In Firm Pursuit (6 page)

W
e walked out of Little J's and across the street in silence. The parking lot had sufficient lighting, but as I glanced up and down the deserted street, I was actually glad that Hamilton had insisted on escorting me out.

“Your girl's really cool,” he said, slipping his left hand into the pocket of his slacks.

“That she is,” I replied. I was not thrilled about this development, but it probably wasn't worth raising a stink over. Hamilton was a busy man. He would not have the time or inclination to call Special five times a day just to tell her how lucky he was to be with her.

“Look, I'm not one of those lawyers who gets off on clashing with my opposing counsel,” Hamilton said.

“Neither am I.”

“Then why the cold shoulder?” he asked.

“I didn't know I was giving you one.”

“Okay, my bad.” He looked at me as if he were trying to determine whether I could be trusted. “Truce?”

“Truce,” I said, but my guard was still firmly in place. I hit the remote control button on my key ring, unlocking the driver-side door of my Land Cruiser. Hamilton gently took my elbow and helped me climb inside.

“What a gentleman,” I said, smiling. I put the key in the ignition and rolled down the window. “Thanks for walking me out.”

“Anytime,” Hamilton said, smiling back at me. “You know, I spent some time reviewing Randle's videotaped deposition before coming over here. I have to tell you, he's pretty convincing. This case is going to come down to credibility.”

I quietly cleared my throat. He was absolutely right. I could play snatches of Karen Carruthers's taped deposition, but it would not be nearly as effective as having her present in court to tell her story. The jury would be much more apt to sympathize with Henry Randle, who would be sitting right there in front of them. It was imperative for me to get the case settled before they found out about Carruthers's death.

“Karen Carruthers is pretty credible herself,” I said.

“We'll see about that. If Randle's story is true, that means hers isn't. Now, I don't usually play my hand like this, but you should know we just retained a private investigator.”

“Sounds like you're grasping at straws,” I said, laughing cockily. “But if your investigator stumbles across a smoking gun, you be sure to let me know.”

Hamilton chuckled. “I like your balls, girl. You don't scare easily. We could use a dynamic sister like you at my firm.”

“You making me a job offer?” I asked.

“Maybe. When the time is right.”

“No thanks,” I said. “I expect to make partner at O'Reilly & Finney. As a matter of fact, the partnership
vote should take place a week or so after the Randle trial ends.”

Hamilton dropped his head dramatically and stared at the ground. “Losing a trial for a big client like Micronics right before that vote is going to be pretty embarrassing.”

I purposely waited a beat. “But
I'm
not going to lose. If I were you, I'd be trying to work out a settlement.”

“I have to say, I find it a little strange that you suddenly want to settle after turning down a hell of an offer,” Hamilton said.

I shrugged. “As much as I'd like to take you on again, I have to admit that I probably acted a little rashly in turning down Reggie's offer.”

“Whatever you say,” Hamilton said. “But you should know that if and when we do talk settlement with you again, we'll probably be looking for something in the seven-figure range.”

Seven figures!
I felt tiny pin prickles along the back of my neck. “You're kidding me, right?” As much as Micronics wanted out of the case, there was no way they would pay seven figures to resolve it.

“I think my boy's allegations about Micronics's fraudulent billing only touched the tip of the iceberg,” Hamilton said. “I'm counting on my investigator to uncover what's really going on.”

“Whatever,” I said, the only response I could think of. I attempted to put the SUV into Reverse, but it lurched forward, causing Hamilton to jump out of the way.

“You trying to win the case by running me over?” he
said playfully. “Truce, remember?” He made a peace sign with his fingers. “This is a job, my sister. Just a job.”

Without warning, Hamilton leaned his head through my open window and planted a kiss on my cheek. “In a few weeks, when I'm kicking your ass all over the courtroom, remember that kiss and what a nice guy I really am.”

I cut my eyes at him as hard as I could, then screeched off.

O
n Friday morning, three days after my parking lot conversation with Hamilton, I was standing in line at the Starbucks in the lobby of the O'Reilly & Finney office building when an
L.A. Times
headline caught my attention.
Faulty Micronics Navigation System Blamed for Crash of U.S. Transport Plane in Iraq.

I started to step out of line and grab a copy of the newspaper, but I was up next. The clerk, who took my order five days a week, gave me a look that said she hated to see me coming.

“Caramel Macchiato with non-fat milk, sugar-free vanilla syrup—four shots—an extra shot of espresso and hold the whipped cream.” She hurriedly scribbled my order on the side of a small cup that Starbucks insisted on calling tall.

I paid for my coffee as well as a copy of the
Times,
then grabbed one from the newspaper stand. The article stated that twelve U.S. soldiers had been killed in Iraq when their transport plane crashed outside Baghdad a week earlier. Preliminary reports blamed the accident on a mechanical defect in the plane's navigation system, which was manufactured by Micronics Corporation. I read
further and lost my breath when I saw a reference to Micronics's GAP-7 Program.

