I
14 years ago, February
Harvey is pouring himself a cup of coffee in the break room of the DA's office when Cameron Dennis comes up behind him.
"I've got an important job for you," the district attorney says.
Harvey finds his approach odd; normally Cameron presents jobs as barking orders. Whatever this is, Harvey knows he isn't going to like it. He turns to his boss, already frowning. "Did you clog the toilet again? Because you're going to have to call a plumber this time. I'm still having nightmares about that last one."
Cameron grins and slaps his assistant on the back. "Different job. Our expert witness on the Bowen trial had to bring his kid in with him, I need you to—"
"No."
"You're not going to let me finish?"
"I already know what you're going to say." Harvey shoves the glass carafe back into the coffee maker. "You want me to watch this guy's kid, and I'm telling you I'm not gonna do it."
"What makes you think you have a choice?"
Unruffled by his boss's forged severity, Harvey walks out of the small kitchen. Cameron follows. "Can't Bertha do it?"
"Harvey, that woman scares me and I'm a grown man. I can't do that to a child." Harvey doesn't disagree. Seeing he's got a foot in, Cameron adds, "You do this and I'll let you in on that decapitation case."
Harvey stops and turns to his boss, checking if he's serious. Baited, he takes a moment to think it over. "First chair?"
Cameron laughs. "So you can shit it up? I don't think so, kid."
"Fine, second chair, but I get to depose the sister."
"Why the sister?"
Harvey shrugs. "She's hot."
"All right. Second chair and you depose the sister."
"How long do I have until my day is ruined?"
"Kid's already here." Cameron motions toward Harvey's desk.
Harvey glances over and sure enough, there is a redheaded girl, maybe seven or eight, sitting in his leather back, her grubby—probably sticky—little child hands rummaging through the paperwork on top of his desk.
"Goddamnit," Harvey mutters.
II
It's another late night at Pearson Specter Litt. Harvey is sitting alone in his office researching his cases against the DoJ when Mike pokes his head in and asks if he's interested in grabbing a drink. It's half-nine. Harvey is slowing down, his is mind heavy, cluttered: Martell, Gibbs, Donna, Alice. There seems to be a pattern, but it's too much to sift through. He agrees—a few strong drinks, maybe that's what he needs to make these pieces fit.
The kid takes him to a whiskey dive bar. It is the type of crowed that stinks; perspiration and cigarette smoke hang thick in the air. It reminds Harvey of when he first came to New York, before he could afford rooftop cocktail lounges. They are dressed in three-piece Tom Ford in among open-toed man sandals and skinny jeans. He doesn't understand Mike's choice in atmosphere, but whatever. He goes with it. It's an old sort of new.
Surprisingly they serve Macallan. Harvey orders a double and Mike asks for a bourbon, well, because he's cheap in both taste and appearance, and platter of French fries. "Would you eat chicken wings?" The kid wants to know and Harvey nods, he'll eat anything at this point. Having missed lunch, he's half-starved and because he's unreasonable he blames Donna. She deals with his lunch and because she never showed up after her deposition he didn't eat. He couldn't even order his own food because he doesn't know what he likes anymore—she keeps track of that.
"What a week, huh?" Mike says, loosening his tie. "Subpoenaed by the DoJ, the whole Donna ordeal, that quack, Jonathan Martell—I've been back ten days and we're already getting buried."
Harvey shrugs. "This is the big leagues. It's never smooth sailing."
Mike nods. The waitress brings their drinks. The kid takes a sip of his bourbon and says, casual but probing, "You holdin' up all right?"
"You worried about me?"
"You lost your breath at Duke-Sanger. You choked out Jonathan Martell and Donna never came back to the office." Mike takes another swig, his blue eyes never leaving Harvey. He swallows, spins the liquid in his glass, and adds, "Yeah, I guess I'm worried."
Harvey nods, throws back his whiskey and sets it at the edge of the table, ready for another. "I'm fine, Mike." And then, acting reminded, he adds, "Has Rachel heard from her?"
"Just a text letting Rach know she's okay, but nothing since." Mike downs his glass and sets it beside Harvey's. "Another round?"
"Do you have to ask?"
Mike takes their glasses to the bar. When he comes back Harvey's helping himself to the kid's French fries. Harvey says, with a casualness that takes effort, "I knew Martell's daughter."
"The one that died?"
Harvey winces. He knew she was dying, but he never sought the confirmation. He sees now there was a part of him wanted to believe she got better and was out there somewhere, living out the rest of her life. How old would she be now? Twenty? Twenty-one? Does it matter? He lets the denial slip away. What comes next? Anger?
