Mia Fey is not one to judge.
She is, however, one to be completely unnerved as she witnesses Diego Armando—who should have left two hours ago, penciled in for a half day—slip into the office of their boss, Marvin Grossberg. The door shuts behind him, faint click of the faulty lock echoing loud in Mia's ears.
Mia swallows. Ignores the hundreds of thoughts leaping in unison to the same single conclusion as she hugs the case files close to her chest. Briskly, she walks past Mr. Grossberg's office to the end of the hall where her own office sits across from Diego's. All she wants to do is prove her worth, assist Mr. Hammond by conducting the paralegal duties of this case.
Not entertain the prospect of her boss and her senior partner carrying out a scandalous affair right under her nose.
Spreading the files across her desk, Mia presses in her earbuds and is greeted by a soft twang of blues guitar streaming from them. As she scans through the pages of notes she took during the long, thankless afternoon spent questioning the defendant with Mr. Hammond yesterday, she can't keep her mind from drifting back to the same topic it's been circling around for the past twenty-four hours.
Ms. Doreen Bell, a forty-two-year-old makeup saleswoman, was charged with slaying her cheating fiancé, forty-six-year-old executive Phil Landers. Hoping to surprise Mr. Landers at his office with an expensive takeout dinner in honor of their five year anniversary as a couple, it was Ms. Bell who ended up with the shock of a lifetime, catching Mr. Landers in the half-dressed passionate embrace of his much younger secretary. A calamitous argument ensued, culminating in Ms. Bell throwing her engagement ring at Mr. Landers and vowing he would face retribution for his indiscretions.
Mr. Landers never made it to work the next day. He was found dead in the parking garage of his townhome association, one gunshot wound to the chest—and one between the legs. Despite protesting her innocence, Ms. Bell's threats from the previous evening, as well as her fingerprints on the handgun recovered at the scene were enough to indict her with the charge of first-degree murder.
But it wasn't this outcome that had piqued Mia's interest; the sordid details involving the prosecution's key witness, secretary Becca Encall, were startling in their similarities. She'd listened enraptured, mentally combing through all the moments throughout the previous month that, at the time, she'd thought nothing of—that Ms. Bell had thought nothing of, until, in hindsight, it'd become all she could think of.
Miss Encall was a dedicated secretary, always willing to stay late, come in early, or even eschew a scheduled day off all in the name of ensuring the office continued to run smoothly—which reminded Mia of a certain coffee fiend she'd become well-acquainted with over the past six months.
But Diego's loyalty to Grossberg Law had taken a stronger sense of urgency recently, and Mia can trace the timing back to approximately five weeks ago, when she'd come on board. Her miserable debut had coincided with the news that Mr. Grossberg and his wife of nearly thirty years, Shirlena, had reached the mutual decision to separate.
Irreconcilable differences, they'd all been told. But wasn't that always code for something more? It'd certainly been why her own father had left, why her uncle had left Aunt Morgan—they had their differences. And maybe, after all these years, Mr. Grossberg's been awakened to such differences, on his end, that Shirlena could never fulfill. Perhaps Diego, who Mr. Grossberg has known going on two decades, was more than just a supportive friend, a source of comfort in this difficult time—he was the reason for such difficulties in the first place.
Even with all of Diego's charms having been aimed at women, at least from what Mia's seen, she isn't about to make any assumptions; she isn't going to do what everyone has done, still does to her. The simplest complimentary remark about the opposite sex, and any possibility that she could be attracted to the same sex is rendered null and void.
It's only, from what she knows of Diego, he isn't the type to insert himself up in a clandestine affair, with anyone. If anything, he would shout his affections from the rooftops, openly flaunt his relationship for all to see.
Of course, if the relationship in question was with his technically-still-married boss who was twice Diego's age, it could very well be an exception to his endless index of rules.
"Ow!" Mia turns the page of her notes so viciously that she ends up with a paper cut. She sulks, finger in her mouth, the taste of copper seeping in. If Diego were here, he'd be directing an amused smirk her way—like he'd never been victim of a single paper cut in his life!—and the fact that he's not here causes a strange tweak behind her ribs.
Jealousy? As if. They're all adults here. Diego, Mr. Grossberg—they could do what they wanted, and with each other, even. Let them be caught up in some office romance, if that's what they had their hearts set on. Meanwhile, Mia would focus on the job she had to do... the job...
