Chapter One

So, wow, I didn't have any idea that this task was so daunting. Six days into November, and I'm a bit behind the pace I need to be at.

However, I did manage to finish the first chapter and completed two of the dares I took (the opening sentence and the Black Cock), so here it is for your perusal:

Chapter One
A Lawyer’s Story

This day was just like all the other days--wet, cold, slimy, and covered with alligators. Well, sort of. Let me back up a minute and explain. Seattle is the sort of place where it rains more than 200 days out of the year, so it’s cold and wet most of the time, and especially in November. Today was the 13th of November, so it was no exception. As a lawyer, I spend a lot of time at the courthouse, where slimy lawyers dressed in expensive suits are as thick as thieves. No wonder most people hate lawyers, or why some people believe that the only good lawyer is a dead one. Sure, there are a few good ones, but the slime balls far outnumber them. The alligators? Those would be my clients. They are drug dealers, whores, thieves, murderers and other accused criminals that all share a common bond: they can’t pay for their own defense. That’s where I come in. My name is Mara Ravenclaw, and I’m a Public Defender for King County.

So for me, this day is much like any other. With one little difference: today is my birthday. It is my twenty-eighth, though only my second while working for the Office of the Public Defender.

It is nearly noon, and I just got back from the courthouse to my tiny office. I guess you could call it an office. It’s really just a cubicle with no doors and fabric walls. A vase of pink roses sits on my desk, waiting for my return. They weren’t a gift from some boyfriend though. I’d bought them on my way to work this morning. I plan to give half of them to my grandmother and half to my mother when I visit them after work today. But there is still much to do before I can leave for the day. I take two more manila file folders out of my briefcase and toss them onto a stack of files already sitting on my desk before sitting down. The two files are the clients I managed to pick up while I was at court. The rest of the stack represents my active cases. I grab a stack of paperwork from my inbox and start to study it. They were the decisions I’d requested from Lexmark a week ago, in preparation for a case. I start to make notes, planning my course of attack.

“Hey Mara.” I look up. It was a short Asian woman wearing a plum suit and eye shadow to match. Renee Choi. A fellow lawyer, and probably the closest thing I had to a friend in the office. Like me, she’d been pegged as a “lifer”, that is someone that plans to make the P.D.’s office his or her whole career, not just a stepping-stone to something better. Unlike me, she handled domestic violence cases. But then, she didn’t make monthly contributions of time and money to the Seattle Chapter of Women Escaping A Violent Environment, or W.E.A.V.E. for short. I did, and actually I’d been doing it pretty steady since my college days, so I’d been permanently recused from taking those cases. In the end it was probably for the best.

“Hey Choi. What’s up?” I had a pretty good idea, but I asked anyway.

Choi stops to smell the roses on my desk. “Very nice.” She says. “A present from a boyfriend I don’t know about?” She is smirking now.

“Not quite.” I reply. “I bought them myself.” Choi’s plum lips twist into a pout of disappointment. “For my birthday.”

“That’s right, it’s your birthday today.” Choi was doing a really bad job of pretending she didn’t know. 28, right?”

I nodded, trying to turn back to my papers. I wasn’t much for revealing lots of personal info. Not even to Choi.

“Great. So will you join me at the Cock for drinks tonight? It’s DiAmato’s last day, we simply must celebrate.”

I smile. I’d forgotten it was DiAmato’s last day. He’d been a pain in the ass to Choi and me since he got here six months ago. Always telling us we had to make the coffee and bring it to him, like we were his secretaries instead of poorly paid lawyers and public servants. Since he was our boss, it wasn’t like we could complain a whole lot, just hope that he would eventually bail, just like the other three. Sure enough, he wasn’t a lifer and didn’t disappoint us. When we found out he was going to the other side and transferring to the District Attorney’s office to prosecute criminal cases and further his political ambitions, the two of us were ecstatic. Actually, so were the rest of the lawyers in the office. “Yeah, sure. I have a couple things to do first, but I’ll be there. About seven?”

