Clothes Maketh The Lawyer
Office of ADA Ron Carver
One Hogan Place
Friday December 29th 2006
Regan took a deep breath, smoothed her hair down, and knocked on the door in front of her.
"Come in."
Regan had seen Ron Carver at a distance, but she hadn't known up that he would be quite so elegantly polished up close. He looked her up and down, in a coolly assessing way without a hint of harassment that none the less made Regan intensely aware that her suit was rumpled and her hair straying loose from its pony-tail.
"I'm Regan Markham," she said. "Jack McCoy sent me down to work Whitford with you."
"I know," Carver said. "Have you done a lot of courtroom work?"
"Some," Regan said. "Second chaired for Jack McCoy on Forrest. Among others."
"Anyone looking at Jack McCoy can tell he has a – flexible – dress code," Carver said. "I'm a little more down-the-line. I know the DA's Office doesn't pay ADAs a hell of a lot of money, but just because you represent the People doesn't mean you can turn up to court looking like a bag lady. We'll be in court on the second, and you'll be looking a little more professional."
"Yes, sir," Regan said, cheeks blazing.
Carver pressed a button on his phone. "Mr. Johnson, could you come in here a moment?"
The office door behind Regan opened and she turned to see a man around her own age looking expectantly at Carver.
"Ms Markham, Mr. Johnson. Mr. Johnson is one of my paralegals. Mr. Johnson, Ms Markham will be my second chair on Whitford. She needs to look presentable for court."
"Yes, Mr. Carver," Johnson said. Regan's incipient panic was eased a little when Johnson threw her an outrageously campy wink. "If you'd come with me, Ms Markham?"
She followed him out into the hall and was bemused to see him picking his coat up from behind his desk. "Mr. Johnson?"
"Oh, please," Johnson said. "It's Chuck. And I'm going to call you – what am I going to call you?"
"You're going to call me Regan," Regan said.
"I am? Oh, good," Chuck said. "Now, my dear, come along with me."
Coming along with Chuck turned out to take the rest of the day. First he bundled her into a cab and then bundled her out at a tiny hairdressers in Queens.
"I'm not sure about this," Regan said, eyeing the dingy windows.
Chuck put his hand in the small of her back and pushed her forward. "From the look of your hair, the last haircut you had, you gave yourself with nail scissors. I don't think you're in a position to be 'unsure' about anything. Go on."
An hour later, Regan looked at herself in the mirror and had to admit that Chuck had been right. Her hair was not only tidier, but seemed miraculously sleeker. The old Sicilian barber behind her met her gaze in the mirror and nodded, satisfied. "Now you looka like a lawyer," he said, and Regan had to agree. She was pleasantly surprised by the price, as well.
"Fifth avenue haircuts at bargain-basement prices," Chuck said. "Don't lose the address." Then he whisked her off to a series of shops that had Regan's head whirling – discount outlets, second-hand stores, a couple of tiny boutiques set up practically in alleyways. He made her buy almost everything in a size too large and then dragged her to a tailor in Chinatown who measured her rapidly, clucking her tongue and chattering in Cantonese. They left most of the clothes Chuck had made her buy to be altered, including the suit she'd worn to work that day, and suddenly Regan found herself out on the street in a new red silk blouse and a tailored skirt that managed to give her hips.
"One more stop," Chuck told her, and towed her along the street to a department store. He steered her up to the counter, winked at the woman behind it, and said: "I think everything, don't you?"
He supervised as the makeup saleswoman painted and powdered her, and then spun her around to look in a mirror.
She expected to see the garishly painted figure that usually resulted from her own attempts with makeup. Instead, she saw a Regan Markham somehow smoothed and polished. Almost pretty, she thought, lifting one hand to touch the simple, sophisticated hairstyle, the slightly flushed cheeks.
"I hope you have a hot date tonight, ma'am," the woman said.
"No," Regan said.
"Oh, please," Chuck said. "You can't waste day one of a makeover on CSI reruns." He thought for a moment, then brightened. "The Lord Roberts. Plenty of our people there on a Friday night."
"Chuck," Regan said. "I'm not your people."
"I mean prosecutors, darling," Chuck said, amused. "And cops. Come on!"
Regan couldn't find it in herself to disappoint him, and found herself sitting on a barstool in the Lord Roberts with a colored cocktail she didn't even know the name of in one hand.
"There you go, my dear," Chuck said. He pointed across the bar to the mirror behind it. "Who do you see?"
Regan looked between the bottles, trying to find her own reflection. It took her a moment to recognize the polished blonde sipping the sophisticated drink.
Chuck leaned closer to her. "A lawyer," he whispered triumphantly.
Regan felt herself blush. He was right. For the first time she looked like one of the other ADAs at Hogan Place: elegant, confident – belonging.
Shyly, she ducked her head and looked away – then spun back to face Chuck as a familiar face at the end of the bar caught her eye.
"Oh, shit," she blurted.
"What?" Chuck asked.
"That guy down there, the narc."
"You know him?"
"Yeah," Regan said.
"He dump you?"
"Not really," Regan said. "Actually, I owe him an apology."
"Well, I'm sure he'd be happy to accept it from a babe like yourself," Chuck said. "Go and talk to him. Go and talk to your man – while I go and talk to mine."
Regan took a deep breath and gathered her courage. She did owe Ben Strickland an apology. She'd rather have run away, but that wouldn't have been fair. She took another sip of her cocktail for Dutch courage and walked slowly down the bar to Strickland.
"Ben," she said.
Strickland looked up and she saw him register her new appearance. "Regan," he said. "You look well. Better than last time I saw you. Can I buy you a drink?"
"I'm okay, Ben," she said. "I just – I wanted to apologize. For the last time you saw me. I – and then my boss – you didn't deserve any of that."
"If I'd know I was getting in between something," Strickland said, "I wouldn't – "
"No, it's not like that. I – I wasn't ready. I'm not ready. And I thought I could make myself ready. But I couldn't. I'm sorry."
"So that's it?" Strickland said.
"I'm sorry," Regan said again. "I really am."
He gave her a rueful little grin. "So am I. But, hey, don't lose my number. And if you get ready …" Strickland stood up and leaned over to give her a peck on the cheek. "Take care, Regan Markham."
She nodded, not able to speak past the lump in her throat. She turned and hurried away. Chuck was talking animatedly to a handsome young man in the corner of the bar and Regan didn't interrupt him. She grabbed her coat from the rack, hoisted her shopping, and went out into the chilly evening.
I couldn't make myself ready.
Not for Ben. Not for anything.
Maybe I better learn how.
Before it's too late.
If it isn't already.
.oOo.
A/N: More coming soon. Every review appreciated!