Mia pops her finger out from between her lips, and sighs heavily. It's stopped bleeding, but there's a thin sliver of red left behind, as well as a scratch of pain that isn't anywhere in the vicinity of her finger.
Covering herself in paper cuts as she did all the work of a lawyer's assistant wasn't her job, but it was about all she was good for lately.
Anxious to wash the metal tang from her mouth, Mia removes her earbuds and grabs her empty mug. She strides from the office to the water cooler stationed against the wall between her and Diego's offices.
At the same time, Diego emerges from Mr. Grossberg's office, his own mug in hand. His eyes widen for the splittest of seconds, locking with Mia's before his expression falls back to its usual coolness.
"Fancy meeting you here, Ms. Fey."
"Yes, quite the coincidence. Us crossing paths at the office where we both work."
"Ha..! I meant, I thought you were helping Robbo with his case."
"I am," Mia says. "Or, I have been, but Mr. Hammond wants to interview the defendant on his own right now. She keeps changing her story; it's incredibly frustrating, so I offered to come back here to continue my research into her relationship with the victim. But I could say the same for you, Mr. Armando. I thought you were taking a half day, and here, it's almost three."
"Keeping tabs on my schedule, huh?" Diego asks with a sly smirk. Mia inwardly winces at the thought of him using it just minutes ago, and in the not-too-distant future, on Mr. Grossberg.
"No! It's just... well, you've been here so often, lately. Before and after business hours, to er... help Mr. Grossberg. I guess I just found it curious, since we don't get paid overtime for staying late for non-trial related work."
"No, we don't," Diego agrees. "But... you know, tax season is approaching, and Marv's always been crap about being timely with that. Especially this year, it's more... complicated for him, to say the least. I'm just trying to help him get things in order. Be there for him, however I can."
"That's very kind of you," Mia says, "to be so willing, and... I'm sure it's a great comfort to him."
"Don't sound so surprised." Diego makes to slip by her, to his office. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"
"Hold it!" Mia snags his arm, sending a splash of water cresting from her mug to the floor. Diego blinks at her over his shoulder, his parted mouth and raised eyebrows displaying intrigue and confusion in equal measure.
Mia feels the same but is able to restrain it, bluffing by way of a stare that is all intent and determination.
One he has only himself to thank—or blame—for teaching her.
Her hold tightens a smidge on his bicep—a rather firm bicep. She shoves away the urge to loosen her grip, for the sheer sake of squeezing it again. "I... you told me before about how a different environment can provide a whole new perspective on things. So, I was thinking, in a few minutes, I was going to head down to the Daily Grind to go over these files."
Diego replies with an interested, "Oh?"
"Yes, and, you know, I took your suggestion and tried their London fog the other day; it was amazing and I could go for another. Did you know that if you add a shot of espresso to it, it's called a London smog?"
"Ha...!" Neither a yes nor a no—not that she'd expect a direct answer from Diego Armando. He shifts his body, angling more towards her. "Always eager to teach me a thing or two, aren't you, Ms. Fey?"
"Would you like to join me?" She gives him a demure smile, meant to entice. She releases her fingers and brushes them, gentle but purposeful, along his arm.
Her efforts are in vain.
"Would I like to? Absolutely." Diego glances down into his mug, it must be completely empty, or else he'd be drinking from it. As it is, he only pauses meaningfully before adding, "But can I? I'm afraid not, Kitten. I already promised Marv I'd be here until we get this over and done with. So, a couple more hours, minimum."
Mia's hand drops away, confidence draining just as swiftly; Diego Armando was turning her down. Was turning a coffee date down. Not that it would be a date, of course! Just, that was the common term for it, the first word that came to mind! More importantly, he was turning it down for Mr. Grossberg.
"Wow," Mia tries to force a laugh; it comes out stilted and shaky. "Who are you and what have you done with the real Diego Armando? The one who doesn't let anything take precedent over his caffeine addiction."
Or anyone, she adds internally.
"Oh, he's still right here, in the flesh." Diego turns and heads into his office, continuing his explanation. "That's where I was headed; to brew up a fresh batch to get Marv and I through the evening."
"But the coffee maker's in the lobby," Mia reminds him while following behind.
"It is. But I'm in the mood for..." He retrieves a half-empty bag of grounds from his mini-fridge and unclips it. "Peaberries. Ground especially for a French press."
"Perfect for a special occasion," Mia repeats what Diego had told her weeks ago, about his French pressed coffee. She watches as he moves to the credenza behind his desk, removing the plunger from the French press upon it.
