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Chapter Text

After the disastrous mediation with Sandpiper and his confrontation with Howard, Cliff steps out onto the plaza in front of HHM.  Erin Brill is there waiting for him, sitting on a bench and scribbling on a legal pad.  He stands next to her, almost looming over her, and she’s so absorbed in her work that it takes her a moment to notice him.

“Oh!  Cliff!  I’m sorry, I didn’t see you!”

“It’s all right, Erin.”  Cliff looks around and asks, “Did Irene get home okay?”

“Yes, I called her a cab.  They picked her up over an hour ago.”

“Good, good,” he replies distractedly.  “Come on, we’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

Cliff and Erin get into his car, a new Toyota Prius.  He’d wanted a hybrid ever since the Insight came out five years ago, but this is the first one he can actually squeeze his 6’4” frame into with minimal discomfort.  They drive in awkward silence; on the way down from Santa Fe, they’d kept the music off so that they could discuss strategy, and Cliff doesn’t like to fumble with the CD player while navigating Albuquerque traffic.

Finally, they’re on I-25, and Cliff turns on the stereo.  The album Best Instrumentals begins playing, and the dulcet tones of Carlos Santana’s guitar immediately lower Cliff’s adrenaline.  Erin has taken to staring contemplatively out the window at the scrubby vegetation and unending blue skies, and he suddenly realizes how today’s catastrophe must be affecting her.  The meeting and its aftermath shook him up, and he’s been a lawyer longer than Erin’s been alive; he can’t imagine how she feels right now.

Cliff turns the volume down a smidge and says, “Erin, I just want you to know that I appreciate all your hard work on this case.”

“Thank you,” and she smiles for the first time that afternoon.

“I especially liked the way you handled all our participants on the conference call; you’ve got a light touch with the clients, and I think they responded well.”

“Thanks,” she replies.  After a beat, she asks, “We settled, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” he sighs, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.  “After what happened in there, we didn’t have much choice.  But,” he continues, and he’s not sure if he’s saying this for her benefit or his own, “we did a good thing today.  The longer we drag this out, the fewer of our clients are able to reap the benefits of the suit.  I’d hoped for more, but at least now they’ll get something.”

“Right,” Erin responds, pretending to share Cliff's optimism.

There’s another long pause as Cliff’s favorite song, “Moonflower,” comes on, and when it ends he realizes that there’s another thing he needs to say before they get back to the office.

“Erin, can I give you some advice?”

“Of course!” She chirps, undoubtedly expecting legal wisdom.

“Being a lawyer is an important job.  It’s also a difficult job.  It can take a toll on you, and sometimes you don’t even realize how high of a toll until…”

Erin finishes his sentence for him.  “Until you lose your mind in front of your clients?”

“Yes,” Cliff sighs despondently.  “My point is, we all have our struggles in life.  And no matter what your struggles are, it’s okay to ask for help, or even just take some time off and regroup.  There’s no shame in it.  You can’t help anyone else if you’re drowning too.”

Erin chews this over for a moment, and then replies, “Thanks, Cliff.”

For the remainder of the drive to Santa Fe, they let Santana’s guitar do the talking.  A month later, Cliff notices that Erin is on vacation for the first time since he hired her two years ago and smiles quietly to himself.

Chapter Text

After one of the most memorable and least orderly days of his career, Rich slides into his Mercedes, turns on the ignition, and is greeted by Richard Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” blasting from the classical music station.  Rich snorts in disgust and immediately snaps the radio off.  He never liked Wagner; much too bombastic, not to mention all the anti-Semitism. 

He drives home in silence, but the stony expression on his face melts when he pulls into the garage and sees Patricia’s car there.  He walks in, slips off his wingtips and his suit jacket, and calls out, “Honey, I’m home!”

Patricia skitters into the kitchen and kisses him on the cheek.  “How was your day?”

Rich sighs, “Long story.  I’ll tell you over a drink,” and he gestures towards the den.

While Rich rolls up his sleeves, Patricia sits down on the overstuffed couch and says, “Oh, Kevin called. He gets done with finals next Thursday and he’ll fly home on Friday.”

Rich places two glasses on the bar and then starts poking through the bar fridge. “Good. What about Christy?”

Patricia shakes her head and chuckles, “She told us last weekend that she’ll be done on the 17th.  Goodness, Rich, you can be so unobservant!”

“Right, right, I forgot,” Rich grumbles as he muddles the bitters and the sugar cubes.

Patricia gives him one of her famous Looks and admonishes him, “You’re not still mad at her for going to medical school instead of law school, are you?”

“What? No, no, that’s water under the bridge.  Sorry, I’m distracted… it’s been a long day,” he replies, pouring a shot’s worth of bourbon into each glass, adding ice, and then topping each off with a maraschino cherry.

“Oh yes, how did the Sandpiper thing go?”

Rich sighs heavily, and comes to sit down next to Patricia, handing her one of the cocktails.  She looks at it and then him and says, “You made an Old Fashioned, but the look on your face says, ‘Jack Daniels, straight up.’”

“We won, if you can call it that,” he tells her, and proceeds to explain Howard’s histrionics, complete with paranoia and dilated pupils.  As he wraps up his tale, he says, “I’m just glad Chuck wasn’t there to see it.”

Patricia shakes her head sadly.  “Poor Howard.  It’s been an awfully rough year for him.  Taking on all that debt, Chuck’s death, his marriage imploding…”

Rich does a double-take.  “His marriage?  What?”

“Cheryl told me about it the other day.  He’s been sleeping in their guest house since Chuck died.  It sounds like he just… checked out emotionally a long time ago.”