"She was seven." Harvey says, staring at the amber liquid in his glass. "Martell is a wack job, no doubt, but I can't blame the guy. If I had to watch my daughter die like that—helpless, no way to win—I'd probably be in a worse state than him."
"So, what? You think what he's done is justified?" Mike stares Harvey down. "Yeah, his kid died. It's tragic, but both my parents died and I didn't run off and fund a war."
Harvey smiles. "When did you become such a hardass?"
"When did you become such a crybaby?"
"Watch it, Kid." Harvey sips his drink, runs a hand over his tired face and says, "I'm just trying to make sense of this. Maybe Donna did whatever she did because she felt sorry for Martell. She's a sucker for pathetic—she practically coddles Louis and then there's that IT guy she's suddenly chummy with."
"Don't forget yourself."
"Are you trying to get your ass kicked?"
Mike grins, shoves a French fry in his mouth and leans back, thoughtful but the idling sort. There's something on his mind, but he hasn't got the balls to say it.
"Is there something you're not telling me?" Harvey asks.
Mike sighs, sits back up and points at Harvey's drink. "You're going to want to finish that."
III
The kid has Harvey's desk drawers pulled open and she's indelicately shifting through his possessions when he comes up beside her. "Excuse me, young lady." He says. "What do you think you're doing?"
She is elbow deep in the bottom drawer and has to peer sideways through her long curtain of hair to meet Harvey's gaze. "Looking for a pink pen."
"There are no pink pens in there."
"How would you know?"
"Because I'm Harvey Specter." He points to his name plate. "And this is my desk you're ransacking."
She pulls her arm out, unashamed and stares him down. Her eyes are big blue orbs, striking against her pale, freckled face. "You're not Harvey Specter," she says and there is such certainty in her little voice Harvey's a bit scared to correct her.
"What makes you think I'm not?" He asks.
"Because I'm Harvey Specter." She sits herself back in his chair—now her throne, apparently—and folds her tiny arms across her chest.
He leans against the desk next to her, his hip pressing the drawers closed. "I think you're confused."
"Nuh-uh. I'm a lawyer. I put away bad guys." She swings her feet. Silver sequenced Converse press their scuffed tips into his black slacks. "And you're my assistant! Go get a chair."
Harvey brushes off his trousers and moves over an inch. Her feet swing and touch air. He says, "All right, Shrimp, listen. I'm not here to play tea-party-attorneys with you or whatever the hell this is. I've got actual work to do because I'm an actual lawyer and I need you to just behave. You understand?"
"No."
"No?"
Her blue eyes lift and stare into his browns with a firmness that, as far as Harvey is concerned, no child this small should have. "No." She repeats.
"You think this is negotiable?
"Do you think this is negotiable? I said no." She shrugs. "What's there to negotiate?"
Someone lets out a snort of a laugh and Harvey looks over to see Bertha chuckling heartily at her cubicle. "Lord, I never thought I'd see the day. The great Harvey Specter gettin' told by a little girl—hallelujah!"
Harvey glares at his colleague. "Stay out of this Bertha. This is between me and Peewee."
"My name is Alice," the girl corrects.
"Changing names already?" Harvey folds his arms and waits patiently for her rebuttal.
Alice bites down on a chapped lip with front teeth that are still growing in, her little mind whirling. Kid's got spunk—he'll give her that. He might even be impressed by her if he wasn't so annoyed.
"Well, you go ahead and take a moment to sort out your little identity crisis." Harvey turns to the mess the child has left his desk in. The subpoena he'd spent the morning filling out is at the top of the clutter, but it isn't how he left it; it has been defaced with a terrible child's scrawls. He shuts his eyes, clenches his jaw, tells himself: Don't be a dick, she's just a kid.
Harvey picks up the subpoena. "Did you do this?"
Alice studies his face. Seeing that he's pissed, she decides to lie. "No."
"Really? Because your name is written across it in the worst handwriting I've ever seen."
"I have beautiful handwriting!" The child snaps, appalled, and as if it holds weight, she adds, "My mom says so."
"Well your mom's a liar because this is chicken scratch."
"It is not!"
"And you know what else? This is malicious destruction of government property, which is a felony."
Her outrage slips. She cocks her head, at a loss. "What's a fellowknee?"
"I thought you were a lawyer?" Harvey raises his eyebrows. The kid stays quiet. He explains, "A felony is something you can go to prison for."
