Let Me Be Brief

By Regan Taylor

In Let Me Be Brief, Jordan McKenzie has worked as a legal secretary in the San Francisco Bay Area for a number of years for a quasi-public entity. Not long ago she moved from one branch of her law firm, Brown, Holt & Lister, to another location where the supervisor, Ophylia Millard, is something of a micromanager. No one is happy with Ophylia’s management style and most of the staff wishes she’d move on as quickly as they can. Jordan tries to keep her head down and out of the line of Ophylia’s fire until she arrives at work one day to find said supervisor dead. Worse, Jordan also finds herself as the number one suspect.

Relying on her knowledge and experience as a top litigation secretary, she begins her own investigation to clear her name. Determined to prove her innocence Jordan utilizes the same discovery techniques she’d use as a legal secretary. Can she convince the local detective bent on arresting her that she's really just an innocent victim? Or will she be using her legal skills at the gray bar inn (commonly called the local jail)?

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Oct 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781487408312

Book preview

Chapter One

What the... Among the last things I needed this morning was seeing my supervisor, Ophylia Millard’s fanny up in the air while she bent over the porcelain god... or would that be goddess... in the ladies’ room of Brown, Holt & Lister, attorneys at law. I mean really, did she have to number one, choose the larger accessible stall to do whatever it was she had to do. And number two, leave the door open for all and sundry to see? Mind you, I don’t care if the woman drinks herself into oblivion every night. That’s her choice, you know? And I don’t care if she has to get sick the next morning or that she chooses to do it at work. But please, a little decorum here in the office would be nice.

At least close the door.

And what was she doing here at work at 7:45 in the morning? The woman didn’t usually show up until at least 9, if not a bit later, clomping in with her over the knee faux leather boots, sheer shirt over a ratty slip and cleavage hanging out for the world to see. Kind of like a pole dancer gone bad. Nope, not our Ophylia.

I’d always thought Brown, Holt & Lister, BHL to those of us in the know, was a professional law firm. You know the type—tasteful reception area with fresh flowers and lush green plants, comfy cushioned chairs, crystal candy dishes on real wood tables bearing several current newspapers and legal magazines. The kind of place where those real wood desks, chairs, bookcases and other furniture all match. Where coffee is made from fresh ground beans, tea doesn’t come in a generic bag, and the hot chocolate is made with real milk. Sure, we’re a quasi-governmental entity—we provide legal services to one of the big state agencies. But we’re still a law firm

And by the way, yes, we do serve hot chocolate. Some of our clients bring their children and we like them to feel at home, too. Did I mention that the beverages, tasty tea cakes, and cookies, are served on real china?

Yup.

That however describes our main office—the venue where most of our clients, diverse clients, come to do business. We’re one of those firms that’s quasi-private and quasi-public sector. We do business for the state so we’re bound by some of the state’s requirements, but we also have some things that are straight out of the private sector—like the hot chocolate and gourmet coffee. We handle a wide variety of legal matters from wills and trusts, to torts, to business mergers, and everything in between—including a regulatory branch, hence the quasi-part. Said regulatory branch is where I am currently sentenced, errr, doing my job. I used to work in the main office and loved my job. After the hectic, sometimes dramatic days and nights as a police dispatcher about five years ago, I opted to leave the emergency field and return to the my tried and true profession as a legal secretary at Brown, Holt & Lister. It was a dream job until not so long ago. The seven years I worked as a dispatcher were interesting, but nowhere near as fulfilling as my work as a legal secretary. Over the years, I’ve worked for some brilliant attorneys who worked on totally fascinating cases, and I had great co-workers. BHL had some of the best.

And then the office got a new business manager, and with the excuse of high rents in downtown San Francisco, moved across the bay to Oakland. With rents in the city going sky high and out of control, along with some of the larger clients being based across the bay, the powers that be decided a move to a lower rent, yet up and coming part of town, was in the firm’s best interests. So they moved.

Or most of them did.

The main office that is—and if I’d stayed with that office, it would have taken me three buses instead of my usual one, and added an extra hour give or take to my commute from the tiny town of Red Hill just north of the Golden Gate bridge and Sausalito. Two satellite offices were opened in other parts of town, and due to some other changes in the office I opted to go to one of those smaller offices, rather than deal with crossing the bay.