“Seven it is.” Choi walked away, humming in time with the clicking of her purple pumps. She was in a good mood today. No wonder. Nick DiAmato rode her hardest of all of us. Maybe it was because she was Asian. Maybe it was because he thought she got the job as part of affirmative action and didn’t really deserve it. Of course, it could be because he wanted to sleep with her, but she turned him down flat. Heck, she’d threatened him with a sexual harassment suit, but never bothered to file the complaint. I turned my attention back to the papers at hand, and reached for another stack of forms to prepare the motions I intended to file. I prepared myself for the last part of my day.

I heard keys jingling. Sounded like they were Jeff’s. Jeff Fisher was a major clock- watcher, and rarely stayed more than a minute after five. And he was definitely not a lifer. I look at the clock. Sure enough, it was five o’clock. After throwing the two files and the completed forms into my briefcase, I grab my purse from my desk drawer and put on my black wool trench coat. After arranging my purse and briefcase, I grab the vase of roses from my desk, holding it with both hands. I don’t bother to stop by DiAmato’s office to say goodbye and wish him good luck. I didn’t like the guy, and I was sure I’d see him soon enough when he started prosecuting cases against my clients. But in any case, he’d left before I did, because his office door was closed and there was no light from underneath the door.

I get to the parking lot, and my car is waiting for me. It’s a three-year-old Ford Probe, silver in color, with a gray interior. In the parking lot at the OPD, my car stands out a bit, as it is one of the newest. Most of the other cars in the lot are much older, dating back to the 70’s and 80’s. Even though lawyers primarily use the parking lot, there are no Cadillacs, Porsches or Jaguars in this lot. You don’t become a P.D. for the money. You do it because you think you can make a difference. Or because you think it will look good on your curriculum vitae, the lawyer equivalent of a resume.

After opening the door, I toss my briefcase and purse into the back seat. I set the vase of roses on the front seat, and buckle it in. Then I head towards SeaTac. I flip on the radio. What luck, KISW was playing Nirvana. Okay, so it was “Smells Like Teen Spirit”, one of the band’s more overplayed songs, but it was better than listening to Styx or Boston, or any of the other bands they played in heavy rotation.

The traffic ahead of me on Interstate 5 had slowed to a crawl. I hoped it wouldn’t be a long delay, because at this rate, the normally short 12-mile drive would take over an hour. I grit my teeth and try not to let the traffic bother me. Before long, I switch it to KPLU. Jazz music starts to wind its way through my speakers. But on the other hand, the slow traffic also gives me the opportunity to drive a bit more carefully, better ensuring that the roses are not damaged during the trip. I remember three years back, when my grandmother and I visited my mother’s grave; a couple of the stems broke while I was driving there. My mother didn’t really care, but I did.

About two miles later, I pass the source of the slowdown. A fender-bender. The two cars had pulled over to the side to exchange information, but of course, everyone has to look at the accident. Stupid! Finally, finally, I get to make the turnoff to head toward the airport. But that’s not where I’m going. No, I’m going to Washington Memorial Cemetery. As I enter the gates, I already feel a little less stressed. The park-like setting always has that effect on me. I get out of my car. I take a business card from my purse and put it in the pocket of my trench coat. Even though I know they will probably be safe, I stash my purse and briefcase in the trunk and start to make the walk towards my grandmother’s grave.

The drive had taken a bit longer than I’d expected, and the sun had set behind a heavy veil of gray clouds. It was starting to get dark, but at least the rain had now turned into just a light drizzle. I pressed on, carrying the flowers. The approaching darkness and the dwindling light didn’t bother me. In the two years since my grandmother died, I have traveled the path to her grave so many times that I could probably get there while blindfolded. Not that I want to ever try it.

I keep to the gravel path, and allow my mind to wander. There were so many things on my mind. I had to head back to Seattle and have drinks with Choi. The motions that I was going to file in the morning at court, and most of all, how much I missed my grandmother. After my father died, she’d taken me in. Given me a normal life. And when I legally changed my name to Mara Ravenclaw, she’d understood. But then, she was my maternal grandmother, so I suppose she didn’t really have any reason to complain.

Gran’s grave was at the top of one of the many hills. A plain marker of black granite laid into the ground marked the site. The stone was an exact match to her husband’s headstone, who had died before I was even born. She never remarried, for reasons that I will probably never understand. The stone read “Althea Elaine Taft, beloved wife 1921 – 1992.” What the stone didn’t say was that she had died of breast cancer. Or how her daughter had preceded her in death.

