The days flood by Kalinda, blurring as they pass.
Diane takes over the case. Kalinda listens as she floats strategies, some of which don't sound like they're entirely hers, and she comments on these strategies from a distance, thinking about the last time she went before a grand jury—Illinois, then, not the federal that's hounding her now—and then trying not to. She'll take instructions. She'll take anything now.
She pleads the Fifth, as Diane recommends. She's worked relatively few federal cases and testified in even fewer, so the sound of her own "I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me" echoing off the beams of this particular courtroom is startling, unfamiliar. She has no confidence in this voice—Leela's, maybe—and indeed, two days later the federal grand jury returns an indictment. The charges bob past Kalinda: multiple counts of identity fraud, passport fraud, unlawful possession of a firearm. Maximum sentences of two years, eight years, ten years. She doesn't trust herself to breathe.
On Diane's advice, she turns herself in. It will be easier, Diane says, and Kalinda knows Diane knows these things. Still, it's all she can do not to run away while they book her, and her heart skips several beats during arraignment when the prosecutor makes it clear that Kalinda is a flight risk and the judge bobs her head as he speaks.
Kalinda had somehow failed to consider the prospect of incarceration before trial. Days, weeks, of bars and passivity, being at the mercy of others. Cages. Public showers. Bishop's people, Nick's people. She flattens her palms against her skirt, looking at the bones in her wrists and fingers.
"That's absurd, Your Honor."
With the magnetism born of deep satisfaction with herself, her work, the world, Diane, all red blazer and gold brooch, bold makeup and matching heels, sways the judge, sways the room. It's impossible, Kalinda thinks, to listen to Diane Lockhart argue without desperately wishing that you could side with her, be part of her team. This judge seems no exception; she sets bail so low that no one even bothers to cuff Kalinda before it's paid. Kalinda nods to Diane in gratitude, knowing Diane understands.
There's so much chaos as they walk out of the courthouse that it takes Kalinda a second to notice Lana. Kalinda looks her over, once, then turns on her heel to follow Diane.
"Kalinda."
She hears Lana follow them around the corner. Lana catches up to Kalinda, puts a hand on her shoulder. Kalinda whirls.
They stare at each other. Lana speaks first. "I didn't know it would go this far."
Kalinda doesn't say anything. She feels Diane notice that they've stopped, come up behind her.
Lana's mouth works for a second. The words she finally forms are, "I did try to warn you."
"If you need to justify this to yourself, Lana, go ahead. Don't expect me to buy it."
"Kalinda—"
The words rush out of Kalinda before she can stop herself: "What made you think you could believe anything he said?"
She doesn't know how it happened: if Lana found Nick, if Nick came to Lana. She doesn't know how long Lana has known, how long she's held onto it. None of those are ways that Lana betrayed her.
The question seems to offend Lana. She straightens, cocks her head at Kalinda. "Well, it all turned out to be true, didn't it?"
Kalinda almost laughs, but her throat's too dry. "Idiot. You still don't know what you're doing."
She turns around again, and Diane nods crisply and follows suit, but Lana's quiet voice behind her says, "Wait."
So Kalinda waits.
"They—we—they still don't know how you did it," Lana says. "How you got the documents."
Kalinda notes Lana's lowered eyes, the softness of her lashes on her cheeks. For just a second the idea of touching them, kissing them flashes through her mind, but she needs to stop it immediately; it will lead to other lashes, other cheeks.
"They want—they'll want someone more powerful than you, someone who's doing this for others. If you give them that—"
Kalinda trots ahead of Diane and towards the parking lot. With her usual long strides Diane has caught up to her in a matter of seconds. Kalinda doesn't look over her shoulder to see if Lana is waiting, or if she's turned around and left.
"She has a point," Diane says as she unlocks her Mercedes.
Kalinda says, "I know." She sinks into the passenger seat.
"If you can give them—"
"No."
"It may be our best strategy, Kalinda." In the last day or so, the name "Kalinda" has started to sound as if it squirms in Diane's mouth. They pull out of the parking lot, turn right on Adams.
"Well, we need another one," Kalinda answers.
"We don't have a you on this."
"Get one," Kalinda says with a shrug. "You should probably hire a new one anyway."
Diane brakes sharply as the light changes. "Yes, we probably should."
