What She Saw

My client was fifty two year old Jacob Sanderson, and he was divorcing his twenty-seven year old wife of five years. He came home early from a business trip to find her decked out in leather, flogging a man in a ball gag with a cat-o-nine tails. Sanderson was understandably shocked; his wife had never shown the slightest interest in BDSM in their bedroom. After sending the unfortunate and gagged subservient out into the night, an intrigued Sanderson suggested they explore the world of submissives together. She declined. Turned out, she was paying a wide variety of men to come in and submit to her somewhat painful fantasies. I found it funny that Sanderson was willing to forgive the tryst, as long as he could play, but he couldn’t forgive her for using his own money to cheat on him.

I entered his office and sat down across from the suited man, putting five burgundy folders on his desk. Each was emblazoned with my name on the back and labeled with another name, each different, across the top front. Using just my finger and leaning forward, I slid them towards Sanderson but stopped short of the center of the desk, making him reach for the folders. It’s a little game I play with people who think they’re more powerful than me. I sat back and waited.

He pulled the folders to him but didn’t open them.

“What do you think?”

I gestured to the folders. “My opinions are all in there. I can recap if you want.”

Sanderson shook his head and picked up a folder, holding it up. I could see the name I had carefully labeled on the top.

“What about him? He was my favorite of the lot.”

I shrugged. “He doesn’t think highly of his clientele’s intelligence, and he doesn’t represent a lot of men. The only magazines in the waiting room were “People” and “Cosmo”. The address labels were all to the firm, so it isn’t a secretary bringing them in. He actually subscribes to them. There were no guy magazines and nothing with any substance, like “Newsweek” or “Time.” He talks down to his clients, when he actually talks to them. I had a hard time getting him on the line. I had to go through secretaries and assistants and they all lied, telling me he was in court. He wasn’t.”

Sanderson put down the folder and sorted through the rest. “How about him?” He pointed at the bottom folder. I leaned forward to see the name.

“He likes to intimidate. The whole office is set up to be intimidating. You get off the elevator and the secretary’s desk is right there. His office is covered with framed newspaper articles about him and his run for State Senate. I had an appointment and he knew I was coming, but he didn’t bother to clean off his desk. It was covered with client’s personal business; names, checks, correspondences. He doesn’t listen to his own voicemail. Someone listens to it and types it out for him. The stack was on his desk.”

Sanderson listened intently. “I can live with that, I think. What do you think?”

“He’ll be more worried about his upcoming campaign than about your upcoming divorce hearing.”

Sanderson set the folder aside and looked at me with frustration. “Would you hire any of them?”

I shook my head no. “Not if you want to get out of the marriage clean, owing her nothing. You need a shark, someone who will play dirty, have no qualms about pulling out every little dirty, dark secret she has, and using it against her.” I pulled another folder from my bag and slid it over. “This is the one I would hire.”

He gingerly took the folder from me and opened it up. His eyebrows rose. “A woman?”

I nodded. He kept reading.

“She’s only been bar approved for a year.” He looked over the top of the folder at me.

This guy was pissing me off. I was hired to do a job and I had done it, and then some.

“I suggest reading my opinion before discounting her,” I said, grabbing my bag and standing up. “You hired me to check out five divorce lawyers and tell you which one will be vicious enough to pull no punches. I checked them all out, diligently. I made appointments, made up a marriage I wanted out of. I went to court and watched them. In my opinion, none of them will do what you want them to do.” I hiked the strap of my bag further up on my shoulder and pointed to the last folder, the one still in his hands. “I saw this woman in action. She’s hungry. So far, everyone is underestimating her and lobbing softballs at her. Despite all this, she’s going in prepared with far more background than can be obtained through public records. She’s working hard, Mr. Sanderson, and she’d work hard for you. I know this because you are a big name. If she gets your name on her list of clients, it will put her up there playing with the big boys. She’s not going to lose. She won’t let herself lose.” I turned to leave. “I would hire Audrey Spirely. That’s my opinion.”

I walked out of the office, stopping by his secretary’s desk to collect my check, and tucked it into my bag. I took the stairs from the third floor, my heels clicking and echoing in the stairwell. I exited out into the foyer, waved to the guard, and left the building, turning left and walking the block to the public lot I had parked my Prius.

My name is Samantha Alexandra Holm. I am thirty-five years old but I look like I’m twenty, thanks to my great Swedish genes. My friends call me Sam, but in the business world I go by Alexandra. I’m single because I want to be, and I live in the big, bad city of Chicago. When people ask me what I do for a living, I tell them I fight crime using my Spidey Senses and my Lasso of Truth.