I kneel at the well-tended gravesite. The small metal vase on the side was empty, so I poured half of the water from the vase into it and carefully placed six of the roses into it, arranging them with the same care my gran would have used. She had taught me about the language of flowers, and the art of arranging them. For the most part, those lessons had stuck. Pink roses symbolized Grace and Gratitude, but they were also my gran’s favorite color. I sit down at the gravesite. “Hey gran.” I offer my traditional greeting. “It’s my birthday today. I just thought I’d stop and let you know that things are going okay. I’ve still got my job at the P.D.’s office, and that creep boss of mine is leaving today. I can’t think of a better birthday present than that.” Well, actually I could. Having my gran back. Too bad, that was never going to happen. “I really miss you.” I wiped the tears from my eyes and got up. I had another trip to make.

My father’s family, the Rothchilds, was actually quite wealthy, and their crypt was in another section of the cemetery. Against my gran’s wishes, my mother had been interred in it, as was required by the Rothchild family traditions. For this trip, I followed the red brick path, as it was the simplest and quickest way to reach the crypt. I glanced at the names engraved on the bricks as I passed them, looking for the one I used as my frame of reference. Finally I found it. Reverend Luther Raines. I turned then towards the crypt.

The Rothchild crypt was a rather large and ornate one. It was made of dark green marble and festooned with angels that were carved directly into the columns. This was not a surprise really, as the Rothchilds were a prominent Seattle family, and perhaps the very definition of “old money” on the West Coast. Four generations were buried in the crypt now, from my great-great grandfather Renee, to my father Marcus and my mother Diana Taft Rothchild. I walk to the wall where the names of the dead are set into the marble on bronze plaques with raised lettering. I glance at the names of my grandparents, who died before I was born.

I trace the letters of my mother’s name and then set the vase with the remaining roses on the ground by the door of the crypt. My mother was taken far too soon from my life. She had died when I was 13. She’d fallen down the steps of the grand mansion we lived in. Marble steps. Now her body was in a marble crypt. There was something sort of ironic about that. Of course, it was also ironic that when I turned 19, I’d had the Rothchild ancestral home declared a historical landmark and made it available for public viewing.

I look at my watch. Six-thirty. I have to get back to Seattle soon if I want to make that dinner with Choi. I kiss my mother’s bronze plaque, and then turn my attention to my father’s plaque, which was directly to the left of hers. “Hello father.” I take the business card from the pocket of my trench coat. “I’m back again. Came to see mom, not you.” I held my business card with its crown logo up to the plaque. “I’m still working for the Office of the Public Defender.” I then carefully tuck the card underneath the vase. “Does that piss you off? Knowing that the daughter of Marcus Rothchild, one of Seattle’s most prominent lawyers, is working for the meager wages the County pays a P.D.? I sure as hell hope so, you bastard.”

As I spoke the words, I felt a cold chill run down my spine. I had the strange feeling that I was being watched. A feeling I wasn’t the only person in this section of the graveyard today. I looked around, and sure enough, there was someone else nearby. Rather odd, really, since there wasn’t a funeral service scheduled, it wasn’t a weekend, and it wasn’t a holiday of any sort. It was just an ordinary day, and most people didn’t visit the cemetery on ordinary days.

A man was crouched over an age-darkened headstone a few feet away from me, his long hair pulled back into a ponytail at the top of his head. Like me, he was wearing a black coat to ward off the chill and the drizzle, a duster, I believe, and from this distance, I could see that it was made of a thinner material than my coat, and appeared to have been badly patched in a couple of places. He was facing me, and my brown eyes met his blue ones for just a moment. But in that moment, I felt like I was reminded of the time I met the first client I had to defend against a murder charge. He had dead, cold eyes, and he had been guilty as charged. This guy had a similar look in his eyes. I tore my gaze away, wondering why he was in this section. This section of the cemetery was for the more well to do deceased. Then again, people with old money never made a show of their wealth except in social situations, and this was definitely not a social situation.

