Jack of My Heart

Calm Before the Storm

      A jolt of electricity. Twice in one night. Once from the lightning, and once from the defibrillator the paramedics used.
      My life ended that night, both figuratively and literally. I lost my parents, I lost any semblance of normalcy, and I died for two minutes. But that's not even close to the beginning. Let's make it easier, shall we, and start tonight: October 20th, 2018.

      I groan as I pull myself out of bed, my apartment still dark as rain slams against my window, beckoning me back to the storm. Turning away from my past, I saunter over to the island in the center of the small kitchen, my open robe flowing behind me. A flash of lightning pierces the deep blue Chicago sky, sending me flying over the counter as I try to hide, burying my face into the cold concrete floor as though it's a muddy ditch walled by trees and wreckage.

      Rule number one of surviving a storm: if you're outdoors, seek shelter in low areas.

      I laugh at myself and push off of my forearms, brushing my hands over my robe and running them through my curly black hair, flattened and mussed by the bed. It's been 15 years and I still can't move on. My horn-rimmed glasses shine from my nightstand, signaling for me to stumble over and put them on in order to clear up my blurred vision.
      "Well," I pause, gripping the cotton sheets on my queen bed, "let's get to work."
      I slip off the midnight blue robe and pull on my suit piece by piece, ending with my leather dress shoes and matching leather gloves. According to my alarm clock it's going to be unforgivingly cold, and the knife-like rain will make the wind chill no better. Popping into the bathroom I go through my daily routine, coming out fresher than a daisy on a Swiss mountainside.
      After sliding onto a barstool, I pull out files, case studies, and other information I need to review before heading to work in—I check my watch—four hours. A particular detail sticks out and I can't help but focus in on it, my mind's gears grinding as they try to puzzle out why it's important and how it can help me win. 
Well, help me help Vincent Martruto win.
I'm working as a paralegal at one of the biggest law firms in Chicago, a desk jockey waiting for my big break. Vincent Martruto, on the other hand, is everything I want to be. He's tall, handsome, and the most accomplished lawyer in the whole Chicago area. I do most of my work for him, but sometimes help out the other partners.
      When I realize what the piece I picked out of the file is, I beam, letting out an excited squeal. The woman we're—I mean, he's—defending is on trial for the murder of her sister, and what I just found is a ticket registered in her name for a football game. If I can go to the stadium, get her an alibi, and convince them to testify, that'll provide reasonable doubt. Luckily, I know just the girl who can get me in with the people in charge. Charlotte "Chuck" Mandalay is the head sports newscaster in the area, and my best friend since the fourth grade. If anyone can help me secure an alibi, it's her. If only I could gather more suspects, I rest my chin on my hand, fiddling with my suspenders. Forgetting about the time and other people's necessity to sleep, I pick up my phone and call Chuck. On the last ring she picks up.
      "Chuck, hey, I have a question for you. Do you know anyone at Soldier Field that could possibly provide me with access to the security footage and unshown Jumbotron film from," I look at the ticket in my hand, "September 23rd?"
      "I have a question for you. Do you have any idea what time it is?" Chuck shoots back, her voice like a zombie.
      "To be honest, no. I can call back later if you want..." I let my voice trail off, hoping she won't hang up.
      "The storm got you up?" Chuck asks.
      "Chuck-" I warn, biting my lip. Ever since the accident it hasn't stopped quivering, and the only time I can get it to pause for even a moment is if I pin it down with my teeth.
      "I'm sorry, I just meant... should you take the day off?" She sounds a little more awake, but I know as soon as I hang up she's going to crash.
      "If I took the day off for every thunderstorm I'd be unemployed," I deadpan, spreading out the documents in front of me.
      "Yeah, that's fair... okay, I'll see what I can do. Call me at a reasonable time—actually, you don't know what that is. I'll call you," She tells me and hangs up before I get the chance to thank her. I don't know what to do now that I've reached out to Chuck, so I just comb through the evidence again. And again... and again.
      My phone buzzes, sending my head flying up from the countertop, where I had apparently fallen back asleep. The notification is from the New York Times, giving me the news. I sigh and lay my head back down, but remember what time I set that notification for.
      "Shit!" I yell, grabbing my backpack and stuffing the paperwork inside. I throw it over my shoulder, grab my helmet and run down the stairs to my bike. I pedal as hard as I can against the rain and wind, each trying to push me back and overcome me. Memories flash in front of my eyes: the rain, the blood, the car overturned. I screech the bike to a halt, breathing hard, eyes wide. A car honks at me and I'm pulled back to the present. One foot after the other, I continue to pedal until I reach the skyscraper the firm is located in, throwing my bike down and chaining it to the first tree I see. I take my helmet with me inside, setting it down in the small records room I call my office. I run my fingers through my hair, not worrying about the curl that lands on my forehead as I rush to Vincent's office.
      Needless to say, his is a lot larger than mine. Vincent is sitting at his desk, his wavy, gelled back hair shining in the dim light. His face is cold as he looks over my drenched, shivering appearance.
