AS PROMISED, THE dress was heinous.

It was big, heavy, full of satin and taffeta. I looked like crap. I looked like a tall, busty redhead wrapped in white satin that tiered down over layers of tulle and taffeta with a big ass bow. Yes, that's right; a big ass bow right on my ass. Classy with a capital K.

"It doesn't have a train," Amelia noted. "If I remember correctly, you hated the train." She cast a disparaging eye at my waist. "The bodice is too tight. Let it out an inch."

Normally, I would have snarked back - snarking with Amelia is something I generally looked forward to - but I today, I didn't have the energy. I had finally succumbed to the malaise I had been fighting since moving here. I was officially depressed.

I stood in front of the three way mirror, a perfect picture of complacent apathy. They could have wrapped me up like a mummy in bolts of satin, taffeta, and tulle and I could have cared less. That's what I think they did, by the way. I think all they did was wrap a bunch of fabric around a mannequin and called it a dress. I sighed and stood as still as possible for the seamstress. Whatever.

The reason for my apathy? Alex had lied. He was a big, fat, lying liar.

Alex had no intention to help me find Jenny at all. I discovered this truth at breakfast, where I had waited patiently for news. Finally, as he shrugged into his jacket, I asked. He gave me this blank look. "Jenny. Now who's Jenny again?"

"I told you about her last night," I reminded. "She's my friend who's missing. You said you'd help me."

"Oh, oh yeah, right. I'm sorry, baby." He kissed me on the cheek. "We've got this depo today that's on my mind...no, I'm sorry, I couldn't find anything out." He slammed down the rest of his coffee, and then added, "If you're really concerned, you should get the police involved in this. It's more their thing, anyway."

It's a weird feeling when your hopes are crushed. It was significantly more painful than I ever thought it would be. Despite my inner storm, I kept it cool, smiled, and said, "You're right. I'll call them after the fitting."

He kissed me on the head. "Why don't you wait until later this afternoon? She could always show up, and you know, and Useless has his first training lesson."

"You're right, Counselor." I smiled at him like I meant it, stood up and straightened his tie. "You don't forget I start my training tomorrow."

"I know, my little FlyGirl." He kissed me, and then added, "I think we should try this new Southern Asian place down in Tribeca. Why don't you meet me at the office, and we'll go after work?"

"That sounds great," I said, grinning as broadly as I could. "I look forward to it."

He narrowed his eyes and cupped my face. "Don't go after her, Siobhan. I mean it."

"Okay." I kissed his neck. "I'll be good. Don't worry."

He frowned. "Don't strain yourself."

After he left, I went upstairs, turned on the shower, and cried. Then I stopped crying because I felt stupid. What was the point of crying? Crying only made me feel bad and did nothing for Jenny. So I plugged it up, took a shower, and got dressed for my fitting.

To my the normal items I carry in my purse - cash, lipstick, a nail file, a variety of Bic lighters, and a stun gun - I added a few extra things, including duct tape and plastic bags. As I was leaving, however, I realized that Alex hadn't given me my phone back from the night before. Phones were easy to replace, but he'd be suspicious if I didn't ask about it. So I called him.

"Hey, baby. What's the matter?"

"Where's my phone?"

"Oh. Your phone. I apologize, Siobhan. I forgot to tell you. I broke it last night." He chuckled. "I shouldn't have put it in my back pocket."

Ha Ha Ha, that's so funny, how about that. "So what am I supposed to do about a phone?" I whined like I meant it.

"There's one on the nightstand. I got it out last night for you."

I walked upstairs; sure enough, a brand new generation Iphone was sitting out, waiting for me.

"I found it," I told him. "Does it have all my numbers?" As well as apps that trace my every movement, call, and text?

"Every one that you need," he answered. "Listen, baby, I have to run. Have fun with the wedding prep."

"It'll be great," I lied.

He didn't say anything for a few seconds; I thought he'd hung up. Finally, he broke the silence. "I love you, Siobhan."

"I love you, too," I lied.

