Emergency Contact
Lauren Layne, Anthony LeDonne
ONE
KATHERINE
December 23, 11:06 a.m.
I’m just going to come right out and say it:
The Grinch was misunderstood.
Before you jump down my throat, I’m not going to claim that the whole breaking-and-entering thing wasn’t a little over the top. Or that shoving someone’s Christmas tree up a chimney while dressed as Santa isn’t something to be unpacked in a therapy session.
Nor can I pretend to understand the level of childhood teasing that must have resulted from being hairy and green.
Though, it should be noted that preteen Katherine (that’s me) certainly scratched the surface on that score. Picture, if you will, an aggressive, gangly growth spurt. Then pair it with cystic acne that came well before anybody else’s first pimple showed up.
And then top all that with an unrelenting halo of dark frizz and a single father who didn’t know that smoothing products existed, much less how to direct his eleven-year-old daughter on how to use them.
If you’re thinking that maybe I spent most of junior high sitting alone at the lunch table, you’re quite correct. Though, hypothetically, I’ll grant that my lack of popularity might have been due to my know-it-all attitude. At least, that was Mrs. Cabrera’s stance during parent-teacher conferences.
But back to the Grinch. I’ll just say this: When it comes to his stance that the holiday season is hell on the nerves? I stand in solidarity with the hairy green guy.
“Excuse me. Excuse— Walk right, pass left, please!” I say in a perfectly pleasant voice. Or at least, I’m pretty sure my tone is amiable. My definition of pleasant hasn’t always lined up with other people’s. Another tidbit first dropped during parent-teacher conferences, but I’ve heard it quite a few times since then, courtesy of report cards. Job interviews.
Ex-husbands.
The last one stung the most. Because I cared the most.
I’m off track again.
All I’m saying is that “drive right, pass left” is standard freeway rules. Fifth Avenue at Christmas is at least as busy as any interstate. Why shouldn’t the same rules apply?
If you want to amble or shuffle past sparkly window displays? You do you. But you do you on the right side of the sidewalk and leave the left side open for people with places to be.
I’m nothing if not reasonable.
But one thing I’ve learned over the years? Christmas isn’t about reason. The tourists currently clogging up our sidewalks are in the city for the “experience.” Heavy air quotes on that one.
I try to pass but get blocked by a family walking four abreast (another Manhattan peeve of mine, but one sidewalk etiquette issue at a time).
A woman in a green sweater with honest-to-God bells sewn onto the front turns and gives me a glare that’s equal parts scathing and incredulous. “Take it easy, lady. It’s Christmas.”
“Oh, is it? Is it Christmas? I wasn’t sure.” I gesture to a window display with a snow machine and dancing elves.
She rolls her eyes and turns away but makes no effort to move aside so I can pass.
I’ve worked on Fifth Avenue for more than a decade now, so it’s not like I’m new to the congestion. But December? It’s a special kind of hell. The music alone could motivate me to play hooky. In addition to the usual standbys pouring out of every revolving door, Tiffany & Co. bumped it up a notch this year, playing a remixed version of “Silver Bells” on repeat.
Something I know, not because I treat myself to a little aqua box now and then, but because my office is right next to their flagship store.
Nothing reminds you more that you’re alone than walking by a store with engagement rings in the window twenty-four seven.
My phone buzzes, and I let out a little sigh of relief when I see the name on the screen. Finally. Someone who deserves my ire.
“Well, hello, Jerry.” My voice is all sugar, and I can tell from the way he pauses chewing whatever he’s eating that I’ve caught him off guard.
“Katherine?”
I roll my eyes. “Why do you sound confused, Jerry? You called me.”
“Yup, it’s Katherine, alright,” he mutters, resuming his chewing. “Look. I’ve only got a few minutes before Jamie drags me off to Connecticut to spend the holidays with her family, but I wanted to run something by you.”
“Oh yeah?” I say with fake curiosity, as though I don’t know exactly what he’s about to propose. I’ve been waiting for this exact phone call for weeks now.
Jerry Dodge is a fellow attorney, albeit at a different firm. And he’s actually a pretty decent guy, as far as prosecutors go. As a human being, I like the man. But Jerry as a lawyer? Meh. He wouldn’t exactly be on my short list if I needed a prosecutor with teeth. As opposing counsel, on the other hand, he’s an absolute dream.
“About this Hallinger case . . .” Jerry says.
“Uh-huh . . .” I placate him as I grab a tiny red cup off the tray a smiling Starbucks barista holds out, offering samples to the passersby. Generally speaking, I find this sort of holiday-themed chain-store nonsense to be everything that’s wrong with the world, but I’m not so lofty in my principles as to pass up complimentary caffeine.
Too late, I realize the itty-bitty cup is more whipped cream and sprinkles than coffee. But to be totally objective, I’ll grant that the chocolate peppermint flavor’s not quite as terrible as I always imagined it would be.
I wind my way through the slow-moving crowd, giving Jerry only half of my attention, waiting for the magic phrase that I know is coming because it always does.
“. . . so we can save everyone time and headaches if we talk plea bargain . . .”
There it is.
Some of my colleagues call him Jerry Dodger—less because his last name is Dodge and more because the man will try to dodge going to trial ten out of ten times.
“Jerry,” I interrupt. “Come on. I don’t settle for nonorganic, non-GMO bananas in my smoothies. Why would you think I’d advise my client to settle on what we both know is going to be a slam-dunk verdict in my favor?”
He makes a grumbling noise. “You think all of your cases are a slam dunk.”
Jerry’s lucky I’m trying to tap the last glob of Starbucks whipped cream into my mouth because it keeps me from pointing out that every time he and I have gone toe-to-toe in the courtroom, my cases have been a slam dunk.
“Come on, Katherine,” he cajoles. “Think about your client. Think about justice.”
I crush the mini sample cup with my fist and drop it into the trash. “You want to talk about justice, Dodger?” I say, letting the nickname slip out on purpose. “How about while you’re out in Connecticut with your in-laws, you ask Santa for a pair of balls and actually try to fight for your client for once.”
Jerry’s sigh is weary and resigned. “Fine. We’ll do it your way, Katherine. We always do.”
He pauses. “We’ll still see you for New Year’s Eve, right?”