Unfortunately for me it was the regulatory office that had the opening. Shows you what a great place it is to work when you can move from one branch to the other without a lot of fanfare. When you have staff, particularly secretaries, working twenty-five or more years you know it’s a good place to work. One of my co-workers has been with the company forty-five years. Cori at my old office started when she was twenty and even at sixty-five she was still going strong. Not long ago she asked why would she retire when she had such a great job? I felt the same way, until four months ago. That’s when I ended up in here in this particular satellite office. That would be the one that handles regulatory work.

Here in the regulatory office we don’t see too many clients. Don’t get me wrong. We do see them, but they are engineers and accountant types who don’t much care if the furniture matches, just that there’s a chair to sit on. And given we do some public sector work, it’s not like we want the public to see us squandering their money, you know? And, it’s only a one bus ride from my home in Marin County.

But I digressed, didn’t I?

As I was saying, Ophylia normally didn’t show up till 9 at the earliest. Our regular hours were eight to five with two fifteen minute breaks and an hour for lunch. But she is... was generous about our hours. We have a ten minute grace period to be late or leave early at the beginning and end of the day and get an half hour break in the morning and afternoon rather than those fifteen minute dealies. She avails herself of those generous time frames and since she’s the supervisor and her work is so stressful, she takes a little longer on each of those time periods.

Yes. Ophylia is the supervisor. If she says it once a day, she says it six times, and often sounds like she’s surprised that she’s got the job.

Actually, there are days, usually Monday through Friday, when I’m surprised she got the job, too. But then the person who got the supervisor job at my old branch was kind of a surprise to me, too. That happened around the time of the move. New building, new supervisor and all that.

And stressful? Well... maybe. I mean, if she’s there... I mean when she’s there... she’s got all those personal emails to answer and her daughter’s school business to attend to, men to hunt down for dates, and well... supervising type stuff.

So why am I complaining you may well ask? Well, for starters, Ophylia tends toward drama. If there were an award for best dramatic actress in a law firm she’d get it in spades. We’re talking hysterics on a regular basis. And now this.

I mean really. Of all the days to stay home and call in sick, she couldn’t today? And she was clearly really sick today and not just taking a day off. And if she had to be sick at work can we go back to the door being left open?

You’re right, you’re right. If I’m so offended by looking at her butt sticking up in the air while she has her head in the bowl, why don’t I turn around, walk out and go to a bathroom on a different floor?

Thing is, I’m also a compassionate kind of person. Thinking of my former co-workers at the main office, I took a minute to survey the scene.

Ophylia? I waited a moment before calling her name again. Ophylia?

When she didn’t answer, I stepped closer to the stall. Maybe she was answering me, but was so sick she couldn’t communicate above a whisper. Maybe she was so weak from being sick all she could manage was a hand signal.

I stepped just inside the stall made large enough for a wheelchair user and called her name one more time. When she didn’t respond, I assessed a bit more. Aside from her butt in the air and her head in the bowl I made note of some of her long, dark brown, almost black, hair extensions spilling over the edge of said bowl. They looked almost like someone had carefully arranged them like a long, funereal halo around the edge of the bowl with a few strands set carefully down her back and several down into the bowl.

I scratched my head trying to make sense of what I was seeing. After all, it was only a few minutes to eight and I hadn’t had my morning coffee. That was sitting on my desk, cooling down, while I came in here to check my hair and makeup before starting the work day. We may not see many clients here in the regulatory branch office, but that’s no excuse to look like I don’t care. Arranging her fake hair in such a way just to be sick was over the top, for even Ophylia.

I looked closer and got a strange chill up my spine. It wasn’t all that different from my dispatching days when I’d answer the phone, and in those two to three seconds before the caller spoke I’d know it was going to be a rough call. Either someone was killed, or there was a bad accident, or a child kidnapped. Like some weird kind of sixth sense I’d know if it was going to be a bad call or someone simply complaining about a parked car.

Something was very wrong about what I was seeing.

Looking closer I saw that while it looked like Ophylia was kneeling there being sick something didn’t set right with me. On closer inspection, I noticed she wasn’t exactly bent over. More like her head was in the toilet.

All the way in the toilet.

If I wasn’t mistaken her head was kinda crammed down inside the bowl and those artfully arranged hair extensions looked almost like they were holding her head down in the water.

Ophylia? I reached over to tap her on the shoulder and when she didn’t move I saw her head was wedged pretty deeply in the bowl. I reached out to her neck to feel for a pulse.

Nothing. My stomach started to churn in a major way.

Shaking ever so slightly I reached for my cell phone while at the same time, unconsciously backed out of the stall. Staring at Ophylia kneeling there, I dialed 911.