Startled, Alice's mouth falls open into a little O. "You can't go to prison for coloring on a piece of paper…"
"Well I don't know what law school you went to—probably Yale since you can't even pronounce felony—but in my less than humble opinion you most definitely can go to prison for this. But I'm just a Harvard educated lawyer, what do I know? We can always phone up the police. See what they say."
Alice glances around nervously as if checking for the exits. Harvey's ready for her to bolt, but she surprises him by holding her ground. Turning to him, she says defiantly, "You're just trying to scare me."
Harvey takes this as a challenge. He picks up the phone. Begins to dial out.
"Wait!" She climbs up on her seat, leans across the desk and reaches for the hook. Harvey gently bats her away. "But I didn't know it was a fellowknee!"
"Doesn't matter, squirt. Any judge will tell you ignorance of the law is no defense to criminal charges."
"No, please! Please, mister, I'll be good. I swear." She scrambles back, hops into the chair and sits herself down all prim and proper, a perfect little doll.
Slightly touched by her childish impediment, Harvey fights to stay stoic. "I want better than good. I want a deaf, blind, mute. Got it? Not a peep."
She pretends to zip her lips shut and closes her eyes.
Harvey looks across at Bertha. "Handled that, didn't I? Piece of cake."
Bertha shakes her head. "What a hotshot. Damn near making a baby cry. You should be ashamed of yourself."
"Hm. Weird. I'm not."
When he glances back down, Alice's blue eyes are wide open and staring up at him. Too innocent. This won't last. And as if to prove his point the kid scrunches her nose up and sticks her tongue out with such a force her eyes go cross. Harvey thinks about telling her they'll get stuck that way, all wonky and criss-cross, just like his dad used to tell him, but he's not that mature. He sticks his tongue out, right back at her.
Alice giggles, delighted.
IV
Mike pulls a file from his briefcase and sets it on the table between them. He keeps his hand rested over it, his eyes cast downward as if he's still debating whether or not he's doing the right thing.
"How bad is it?" Harvey asks.
"Depends on your definition of bad." Seeing that Harvey is in no hurry to snatch up the documents, Mike relaxes back and lets the folder lay there. Strange, it's finally something solid for Harvey to lift the lid off of and he finds himself hesitant to do it.
"Is she guilty?"
"I don't know."
"That's good." He feels himself relax. "That means her involvement in this is vague."
"Well, no. We haven't done much research into Donna's involvement."
"Then what the hell is this about?"
Mike swallows. He glances back down at the file. Maybe he'll take it back, throw him some sort of excuse, oops, grabbed the wrong one, and maybe Harvey will pretend to buy it. A couple more days of obliviousness, what would it hurt? Looking back up, the kid says, "This is who Donna was before she met you."
This is it then. The jumbled mess that's been knocking around in his head will finally take shape. And what will it look like? How does it all fit? Donna and Jonathan in Wethersfield. Dead little Alice Martell. That woman in the hospital with that tortured look in her eyes that still haunts him, were those her eyes? He doesn't know. He has a feeling, some notion, something under the surface that he can't quite reach. And there it is, lying on the table, everything he's terrified to be right about. He just has to lift the lid…
In his hypnotized state, the attorney in Harvey can only think of one question: "Will any of this help us against Anita Gibbs?"
"It will help with our defense to know these things, but there is nothing in here we can use."
"Then let Donna keep her secrets," he says decisively. "If any of what's in there becomes relevant you can take care of it."
"Harvey—"
"Mike, people keep secrets for a reason and I'm not in the business of uncovering dirty laundry unless it benefits our case."
Mike searches Harvey's eyes. He doesn't understand, but he nods anyway. "Okay," he says, "whatever you say."
V
14 years ago, June
Cameron Dennis has taken meetings with his "expert witness" every Wednesday for four months now and Harvey's beginning to get the notion that something underhanded is going on. His first prick of distrust came the third time the kid was pawned off on him; Cameron mentioned his meeting was for the Reynolds's case but Harvey remembers it being for Bowen. Sure, it's not unlikely to have the same expert on two separate cases, but when Harvey pressed what the guy was an expert in, Cameron told him finance, and Harvey can't quite see what a financial expert has to do with rape or arson; or why, for that matter, does Cameron take these meetings at an undisclosed location outside of the DA's office.