      "Sir, I'm so sorry I'm late, I couldn't really sleep, and then I passed out, and I-" A thunder clap cuts me off and I jump, the quivering of my lip growing stronger.
      "Are you afraid of thunderstorms?" Vincent asks, resting his elbows on either armrest of his chair. His olive skin seems especially golden in the dim light, reminding me of a Greek god. As if his broad, muscular appearance isn't intimidating enough, his piercing dark eyes are always searching, always fixated. I stammer out a few words, but never a full sentence, not wanting to admit to him that I am afraid of storms, in fear that he'll see it as childish.
      "I'm not particularly fond of them," I finally answer, holding my head higher. Vincent nods slowly as if to say, 'I see', and lets out an exhale.
      "You're two minutes late, Jack. You're fine. Go dry off and come back if you have anything for me," Vincent commands, turning around to look out one of the massive windows behind his desk. A bolt of lightning appears from behind a cloud and I flinch back, grimacing as I see their faces. When Vincent realizes that I haven't left, he speaks again.
"You're shivering, Jack. Go,"
      I obey his order this time, giving a little bow, face immediately going red as I grimace and shake my head, chiding myself for my actions. There's a towel on my desk when I get back to the records room, and I peek my head out to look back at Vincent's office. He's standing now, still staring out the window.
      Once I towel dry and take off my sopping wet blazer I take my backpack—luckily waterproof—and the evidence back into Vincent's office with the fluffy towel still wrapped around my shoulders.
      "I found something, sir, something I think will blow the prosecution's case to pieces. And if not, at least provide reasonable doubt," I chuckle softly. Vincent doesn't turn around and I cough, straightening back up. When he does turn around he has a small smile on his face; there for only an instant, but still, an unmistakable Vincent Martruto smile.
      "Well, what is it?" He puts his hands behind his back, looking over the evidence I have laid out on his desk.
      "You see this? This is a ticket for a football game the day of the murder, and while the murder was occurring!" I grin, pointing at the ticket. "I have a friend in the sports industry who is looking into getting footage or a witness to prove that she was there during the time her sister was being, well, you know, chopped to pieces.
Not to mention, in Detective Danowitz's report—here—he documents obvious signs of forced entry: broken glass, busted lock, et cetera. Our—uh, your client had a key. Why would she need to break in if she could've just let herself in?" I stop pacing for a moment to look up at Vincent to see if he's following. He smiles at me to continue and I do, placing a finger to my lips as I continue pacing.
      "And to chop her up... it would've taken an extreme event to cause her to do that. I know prosecution's going to want to put Danowitz on the stand, so we can get him to reaffirm these facts: the time, the method, whatnot. Then, we get whoever is testifying as her alibi, and her testimony will prove these facts. I'll do more research, but, sir, I think we've got it," I beam, hands pressed flat against the files. Vincent stares at the evidence, then slowly looks up at me. The Vincent Martruto smile stays on his face, the corners of his mouth curled slightly upwards, lips almost parting, hinting at a grin, but still leaving you with an air of mystery and sleekness. I don't realize that my face flushes, or when my shaking hands curl into fists so tight my nails might break skin.
      "Well, aren't you the little detective," He finally says, picking up one document to examine it further. I utter a thanks, and jump at the next crack of thunder, so violent it shakes the building to its core. My chest heaves in and out as I try to block images from my head choosing instead to focus on the case. I stare at the floor, counting on my fingers until the next crack, trying to control my breathing.
      "Are you alright, Jack?" Vincent's eyes flick from the file he's holding to my pale face, freckles and small moles more prominent against my starched skin. I nod slowly, swallowing hard. As much as I try to avoid it, I can't help but meet Vincent's intense gaze, one that makes assistants and partners alike squirm. His stare has the same effect on me, but there's something different behind his eyes; not disapproval, and not irritance.
      "Y-Yes, sir, sorry. I'll go check on that alibi," I nod my head and dash out of the room before I can embarrass myself anymore.
      When I close the door to my office I stay against it for a moment, heaving a deep sigh and hanging my head. After a few moments I push off the door, dropping heavily into my rickety chair. My phone has no new notifications, but I don't want to bother Chuck with another phone call after she said she'd reach out. The small telephone on my desk begins to ring fevridly, making the desk beneath it quake like a sailboat in a hurricane. Eyeing the device cautiously I notice something unsettling. Although the desk is being jostled and the handheld receiver is vibrating, the actual emerald green base of the telephone is unnervingly still through the chaos. This moment, this instant is my calm before the storm, the eye of the hurricane. Somehow I know that whatever's waiting for me on the other end of the phone is inevitable, so I pick up anyways, wishing to at least provide myself with a paddle rather than be drowned.
      "Hello?" My voice is low, trying to whisper, but not wanting to.