It's true, unquestionably, but the notion of losing Diane, losing her faith, losing Lockhart/Gardner in a real and permanent way, scratches uncomfortably at the edges of Kalinda's heart. She doesn't speak, just watches pedestrians stream past the windows on the corner of Michigan.
"They might find out anyway. Who it was," Diane says finally.
"I know," Kalinda says, biting her lip. "But they might not."
They always meet at the office, as if Kalinda were an ordinary client; Diane doesn't have the time or inclination for house calls. The stares here are worse than the stares in the street, in the courthouse, their intimacy unnerving. Not that many people at Lockhart/Gardner really know Kalinda, but she's been a human presence in their lives, and they're seeing through to something no Trib reporter would ever find, not if he followed her for days. What she loses here is worse than privacy.
In addition, of course, there's the agonizing walk past Alicia's door. Kalinda stares straight ahead every time, of course, but she can feel Alicia, the way she always could. (More so now, really, now that she knows the texture of Alicia's lips, knows how Alicia's hair felt against Kalinda's inner thighs, knows a thousand other things she isn't going to think about.) It becomes a challenge to make her legs move—steps are always a little stiffer by Alicia's office, a little slower—but she never turns her head.
Today, leaving Diane, the walk feels different, and she steals a glance to her left to discover that Alicia isn't there at all. She sweeps her gaze kitty-corner: Eli's out as well. Crisis management, then, in one form or another. Soon Eli will be dropping all his clients, zooming in on the governor's campaign.
Tomorrow Diane will receive the prosecution's witness list, tomorrow Kalinda will have to explain where their star witness got his information. Lately, in her idle moments—and they are legion—Kalinda has found herself trying to come up with still another name. But it's hard even to muster up the necessary energy.
The elevator dings. Kalinda starts; she hadn't quite noticed the doors or the reception desk. But the door opens, and there is Alicia.
Kalinda gets in. Alicia doesn't budge. The door slides closed.
Kalinda may hate the Lockhart/Gardner elevator more than she has ever hated an object.
"I heard," says Alicia without preamble.
"Yeah." Kalinda's lips part to release the shallow breaths she's taking.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it."
"How can I not worry about it?"
"It's not your responsibility."
"Did you think I only—" Alicia shakes her head, as if to compose about. "Only because it was my responsibility?"
"No," Kalinda says.
"No what?"
"I didn't think that."
"Then what …" Kalinda glances at her, in spite of herself. Alicia's face is at its softest and loveliest, against her will, as always, the longing to touch Alicia floods to Kalinda's fingertips. She tucks her hair behind her ears, then again, then again, hears the ding as if from a great distance.
She remembers, days ago, the moment between sleeping and waking when she knew it was Alicia's arm resting on her shoulder blades, before she had the faculties to understand what that meant. There was a moment when that sweat between their skin was all Kalinda knew, all she needed to know.
"Alicia," she says helplessly, her voice flat from lack of air. "You know we—you know it's better."
"No, I don't know that. How could I know that?" Alicia's face shifts back to wax. "How would I ever have gotten enough information to know that?"
"I want you to be safe, Alicia. And if—if your children lost you …"
"When you say something like that, what am I supposed to think?"
Kalinda blinks. "That maybe this is something to take seriously. I can't have you in danger. You have to trust me."
"I have to trust you?" Alicia says, the slightest trail of menace in her voice. "What do you think I've been doing? And where did it get me?"
They've reached the parking level and have been standing on the concrete strip outside the elevator, Kalinda frozen like a fox caught in headlights, Alicia like Kalinda doesn't even know what. Like a wave.
"You don't let me in on these decisions, Kalinda. If you'd told me the truth—if you had ever told me the truth—" Her voice starts to shake, and Kalinda shakes a little along with it. "But you don't trust me. You're never going to trust me. And I keep trusting you, over and over, and I have to stop. I have to stop." She turns back towards the elevator, presses the button. The red arrow lights up underneath her fingernail.
"Alicia."
Alicia doesn't speak. Neither does Kalinda, now. She just lists in her head all the ways she is probably going to destroy her, no matter how she tries to stop it.
Kalinda touches Alicia, just her face, her soft cheek where the skin has begun to loosen.
The elevator door dings open. Neither woman moves.