His conclusion is that Cameron is having an affair. He doesn't suspect his mentor would ever do anything illegal or corrupt and it's the only thing left that makes any sense. It upsets him more than it reasonably should that he's involved in it—that he's aiding these men in their disloyalty—and worse, that he has this little girl shoved right in front of him that seems to embody what he so desperately tries to forget, being the victim of a disloyal parent himself. He wonders if Alice knows about her father's deceit and if she's been asked to keep it a secret as he once was. He hopes she doesn't; he'd like to think she's oblivious, as children her age normally are, but she's far too clever for him to be certain.
Harvey ponders the whole sordid mess as he watches the kid hunt through the break room cabinets. She stands on the countertop and stretches out onto her tip-toes to reach for the highest shelf. It's a mile away. She'll never make it. "Harvey," she calls. "There's chocolate up there. You see?"
"I see it and I'm not getting it for you. It's probably older than Cameron and you'll throw it up like you did that burrito I got you last week."
"You said I had to eat it in ten seconds!"
He smiles at her back. "I didn't think you actually would."
She turns her head, already in full pout. Her big blue eyes blink innocently at him. "Please, Harvey? We can check the expiration."
He kicks himself off the counter he's leaning against and goes to her. He doesn't even register that he's conceded until he has the bag of Hershey's Kisses in his hands.
He's wrapped around her tiny finger. When the hell did this happen?
Harvey unwraps a candy, revealing beneath the foil a normal looking chocolate Kiss. "Hm. I don't know, Champ. This could be lethal."
"That's okay. I'm already dying."
"That's a bit dramatic."
She shrugs, snatches the candy from him and shoves it in her mouth. He watches her take two indelicate chews and then her pretty little features distort themselves and he's holding his hand out for her to spit the half-eaten chocolate glob into.
"You're an animal," he tells her.
He's at the sink, washing his hands off when the kid says at his back, "My mom says you call me names because you're fond of me."
"You told your mom about me?" The mom. The betrayed one. He thinks of his dad and the hurt he went through and feels sorry for her. There is too much of this shit in life and it eats at him. You can't trust anyone, not even the parents who raised you.
"Just that you're mean and I hate you." He hears her feet clatter to the floor.
"Oh, good. I would hate for her to think any different." He turns around and she's beside him with a towel for his hands. "And your mom is wrong. I'm the opposite of fond. You're the reason I booked up an appointment to get a vasectomy, so thanks for that."
"You're welcome," She says, genuinely pleased to get his thanks.
They start back toward Harvey's desk, but the thought of going back to the pit makes him feel suffocated. He needs some air. "Hey, Pipsqueak, what do you say we blow this joint?"
Alice grins, her eyes wild with excitement.
They leave out Baxter St., toward Columbus Park, the July humidity wraps up around them, hot and sticky, like a town wide sauna. Harvey buys them both an ice cream and they sit out by the duck pond racing to eat them before they melt.
"So what's with your dad bringing you to his meetings?" Harvey probes. He is hunched over, legs spread, trying to keep his ice cream from dripping onto his slacks. Next to him, the kid has become a sticky mess; vanilla ice cream frames her lips, drips down both hands, it is splattered at the front of her dress, she's even managed to get it in her hair. Harvey rolls his eyes and throws her some napkins.
"Wednesday's are our Daddy-Daughter Day." She shrugs, dabbing herself up. It just gets worse. "My mom thinks we don't spend enough time together, so she made us have a day. He just makes other people watch me. He doesn't like me much."
"He's just busy. It happens—things will calm down someday."
She doesn't buy it. She nods without looking at him. Swings her feet. "I watched the Yankees game, like you said."
"Oh yeah? What'd you think?"
"I like it when they do the slides."
Harvey smiles. "Me too. You know, I used to play baseball. My batting average was three-eighty-five."
"Is that good?"
"Is that good?" He scuffs. Wounded. "Get your notebook out. Write down: look up batting averages, and the next time I see you you better worship the ground I walk on."
She takes out her little pink notebook and begins to scribble. Harvey asks, "What haven't you crossed off yet?"
"Listen to Miles Davis. Look up the proh—er, how do I say that?"
"Not even if I squint is that legible."
"Prohibnets?"
"Prohibition. Next."
"Read the Bill of Rights. Watch The Goonies. See Harvey with a mustache like Cameron Dennis—"
"Cross that off."
"No. It's my goal list. Not yours." She scoots away from him. "Go to Harvard. Work for Harvey Specter. Have mom—oh…that's a secret."
Harvey lifts his eyebrow, swallows down the rest of his ice cream and says, "Goals shouldn't be secrets."
She ignores him, quickly changing the subject: "My mom's been helping me cross them off. She's the one who put the Yankee's game on for me."