"It's because I love you that I'm telling you to not go after your friend." He paused to let that sink it. "This is your last warning. If you do that, you won't like the consequences."

Oh, suck my dick. "Alex, I am so hurt that you think I would go after my friend myself, when you have cogently explained why it's better to leave it up to the authorities."

"One more time like you mean it," he replied drily. "Seriously, though, Siobhan, there will be consequences. You think long and hard about that before you do anything I expressly tell you not to do."

"I get it. Consequences. Don't worry, Alex, I'll be the best little wifey ever," I said, then cringed. That slipped out.

"Well now. Still angry, I see." He cleared his throat. "We'll talk about it tonight. In the meantime, Siobhan, think about things. You have the perfect life. Enjoy it."

Fast forward an hour or two, and here I was, standing in front of a three way mirror and trying on this abortion of a dress.

"I don't feel well," I said to nobody in particular.

"Your breasts seem larger," said the seamstress. "Are you pregnant?"

"I do feel nauseous," I told her. "And I'm so tired." I yawned for emphasis.

I noticed in the mirror that Amelia and Molly exchanged glances. "When was your last period?" Molly snapped.

"We are so not close enough for me to discuss that with you," I answered, then looked at the seamstress. "I really don't feel good."

"Niña," said the seamstress. "You need to lie down." She helped me off the podium and out of the wad of fabric.

"Oh, please," huffed Amelia. "She's faking. Siobhan. Put the dress back on."

"I don't know," Molly interjected. "She looks pale. Siobhan, is there a chance you're pregnant?"

I blinked at her. "Yes. Yes, there is."

"Pobrecita," murmured the seamstress as she petted my arm. "Come on, mami. You come to the back and lay down."

I allowed her to take me to the bride to be resting room. As I got comfortable, she whispered, "That dress is horrible. I am sorry."

"Eh. What are you going to do?" I asked. "Can you turn the lights off?"

"Vete a domir, niña," she told me, turned off the lights, and left.

I immediately got the phone I borrowed from one of the Aldo assistants and pulled up the Discovery Dropbox using Sean's admin access. Sure enough, Bob came through. There it was; In re Nolan Barnes, all ready for me to download.

Nota Bene here. My family's been abusing the trial discovery process for generations. Under the ABA rules, attorney client confidentiality is sacrosanct. Both state and federal law, along with attorney codes of conduct prohibit state or opposing counsel access to this work product without a court order.

As a result, we use discovery as our own personal hidey hole. If you want to get rid of a murder weapon, a couple million dollars you stole from a bank robbery, a body, anything at all, mark it discovery, send it to your McIver attorney, and we'll file it under one of the open estate cases we use for this purpose. Opposing counsel won't be able to get an order for it, because (1) They won't know where it's at; and (2) They'll have to show cause, and what's that old dead guy's estate got to do with your insider trading or whatever case?

There it'll stay there until the statute of limitations is up, or everybody involved is dead. In fact, our process of discovery is so important to us and to the Firm that there's an urban legend about a paralegal who made the mistake of opening up a box marked "Discovery" and found a human head.

Anyway, I opened up the file and learned all about the dark haired woman who'd kidnapped my friend. Her name was Oksana Milkoff, she was 22, and she was an exchange student at Hunter College. She was on a student visa, and her address was in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. She was also an exotic dancer, and had been picked up several times for prostitution and other crimes of indecency since coming here two years ago. In a personal, handwritten note, Bob added that Oksana is the mistress to a city councilman, and is known in certain circles for having a very physical way of expressing her sexuality.

Dominatrix, he wrote, and underlined.

Cool. I'd always wanted to meet a dominatrix.

So I got dressed, put my phone in the seamstress's bag, and slipped out into the hall. Amelia and Molly didn't notice; they were too busy arguing.

"I think she's pregnant," Molly was insisting. "She's been so difficult lately. It's probably the hormones."

"I have known that child since she was 12 years old," Amelia replied, "and she has always been difficult." She handed her glass to one of the assistants for more bottled water. "You think Alex would have had her broken in by now."

