucky to have her."

"I am," I said.

The date was amiable, but nothing special. It gave me something to do, I suppose. Before parting ways, Jenna and I again agreed to meet somewhere soon, but I reminded her once more that kissing was off the table — at least in the foreseeable future.

* * *

The next morning, as usual, Laila was in my office when I arrived.

"You know, Laila, you're always chastising me for overworking, but you're always here before me."

She replied nonchalantly, "my job is easier than yours. You need the extra rest. And someone has to get this stuff organized so you're victorious in your meetings and trials."

"You work harder than I do, Laila."

"No, I don't, Emily. You work plenty hard." She pointed to her temple. "And you went to law school and crammed all that information up there. I didn't. And I don't do anything at home — you do. You sit at home and read these files until the ungodly hours of the morning."

"How was your night?" I asked.

She sighed, "it went."

"Meaning?" I looked at her intriguingly.

"That means Damien is being Damien. He's living in his own little world sometimes."

"That really didn't clarify anything," I remarked.

"It's complicated," she answered. "I think I keep getting on his nerves."

"How?" I squeaked. "You're like the sweetest person in the world." I lowered my voice and crossed my arms. "You just say the word and I'll beat his ass."

She chuckled, "it's not that serious. And you'll lose your job."

"Girl, I've put so many people in prison for the same thing — I've looked through so much evidence — I know how to do it without getting caught."

She glared at me through the sides of her eyes. "That's concerning," she giggled.

"Na, I'm just kidding. But you can talk to me if there's an issue. I know you work for me, but I'd like to think we're friends."

"Of course, we're friends," she said. "But you're also my boss. And it's my job to remind you that you have a bond hearing in forty minutes."

"Yeah, yeah," I grumbled. "What's the deal this morning? I didn't get a chance to pre-read last night."

"Your 8:30 is for Mr. Kyle Applebee." Laila looked intently at the report while paraphrasing for me in a monotone voice: "Highway Patrol picked him up last night for drunk driving on I-126, and in the process of his arrest, he yelled to the cops 'I'm going to kick you in the balls — I'm going to kick you in the balls'."

"And did he?"

"Well, he kicked the officer right in the crotch, but it was a girl." She shrugged, "so yes, but no. They charged him with assault and battery against an officer and DUI. He's unlikely a flight risk and doesn't have much money, so they'll be pushing for a low bail."

She handed me the binder. "We can do $2,000. You're amazing, Laila. And I'm starting to think alcohol is the only reason I even have a job." I added, "hey, by the way, weird question — do you have any tattoos?"

She held up one finger to silently say, "hold on." She rolled up her sleeve to her elbow and pointed to her forearm. "Here," she grinned.

"Wait, where?" I said after failing to see anything.

"Right here," she said as if it were obvious.

"Laila, there's nothing on your arm."

"No, get closer," she instructed. "It's very, very small."

"That?" I said, my voice going high. She was pointing to a dot that was no larger than the ballpoint of a pen. "That's a freckle, Laila."

"It's not," she giggled. "It's a tattoo."

"Laila, what the hell are you talking about? It's the size of a grain of sand."

She rolled her eyes, "it's a tattoo, Emily. When I was thirteen, my friends and I were playing with a tattoo pen that someone had. I opted to get one little dot — my first, and so far my only tattoo."

"I should've known you were going to have some ridiculous story," I shook my head.

"Well, I was thirteen. What do you expect?"

I turned my palms upward, "what were you doing playing with a tattoo pen at thirteen years old?"

"Are you thinking of getting a tattoo?" Laila asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Just thinking," I admitted. "No commitment yet."

"What would you get?"

"Some sort of flower, maybe," I said.

"Where would you put it?"

I pointed at Laila, "on your arm to cover that atrocity of a tattoo."

Her teeth beamed. "You're so stupid, Emily." She pointed at the folder, "there's four warrant requests that have come in since last night if you want to look them over now."

"Let's knock 'em out in ten minutes, shall we?" I set my briefcase on the floor and sat on my desk so that my feet dangled off the side. "Hit me."

