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Content Warning: Domestic abuse, victim-blaming, misogyny and references to serious violence.
As the elevator pinged, the doors parted.
Alan Shore stepped tentatively out into the darkened communal area of Crane, Poole & Schmidt.
The hour was late, and at this time, only the odd lamp illuminated the building. Most had completed their work and taken themselves off elsewhere.
Good.
Nobody to distract him.
Nobody to pull him into a petty drama.
Nobody to tell him everything was ‘going to be okay’ or that it was just ‘an ugly part of the job’.
He didn’t want that.
He didn’t want to be confronted with the ugly facts of his occupation.
Those same facts that he weaponised. The same facts that had enticed him to practise law in the first place. The same facts that had made him the man others sought out when a morally grey issue needed resolving.
“Alan!” The familiar voice of his assistant called out from behind.
“Melissa,” Alan acknowledged without looking back as he continued towards his office.
“Why are you still here?” he asked, lifting his arm to examine his watch.
Melissa licked her lower lip as she attempted to catch up.
“It’s stupid, really…” Melissa trailed off into a nervous giggle.
Silence.
Hardly the response she’d expected.
“My boyfriend and I had an argument—”
Alan’s face tightened.
“Go home, Melissa.”
“Did you not hear what I just said? We had an argument. I think it’s time he met my parents, he doesn’t think it is, and it’s this whole situation where—” Melissa said, reaching for his arm.
Turning just before his office door, Alan yanked his arm away from her grasp.
“Melissa…” Alan pressed his fingers against his tie as he leaned in.
“Which side of the bed you sleep on, who gets the TV remote, who…”
Removing his hand from his tie, he waved it dismissively.
“…Who cooks what, where and when…”
An exasperated, weak smile spread across his face.
“…I’m sure you can manage on your own. Go home.”
Melissa stared.
“God, you’re such a jerk!”
She stamped her foot.
Alan stared back.
“Your only concern right now should be that you’re only just figuring this out.”
A pause.
“Go home,” he instructed once more before opening the door and slipping into his office.
As the door closed behind him, Alan stepped towards his desk and placed his briefcase atop it.
He now resented its contents.
The hours of work he’d poured into his latest case—what had it all been for?
Reaching for the lowest drawer in his desk, he eyed the bottle of whiskey and the two tumbler glasses beside it. Sitting out on the balcony with a drink was a nightly ritual for himself and his best friend, Denny Crane.
Tonight was the exception to the rule.
Alan didn’t know where Denny was—and in that moment, it didn’t matter.
Alan reached for the bottle and one of the glasses and poured himself a drink. He replaced the cap and set the bottle on his desk.
Almost instinctively, his eyes darted towards his briefcase.
His chest tightened.
This wasn’t like him.
Do a case.
Get the outcome.
Move on.
That was Alan’s way.
But this—he’d had his suspicions, he’d probed, he’d listened, he’d chosen to trust his client.
Stepping out into the cooling August evening, Alan approached the balcony railing.
Lifting the glass in front of him, he gently swirled the whiskey, almost as if trying to manipulate whether the glass could be half full and empty at the same time.
Maybe. Just maybe—if both could be true simultaneously, he’d have a fresher, but surely uglier, perspective through which to see his case.
Then he moved the glass close to his lips and sipped.
The alcohol coursed through his system, offering the familiar warm, fuzzy sensation that, upon feeling it, he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Alan stared out at the skyscraper ahead.
And just like that—his mind thrust him back into the courthouse.
* * * FLASHBACK * * *
“What’s this about? I thought I was free to go,” Alan’s client pressed for answers as the pair stepped into one of the courthouse’s conference rooms.
“You are, Mister Johnson…”
Alan set his briefcase on the table.
“As a matter of courtesy, I simply feel compelled to remind you of how high-profile this case has turned out to be…”
Alan’s hands settled low in front of him, one resting loosely over the other.
“Journalists, activists, the works…we’ve had it. You’re going to have a lot of people gunning for you. Don’t rise to it,” he warned.
Johnson smirked as he soaked in the advice and adrenaline of his victory.
“Oh, trust me, Mister Shore, I’ll be ready for them.”
Johnson extended his hand.
“And I have to hand it to you, the way you took down that sanctimonious little bitch—” Johnson bobbed his head, his smirk widening by the second.
“I’ve been saying for the longest time that someone needs to bring her down a peg or two.”
Alan regarded the hand that hung between them.
A hand that, for some reason, he was in no rush to take.
“Your frustration and anger are perfectly understandable given the circumstances—”
“Well…” Johnson trailed off as he retracted his hand and rubbed his palms together.
“You know how it is, Al. These women, they just don’t get the memo.”
Alan straightened himself. His eyes bore into his client’s.
“It’s Alan,” he pointed out firmly.
Taking note of the sudden change in tone, Johnson’s smirk shrank.
“But…” Alan raised a finger. “Let’s go back to how…women don’t ‘get the memo’.”
Johnson shrugged theatrically.