"Bingo." Diego flashes her a grin and starts pouring the grounds into the glass carafe.
He's even breaking out his secret stash, just for Mr. Grossberg. Mia chews her lip, trying to find the right phrasing to continue her assault. She'll trap Diego yet. "You know, if you boys have so much to take care of, I could spare an hour or two, stick around and help out. Three heads are better than two."
"No!" Diego stops mid-pour, arm jerking abruptly. A thin arc of coffee grounds miss the carafe and sprinkle the counter. His stare is blank, first towards Mia, then at the scattered grounds framing the French press.
"No?" Mia parrots back at him, just as thrown by this sudden flux in temperament. Is it as good as an admission, this brief glimpse of vulnerability from a man who never showed anything remotely close to it while in court? Who, even in the midst of the most heated battles with the prosecution would radiate confidence powerful enough to rival his favorite java blend?
"No. Listen, Mia... " She's treated to a sheepish smile before Diego turns his attention to the credenza, using one hand to sweep the stray grounds into the other. He brushes them off into the trashcan, and his tone takes a sort of disappointed turn, not that Mia's able to pinpoint what that disappointment is directed towards. "Don't get me wrong... your offer is entirely appreciated, but Marv gets pretty riled up when it comes to his finances. I don't mind being on the receiving end of his frustration and grumbling, but I'd rather not let you subject yourself to that kind of punishment. I know how to handle him when he's like this."
Mia swallows; she doesn't want to spend a single second considering how well Diego can handle Mr. Grossberg, but the images arrive unbidden. "R-Right..." She's utterly failing at playing it cool. "Makes sense."
"Besides, you have an important role to play, yourself, for Robbo."
Diego checks the French press, shaking in a couple more dashes of grounds. Once satisfied, he picks it up and carries it out to hall, where Mia watches from a distance as he fills it with hot water from the cooler. She tries to reconcile this Diego—her colleague, a rival in a sense, but mostly, her friend—with a man intent on encouraging a May-December romance with his boss.
Does it really matter to her, if Mr. Grossberg has found happiness with Diego, and vice-versa, however socially unacceptable—and personally disheartening—it might be? Should she really be intruding on it, if they're able keep it from affecting the atmosphere at the office?
A week ago, she would have called herself crazy for believing it was even within the realm of possibility, but hadn't Diego thought it equally unbelievable, that Mia herself had been in a two year relationship with someone on the opposite side of the law, in Lana? And here, she had begun to appreciate the idea of no secrets between the two of them; he was the first—and only, as far as she knew—to be privy to her relationship with Lana. There was something just so terribly offensive about the prospect that he might not reciprocate her trust, and so thoughtlessly shun her from his own life.
Mia blinks, unsure why it's so imperative that she have her fears confirmed. So she could figure out how to be most supportive? Or—what the dull throb in her heart suggested—to get over it, as soon as possible?
Regardless, if she's going to expose them, it's not going to be through getting Diego to crack. Having already shown an uncharacteristic flicker of unease, he's likely redoubled his guard. Her only hope is to catch them, if not in the act than on the verge of it.
Before she can second-guess whether or not the plan sowing roots into her mind is worth setting into motion, Diego is reentering the office.
"Here, let me." She meets him not but a few feet from the door, using both hands to carefully take hold of the French press by its base.
Maybe it's their close proximity or the boldness of her actions, but she has no trouble extricating the French press from Diego. Stunned might be an exaggeration, but what else would describe a Diego who relinquishes his treasured French press without a fight?
Mia can feel his eyes on her as she turns away and places the press on the credenza. It's verified when she faces him once again, and he's considering her the way he might a menu at a new coffee shop—searching for the best they have to offer.
If she's on to him, he's doing a magnificent job of acting himself, that he's on to her.
If it's really even an act.
Still, she can't let her guard down. Gingerly, she rests the plunger onto the press, keeping her attention solely on it as she speaks nonchalantly to Diego.
"Mr. Armando, you do realize there's more to life than coffee, don't you? Which is why there's coffee." She looks to him, nodding sagely to reinforce one of the many Diego-isms she's absorbed during their trips to the Daily Grind. "If you really must help Mr. Grossberg, the least I can do is take five minutes to prepare your coffee. I'm not in any kind of hurry. And I've seen you use this enough, I think I know what I'm doing."
"Four minutes," Diego corrects her, showing as many fingers.
"Oh, I know, but Mr. Grossberg likes cream in his, and by the time I... oh, don't make that face, at least it's not decaf, like Mr. Hammond."