"Okay, first one," Laila began reading from a paper file. She sat in her chair, dangerously leaning it backward onto two legs, propping her feet onto her desk. She spoke with her right hand as she read, "Robert Johansson of Columbia sold his neighbor a pistol. He did not realize his neighbor is a convicted felon. The neighbor robbed a bank, fractured a woman's skull with the gun, and was caught by police. This was a couple of weeks ago. Of course, the cops used the serial number to trace the gun to Mr. Johansson. Police have requested a warrant for his arrest."

"Mr. Johansson did not run a federal firearm background check?" I asked.

"He did not, according to the warrant request."

"It's a felony," I acknowledged.

"You want to charge him?"

"Uhhhh," I groaned, thinking it over. "He violated federal law too for failing to do the background check before selling to a felon. But yeah, send that to the judge," I said.

"Got it," she snapped, setting the paper aside.

"Second, Brandon Morrison is suspected by the city of Camden police department to have stolen property in his home after his fingerprint was found at the site of a burglary."

"Throw that one to an associate prosecutor's office."

She continued, "next, Wilbur Davis Beauregard — the most Confederate-sounding name I ever heard—" I let on a scarce smile. She went on, "he is an employee at Dollar General in Forrest Acres and is suspected of filming women peeing in the store's public restroom. Police received a tip after Mr. Beauregard allegedly posted the videos to a website. It's unclear of the age of the women he recorded." Her eyes lifted from the paper. "Prosecuting him?"

"Oh, yeah," I said confidently. "Definitely ask the judge for a warrant for that putz."

"I thought so," she smirked. "Next, Teanna Trump is suspected of abusing her—"

I squinted my eyes and held up my hand to interject, "who?"

"Teanna Truett," Laila answered.

I shook my head, "that's not what you said."

Laila's expression shifted to one of confusion. "I said Teanna Truett, didn't I?"

"No, you didn't," I rejected. "You said Teanna Trump. That's a porn star, Laila."

Laila hid the lower half of her face with the paper. She mumbled, "I didn't say that."

I giggled, "you did." I turned my head and looked at her curiously through the sides of my eyes. "And why is the name Teanna Trump fresh in your mind, Laila?"

She belted a deep, anxious laugh, still hiding her mouth. "I — well, it's been a while since Damien and I spent the night."

"You're funny, Laila," I said, trying not to laugh. But as I took a sip of coffee, I was stricken by an involuntary chortle and dribbled a few drops down my chin and onto my blouse.

Laila erupted in laughter at my misfortune, but her joy was so contagious that I laughed too. She stood up and leaned on the table to keep herself upright. She let out a couple of cute, spontaneous snorts, and no longer could she conceal her expression behind the paper, which had easily fallen to the floor. I tried to speak, but I couldn't get any words out, "w— wh— wh—". I roared until my diaphragm spasmed and my face was the color of a strawberry.

"I'm — I'm — I'm sorry," she said, grasping her tummy, breathing heavily between phrases. "That was crude — especially for the office."

"Sorry?" I said, my voice going high. "At what point during my laughter did you think I was upset? That was funny."

She did not answer but handed me a paper towel. She pointed to my blouse, "you have a little—"

"I know I spilled," I howled. "I—" Another round of giggles attacked me. I added, "Teanna Trump's a good choice, but she doesn't do enough lesbian stuff, you know?"

She went on, "and how do you know that, young lady?"

I leaned forward and rested my hands against my cheeks, "actually, this is going to sound like a lie because it's silly as hell. But my dumbass cousin tricked me into Googling her a couple of years ago, back when the pornstar shared the name of a particular government leader. He said that the president's sister had been shot. He said 'go to Google images and search Teanna Trump.' Of course, my stupid ass believed him, and you could imagine the surprise I had when I saw an image of a girl holding a giant cock."

Laila's shoulders bounced again, her teeth glittering in the office's artificial light. She shook her head, "I wonder if other people talk about the same nasty stuff we do."

