Page 25 of Holding On

“Yes,” I say as brightly as I can.

He doesn’t blink.

I go on. “There’s an internship program out of Chicago that your office has worked with before.” My hand is sweating, and I grip the handle of the briefcase harder. His eyes flit from my face, to the briefcase, and back to my face.

He says, “I’ve looked over your resume. You have quite a lot to offer.”

“I’m honored to be here.”

“Sit, sit,” he says, but instead of coming around the massive desk to settle next to me like Audrey did yesterday, he stays put. “You know this is District Court.”

I smile. “I read how about forty percent is criminal law. Twelve percent, real estate. Another ten in disability, and the rest is family law.”

“Very sharp of you. Very astute. Yes, it’s a little different in the day-to-day practice, but you’ve got good ballpark figures.” Leaning back, he knits his hands behind his head with the ease of knowing no one else in the room can do this.

“So, this is a very busy office in the summer,” he continues. “People like to think it slows down during summer. That may be true on college campuses, but not here. We, in fact, get busier. There are four other judges in this building—Timothy Creston, Emily Martin DeArco, Jim Witten, and Audrey Pratchett. Because we all hear the same types of cases, and they can sometimes involve police detectives, first responders, doctors—people who we know personally—we can have absolutely no discussion of cases—”

I nod.

“—or fraternizing with other interns in this building and other judges. It’s going to be a little bit of a lonely summer for you, I’m afraid.” Dropping his hands to the desk, he adds, “You’re welcome to be in contact with anyone outside this office, but within this building, I expect full compliance and absolute discretion.”

The small smile on my face is frozen in position. He goes on.

“We don’t want to have to compromise a case or have something thrown out because of information acquired in backroom or bedroom discussions. Understood?” He smiles, but there’s no warmth. It ends at the corners of his lips. His eyes remain cold, hard, icy-blue. Like glass.

“You’ll get your own desk. It won’t be in here. This is my private office. I see plaintiffs and defendants here. You will come in through that door after three knocks—Gretchen uses one. You’ll share space in the front office, and Gretchen will get you a computer. Do I need to go over computer security features and protocols with you?”

I shake my head.

“Good. I expect you’re better versed in these things than I am anyway. Gretchen will get you set up.”

“Thank you very much.”

“No, thank you. It will be wonderful to work with you. And on your way out, if you don’t mind making me a pot of coffee, that’d be great.”

I stand there for just a moment, staring at the coffeemaker in the corner. There’s a glass carafe with dark dredges pooled at the bottom. It’s burned—the light is still on, meaning the plate is hot. I open my mouth, and then he stretches toward the flask of pens on his desk.

“I’m pulling your leg, young lady. I would never ask you to make coffee.” He makes a selection and clicks the pen.

I close my mouth and stare at him.

“You’ll have other things to do. That’s Gretchen’s job, anyway.” He says this without a hint of humor and then, suddenly, a wide smile spreads across his face. He’s trying hard.

But it’s the fact that the smile still doesn’t spread to his eyes that makes me suspect this is a test.

If I’d opted to make the coffee, I’d be doing it all summer.

It’s clear: Oliver Raymond Barr is calculating, and any transaction with him should be engaged with caution.