She nodded non-committally, pressing the elevator call button. A moment later the door chimed and opened and she stepped in, not yet willing to draw a breath of relief.
A breeze stirred the elevator's still air, and Daisani stood beside her, smiling. "By the way, Margrit, do give your mother my regards. A remarkable woman. Remarkable, indeed."
Then he was gone and the door closed, leaving Margrit to stare, wide-eyed and silent, at her reflection in the polished brass.
CHAPTER 3
More than one speculating glance followed her when she arrived at the Legal Aid offices. Whispered conversations broke off until she'd passed, leaving little doubt that Daisani's arrangement with Russell Lomax had slipped out. Knowing any response would be protesting too much, Margrit nodded greetings and made her way to her desk. She had a trial to prepare for, defense for a rapist who claimed his innocence with sneering mockery. Evidence, to her private relief, was on the prosecution's side, but her job was to defend, not judge. She flipped the case file open, skimming through material she'd long since memorized in search of any errors she might've made that could lead to appeal. There were none; she knew it as well as she knew her own reflection. It was habit, the ritual she went through the day before a trial. "Ms. Knight?"
"Grit." Margrit looked up to find a youthful receptionist leaning over the edge of her cubicle. "You can call me Grit. Or Margrit," she added, at the look of bewilderment on the young man's face. "If Grit's too weird. What's your name?"
"Sam." He stepped around the cubicle, an envelope in one hand and the other extended for Margrit to shake. "I never heard Grit as a nickname for Margrit. You really know Eliseo Daisani?"