In actuality, I’m an observer and I sell my opinions to those who want them. I tend to notice what others don’t, and I draw conclusions. I’m more accurate than the Psychic Hotline and I’m probably quite a bit cheaper. People hire me to observe things and to report back to them. I am often asked if I can make a living doing it. The answer is yes. I own my home, I own my car and I own several bottles of top shelf scotch. I do well enough.

I had parked on the third floor of the parking garage. I made the climb, looking around as I crossed the lot. I didn’t see anyone. I had specifically parked in this area, noting the cameras’ angles made this a blind spot to security. I slid into the back seat of my car and shimmied out of my black pencil skirt.

I had another job to work today. A couple had hired me to check out some local preschools and give them my opinion as to which one would be the most perfect for their little darling. I liked jobs like this. I make up a name, a fake kid and request a meeting with the school’s administrator for a tour. I poke around, observe a bit and go home to write up my opinion. Easy peazy.

I pulled out a pair of designer jeans from a bag in the back seat and pulled them on with difficulty, grunting when the back of my head hit the window of the Prius. I yanked them up over my hips and added a gauzy blouse to complete my uppity-up Chicago soccer mom look. I gave myself a once over in the rear view mirror, climbed into the front seat and headed to Le Chandler Academy.

This time of year is usually cold and dreary, but Chicago seemed to be experiencing some of Mother Nature’s mid-life crisis. November was well underway, but it was still warm enough to enjoy outdoor activities. I passed many walkers, joggers and the occasional skateboarder on my way to Le Chandler, all enjoying the fabulous weather. I would probably go for a jog when I got home and take advantage of this unseasonable warmth.

I got to Le Chandler and parked in Le Visitor parking, sashaying my way to the front door of the school. An hour later, decidedly miffed, I left Le Chandler. Le Chandler was tres horrifique. This was the fourth out of five preschools I was observing for the Attaburys, and this was the worst of the lot. The school was set up to be impressive to adults, not for kids. All the furniture was oversized for little bodies, and students’ artwork was passed over for pieces by Milton Avery and Eva Hesse. Class sizes were large, but that didn’t matter because all of the students sat still and paid attention like little zombies. I was appalled. These kids are three years old. That’s not normal behavior. Ritalin must be a prerequisite for attendance to this school.

I drove home barefoot, my feet sore from the running around I had done in my size six and a half heels. I avoided most of the traffic and pulled up to my little brownstone within thirty minutes. I carefully steered around back of the row of houses and parked in the little carport that had come with the home.

I let myself into the house, waving to my octo-generational neighbor, Brooks Jones. He was out sunning himself on his back porch, enjoying the warm sunshine. I noticed his windows were open, letting in the fresh air. Even though the nights were still quite chilly, the past few days had been exceedingly nice. I hadn’t turned on my furnace yet, but the meteorologist was promising a cold front was going to hit our area tonight. I couldn’t wait.

I entered through the back of my house, through the kitchen door at the back porch. I tossed the keys on the counter and grabbed a rubber band, trying to wrangle my frizzed out hair into a ponytail. I entered my office, the converted dining room, and collapsed on my chair. My chair. It was a beautiful piece of furniture I had rescued from a dumpster and recovered with gorgeous purple paisley fabric. It was my pride a joy and one of the only things I had that looked a bit unconventional. I loved it.

I powered on the desktop computer and checked my inbox. I had a few observation requests and I dutifully printed them out and set them in my “Pending” box. I would read them later. I typed up my report on Le Chandler, printing it out and putting into the Attabury’s file. Paperwork was done.

Leaning back in my purple paisley chair, I checked my voicemail. Most were unremarkable.

“Uh, Ms. Holm? I got your name from, uh, Bill Simmons? He said you might be able to help me?”

I seriously doubted it but I wrote down his phone number, anyway. I would call him later. Maybe.

“Alexandra Holm, this is Amy Palmer. You did some observing for me at a few of my establishments. I would like to talk to you about doing some more. Call me back immediately.”

I deleted that one right away. I had worked for Amy Palmer six months ago and she was a royal bitch. I wasn’t that hard up for employment, thank God.

After two messages from people wanting to help me refinance my house, one message urging me to call and renew the warranty on my Prius, and a message from my mother about Thanksgiving, I got to the last message on the machine.

“Ms. Holm, my name is Steven Donovan. I got your name and number from Detective Lawson. She said you might be able to help me.”