Alarm bells sounded in my head.
Randle had alleged fraudulent billing on the GAP-7 Program.

When I heard my name being called, I grabbed my drink and headed for the elevators. For the past few days, I had been racking my brain for a way to get Hamilton and Reggie to the negotiating table without signaling that I was running scared. So far, luck was on my side as far as the news about Karen Carruthers. I found out that Randle was visiting relatives in Atlanta, so he probably had not heard about her death yet. Fortunately, the local media had not reported the accident because a recent spate of freeway shootings had dominated TV and newspaper coverage all week. But I knew I only had a matter of days, if that long, before Hamilton and Reggie found out. Did the
Times
story about the GAP-7 Program add another twist to the case?

I heard the ping of an available elevator car and took it to the twelfth floor. When I arrived at my office, I set my coffee on the corner of my desk, opened a file drawer and pulled out all four volumes of Randle's deposition transcript. Micronics's former in-house attorney had taken Randle's deposition before the case was transferred to O'Reilly & Finney, so I never had a chance to depose Randle myself. I flipped to the index in the back of each volume and wrote down every page that referenced the GAP-7 Program.

An hour later, I had reread every allegation Randle had made about the program. GAP-7 stood for Global
Assisted Positioning system. Randle's complaints were limited to claims that Micronics had overbilled the Air Force for the program. He had made no allegations, pro or con, about the navigation system's technical capabilities. That made sense, of course, since he was an accountant in the Finance Department, not an engineer.

Micronics had always insisted that Randle's allegations of overbilling were untrue. And based on the documentation they had provided to me, that appeared to be the case. An outside consultant brought in to audit the accounts Randle had identified also confirmed that nothing was amiss.

I took a sip of my coffee and was disappointed that it was now lukewarm. I did not know what I had expected to find in Randle's deposition transcript. I was just glad there was nothing about the GAP-7 Program that might further sink my case. Hopefully, if Hamilton or Reggie saw the
Times
story they would not link it to the Randle case. After draining the rest of my cold coffee, I decided to put Henry Randle and Micronics Corporation out of my mind and focus on my other cases.

Just before noon, I was inches from the doorway of my office, purse in hand, when the telephone rang. I had a one o'clock hair appointment and I had just enough time to make a stop at Jack in the Box before hauling it over to the Emerald Chateau in Inglewood. I tried to ignore the ringing telephone, but force of habit compelled me to check the caller ID display. It was Special, so I picked up.

“I think I'm in love,” Special swooned.

“And I love you, too,” I said, laughing.

“Not you,” she said dreamily. “That fine ass Hamilton Ellis. I think this is fate. We were just sitting there talking about your case and Hamilton appeared right before our eyes. The Lord works in mysterious ways, don't He?”

“Special, you just met the man three days ago. I think you need to slow your roll. And I told you he's one of the biggest players in L.A.”

“A player can only play a woman who lets herself get played,” she said. “I know how to handle my business. The man just sent me four dozen of the most beautiful yellow tulips I've ever seen. He called my secretary and found out my favorite flower. I sure do deserve his ass.”

“Just be careful,” I said. “I really don't want you to get hurt.”

“If anybody's going to get hurt, it's him, not me,” Special insisted. “I've already got that brother's nose wide open. We had lunch at the Water Grill on Wednesday and dinner last night at this cute little Italian place on Venice. Tomorrow night we're going to one of your favorite spots, Crustacean.”

“I'm telling you, Special, you need to slow down. At least give the man time to breathe.”

“This is my fish,” Special replied. “You let me worry about reeling him in.”

“Okay, whatever you say. Just make sure you don't tell him anything I told you about the Randle case.”

“Girl, if you tell me that one more time, I'm gonna pull off my wig and throw it out the window.”

“All right, all right.”

“Anyway,” Special said, “I was calling because I need
to borrow your green earrings with the silver beads. They'll look good with this green leather miniskirt I'm wearing tomorrow night.”

“You got it,” I said. Maybe Special's hooking up with Hamilton was not such a bad thing, after all. If Hamilton was all tied up with her, he might not be as focused on the Randle case.

“Just drop by before six,” I said. “I have a banquet to attend. You're really going all out for Mr. Ellis. I hope it pays off for you.”

“It will,” she said, full of confidence. “If he's still spending big cash in three months, then it's on.”

I laughed. “Girl, Hamilton Ellis is not waiting three months to get with you.”

“Oh, he'll wait,” Special said, even more emboldened.

“A man like Hamilton is all about the chase. And when that brother sees how hot I look tomorrow night, his ass'll chase me for as long as it takes.”

A
lawyer of Joseph Porter's stature was accustomed to giving orders, not taking them. So he was not pleased about the call from Micronics Corporation demanding his presence at the General Counsel's office at two o'clock on a Friday afternoon.

It further perturbed him that the underling who delivered the message had no information regarding the specific nature of the meeting. Only that it involved a highly confidential matter.