I was feeling cold now. Chilled from my feet to my hands. I get up, but I can still feel his eyes upon me. I start to head back towards my car, and it is only when I return to the red brick path that I dare to look back. Thankfully, I was not being followed, because my bottle of pepper spray was in my purse. Which was in my car. Note to self: keep purse with you at all times.

As I drive back to Seattle, I am haunted by the image of the man’s eyes. Even stranger perhaps is that if my memory of the layout of that section of the cemetery was correct, the grave he was visiting was a rather old one, dating back to the early 1900’s. Perhaps he was a genealogist, tracing back the roots of his ancestors. Perhaps not. Ah well, I have better things to worry about besides some creepy guy at the cemetery.

I make it back to Seattle in near record time. The traffic gods were kind tonight. Atoning for the earlier problem? Doubt it. Now for my next trick, finding a parking place. I keep one ear tuned to the rock station KISW as I began my hunt for a parking place. After circling the block once, I consider going back to the office and parking there. It wasn’t a long walk to the Cock from there, but parking in the lot after hours was strictly discouraged unless it was work related. Going to a bar wasn’t exactly work related; I decide to err on the side of caution and pull into a parking garage a block from the bar. I get out of my car and take my purse from the trunk. I pull my coat a bit tighter around me to fend off the chilly wind that was threatening to cut through my clothing, and walk over to the Cock.

The Black Cock, or just “The Cock” for short, is an authentic English Pub located on South Jackson Street, only three blocks from my office. Between the short distance and the free happy hour buffet, it’s a favorite hangout for us P.D.’s. I open the heavy door. It was made of solid oak, with black wrought iron bars across a small window cut into the door. The storefront was faced in stone, made to look rather like the blocks of a medieval castle.

Stepping inside, the bar had white washed walls and dark wood beams. The bar itself was made out of mahogany, with a brass railing on the floor that had been polished to a high sheen. A large mirror behind the bar reflected a huge variety of bottles in different sizes and colors. To maximize floor space, there were no stools near the bar. Three buxom waitresses wearing peasant blouses and knee-length skirts visited the bar frequently, offering the bartender orders, ringing up orders, taking drinks back to the tables and flirting shamelessly with the bartender, who was both very cute and very gay. Patrons also crowded around the bar. A large fireplace sat in the corner of the room. A blazing fire provided heat to the place, and when added to the collective body heat of patrons, it gave the pub a cozy warmth that you almost didn’t want to leave.

I look around the pub. A group of male college students was playing darts in the corner. A half-filled pitcher of beer sat near them, alongside a number of empty glasses. I scan the booths and their tables of dark glossy oak, looking for Choi. I finally find her sitting in one of the quieter corners of the pub. But she was not alone. A young woman was sitting with her at the table. What the heck?

I hesitate a moment, but Choi sees me and starts waving. Damn. Now she’s seen me, and I have no choice but to head towards their table. As I approach, the young woman’s features become more distinct, and I realize that her features bear a strong resemblance to Choi. Was she a younger sister? Choi had told me once that she had three brothers and two sisters, and she was the only lawyer in the family.

Compared to Choi and me, who were dressed professionally, the woman definitely stuck out like a sore thumb: her black hair covered her small breasts, and from this distance, I could see that she had at least three wraps of yellow and red thread in her hair. She wore a low cut pink shirt that offered a tantalizing hint of green ink that had to be part of a tattoo, and a small stone sparkled in her nose. I could almost bet she was a college student. Probably majoring in liberal arts. I reach the table. Choi is positively beaming. I wonder what she’s up to. “Mara!” She exclaims, her face brightening. “Come sit next to me.” She pats the heavily padded maroon seat next to her.

I slide in, putting my purse on the seat to act almost as a buffer between us. “Sorry if I’m a bit late.” I offered. “I got stuck in traffic. What’s new?” I roll my eyes.

Choi waves her hand dismissively. “You’re only five minutes late. I’m not DiAmato, after all. I’m not going to write you up. I will buy you a drink though. What’s your poison?” While I consider my order, Choi looks across the table, now decorated with dirty plates and utensils. “Oh, where are my manners tonight? Mara, this is my sister Wendy. Wendy, this is Mara Ravenclaw. The only other female attorney at the P.D.’s office and a fellow lifer.”