      "Jack Langdon? This is Captain Singer from the Chicago Police Department. I was told you wanted to speak to me?" The police captain's deep voice sounds in my ear, bringing my heart rate back to normal. I was just overreacting, lost in my head, I smile, shaking my head at my dramatic nature. Calm before the storm, I scoff internally, feeling immature.
      "Right, sorry, Captain Singer. I have some questions about the Madison Brown case, and I was wondering if there was any way I might be able to review any of the information of the case with you. I'm told you and Detective Danowitz were the first at the scene. Is this true?" I ask, wedging the receiver in between my shoulder and jaw, grabbing a small black notebook and pen from the edge of my desk.
      "Are you Ms. Brown's attorney?" He questions immediately. I scrunch my nose and squeeze my eyes shut. I was hoping to get a few more questions and answers before the 'a' word came into the picture. Typically the police I talk to are much more willing to give information.
      "I am not, but-" I start, biting my lip.
      "Then I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss this with you. If you were her attorney however, I might be able to provide more information. Thank you, Mr. Langdon," He shuts me down, and I knew that there was nothing I could say to get him to change his mind. The police captain reminds me of an ox in more ways than one. Not only is he extremely stubborn, but he's built like one, too. A huge man, with biceps the size of my entire torso, he stands at a towering six foot, five inches. I had never met him, but I had seen him once while talking with a receptionist at the station. He walked out the door with the height marker on the frame and I had, for some reason, committed his height to memory.
      "Say, Captain, that I was able to procure Ms. Brown's attorney. Would you be willing to meet with us, oh, this morning? Say, twelve o'clock?" I ask, tangling my index finger in the green coiled cable.
      "That's afternoon," He says, his voice devoid of emotion.
      "Technically, it's noon. Would you consider meeting with us?" I inquire again. There's a short moment of silence, then his voice returns.
      "I would consider it. The police station, twelve in the afternoon." He hangs up, the beep horrendously loud in my ears. I grimace and hold the phone away from my head, muttering to myself as I set it back down on the base.
      "Twelve is noon, it can't be afternoon, if it is noon," I murmur under my breath. My wandering gaze sticks to the door, and I wince. I don't want to keep bothering Vincent. That's literally your job, I tell myself with inward weariness. I exit my small windowless room and walk back to Vincent's corner office. He looks up when I come in, raising his eyebrows at my shy knock.
      "Sir, if I could trouble you to come down to the police station with me at noon, the police captain is willing to share some information about the scene and the case with us. Maybe I could, uh, go on a tour of the precinct and maybe learn more about the evidence room," I try to be subtle, but Vincent's suppressed smirk means that I have to work on it.
      "I can go to the police station. Though, I don't know how willing the captain will be to talk to me. You might have to do all the talking." He orders the papers on his desk and closes the computer, half standing up.
      "Noon, you said?" He reaffirms. I nod and look out the window around his shoulder. Even a few feet away and hunched over he's taller than me. The rain is coming down heavier now, with no clear sign of letting up. I wouldn't be surprised if it kept raining through tomorrow. I shudder at the thought and am only pulled back to reality when my cell phone buzzes in my pants pocket. When I pull it out and see the caller I.D. I indicate to Vincent that I have to take the call and he inclines his head, holding a hand out towards the door, giving me the go-ahead. I head back to my office, picking up the phone on the way there.
      "Hey, Jackie!" Chuck's voice booms, now fully awake after what I guess is a double shot espresso in a venti Americano. These words are her standard greeting, anytime she calls me, anytime she sees me in person, even if we just spoke two minutes ago. Each time she says my name like this she turns the '-ie' into an '-ay', holding out the sound for a solid ten seconds.
      "Charlie, my buddy, my pal, have you got anything for me?" I ask with baited breath, hopeful that I can continue to impress Vincent. For a promotion, or recommendation, or something else that he can help with... yeah.
      "You're a lucky son of a gun, you know that? Landing a friend like me," I can see Chuck grinning through the tone of her voice. She got it, I can't help but smile too.
      "I do know that, Chuck. Always have. To Mars and back," I smile.
       "And around Saturn's rings," She completes the little phrase we made when we were kids to cheer each other up or subtly tell each other 'I love you, dude'. "Anyway, cha girl got the head of security for Soldier Field to agree to let you look over the footage. All the footage. Says he can meet at three this afternoon,"
      "You truly are the best, Chuck. But, uh, did he say how many hours of footage he has?" I squeeze one eye shut.
      "Well, it was a three hour and twelve minute game," Chuck retorts, obviously thinking herself to be clever. I roll my eyes and stick one hand on my hip.
      "But all the footage put together?" I ask.
      "Well, I don't know exactly, but I don't remember seeing your girl on the television when I watched the game, so you can exclude at least those three hours and twelve minutes," She says bashfully, seemingly embarrassed that her sarcasm did not produce its desired effect.
      "That does narrow it down some... thank you, Chuck. I couldn't have done this without you," I thank her, say I'll see her later at the field, and hang up.