Diego cringes even harder, but doesn't protest.
"Anyway, go, go. I'll bring it over when it's ready." She makes a shooing motion with her hands, to which he reluctantly obeys.
It's no small concession, she knows, that he left her to use any of his equipment related to coffee. But that speaks to how urgently he needed— or wanted?—to be in the next office over, with Mr. Grossberg.
Mia sets the timer on her phone. Four minutes—five, maybe, as she's bought an extra minute under the guise of adding cream to Mr. Grossberg's coffee. She hurries to secure the mug Diego set aside and scans the selection of others he has lining the window sill above the credenza. There's one with a faded logo for the hybrid coffee shop/patisserie adjacent to the courthouse, All Rise. Mia grabs it.
Interrupting Mia's preparations is a dim jazz melody warbling from the wall between Diego's office and Mr. Grossberg's. After setting the mugs aside, she presses an ear to the wall, straining to hear any snatches of conversation. But there's nothing, only indistinct murmurs filtering through the low brass of the jazz continuing to play.
Damn! But isn't the music itself existing evidence enough? As far as she knew, Mr. Grossberg didn't listen to music while at work; it must have been Diego's selection—a wise precaution on his end, creating background noise to drown out any other sounds that might otherwise make their way to potential eavesdroppers (like her). And knowing Diego, to set the mood.
Eurgh. She shakes the image from her already scarred brain, pushing away. She can't just stand here glued to the wall for three more minutes. There has to be something else here, in Diego's office, to tip her off. Hard evidence.
Her hand poises on the handle of the file drawer; no, she can't just snoop around. Diego trusts her, as she does him—or, as she thinks she does. There must be something available out in the open that she could go off of. Her eyes rove his desk's surface, hunting for anything even mildly incriminating.
It's not immaculate by any stretch, but there's nothing about his desk that screams Diego Armando, let alone that he's entwined in an office romance. Mia sighs, ready to abort mission and finish preparing the coffee when her gaze lands on the large calendar overtaking most of his desk.
She recalls Mr. Landers's personal planner holding a wealth of damning evidence, that anyone who spent a few seconds paging through could easily conclude that he was straying from his marriage. Well, the condoms kept in his desk drawer, that Ms. Bell had found when she'd turned his office upside-down in her fit of rage, were a dead giveaway too, and not exactly what Mia hopes to discover here. She scans the calendar, finger guiding her from from date to date.
Only one box is filled in. Just four days away, this Saturday reads Il Duce's w M – 7 pm in Diego's hurried scrawl.
Mia claps a hand over her mouth when a gasp escapes. What are the odds?
Diego has reservations this weekend with Mr. Grossberg. And at the one of the most notorious hotspots in all of Los Angeles for successful men to dine with their mistresses without the risk of being exposed.
How notorious? Truth be told, Mia hadn't learned of just how disreputable Il Duce's Pasta Sock was until speaking with Ms. Bell yesterday. Only a half mile from Mr. Landers's office, it was where he would bring Miss Encall often—to discuss work, of course. Ms. Bell herself was adamant that she was at Il Duce's the night Phil was murdered, digging deeper into how involved the whole illicit affair had been—not that anyone could corroborate her alibi.
"Mia?"
Mia squeaks from behind her hand. Backing away from Diego's desk, she looks to find him watching her from the doorway.
"What are you doing here?" She blurts, not wanting him to ask her the same thing—she hasn't thought of a good excuse yet. "I told you I'd bring it over when—"
"I left the peaberry grounds out." He nods over to where they're still sitting on the credenza.
"Oh! Right, well, I was just about to put them away!" She might as well tack on a "Gee whiz!" on for good measure, for how over-the-top her enthusiasm is.
Mia can't look at his face, at the suspicion she knows he's regarding her with. She instead focuses on where the top two buttons of his dress shirt are undone, exposing the bronze skin below his neck. Was it like that earlier? With how much she's noticing it now, she certainly would have noticed it then, wouldn't she?
"Something wrong, Mia?" She finally peeks up at Diego, and he's less smirky than she might expect. More concerned, if anything. "You're as skittish as a kitten in room full of rocking chairs. Wouldn't want to get your tail pinched, now would you?" And there it is. A slight bob of his eyebrows, so quick she might have imagined it. She wishes she could say the same about the very real warmth creeping to her cheeks as he passes her the clipped bag of grounds.