"I hope so," I remarked. "You have to laugh in this job. It's the only way you can keep from going crazy with all of the shit we see. Murderers, wife-beaters, child abusers — We've seen pictures of dead bodies, of rape victims, of kids with their eyes gouged out. We have to do what we have to do to stay sane. I mean, I think that's the main reason I stopped dating for a while. I just don't trust anyone anymore. You never know who's the ax murderer and who's not."

"I guess you're right," she mumbled, her smile fading. "But you trust your new girlfriend, right."

"Girlfriend?" I said curiously. "Oh, Jenna. Sometimes I forget." I leaned back, resting my weight on my palms. Visions of Jenna's attempted kiss returned to my mind. "I do. She's quite lovely." I almost felt like I was lying. Laila nodded. "Anyway," I sighed, "what did Ms. Truett allegedly do?" I placed special emphasis on the syllables in "Truett."

Laila breathed heavily, "her seven-year-old child's elementary teacher called child services to report apparent cigarette burns. When they investigated, the child indicated that Mom, Ms. Truett, was the one burning her. Investigators also found healed scars on the child's back from what appeared to be from some type of whip."

Laila looked at me quietly; I tapped my finger slowly on the desk as my happy mood into anger. "See?" I turned my palms toward her. "This is what I mean. Disgusting — send that one to a judge. And the last one?"

"City of Columbia police suspect Michael Rowan as having at least a couple of joints of marijuana in his house after he told police he had weed at home."

I rolled my eyes. "Why would someone tell that to the cops? But no. Bump that one to a federal court. I'm not interested in wasting this office's time on petty drug charges."

"Okay," Laila replied. "You know the federal courts will dismiss it, right?"

"We don't have the time or capacity to lock someone in prison for smoking a joint. If the federal government doesn't go after drug offenders, that's their prerogative."

Laila looked at her watch. "You've got twenty minutes to make it to the courtroom."

"Thanks!" I chirped before gathering my things and leaving the office. After closing the door, I peeked my head back in. I whispered, "and by the way — I know everybody has their little thing they like most. But if you ever stumble onto some girl-on-girl stuff, give Shyla Jennings a shot — there's something about her that's just — ohh, I can't explain it — she's so exciting. And Demi Sutra has some good lesbian stuff too. Check her out if you're in the mood."

* * *

"You can go home now. It's six o'clock," I said, grabbing my keys and purse.

Ignoring me, Laila continued typing on the computer. "Actually," she said, "I'm starving. Let's go get some food."

"Food?"

"Yeah, food. You know, the substance we consume for nutrients and sustenance?"

"Oh, thanks for clarifying," I replied sarcastically. "You don't have plans with Damien?"

"Bah," she grunted like Ebenezer Scrooge. "He can take care of himself."

I asked, "oh— where do you want to go?"

"Waffle House," she said confidently, standing up and patting her flat tummy.

"Waffle House?" I stuck my nose up repulsively.

"You don't like Waffle House?" She said, leaning her hands on my desk.

"I've never been to Waffle House."

She widened her eyes. "You've never been to Waffle House? What kind of Southerner are you?" She spoke like a teacher scolding a student.

I shrugged, "I've just never been before."

She shook her head disdainfully. "Come on, let's go."

There was only one other customer in the Waffle House and two employees. One employee was cooking bacon on the griddle, which was practically in the middle of the restaurant. There's no secret with the food at Waffle House; everything is cooked in the open for everyone to see. The other employee was hand-washing dishes at a sink, again in the middle of the restaurant.

We sat in a booth in the corner. "You have to experience Waffle House," Laila suggested. "It's American culture."

I joked, "do you know how many crimes I've prosecuted that have occurred here?"

"Ahh," Laila sneered, sliding me a menu that was wedged between the table and the wall.

I took the menu and tried to open it, but I struggled. I dug my fingernails into the edge to get it open, but I couldn't get it to separate. This went on for a few minutes. I caught Laila giggling at my failure, trying to conceal her mouth behind her wrist. "What are you laughing at?"

"It doesn't open, Emily. It's just one page."

"Why didn't you say that a minute ago instead of laughing at me?"

"Cause I enjoy watching you struggle," she said pretentiously.