Nine one one, what are you reporting? The calm, in control voice, of the dispatcher came through the phone after the first ring.

My name is Jordan McKenzie and I need an ambulance on the fifth floor of four zero four Madison, on the corner of Madison and Hayes. I was surprised at how composed I sounded. Granted, as a police dispatcher I’d seen my fair share of crime scene photos. I’d just never seen a badly injured person up close and personal. I so wasn’t going down the road of a dead body. Nope, no how, no way. Ophylia was sick and that was my story, beginning, middle and end. That was not a dead body with its head in the toilet.

I heard the call taker type in the information I’d provided to her. The steady click of the keys brought back memories of just what I needed to do while I waited for the paramedics.

Can you advise the medical condition? The dispatcher asked. I knew the paramedics were already rolling and now she was asking about information she could provide to them to prepare them for what they’d find when they arrived.

I rested my hand on the cool gray metal wall of the stall and studied Ophylia. My supervisor, Ophylia Millard, appears to be sick.

Sick?

Yeah. I’d say vomiting, but she’s not moving.

Is she unconscious?

I sure hope so.

That ruffled her a bit. You hope she’s unconscious? Is she breathing?

If she’s not, then something else is going on. I... well she’s not moving like she’s not breathing, and I felt on her neck for a pulse but didn’t feel one. Being on the other side of these kinds of calls was so much easier. Your role was to get the needed information—not describe what you were seeing.

Can you again check for a pulse?

Sure. Not that I really wanted to. I stepped back into the stall and placed my fingers over her carotid artery and waited for a few seconds. I’m not getting a pulse and I’m not so sure she’s breathing. She’s also kind of stiff if you know what I mean. Cold to the touch and stiff.

Can you start CPR?

I can but ... okay, now I was starting to lose it, her head, well it’s kind of wedged in the toilet. I’m thinking maybe you should send an officer too.

Chapter Two

There was silence on the line. No clicking of the keyboard. Just dead air. Then again, my keyboard at work was pretty quiet. Oh... for the days of typewriters where you could hear that something was being done.

Oh, not a good analogy. Dead air. So not good. I knew what she was doing though. She’d muted the phone so she could send a private CAD—as in computer aided dispatch—message, or go out over the secured line to request a police response.

A moment later she came back on the line. Confirm you are requesting a police officer?

I think that might be a good idea. I’m not sure it’s a CPR kind of situation. I reached over again to see if I could feel a pulse, and she wasn’t just cold to the touch, she was positively icy cold. And kinda of stiff. Still, I felt around her neck and I’m not expert, but there was clearly no pulse.

Uh huh, can you describe the victim?

She’s about thirty-three... she had a birthday two months ago and I believe she said she was thirty-three. About five foot four inches, 150 pounds. At least that’s what she said she weighed a few weeks ago.

The victim discussed her weight with you?

All of us really. She’s proud of how much weight she’s lost the past year or so.

I see. Ms. McKenzie, the ambulance is pulling up to your door. Can the responders get in or does someone need to let them in?

I noticed she referred to the paramedics, but not the police officer. Either they were breaking protocol and not sending an officer to a suspicious situation... not that I told her it was suspicious, but thinking back on the information I’d given her, if I’d been the one on the phone, I would have rolled a unit or two. And I did ask for one now, didn’t I? In retrospect I was questioning just how well I’d described the situation I’d walked in on. Like I said, this was the last thing I needed to start my day. Okay. My week. Hell, my month.

Yeah, we’re in a state building of sorts so the front door should be unlocked and open by now. State buildings needed to be open to the public by 7:30—taxpayer money and all that—even though we didn’t see much of the public in this office.

I debated leaving Ophylia, but since she didn’t seem to be going anywhere, and I wasn’t sure about moving her head out of the toilet, I walked to the bathroom door. If she’d been struggling or breathing, I would have pulled her out, but given I didn’t know what was really going on, I figured I could hurt her more if I tried to move her. And who knows, maybe she could be breathing down there, you know?

A minute or two later I heard the elevator ding that it was stopping on my floor and got ready to signal the paramedics into the ladies room as they walked out. I wasn’t too surprised when a police officer preceded the group with his gun drawn. Erring on the side of caution I put my cell phone on the floor and raised my hands.

Where’s the victim? He seemed a tad nervous, which in turn made me a bit nervous, because if he wasn’t feeling too secure with that gun in his hand it stood to reason my day could get a tad worse. Naturally a partner arrived with him—officer safety and all that. Now he looked more like your hard core, gritty kind of cop. And he looked a bit more secure with the situation.

