Twenty Two

The large cream-coloured, official-looking envelope in the mail should have been her first warning, but since Emily was late for work and rushed out without opening it, she was surprised speechless when a man, wearing khakis and dark glasses, stopped her in the driveway as she was getting into her car.

“Emily Peterson?” he asked.

“Who wants to know?” she demanded warily.

“Summons for you, ma’am,” he replied thrusting a piece of paper into her hands, which she took, uncomprehendingly.

“What?” she stammered, but the man was gone, before irritation at the “ma’am” had even registered.

She looked down at the paper. It was a subpoena to appear in court the following month, as a witness in the matter of Alexander v. Buchanan.

“What the hell?” she asked again, shaking with adrenaline. Who on earth was Alexander and why would she be considered a witness? She turned around and went back in the house.

Emily sat at the kitchen counter and pulled the phone towards her. She picked it up and called her lawyer. He was a close friend; he and Thomas had worked together from the time Thomas had graduated from law school. Thankfully, he took her call immediately. Fred Marchant was an old friend of the family and had represented Emily for years in routine matters like mortgages (and Thomas’s estate), and the occasional summons she’d received to testify to injuries she’d treated during her decade as an emergency physician. Something about this one had Emily’s radar buzzing, even though she had no idea what it was all about.

“Fred, I just got served a subpoena,” she said, skipping the small talk, her voice shaking as though her heart knew something her brain didn’t.

“What does it say?” Fred asked, businesslike and professional in an instant.

She read him the heading, the legalese as incomprehensible as a foreign language. As she did, the pile of unopened mail on the counter caught her eye and she pulled the cream-coloured envelope toward her. It was postmarked from Carter, Smith and Associates and looked as legal as the subpoena in her hand. She slit it open absently and pulled it out as Fred asked a few more questions. It was indeed a letter from a lawyer about the matter of Alexander v. Buchanan. She looked it over and paled. Her hand started shaking so badly, she had to put it down on the counter to read the words.

“Fred, I have a letter from a lawyer about it, too,” she said, and read from the letter. “’Concerning the incident involving our client, Jacqueline Alexander, of 574 College St. Forest Glen, which occurred on April 12 of this year outside the St. Rose Arena at 2310 hours, during which our client was struck by a vehicle (bus) which was being operated under the direction of Trent Buchanan and injured…’” Emily’s voice trailed off as she rose from the stool and began pacing.

“Oh, my God, Fred,” she said with incredulity. “That girl is suing Trent! He wasn’t even driving!” she sat heavily on a kitchen chair and put her head in her hands.

“Ok, let’s be calm, Em. You treated this girl?” Fred asked, almost completely in the dark.

Numbly, Emily thought back to that night and replied. “Yes, she came to my ER because Grace was closed that night.”

“I haven’t read the document, but I’m assuming this is nothing more than the usual request for you to appear as a witness. You’ve done this before. So what’s the problem?”

Panic seized Emily and she thought she might throw up. “I’m… involved with Trent Buchanan, Fred,” she admitted reluctantly. It felt strange and unreal to tell someone.

An almost imperceptible pause came across the line, and Emily could tell Fred was measuring his words carefully. “Oh,” he said. “How involved?”

Emily thought for a moment and realized that she was wondering that herself. How deep was she in with Trent? They talked a lot, she was very fond of him, crazy about him, if she were to admit the truth, but at the same time, she knew they were at a very precarious point in their relationship. She was aware that she would need to start confiding in him soon if they were to take this anywhere, but she also knew that the thought of a conversation of that nature made her cold with the almost certain knowledge that it could easily mean the end.

“Well,” she began. Fred was her longtime friend, but bound by attorney-client confidentiality. She knew she could trust him implicitly. She also knew, though, that he had been good friends with Thomas, working in the same firm and golfing regularly with him, and that he had felt his loss as acutely as any member of Thomas’s family had. Emily, too, considered her words carefully.

“We’ve gotten to know each other fairly well since the day of the accident,” she admitted in a neutral tone.

Again, a pause. “Maybe you should come down to the office,” Fred advised.

Although it never bode well to be summoned to a lawyer's office, this time, it actually sounded like a good idea to Emily. “I’m on my way to work right now. Can I come in the morning when I get off shift?”

“Sure. I'll clear my calendar. Bring the letter and the subpoena. We’ll look at it together.”

“Thanks, Fred. You are a good friend.”

“No problem, honey. Try not to worry about this. We’ll get it taken care of.”

He spoke with such confidence that, for a split-second, Emily believed him. Then he added, almost sounding like an afterthought, “You probably shouldn’t talk to the defensant until we can sort this out.” Her heart sank again. The defendant. This was serious business.

“Oh,” she replied. “Okay. I guess you’re right.” As disappointed as she had ever been, and trying valiantly not to make it obvious, Emily and Fred exchanged goodbyes and hung up.

Emily washed her face and tried to compose herself before she walked out the door, now very late for work and about a thousand times as distracted as she had been since Trent Buchanan strode into her life.