The waiter, dressed in a black apron and a blue dress shirt, said, "hello, ladies. Can I get you started with something to drink?"

"Water," I replied.

"Sweet tea," Laila followed.

When he returned with the beverages, Laila ordered, "I'll have the All-Star Special, scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, and a waffle." She never once looked at the menu; she answered as if she had ordered that exact meal a hundred times.

The waiter looked at me. "Ugh — I guess I'll have two scrambled eggs and toast."

"I'll get that started for y'all," he smiled.

Laila huffed, "two eggs and toast? That's the most blasé meal I've ever heard of."

"I'm not that hungry. You're eating enough for the two of us," I judged.

"I'll work it off at the gym," she dismissed with a soft wave of her hand. She began twirling a section of her hair with her fingers. The cook threw three pieces of raw bacon onto the grill. He cracked eggs into a pan. He poured batter into a waffle iron, loaded bread into the toaster, and dropped potatoes onto the griddle.

Laila leaned back and said. "I think this is the year I apply to law school." Her voice was enthusiastic, yet marred by apprehension.

"Yes! You'll be amazing, I know you will. You're amazing at what you do, Laila. I know I've said it a million times, but I'll say it a million more. You're like the best person I could have ever hired to work with me."

"Thanks," she said, humbled. Her smile was big. "I've been thinking about it more closely these past few months. I'll probably start next January. It's already too late to apply for the fall semester this year." Her eyes sank, "I just have this continued fear of not making it."

I said, "you'll make it, Laila. Your undergrad GPA was nearly perfect, right?"

"It was," she nodded.

"And you have work experience," I added. "And I know I'm not the most notable name in law around here, but I can write a damn-good recommendation letter. Seriously, there's nothing I want more for you than to accomplish this. But if Lucas Harmon can get through the legal system, anyone can."

Laila chuckled, "thanks. I really appreciate it."

My phone buzzed, but I ignored it. Again, it buzzed. She said, "someone's texting you."

"It's not important right now."

"What if it's Jenna?"

I sighed and checked my phone. It was Jenna.

Jenna: "Heyyy, Wanna hang out on Saturday?"

"It's Jenna," I said.

Laila bloomed with curiosity. She rested her elbows on the table and laid her chin on her hands. "Do tell."

I snickered under my breath. "Nosy." Laila stared at me in expectation. "She wants to meet on Saturday."

"Do it," she jumped.

"I don't even know where yet."

"Do it," Laila insisted.

"Okay," I said, smiling. I returned the text:

Me: "Sure! What's the plan?"

I had mixed feelings. At once, my fingers ached waiting for her response as there was something thrilling about dating again. But still, I wasn't ready for how quickly Jenna was trying to take this relationship.

Jenna: "Are you a competitive girl?"

Me: "Very competitive"

Jenna: "Wanna meet at High Wire?"

Me: "The arcade place? Sure :)"

Jenna: "Meet me at 7 o'clock. Don't be late."

Me: "I won't. See you there."

I showed Laila the phone, and she beamed with joy. "See?" She piqued her voice. I told you going to that bar was a good idea."

The waiter brought the food to the table. Laila had three plates: one for the waffle, one for the bacon, and one for the eggs, toast, and potatoes. Laila ate the food quickly as if she hadn't eaten all week.

"You know," she said with her mouth partially full, "I keep thinking about what you said earlier, that you forget you have a girlfriend. That's a strange thing to say."

"I didn't mean it like that," I shook my head. "And I'm not sure she's my girlfriend yet."

"Then what do you define as 'girlfriend'?" She wondered.

I tapped my chin as I thought. "I think a kiss is required to gain that title. A proper kiss, I mean."

She chuckled, "you have the weirdest rules."

I pointed at her with a fork, "and I'm a long way away from kissing anyone."

Laila lifted her eyebrows and toyed with her sleeve. "At this rate, you're going to die single," she said.

"I am not," I smirked. "I'm taking my time."

"Oh, yeah," she groaned facetiously. "When's the last time you kissed a girl? Tell me." She held up the palm of her hand. "Actually, I'll bet it's been longer than I've known you."