Suddenly, Patricia’s earlier comment rings in his ears. “You can be so unobservant!”  He and the Hamlins aren’t close, but surely he’d have noticed if there was trouble in paradise, right?  And if they can be on the verge of divorce, then…

He takes her hand and peeps, “Honey… we’re not like Howard and Cheryl, are we?”

She smiles kindly at him and cups his cheek with her free hand.  “No, darling.  We’re not.  The fact that you hardly notice anything outside of work is just part of your charm.”

Still a bit worried, he probes, “You’d tell me if we were, right?”

At this, Patricia snickers, “When have I ever failed to tell you what I really think?”

Rich can’t help but chuckle at this, and tells her, “Good point,” before giving her a soft kiss.

After the kiss ends, she smiles at him and says, “You know, this is our last kid-free weekend for a while.  How about we have a date night tomorrow?”

With a bewildered expression, he asks, “We have kids?”

Patricia rolls her eyes at him, then clinks her glass with his as they both dissolve into giggles.

Chapter Text

That morning, Cheryl didn’t see her husband, but she didn’t think much of it.  Maybe he had an early meeting, or maybe he and Cliff got their big victory over – Sand Dollar?  Sand Bar?  Sand-Who-Cares – and now Howard was sleeping off his “meeting with Mr. Macallan.”  It didn’t seem important, and she had a big meeting with a client, so she breezed out the door, got a latte from Starbucks, and shut off her phone before the meeting started.

Two hours later, she returns to her office and her assistant gently knocks on the door.  Her assistant looks oddly worried; Cheryl won’t realize this is significant until later.

“Um, Ms. Hamlin, sorry to bug you, but um… you have a bunch of messages from Julie over at HHM.”  Heather awkwardly hands her a stack of little pink slips.

Cheryl gives her a confused look.  “Julie?  Howard’s assistant?  What does she want?”

Heather stammers, “She, um… wouldn’t say.  Just that it was urgent and you should call ASAP.”

“Okayyyy,” Cheryl drawls, then rearranges her face into a polite smile and says, “Thanks, Heather.  I’ll take it from here.”

She glances at the pink slip as she dials the number, and Julie’s voice drips anxiety when she picks up.  “Howard Hamlin’s office!”

“Julie, it’s Cheryl Hamlin, returning your call.”

“Cheryl!  Hello!  Listen, I don’t mean to worry you, but Howard hasn’t come to the office yet today.  I’ve tried his cell and the house, but he’s not answering, and after everything that happened yesterday, I wanted to be sure he was all right.”

“What happened yesterday?”

Julie hesitates for a moment and then says, “Howard had kind of a… meltdown at the Sandpiper mediation.  He held up the proceedings and accused the mediator of being bribed, he seemed…”

After an agonizing pause, Cheryl asks, “Seemed what?”

“He seemed like he was… not himself,” Julie finishes.  “Anyway, it’s after ten and no one’s heard from him, and normally if he’s out, he’ll call by 8:30.  I was just hoping you knew something.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Cheryl replies evenly.  She remembers what her dad always said: the first 48 hours are critical.  “Julie, he’s probably fine, but just to be safe, I’m going to call the police and report Howard missing.  Let the senior partners know; they can figure out how to tell the rest of the firm.  Don’t be alarmed when the police come to HHM later.”

“Okay,” she replies, frightened but resolute.

After Cheryl hangs up, she takes a deep breath and calls the cops. At least I have an alibi.    Within the hour, they’re at her office, asking when she last saw Howard (yesterday morning) and did he seem any different (no).

One of the cops asks her, “Does Howard have any enemies?  Anyone who might want to harm him?”

It takes her a moment to realize that she genuinely doesn’t know, and if she were a different sort of person, the fact that her marriage has disintegrated to this degree would make her weep right then and there.  But weeping is not what Cheryl Davis Hamlin does, so she simply tells the officers, “No, I don’t think so.”

Later, she will remember Howard’s comments about Jimmy McGill, but dismiss them instantly. The few times she met him, he struck her as just a big kid.  He certainly pranked Howard, but the idea of him deliberately injuring anyone is ludicrous.

She gets through the rest of her day somehow, and then finds herself back at the cavernous, silent house.  For lack of a better idea, she pours herself a glass of wine.

This is Howard, she reminds herself.  No reason to get upset.

Howard was the one who took out another mortgage on the house, tanked our credit, and liquidated our savings to keep HHM afloat without so much as a “by your leave.”

Howard was the one who bent over backwards to accommodate Chuck’s illness and barely noticed that I exist.

Howard was the one who let his father treat me like damaged goods after that last round of IVF failed and I decided I couldn’t do it anymore.

Howard was the one who took me to Hawaii when the first round of IVF failed.

Howard was the one who said he wished he could give me all the stars in the Albuquerque sky, but since he couldn’t, he’d just give me one, and pulled out the ring.

Howard was the one who sang “Babe” to me before he left for that summer after L1.

Weeping is not what Cheryl Davis Hamlin does, until tonight.  It’s been more than 24 hours since anyone saw Howard, and as the daughter of a homicide detective, she knows that means he will never come home.  She stopped loving him a long time ago, but it was not supposed to end like this.  They were supposed to just get a divorce and slink off to different up-and-coming neighborhoods, their defunct marriage an awkwardness to sidestep if they ran into each other at charity functions.

They were supposed to move on.

Now Howard has been denied that chance, and as much as she detests him, he didn’t deserve this.

She polishes off her wine and makes herself a vodka tonic – Howard’s cocktail of choice when he lost a case – and drinks it while the tears roll down her cheeks.