ignorance is bliss. I had the last sound sleep I would have for a while.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tampa, Florida
Thursday 9:10 a.m.
January 7, 1999
ON THURSDAY MORNING, WE slept late and had the after party chat over breakfast and coffee that we didnât have the night before. We shared laughter and outrage and he gloated a while before we kissed and left for work.
I didnât tell him about Carly just yet. George thinks I have a blind spot where Carlyâs concerned. He calls it my Mighty Mouse Routine. Iâm always saving the day for her, he says, and he views it as an unnecessary extravagance. He thinks Carly is old enough to take care of herself.
Thatâs not the only thing heâs wrong about.
The good news about Dr. Morgan would resolve Carlyâs issues and then Iâd give George the whole story without having to argue about how Iâd handled her this time.
That was the plan.
For about thirty minutes after I reached my desk, it seemed the plan would work.
One of the greatest things about my job is no obnoxious phone calls. George, Kate, and select family can reach me on a private line. Otherwise, my secretary takes messages and my judicial clerks talk to the callers. Itâs one of the many advantages of being a federal judge. A state court judge is elected; they have to talk to everybody.
The point is, Carly could have returned my calls on my private line, my cell, or my home phone, but she hadnât. Iâd heard nothing from her since yesterday. Not an unusual occurrence. But just now, damned inconsiderate. And worrisome.
My secretary brought in the message slips for calls I received through regular channels. I flipped through them quickly: CJ at 7:45 a.m. Ha! As if. In addition to making my own hours, my lifetime appointment means itâs not necessary to kowtow to a little guy who thinks heâs the boss. Gleefully, I crumpled it and tossed it into the trash can. She scores!
Four more slips. A reminder of my hair appointment, Kate, President of the Womenâs Bar Association, and, at the bottom of the pile, Carly.
Sheâd called yesterday. Before she appeared at Minaret.
For some reason, I felt a bit better knowing sheâd tried to reach me first. Seemed not so desperate, maybe.
Asked my secretary to schedule an appointment with the chair of the Womenâs Bar Association, confirm my hair appointment, and make a date for late lunch with Kate.
Studied yesterdayâs pink slip reflecting Carlyâs call. No further clues revealed themselves. Wondered aloud, âWhatâs going on with you, little sis?â
Remembered the last time weâd met before yesterday afternoon. Weâd argued then, too. The issues were not dissimilar.
While I was still in private practice, I volunteered my time to teach a law school course. Despite her two brothers and me all being lawyers, Carly decided to go to law school. Or maybe it was because we were lawyers. Anyway, Carly threw caution to the wind and took my class four years ago.
Even if she hadnât been my âlittle sister,â Iâd have thought she was one of those rare students who understood the subject and demonstrated desire to excel.
She became a colleague that year and I found myself working with her to make sure she understood the basics of cross examination, jury selection and evidence.
After she graduated, my personal relationship with Carly, always strained, finally achieved an uneasy truce: Carly began to look on me as an available, if not overly desirable, mentor. For a time. Too briefly.
She joined the prosecutorâs office; called now and then from with a particular question or issue. An almost easy peace descended.
Abruptly, she was asked to resign.
She wouldnât tell me why. Following unsuccessful attempts to find out, culminating in one really nasty screaming match, I got the message that it was none of my business.
She asked me to write a recommendation when she applied for
Sidney Sheldon, Tilly Bagshawe