"I bet she was thrilled."
"She was. She said Derek Jeter has a nice bum."
Harvey laughs. "Baseball should not be sexualized. You tell her that."
"Or you could tell her." Alice smiles shyly, eyes cast out at the pond. She swings her feet out and clicks them together, she adds, "Maybe we could all three watch The Goonies together. Like a date."
"I can't go on a date with a married woman, Alice," Harvey says slowly. He sounds stern, even to his own ears.
She whirls around to face him, upset by his tone. "They're getting a divorce."
So the husband isn't being disloyal. The two are separated. Harvey feels lighter. "I'm sorry, Kid. That's tough. And you're mom sounds like a nice lady, but I…" He's given excuses for his resistance to relationships an innumerable amount of times, always picking whatever suits the situation, but he decides not to lie to the kid. "I don't want to be in a relationship because I'm afraid I'll get hurt."
"How will you get hurt?"
How does he put this into words? His traumatic distrust. Of seeing the woman he grew up adoring rip his father's heart out and shred it. A child can't understand that.
"I'm not sure I would get hurt, but I don't want to risk it. Love makes you powerless and weak and I'm not a fan of either of those traits."
And then the kid says something that sounds like childish nonsense, but that Harvey finds rather profound: "You're going to hurt anyway. You'll have all this love in you and nowhere to put it."
VI
Mike leaves at midnight and Harvey, notably intoxicated at this point, remembers the redhead from Duke-Sanger slipped him her number as he was leaving that afternoon. He calls her and they agree to meet at some place called The Make-Out Room in East Village. It's a grim little club that no respectable Manhattan attorney would ever step foot inside, but he feels committed having come out this side of town. He quickly finds the girl, buys her a drink, shouts a few words in her ear over the terrible dance house music and leads her out the door.
They kiss on the street. Her mouth is warm and wet and taste of methanol cigarettes. Her kisses come at him like an attack, forceful and too much tongue. He doesn't enjoy it as much as he wants to. There are too many people on the streets and too much on his mind. She tastes like his freshman year at NYU, booze and smoke; it's not his proudest time.
It's too late to phone his driver but they're both drunk enough that the luxury of a town car seems a waste, so he hails a cab and they fall into the backseat, heads swimming.
It's too cramped. Harvey's knees fold against the passenger seat in front of him and he has to shift himself at an odd angle to get comfortable. It's been a long time since he's been inside a cab, he must have out grown them.
The girl scoots close. She is young; probably half his age and at this distance her red hair seems more of a dull blonde. Built like Scottie—small breasted and slight curves—nestled up next to him she feels almost familiar and he's not sure he likes this.
The cab heads north, toward his condo in Upper East Side. With the girl's lips at his neck and her hand at his crotch, Harvey shuts his eyes and tries not to fall asleep. He feels faded somehow, a shadow of his younger self. These late nights used to thrill him, now it just feels like upholding tradition. How middle-aged. He can't get hard. Is that him or her? She seems to have all the right moves, although her rhythm could be better. But she's drunk. It happens. She must notice his unresponsiveness because her kisses become feverish, reminding him of a fish sucking air. He fights the urge to laugh. Poor kid, she really is doing her best.
He starts to push her off, but she won't give up. She's determined. He leaves her to it and stares out the window. They glide through a yellow light and he's reminded of Louis and the loud tie he wore yesterday. Or was that the day before? He wonders how he's getting on without Tara. Can't imagine well. It's better to have tried and lost than to have not played at all. He'll have to tell him this. Jonathan Martell pops into his head, with his strange unseeing stare. What was it he said that pissed him off? Least the ginger bitch could do is spread her legs. He pictures her on his desk, her dress hiked up just enough for him to see the triangle of her underwear. Those taunt, perfect legs. He imagines pressing his face between them, kissing up her soft skin. That's it. There. He lifts his hips against her hand, rolls his head toward her but the eyes that meet his are blue instead of the brown he'd been hoping for.
"Who's Donna?" she asks.
"Did I—"
"Yes."
He shrugs. "You never told me your name."
"I did. It's Erica."
They go the rest of the way without touching. He's upset her, first with his limpness and then by calling her another woman's name, and just when he thinks he couldn't be any more of an asshole, they get to his place and that other woman is sitting in his living room.
Donna.
His body trembles, his head spins, his heart seems to seize, swell and ache all at once. A rush of emotions bubble up to the surface: betrayal, anger, sadness, love, fear, need— respectively. He doesn't know which to latch onto and in his drunken state it's a lottery.