The backlash from the loss came almost immediately. Harrison Doyle was eager to show the voters of New York that he had been the right choice for their district attorney and gloated to the media. I was at a café having breakfast, reading the paper days after the verdict was announced, and there were still stories about the trial because both Harrison and Stu Bogovian refused to let it die.
A Post headline read, “Invigorated DA Vows to Continue Success, Convict All of Manhattan’s Criminals.” Inside the article, Harrison was quoted as saying, “Ex-Congressman Bogovian was practically a career criminal, and until he was found guilty last week, he was getting away with countless heinous acts. His attorney, Peter Caine of Rhodes & Caine, LLP, had the reputation for being unbeatable, but clearly, he has met his match. In this new administration, we refuse to allow anyone to bully the courts, and justice will be done.”
I felt assailed from all angles. It seemed no matter where I looked, I was being reminded of my first loss. In a television interview, I watched Stu rewrite the history of the trial.
“If I had an attorney worth his salt, I wouldn’t be in this godforsaken place, wearing this hideous jumpsuit, trying to clear my good name.” He sat inside an interview room at Rikers Island, inviting as many journalists as he could to come publicize his side of the story. “Of course I’m going to appeal the court’s decision. And once the verdict is overturned, which it surely will be—” he nodded his fat, sweaty head “—then I will probably sue my former attorney, Peter Caine. He shouldn’t be in this business if he is unable to properly represent his clients.”
I spent those days and weeks learning what it felt like to seethe. I was enraged, livid, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I had partnered with a man who was practically a celebrity and the face we put on in public and all the actions we took were scrutinized and dissected. My hands were tied, and I had to sit back and take it.
“You’re breathing awfully heavily over there,” Marcus said to me when I got to the office.
“I’m trying to keep from killing anyone.”
He flashed a grin that filled his whole face and pointed to his bottom drawer. “Bottle of gin down there if you need it.”
“I hate gin, never drink the stuff.”
“It’s good that you’re feeling this way. You should feel this way. You’ve never lost before, and you’re never going to want to lose again now that you know it doesn’t suit you.”
“You should have let me plead him out, Marcus. I don’t need to go through this to know I don’t like losing.”
“No. I don’t plead out. I don’t settle,” he growled. “You win and sometimes you lose, but you don’t play it safe. You’ll never get to my level playing it safe. I asked you to join me because I knew you had what it took, and this is just part of the learning process. Don’t you dare make me regret bringing you on.” He spoke to me the way I feared he would if I lost a case. But he wasn’t angry at me for losing, I told myself; he was just teaching me a lesson.
Marcus told me he was going to limit the cases I worked on for a while after the media coverage died down. He wanted me to focus on other endeavors. “I’m going to keep you under the radar for a while. You’re going to need to keep working, because I don’t want you hiding under the covers like a scared little bunny rabbit, but I want you out of the media for a while,” he said. “Get your bachelor pad in order, buy some suits, spend some time with Juliette. Spend some money, for crying out loud. You’ve earned it. But don’t say a word to the press, and keep up appearances like you don’t even know who the fuck Harrison Doyle is, you hear me? If he gets under your skin and anyone knows it, you’re done. Show them all that nothing can get to you. Learn to wear the disguise, Peter.”
“I don’t want to step off the main stage and get lost in the background, Marcus. I didn’t build this firm to be your number two. We are partners—equals.”
He glared at me with his head cocked to the left and stood up from behind his desk. “We are partners, but we are not equals. Until you get into the headspace you need to get into, you’re going to be number two, understand?”
“No, I don’t understand, Marcus. You want me to be your partner, you put my name next to yours, you’re encouraging me to take your daughter out, but still you don’t seem to think I’m ready. I don’t understand.”
My frustration was overwhelming. Before I partnered with Marcus, I’d been undefeated in court at my old firm, I’d been swimming in money and living the high life. In law school, I’d been at the top of my class, everyone had looked up to me, and now I was being made to lose cases, suffer indignity and public humiliation, and I was being told I was number two? This was supposed to be my ascent, not my downfall.
“You haven’t seen success yet,” Marcus said. “You think it felt good to win before? Just wait and see how it feels once we’re ‘equals,’ as you say. Once you’re up at my level and you know how to work this system, you’ll be so high, nothing will ever bring you down. I know you’re pissed now, and I know you don’t want to have to go through this schooling, but if you want to get to the top, you’ll do exactly what I say.”
* * *
Once I acquiesced to temporarily stepping out of the spotlight at Rhodes & Caine, I found, with Marcus’s help, it was easier than I thought to focus on life outside of work. He brought me to tailors who crafted me the highest quality bespoke suits and sent me to John Lobb to have shoes made. He introduced me to owners, maître d’s and managers at all the important restaurants, and soon I became a regular, as well. I became more confident bringing Juliette out—I knew just where to take her and just how to behave. While a deep hate for Harrison Doyle and the feeling of humiliation still festered inside of me, I was able to distract myself with Juliette.
Juliette had just launched the Rhodes Foundation, a charitable organization she put together with the society and old-money connections she had through her parents and their friends. Juliette would personally research the plight of various unfortunate peoples, figure out their individual needs and throw massive fund-raisers benefiting the cause du jour. She was able to gracefully straddle the line between privileged child of high society and salt of the earth humanitarian.
I took her to Restaurant Daniel one night, excited to show off the new connections I had made. It didn’t occur to me that she would know the staff at the restaurant better than I did.
“Mademoiselle Rhodes,” the manager greeted her, “welcome back. How lovely to see you again.” He shook my hand with a sly smile on his face, and I was reminded that I was the new blood around here.
“Is that a new suit?” she asked me as I helped her into her chair.
“Yes.” I stood back so she could see it before taking my seat. “Your father took me to a tailor to have it made.”
“Looks very familiar. I think he has one just like it,” she said with disappointment coloring her tone. Before she allowed herself to recede into displeasure about her father, she changed gears and I spent the evening listening to her regale me with stories about her work with the foundation.
“I went to Florida after Hurricane Andrew hit,” she began. “I remember before I went, I had always felt like hurricanes were just intensely bad weather, and the devastation was exaggerated for the sake of television ratings.”
I smiled, having had the same thoughts myself.
“But my God. When I got there, I was completely overcome. Everything was flattened, and all the street signs and landmarks were destroyed, so there was no way to figure out where you were or where you were going. There was nothing recognizable, and everyone