“Nice to meet you.” Wendy replies, rising from the table and extending her hand. “Renee’s told me a lot about you.”

“All of it good, I hope?” I ask, smiling while I shake her hand. The question was more rhetorical than serious. I knew Choi had nothing but respect and admiration for me. There were very few lawyers that would choose to work at the P.D.’s office if they could work for any prestigious firm they wanted.

Wendy nods, but Choi is faster. “Wendy’s is studying at Seattle Central Community College. She’s majoring in Liberal Arts and Communications.”

So I’m guessing she’s not planning on being a lawyer. “Interesting combination. Are you planning on becoming a journalist?”

“A novelist, actually.” Wendy replies. “I’m trying to write a novel set in Ancient China, but I’m sort of stuck right now. In the meantime, I’ve been writing some articles for the college paper. I don’t get paid, but I do get a byline.”

“So Mara,” Choi asks, deftly changing the subject. “What do you want to order? Since it’s your birthday, I’m buying. Well, at least the first round.”

“White Russian.” I reply. With its combination of milk and Kahlua, it was a very potent alcoholic version of a Starbucks latte. Starbucks. That reminds me, I haven’t been to the original Starbucks shop on Pike in forever. I should try to head to the Market this weekend.

Choi manages to flag a waitress in record time to place our drink orders. How the heck was she able to do that so fast? I was lucky if I could get one to come to the table in under an hour. Not only that, she was shorter than me. But she did dress better than I did. Maybe that was it. Look like you’re successful and rich, and you get better service. Of course the only thing wrong with that philosophy was that some wealthy people, like myself, choose not to look like they were wealthy. Personally, I had enough in my trust fund so that I didn’t need to work if I didn’t want to. But I wanted to work. Helping people, not huge soulless corporations like Microsoft or Boeing.

I get up again to head to the buffet. “I’m going to get something to eat. Need or want anything?” Choi shakes her head. Judging by the dirty dishes shoved to the edge of the table, they had probably been there a little while. Though there were only a couple of empty glasses at the table, so like most of us poor attorneys, they’d nursed the drinks. But, hey, there was nothing really wrong with that, as I did it too.

The buffet wasn’t really a huge spread, but for free, it wasn’t bad. Of course, since the buffet stopped at eight, it was looking a bit picked over, and some of it seemed to be getting cold. I helped myself to green salad with Italian dressing, one banger (an English sausage) and some bread. Yes, the buffet wasn’t entirely composed of traditional English food, but not all English food was that appetizing or tasty. Like blood pudding or haggis. Thanks, but no thanks. Since it was a Thursday night, and after seven, most of the commuters that had come wait out the rush hour eating free food had headed home, leaving only the most die-hard patrons. Or at least the ones that were single and had no life. With the crowds gone, I had no trouble getting back to the table.

But while I was gone, the dirty dishes had been removed, and three fresh drinks now sat on the table, sitting atop round paper coasters that more than likely advertised either Harp or Guinness ales. But that wasn’t the only thing that was on the table. Ten brightly colored tarot cards were spread out in the form of a cross on the table in front of Wendy and she had shifted position, and was now directly across from me. Earlier, she’d squeezed herself against the very corner of the dark wood booth. Aw shit, now I knew what Choi was up to. Her sister was going to read my cards, and she’d put her up to it. I was pretty sure of it.

I set the food down and look at the cards. A number of them had names instead of numbers. Perhaps the scariest of all was the card that prominently featured a skeleton. Death. “Okay, okay, you got me. You’ve wanted me to go see a fortuneteller, and now you’ve brought one to me. Is she really your sister?

Choi smiles, knowing she’d been caught. “Yes, she’s really my sister. But she also has a gift for seeing into the future.” She replies. “And it’s your birthday today. You should know what you have to look forward to this year.”

“I already know what I have to look forward to.” I reply. “An office without DiAmato barking orders at us, a nearly overwhelming caseload, and the prospect of a meager raise if I work hard and the county’s got money in the budget for it.”

