Free Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway by Diana Dempsey Page A

descends on the conference room. I am keenly aware of six appraising eyes settling on my face as my mind cranks.
    “Ms. Pennington?” the female lawyer asks. “ Have you ever known Sebastian Cantwell to do something unethical?”
    I clear my throat. “Well, there was an incident on Oahu, where I won my title, where a person might construe Mr. Cantwell’s behavior as not one hundred percent ethical.” In fact, at the time it put him on my list of murder suspects. But despite Second Male Lawyer’s plea for total honesty, I am going to keep mum on that topic.
    A moment later, I realize I have accomplished the rare feat of silencing three attorneys. They’re not even tapping on their keyboards or jotting on their tablets.
    “What exactly happened on Oahu?” the female lawyer asks in a pained voice.
    “It came to my attention that Mr. Cantwell met with one of the contestants, in private, before the pageant finale. That’s strictly verboten because such a meeting might give a contestant an unfair advantage.”
    Antiseptic Wipe leans forward. “You say it came to your attention. Is it possible your information is incorrect? That Cantwell did not have this meeting?”
    I shake my head. “We spoke about it later. He admitted it. He said he was curious why she wanted the meeting.”
    Spitfire that I am—indeed, that was one of several spicy adjectives with which Mr. Cantwell described me at the time—I used my knowledge of that one-on-one to retain my title when Mr. Cantwell threatened to take it away. Some might call that blackmail. I call it resourcefulness. Anyway, it’s another topic I judge best not to wade into here.
    “Please don’t get me wrong,” I add. “I don’t think Mr. Cantwell actually did anything unethical in that meeting. It’s just that pageant rules stipulate he shouldn’t have had it at all.”
    I realize a second later that what I refrained from saying hangs in the air nevertheless. In fact, it looms so large I fear it might be spelled out in a cartoon cloud above my head. Bottom line, Mr. Cantwell fudged the rules.
    My heart bangs against my ribcage. But however frantically it beats, it can’t distract me from my brain, where another thought is forming. I might as well be testifying for the prosecution. Because I just handed these lawyers a story about how Mr. Cantwell fudges the rules when it suits his purposes. For example, when he might want to pay lower taxes.
    The attorneys look at each other. The female lawyer removes her eyeglasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. Antiseptic Wipe slams down the lid on his laptop. “We’re done here,” he declares.
    Nobody disputes that assertion. The two other attorneys stand up but Antiseptic Wipe remains seated. He doesn’t have to say a word for me to recognize how disgusted he is with the so-called character evidence I have provided.
    I rise to my feet. “I apologize if I’ve wasted your time.”
    Second Male Lawyer ushers me out. “We appreciate your honesty,” he tells me, though I find myself doubting he really means it.
    I wait until my anxiety-ridden self is back on the street to take my cell phone off silent mode. I have a voicemail from my mom, who makes no mention of Bennie as she reports that she landed at LaGuardia and wants lunch ASAP. I also note a text from Shanelle, whom I call first.
    “How did it go with the lawyers?” she wants to know. In contrast to me, she sounds quite cheery.
    “Let’s just say it was not a success experience.” That’s the understatement of the month. And Mr. Cantwell will hear about it.
    “I bet you’re overreacting, girl,” Shanelle tells me.
    “I don’t think so. And would you believe the sidewalks were so crowded I had to walk underneath a ladder right before? That couldn’t have helped.”
    “You are way too smart to believe in superstitions. Anyway, Trixie and I will cheer you up. We’re free for lunch and so are you. So how about we meet at that restaurant we liked the look