Even though a large part of me wanted to march in there and rip that stupid, perfect, chignon right out of her head, I kept to the plan and left by using the back door. The seamstress was there, smoking; she winked at me as I left. I knew she'd cover for me. I had slipped her a couple hundred bucks beforehand.

From the shop, I ran down the alley then headed south on West Broadway until I hit Canal Street. Once on Canal Street, I navigated through the tourists looking for fake Coach and Michael Kors purses until I got to the subway, where I hopped a Brooklyn bound Q train for Brighton Beach.

On my ride down to Brighton Beach I googled Brighton Beach. I learned that it was also known as Little Odessa, due to the fact it was home to some many Russian immigrants. There you would find store signs in English and Cyrillic and a host of Russian specialties, like borscht. I even learned what borscht actually was - turns out it's beet soup. Who knew?

Finally, I learned that Little Odessa was a prosperous little 'burg. The Russians of Brighton Beach were financial success stories, and they weren't afraid to show it. There were jewelry stores and furriers, and designers galore. Commentators tried to explain it as fall out from communism, but I figure, hey, new money's so tacky no matter what the culture.

Anyway, it took me about 45 minutes to get from lower Manhattan to Brighton Beach. Once I set the assistant's GPS for Oksana's apartment. I found it a few blocks off the subway, in an older brick building with a secured door. First thing I did was call her land line.

"What?" she screamed. "Why are you calling?"

She sounded sweet. I hung up. Next, I buzzed the manager's office.

"Da?" said a male voice through the intercom. "Who is it?"

"Hi, I'm here about an apartment," I said. "I'm here in New York to model, and my babushka recommended this building."

I got buzzed in and took the elevator to the Oksana's third floor apartment. I found it at the end of the hall, which was a good thing. Daddy always said that hotel rooms and apartments located at the end of hallways by stairs were the best for murders because of the ease of entrance and exit.

I knocked on her door. A second or two later the woman from the picture opened it. She was pretty wisp of a thing, with pale skin, dark hair, and black eyes. "What do you want?" she asked with a very heavy accent.

I slammed as hard as I could against the door; the force of my hit and my element of surprise knocked her off her feet, too surprised to scream or even cry out. While she was down, I took a moment to end whatever fight she might have in her by tasing her. As she lay in the hall, a quivering mass of flesh on the floor, I pulled her inside, locked the door, and then walked from room to room.

"Hi, Ivan? Anybody else here? I'm selling girl scout cookies," I called.

Fortunately, the place was empty. So I tased Little Miss Human Trafficking one more time for good measure, and pulled her into the bathroom. Then I got a kitchen chair and duct taped the crap out of her to it - thank God she was small, because this wasn't easy to do in a cast, let me tell you.

Next, I found her phone. It was a pimped out Samsung 6, with a shit ton of numbers and no security code. Putting that in my pocket, I next went through her closet - the girl was a dominatrix; I was curious. Girl had some killer clothes. Apparently being a dominatrix pays well. There were dresses,, skirts, bustiers...I ended up stripping down to my skivvies and started trying things on. I found this awesome long black maxi dress with a leather cut out halter top and black flowing skirt, as well as this black leather strapless dress, rutched and fitted, tailored out of expensive leather. I liked it so much I had to show my new BFF.

"Check it out," I said. "I love this dress. I know it's a little short on me, but still. Do you mind if I keep it?"

She moaned, which I took as a yes. I did a little more shopping, where I found a few more dresses I liked, and ended up putting everything in this really awesome leather black Michael Kors bag she had buried under a shit ton of shoes.

I then found her steam iron and went back into the bathroom for a heart to heart.

She was coming to. She moaned and began pulling against the tape.

"Hi," I said. "How you feeling?"

She glared and then started making curse word-like sounds. Or she was saying 'Hi.' Russian's such a strange language; it could be one or the other.

Given the circumstances, I figured it was cursing. She appeared really angry.