“It’s like they ask for it. Like they beg for it. Us guys, we’re simple folks. Introduce the headache of a woman and they poke, they prod, they nag and all hell breaks loose. And…”
Johnson laughed.
“I’m the one who’s supposed to be accountable.”
The room fell silent.
The late-afternoon sun beat through the window, intensifying the already oppressive Boston heat.
For several seconds, the two men simply stared at one another.
“What, Mister Johnson? What is it that women ask for?”
Johnson tilted his head.
His tongue thrust into his cheek.
Something had shifted.
This was no longer a conversation or a celebration regarding his victory.
He was being questioned.
“Are we okay, Al…?”
Catching himself, Johnson raised both hands.
“Alan,” he corrected.
“I’m your lawyer, not your friend, Mister Johnson. You won your case. I get the paycheck…but you still haven’t answered my question.”
Alan stepped towards him.
“Why are you asking?”
Johnson’s smirk returned.
Surely this was either a test or a game.
Either way, he seemed sure he’d enjoy it.
Silence.
Alan allowed the question to hang in the air for several moments.
“Throughout this trial, your disdain for your ex-wife has been apparent. On some levels, maybe even understandable. Things fall apart. People rub us up the wrong way. Feelings get hurt, and it can be difficult to know what to do with those feelings, but listening to you this afternoon—”
“And you get it, right?” Johnson interrupted.
“I see the way you look at women, Alan. I know you see what I see.”
Alan froze.
Johnson really felt they were one and the same.
Sure, Alan ogled women.
He flirted.
He’d had more sexual harassment complaints filed against him than he’d had hot dinners.
He’d crossed lines, and he knew it.
But Johnson really believed they were the same.
That was something else entirely.
“And sometimes…sometimes that’s all you want, but you’re made to feel like you’re not good enough. Or you want something different and then she makes a song and dance over how I’ve not made her feel good enough and I just think, ‘what will shut this bitch up?’”
Johnson stopped.
The smirk faltered.
Alan’s eyes narrowed.
“Is that when you hit her, Mister Johnson?”
“W—what?”
Alan clenched his jaw.
He’d been heard.
“You heard me.”
Johnson scoffed.
“You weren’t married to her.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You didn’t live with her.”
“No.”
“So you don’t know.”
Alan tilted his head.
“Know what?”
“What she was like.”
Johnson paced away from him.
“Every day. Every bloody day, there was something. I’m working too much. I’m not working enough. I’m not helping with the kids. I’m doing something wrong. I’m looking at someone wrong. I’m doing a bit of harmless flirting. You try living with that.”
“And what happens when you do?”
Johnson turned.
“What?”
“When you live with that, Mister Johnson. What happens?”
Johnson’s jaw tightened.
“People lose their tempers.”
“People?” Alan probed.
“Yes, people.”
“Rebecca?”
Johnson stared at him.
Alan took another step.
“You?”
“You keep pushing somebody, eventually they push back.”
There it was.
Not a confession.
Not quite.
Alan’s expression barely moved.
“How hard?”
Johnson laughed under his breath.
“Oh, come on.”
“How hard did you push back?” Alan challenged.
“You’ve seen the photographs.”
Alan said nothing.
Johnson realised it a moment too late.
The photographs.
Rebecca’s bruised cheek.
The swelling around her eye.
The dark purple marks around her throat.
Images Alan had spent days teaching twelve jurors not to trust.
Johnson looked away.
Alan didn’t.
“You told me you didn’t cause those injuries.”
“I told you what you needed to know.”
“No.”
Alan gently shook his head.
“You told me what you needed me to believe.”
Johnson’s face hardened.
“She knew exactly how to push me.”
Alan stared.
“And there it is.”
“What?”
“The part you neglected to mention.”
“Oh, don’t get sanctimonious with me now. You stood in that courtroom and ripped her apart.”
Alan’s jaw tightened.
“You knew exactly what you were doing. You made her look vindictive. Unstable. You had twelve people wondering whether they could believe a word out of her mouth.”
Johnson stepped closer.
“And now you want to pretend you’re better than me?”
Alan said nothing.
Johnson smiled.
“We both know we’re the same.”
Pressing his hand to his tie, Alan inched closer.
“The difference is, Mister Johnson…I like women.”
Johnson laughed.
“Oh, please.”
“I may not always do so perfectly or ethically. I’ve crossed boundaries. I’ve offended. On occasion, I’ve behaved in ways for which I should probably have been slapped considerably more often than I have.”
Alan studied him.
“But I have never looked at a woman and thought her refusal to give me what I wanted entitled me to hurt her.”
Johnson’s smile disappeared.
Then, slowly, something seemed to occur to him.
“Double jeopardy,” Johnson said, his confidence beginning to return. “You know it better than I do.”
Alan gave a faint smile.
“I would certainly hope so.”
Johnson studied him.
“So what exactly are you going to do?”
Alan lifted his left hand and gently dusted Johnson’s shoulder.