I pointed into the ladies room. In there. It’s just Ophylia in there. I found her when I came into work this morning.

Nervous Nelson, as I’d dubbed officer number one, entered the bathroom, while his partner kept his weapon leveled at me. I understood why, but part of me wanted to tell him, come on, I called it in. Then again, how many calls had I taken from supposed victims to have them turn out to be the perpetrator? At least the one with the shaky hand went in to check on Ophylia.

By this time several co-workers had arrived. Had this whole situation started only fifteen or twenty minutes ago? It felt like we’d been at it for hours. Before he could enter the ladies’ room, Jayne Thomas, one of my co-workers, stepped to the head of the group. Jordan, what’s going on?

Oh Jayne, it’s unbelievable. I think Ophylia is sick, maybe hurt badly.

Annette, another co-worker and the one who butted heads with Ophylia on a regular basis, snickered, which drew a look from the cop.

What’s wrong with her? A third co-worker, Grace Davis, stepping on tip toe to look over our co-workers’ shoulders asked.

I’m not sure. I got in this morning and came into the bathroom to brush my hair and found her.

Ladies, it would be better right now if we tabled this discussion until we’ve completed our investigation. Officer Serious, the second officer on scene, told us.

Investigation? That was Sandra, one of Ophylia’s best friends.

Several pairs of eyes turned to me. We’ll talk later.

A moment later Nervous Nelson came out and signaled to the paramedics. I couldn’t help but notice they were your usual buff kind of guys. To do their job they’ve got to be built. The lead guy though, the one carrying the defibrillator, he gave new meaning to the word built. With his blond hair—regulation cut I might add—and azure blue eyes, he was the stuff of a juicy romance novel. And that was based on his physical looks. Troy Williams was the kind of guy who could give a girl fantasies by looks, word and deed. I knew this first hand because he was, in a word, my ex-boyfriend. He gave me a brief smile before he entered the ladies room to do one of the many things he did so well.

The cops and paramedics talked briefly between themselves, but I heard enough to know Nelson told them he was pretty sure Ophylia was dead. If I remembered my forensic training, the kind of rigidity I saw was common after some number of hours after death. But I’m not a paramedic and I’m not the coroner so what do I know?

Two of the paramedics entered and while I could be wrong I’m pretty sure I heard a light sucking sound. That had to be someone pulling her head out of the toilet. I didn’t want to think about the extensions that had appeared to be stuck down the drain.

Shit, came from one of them.

Yup, Ophylia had clearly gone to that great pole dancing disco in the sky.

Oops! Did I say that with my out loud voice? I looked around the lobby-like area and either I’d only thought it or everyone around me agreed with my assessment because no one said a word or even looked at me oddly.

Well, actually I knew most of my co-workers already thought Ophylia made money on the side and not necessarily from pole dancing. But Sandra was her friend and she didn’t look at me like I’d said anything inappropriate.

I turned to the cop. Um, would you mind very much if I put my arms down? I’m getting a little tired here.

Officer Serious nodded to me.

Jayne moved past him and reached out to hug me. The dark haired Chinese woman was my first friend in this office and probably one of the most perceptive people in the firm. I think she’s dead. I told her.

Ophylia? She’s too mean to die.

Who died? That would be Chrissy Roth, another co-worker and Ophylia’s general whipping girl.

We don’t know for sure anyone is dead, but Ophylia is definitely hurt. I tried to maintain some sort of control over the situation. Being calm right now seemed to be in everyone’s best interests.

One of the paramedics calling for the coroner, however, confirmed that someone died and more likely than not it was Ophylia.

A moment later Eileen Hartman, the managing partner for the regulatory branch, arrived. And wasn’t that a shock? If anyone kept worse hours than Ophylia, it was Eileen. Kinda made me wonder what she was doing here so early. She smiled that fake smile of hers while she looked the assembled police and paramedics up and down. If I didn’t know better, she was debating which one she’d most like to eat for dinner. Frankly, as long as she left blond and blue alone I didn’t much care. Not that Troy would be giving me a second look at this point in time. Still, a girl could dream. With him, they’d definitely be wet ones.

And where did that thought come from? I mean really, one cop pulls a gun on me and the other calls for the coroner because my supervisor is dead. Thinking about a hottie paramedic ex was not the best way to go. Not that they confirmed it was her, but since she was the only one with her head in the toilet this morning it seemed a good bet.

Ladies, Eileen turned that nasty smile of hers on each one of us. "Don’t we have some