"Okay, so it's like this, Oksana," I told her as I plugged in the iron. "I'm good with torture. I know that a lot of people out there right now believe that it doesn't work, but I think they're naysayers. I think that it can work, in the right circumstances and with the right personalities."

I hit the steam button. It was a very nice iron; it let out a nice cloud of steam. Her eyes grew very wide.

"I think it'll be effective on you, Oksana, for at least three reasons." I pulled around the kitchen chair I brought for myself and straddled it. "I think you'll break, because, if you don't tell me what I want to know, I'm going to ugly you up. Since everything about you is based on how you look, you have to ask yourself, how will you survive if you are maimed and ugly?"

I pressed the steam button on the iron again. Her sounds turned less angry and more pleading.

"The second reason why is that there's no underlying religious fervor going on here. You're not doing the whole human trafficking thing because you believe God's commanded it." I pressed the steam button again. "You're doing it because you're an evil person without an iota of compassion inside that twisted little head of yours."

I pressed the steam button one more time. Her pleading had turned to whimpering. "Do you want to know the third reason?" I asked.

She stared at me, glassy eyed.

"Here's the third reason. I don't think I even have to torture you at all. I think that, if I pay you $500 bucks, you'll tell me what I want to know." I sat the iron down and pulled my purse over and got out the cash, which I then sat in her lap.

"So, I'm going to let you think about it for a minute." I opened the browser on her phone, pulled up the picture of her taking Jenny out of the hotel, and showed it to her. "Look long and hard at this picture. And consider. $500 bucks and you tell me where she's at or iron burns all over your face, your breasts, and your ass."

I waited for a few more seconds while I played with the iron. Then I asked, "What's it going to be Oksana?" I reached for the tape covering her mouth, but before I pulled it off, I said, "Oh, and if you scream for help, I consider that a refusal and just go with the burning. You feel me?"

She nodded and glared.

"Good." I ripped off the tape.

"Bitch!" she yelled. "I will kill you!"

I moved towards her with the iron.

"Stop, stop, stop!" she cried. "Alright, I'll tell, I'll tell. I took her to the House of the Vettii."

"House of the Vettii?" I repeated, confused. "I thought that was in Pompeii."

She rolled her eyes. "It's on the Upper East Side," she said, disgusted. "86th and 5th."

"And why would you take her there, Oksana?"

"The woman there, Esme, she likes girls like her." She paused.

"Go on, Oksana." I waved the iron in front of her. "Tell me all about this club."

"It's for rich people, who like a certain type of girl. The girls that work there, they're all blonde. That bitch you want, she made me a lot of money." She smiled meanly. "She was innocent. Lot's of money for a blonde innocent in that place."

I picked up the iron and came towards her. Her eyes grew wide. "No, please...I told you...I told you want you wanted --"

I sat the iron down. "You're right, Oksana. You've been helpful. Now tell me how to get in." I hit the steam a few more times.

"You're a member, or you're invited by a member," she said, panic making her eyes huge. "I don't know more than that."

I stared at her. "Okedokee. I believe you. Now here's the rub. When you get loose, you're going to be tempted to call people and send them after me, but you're not going to do it." I held the iron close to her. "You are going to forget that I even came here at all."

"Why would I do that?" she glared.

"Maureen Cahill's my godmother. And that girl you took? She's Rory Cahill's fiance."

She turned even paler and began pleading with me while I unplugged the iron. "There's your five hundred bucks," I told her as I put her phone in the Michael Kors bag, along with her laptop which was sitting on the coffee table. Then I tased her again and covered her mouth.

"May the Lord steady my hand," I said with a sigh and left the building to head back towards Manhattan.

It was going to be a busy night. Looks like I was going to miss dinner.

_____ * _____ * _____ * _____ * _____

Here's Siobhan being Siobhan. Grab your iron and engage in some enhanced interrogation techniques.

Thank you so much for taking time to read Siobhan's story! I look forward to your comments, and if you liked it, please remember to vote!

©Copyright Liz Charnes May 2018

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