“About this?”
He smiled.
“Absolutely nothing.”
Johnson stared.
“Nothing?”
“You were acquitted.”
Alan moved closer still.
“My job is finished.”
The smile on Johnson’s face returned.
“There you go.”
Alan’s mouth hovered beside Johnson’s ear.
“Of course, these are seldom one-time offences.”
The smile vanished.
“People who believe everybody else is responsible for their behaviour tend to find themselves repeating it.”
Alan stepped back.
“And when that day comes, Mister Johnson, I would be extremely cautious in who you hire for your defence.”
“Is that supposed to be some sort of threat?”
“No.”
Alan dramatically swung his left arm, his hand outstretched.
“I’m simply telling you that I’ll be waiting.”
* * *
Alan heaved a heavy sigh as the evening breeze offered some relief from the day’s soaring temperatures.
He lifted the glass to his mouth and this time took a generous mouthful.
Rebecca Johnson had stood on the stand.
She’d worn a pale blue blouse.
Alan remembered that now.
A ridiculous detail to remember.
He remembered plenty of others.
The way she’d stumbled over her words.
He’d told the jury inconsistency mattered. Truth, after all, ought to be easy to remember.
Rebecca had explained that she was frightened.
Alan had asked why a woman frightened of her husband had continued answering his calls.
She’d tried to explain.
He hadn’t let her.
Not really.
She’d arrived with pictures of her injuries.
Alan had never denied the injuries existed. That would have been foolish.
Instead, he’d questioned everything around them.
The marriage had been volatile.
There had been arguments.
Rebecca had previously threatened to stop Johnson seeing their children.
She’d been angry over the child support.
She had motive, Alan had suggested, to make the situation appear considerably worse than it had been.
And then she’d cried.
Alan remembered looking towards the jury.
He remembered allowing the silence to linger before speaking.
Long enough for them to notice.
Long enough for him to tell them what they were seeing.
Emotion.
Performance.
Manipulation.
He’d watched one juror glance away from Rebecca.
Another had folded his arms.
Alan had known then that he had them.
That was the moment.
Not the verdict.
That.
Rebecca had looked at him afterwards.
He remembered that too.
No anger.
That would have been easier.
She’d simply looked exhausted.
And Alan Shore had returned to his table and sat beside the man who had done it to her.
He’d weaponised everything.
Her fear.
Her anger.
Her history.
Her tears.
He’d taken every messy, imperfect reaction of a frightened woman and turned it into reasonable doubt.
And the worst part was that he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Alan!”
His best friend called from the doorway.
“Denny.”
Alan turned to face him.
“Thought I might find you here,” Denny announced as he stepped onto the balcony and took his usual chair.
He placed the bottle of whiskey on the table between the two chairs before plucking two cigars from his pocket, his own glass of whiskey held in his other hand.
“I thought everyone had gone home.” Alan watched as Denny made himself comfortable.
“Tradition, Alan. Tradition is important.”
Denny raised his glass in his friend’s direction.
“That’s the problem with you Democrats. Tradition means nothing to ya.”
“That’s not true,” Alan countered as he made for his chair.
“I value these moments that we share, Denny, but that doesn’t mean I expect them.”
Silence fell between them as Denny reached for the lighter that had been left on the table.
“Long day?” Alan asked as he watched Denny light his cigar.
“Won another case.”
“Of course you did.”
“Denny Crane!” Denny enthused. “Still undefeated.”
Popping the cigar into his mouth, Denny settled back in his chair.
The pair fell into another comfortable silence.
“How did your murder trial go?” Denny eventually asked.
“It wasn’t a murder trial, Denny. It was…”
“Mad Cow…” Denny lifted his free hand to the side of his head and made a circular motion with his index finger.
“…Complicated” Alan finished.
“Wanna talk about it?”
Denny removed the cigar from his mouth.
“Maybe. But not tonight.”
Alan took another drink.
His eyes wandered towards the doorway.
His thoughts settled on Melissa.
He hoped she’d gone home.
A stupid argument, she’d called it.
Perhaps it was.
Perhaps there was something reassuring about two people arguing over meeting parents, television remotes and who cooked what.
The small, irritating frictions of two people trying to share a life without believing they owned the person sharing it with them.
Alan looked back towards the Boston skyline.
He disagreed with Johnson.
He found his behaviour deplorable and indefensible.
He’d never felt the need to exert that kind of control over a woman, much less wanted to kill one because he couldn’t get his own way.
On that, Alan had no doubt.
And yet Johnson had looked at him and seen something familiar.
Not the violence.
Not the entitlement that made violence permissible.
Something else.
The arrogance, perhaps.
The appetite.
The ease with which Alan could turn charm into pressure and pressure into victory.
Denny exhaled a plume of cigar smoke beside him.
Alan raised the glass towards his lips but stopped before taking another sip.
For perhaps the first time that evening, the question wasn’t whether Johnson had understood Alan.
It was why Alan had found the comparison quite so difficult to dismiss.