"No, no... I just..." She takes it from him, kneeling down to his mini-fridge and storing them away amongst all the other bags. A small bottle of creamer rests in the shelf of the door, hazelnut flavor. She remembers buying it for Diego, for use when he brews her a cup of one his blends, but it's empty enough to suggest that she isn't the only one he brews coffee for. "Mr. Hammond's latest case is stressful, that's all. It's all I've thought about since I agreed to help him."
Which isn't untrue. She's just omitting the part where it's led to a myriad of other thoughts.
"Ha...! The difference between a great and horrible shot of espresso boils down to a few seconds; the same could be said about working on a case. Too little—or too much—time spent thinking on it, and your product isn't fit for public consumption."
"You think I'm over-thinking things?" In more ways than one, maybe, she adds to herself.
"Could be. Or, " Diego continues, smooth and thoughtful, "it could be that you're just not cut out to play paralegal, and it's getting to you."
He appears ready to elaborate, but the phone's timer goes off. Its melody is too chipper, too upbeat for the weight that squeezes down on Mia at the same time Diego depresses the plunger.
She admires, is even attracted to Diego's honesty, no matter how many metaphors he wants to wrap it up in. But lately it's as if life has been nothing but one awful truth after another, and hearing another from Diego makes it feel like one of those nine lives he claims she has has been taken.
"Care to do the honors, Ms. Fey?" Diego gestures to the empty mugs and the carafe filled with freshly pressed coffee. As much as she doesn't care for coffee's taste, the aroma causes her mouth to water.
"Oh... sure. Might as well be good for something." The self-deprecation is meant to be a joke, but Mia can't force levity into he voice. Which makes it even more pathetic, like she's fishing for Diego to counter it, to shower her in compliments.
She pours the coffee into the two mugs, leaving room in Mr. Grossberg's while Diego's is filled to the top.
"You know, as wishy-washy as Marv is, you'd think I could get him to at least try his coffee black. Once, just once." Diego says as he adds a healthy amount of creamer to Mr. Grossberg's coffee, looking none too pleased about it. He sighs, closes the bottle off and looks over to Mia. "But hey, listen, if you need more Post-it notes, they're in the center drawer."
"If I...?"
"I assume that's what you were doing. Pawing through my desk." He has a mug in each hand now, and draws a short sip from his. "Rob's always asking to borrow them, never returns them. One of these days I'm going to cover every inch of his desk in Post-its, just to make sure he never takes mine again."
"O-Oh..." She'd been so sure she'd finally learned to read him, but in this moment, he still has her guessing. Could he really be clued in to how much she's uncovered today, and just how she's done so? She'd never put anything past Diego Armando, but he doesn't need to know that. "Yeah, he's taken them from me, too. Lemme know when you decide to get your revenge, if you want an accomplice."
"Ha..! That's the spirit." Diego's grin spreads, sharpens, and he gives a small nod towards the remaining coffee. "There's still some left, Kitten. Why don't you help yourself—but promise me, don't be like Marv. Try it black before you taint it."
Mia drains the mug she brought along of the water that's left, and fills it halfway with the coffee. The rising steam heats her face, and she manages a weak smile. "I'm warning you, I've never liked my coffee black."
"But have you had peaberries? French pressed?"
"No, but—"
"Then how do you know you'll like it or not, unless you try it?" Diego backs towards the door. He takes another sip of coffee as he does, not spilling a drop from either mug. An action that must come from years of practice. "Mm. You know, the best moments in life are like a good cup of coffee—piping hot and full of flavor."
Normally Mia would roll her eyes. Right now, she'd rather shut them, force away the images springing up in her mind that tie Diego's statement to their boss. "Thank you for such wisdom, Mr. Armando. Have a... nice evening with Mr. Grossberg."
Diego leaves, and it's close to a full minute that Mia stands there, vacant stare matching her insides. The room feels smaller, emptier than when she was alone in here before. So does she.
Much like when she was poking around for signs of a tryst, the only noise is the jazz tune coming from Mr. Grossberg's office, fuzzed over by the wall separating them.
Bringing the cup to her lips, Mia takes a small sip. It's silky, with the tiniest hints of berry. The acid she so despises in most coffee is nonexistent. She doesn't know if she could drink a whole cup of the stuff, but one sip isn't so bad. Maybe not even two; Mia tries another, and it's better than the first. She almost congratulates herself on a job well done, then remembers she didn't make it.
She stood by, while Diego did all the work.
Bitterness hangs in her mouth, and it's not the coffee.