Choi laughs nervously at that remark. It cut far too close to home for comfort. She looks to her sister. “So tell Miss Ravenclaw what the cards have to say.” She then looks over to me. I decide to ignore both of them and eat. My food was getting cold.

I have had my cards read in college a couple times by people who were absolute novices. They would keep their Tarot interpretation book close at hand and read the meanings word for word. I had to hand to Choi’s sister. There was no book in sight as she closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath and began to interpret the cards laid out before me. I continued to eat and feign disinterest.

Wendy begins with the two cards that form a cross. She indicates the vertical card with one slender finger, “This card” she said, “Represents you.” She then points to the card lying across it. “This card crosses you, and represents the obstacles you must overcome.” She then turns her attention to the cards above and below the crossed cards. “This represents the things you want, and this the things you have to work with. The card on the right,” She says, touching the two of cups, “Is your recent past, while the card on the left,” Wendy says, touching the grinning skeleton card of death, “Is your future.” I almost choke on my mouthful of banger.

I turn and immediately glare at Choi. “Some birthday present, Choi. I’m going to die soon.” Choi rolls her eyes at the remark, but her sister Wendy is not pleased.

“The appearance of the card of Death does not necessarily indicate that you are going to die, Miss Ravenclaw.” For the first time since I’d met her, Wendy’s tone had turned to one more serious. She then indicates the last four cards on the table, starting at the bottom, and working her way up. “This represents your current situation, this represents the outside factors that influence you, this card reveals your emotions, and this last card,” She offers, tapping the card with the edge of her short brick red fingernail, “is the final result.”

I could only smile at the card. It was Justice. And wasn’t that exactly what I sought for my clients? Wendy then gestures to the spread. “Almost half of the cards are Major Arcana.” I look at her quizzically. “That means that there are powerful forces around you, Mara Ravenclaw.”

“Well of course.” I reply. “I work for the county and deal with judges.”

“You’ve had some sorrow in your life, both in the past and rather recently. You are born under the sign of Scorpio, which some call the Death Sign. In your case, death and destiny seem to follow you. I suppose it is appropriate that your surname is Ravenclaw, for the raven is a bird of death and destiny.”

I look at Choi skeptically. “Did you tell her that my grandmother died last year?” Choi shakes her head, but I wasn’t sure that she was really telling the truth.

“The cards also tell me that there are changes coming. Major ones.” Wendy again touches the Death card. “Death is a card of change, and change is what you have to look forward to.” She then returns to the Justice card. “And in the end, you will have to make decisions in order to deal with the change that is outside of your control. Wendy then scans the pattern, and her gaze alights on another of the major Arcana. The Emperor. Sitting in the position of influence. “Your life continues to be affected by a person who once held authority over you.” Now this was getting waaaaay too close for comfort. I’d seen that card in other spreads, and I have interpreted it as the tyrannical and lecherous influence of my father, who now, mercifully, was deceased.

Wendy points to the card at the very bottom of the spread, the last of the Arcana cards in the spread. “And this is rather interesting indeed.” Choi is smirking now. The card was The Lovers, and in the bottom position, it supposedly represented my present situation. “For you, this card represents an obsession. An obsession with your career rather than romance.”

I nod, stirring the last third of my White Russian. It really wasn’t a big secret around the office that I didn’t have a boyfriend. Like England’s Virgin Queen, Elizabeth the First, I was married to my career. I didn’t want to have a relationship with a guy. Or any one at this point in my life. Every person I loved or was close to was dead now. First my mother, then my grandmother. I just can’t take any more bitter disappointments in my life.

Wendy continues to interpret the cards, and finally, begins to put them back into the deck. She wraps the cards with a swatch of dark purple cloth that looked very soft. Silk maybe? “Your life will change drastically before too long. Maybe not this year, but mark my words, it will.”
I really didn’t have a witty reply for that. All I could do was to look at the young lady, who had been my herald of misfortune. I really needed that drink now, so I forgot all about trying to nurse it and tossed back what was left in the glass. The once cheerful mood of the celebration was gone now, turned to something far gloomier. I stayed another hour, more out of courtesy than desire, and headed back to my small apartment downtown, parking my car in the underground lot the complex provided. And there it would stay for the rest of the week. I usually walked to work.