Porter checked his Timex, then picked up O'Reilly & Finney's
New Business Report
from his in-basket and stared at it in disgust. The report listed six new cases for Jim O'Reilly and zero for himself. Client development was not Porter's strong suit. He despised the idea of prostituting himself by wining and dining people he didn't know or care to. It violated his sense of ethics. Good lawyers did not have to beg for work. Clients came to them.

He also loathed the fact that Jim O'Reilly was running the firm. Porter considered himself far brighter and a much better administrator. On top of that, he consistently billed more hours than any other partner in the firm. But when you happened to be the grandson of the firm's
founding partner and an egomaniac to boot, some things simply fell into your lap whether you deserved them or not. Unfortunately for Porter, the managing partner title was not the only thing O'Reilly had stolen from him.

Porter tossed the report into his trash receptacle and glanced at his watch again. It was time to leave. He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door.

As was his custom, Porter arrived exactly fifteen minutes early and was shown into an empty conference room. Porter hated wasting time. In his world, time literally was money. He pulled out a copy of the
Daily Appellate Report
and started browsing the day's new court decisions.

When the door to the conference room opened eleven minutes after the hour, three men with grim expressions stepped inside. Porter recognized Bob Bailey, Micronics's General Counsel, and Rich Ferris, the VP of HR, but not the third man.

“Good afternoon, Joe,” Bailey said. “Thanks for coming by on such short notice.”

Porter extended his hand and gave him a curt smile. “I prefer Joseph.”

“Forgive me,” the General Counsel replied awkwardly.

Porter greeted Ferris and the other man, who was introduced as Nathaniel Hall, Micronics's Chief Financial Officer. The three executives sat on one side of the eight-foot table, leaving Porter alone on the other.

Bailey did not waste time with small talk. “We wanted to speak with you about the Randle case,” he began. “We're concerned about the fact that Ms. Henderson has not gotten it settled. We—”

“I'm confident that we can get it resolved,” Porter interrupted. “Though perhaps not as quickly as you might like.” He hated groveling. He wanted to tell all three of them to back off and let O'Reilly & Finney do the job Micronics was paying them to do.

Ferris, the HR exec, gripped the edge of the table with both hands. “It needs to be settled now. Before they learn about Ms. Carruthers's death.”

Their high level of anxiety about getting rid of the case signaled to Porter that Micronics probably had something to hide. Something significant. CFOs did not attend meetings involving employment cases. Neither did general counsels.

This was not the first time the company's executives had sat before him sweating bullets over the possibility of having their dirty laundry exposed. After Enron and Sarbanes-Oxley, every top executive in America wanted to avoid even the appearance of an impropriety that might land them in jail.

“Hamilton Ellis is the lead attorney on the case now. He's a pretty savvy lawyer. We can't just snap our fingers and settle the case,” Porter said. “But I'll be sure to communicate the urgency of your wishes to Ms. Henderson.”

“We've had enough communications,” the General Counsel replied. “We need resolution.”

Ferris nodded. “You may not be aware of it, but Randle's attorney has been trying to stir up some media attention,” Ferris said. Hall, the CFO, had yet to open his mouth.

It was not Porter's job to put a muzzle on opposing counsel. “I don't watch much TV,” Porter replied unapologetically.

“Even if you did,” the General Counsel said, “you probably wouldn't have seen Mr. Jenkins's performance a few nights ago. He was on some public affairs talk show on one of the local cable channels.” Bailey pulled a videotape from a large envelope and handed it to Ferris, who walked over to a TV monitor built into the wall and slipped the tape into a VCR machine. Ferris remained standing while the tape played.

The grainy picture showed Jenkins sitting on a shabby-looking set decorated with a chair and love seat that looked like Goodwill rejects. A dusty fake cactus stuffed inside a straw basket appeared close to tipping over. The whole room had a faded appearance that had nothing to do with the quality of the videotape.

“I know for a fact that Micronics had at least six confirmed cases of sexual harassment in the last five years,” Jenkins ranted. “Yet my client—the only black man falsely accused of this heinous offense against women—was the only one they fired.”

The host of the show, who resembled a thinner version of Al Sharpton, sat across from Jenkins and pitched him one softball question after another. In response to each inquiry, Jenkins went into a long, repetitious diatribe about how Micronics had bilked the Air Force out of thousands of dollars on an Air Force contract and fired his client based on trumped-up charges of sexual harassment for trying to expose the fraud.

“I think we've seen enough,” Bailey interrupted. Ferris hit the Pause button and returned to his seat.

Porter did not wait for the General Counsel's next
words. He had no idea how Jenkins found out about the cases in that memo, but it was not his job to play spin doctor. “I'm afraid we can't keep Jenkins from talking to the media, and I use that term loosely with respect to what we just saw. If I'd known you wanted to discuss the Randle case, I would've invited Ms. Henderson along.” Porter could not have looked any more indifferent.

“She's the very reason we called this meeting.” The General Counsel suddenly looked uneasy. “We have reason to believe that Ms. Henderson has committed a very serious ethical breach.”