The She-Hulk Diaries (18 page)

At precisely 10:00 a.m., when Donner ushered Dr. Sven Morigi into my office, I was glad I’d taken the time to collect myself.

Sven Morigi was so stunning that I was speechless. He was tall and lean, his hair was jet-black and silky fine, and his eyes were deep blue like the interior of a glacier. He wore an elegant suit in a sleek cut. His lightly tanned complexion looked pore-less, his long, straight nose was just right for his angled cheekbones, and his square chin was exactly right for his face.

His only imperfection, if it was that, was his mouth: his lips were a bit
not
perfect. It was hard to say if they were too thin or too firm, because I kept getting drawn into those eyes.

“Hello, Dr. Morigi,” I eventually said and made a spastic motion to the guest chair.

“Good morning, Ms. Walters. Do call me Sven,” he said and smiled. He had a faint accent and his teeth were perfect.

I usually prefer formality with clients, but I found myself saying, “Please call me Jennifer,” as I took my chair. “I’m so pleased to be representing you.”

“You have a reputation as a formidable trial attorney, Miss Walters. I thought you would be terrifying in person.”

Was this intended as a compliment? “Drama is required when one
goes to trial. I’ve read over the notes from your meetings with our other attorneys, but I’d like to hear from you about your experience with ReplaceMax and your decision to bring legal action against them.”

Sven told me that he’d approached Maxwell Kirsch of ReplaceMax with his process to rapidly replicate human organs. “Their own experiments were failing and limited to minor advances in skin grafts. Initially, Max Kirsch agreed to let me use a laboratory to continue my work.”

I took notes so I didn’t have to keep looking at him, because it was like looking at the sun: tempting, but I’d probably go blind, mad, turn to stone, or all of the aforementioned. The cadence of his speech stirred a memory within me. However, I knew I hadn’t heard his mellifluous tones before. His voice was soothing—neither too light, nor macho deep.

“Why ReplaceMax and not a university medical center?” I asked.

“I abhor bureaucracy and academic politics,” he said quietly. “ReplaceMax had state-of-the-art, highly secure facilities that provided everything I needed so I could focus on my research. In return, they had first option on investing in any of my discoveries. At the risk of sounding immodest, none of their scientists had comparable vision and abilities.”

“Can you tell me more about your initial proposal?”

“Project Mimic,” he said. “The problem with most organ transplants is rejection by the host. I was splicing the DNA of host cells with healthy cells to grow bioidentical healthy organs. In fact, these new organs could ‘teach’ other cells in the host to repair themselves.”

“This sounds similar to the way cancer grows,” I said.

He nodded. “We can learn many things from cancers, but while most cancers destroy and displace host cells, I wanted my bioidentical cells to be, in layman’s terms, reformatted or upgraded. The program was initially so promising. An ailing body, one with a multitude of chronic conditions, could be rejuvenated with the transplant of a single new organ.”

“You said that the research was
initially
promising—when did that change?”

“Once ReplaceMax saw the early results, they assigned their own scientists to Project Mimic. Very quickly, they started getting astounding
outcomes. Although I believed in my project, I know the road to success is seldom so smooth,” he said with a small frown. “I discovered that adverse results were being dismissed and hidden.”

“What did you do then?”

“I immediately went to Max Kirsch and the company directors, and reported the problems. They said I’d used incomplete data. When I ran the numbers again, the results were subtly different in ReplaceMax’s favor. I compared the studies and discovered that someone had altered the numbers.”

“Could you have proceeded even with the less positive results?”

“Most certainly. Perfection is never instantaneous. It was always my intention to work until the cloned organs were free of any harmful defects. However, ReplaceMax was eager to push forward the products for their initial public offering.”

“Did Max Kirsch ever mention the IPO to you?” I said as I figured out that the imperfection of his mouth was that his lips were tense, but it could have been the situation. Dahlia would have some theory about tense lips.

“He may have, but when I’m obsessed with my research, I pay little attention to anything else. I’ve been accused of being monomaniacal, but I prefer to think of myself as tenacious.” When he smiled at me, I had to stop myself from giggling. “I believe Max and the directors thought they could resolve the problems before anyone realized they’d knowingly provided defective products in our clinical trials.”

“Would you be more specific about the definition of ‘products’?” I asked.

“That’s what Max and the sales team called the livers, lungs, and hearts grown in our Project Mimic laboratory.” Dr. Sven Stunning went on to tell me of his attempts to stop ReplaceMax from experimental use on critically ill patients.

That sounded really important… more important than the way his T-shirt would smell after three days. I bet it would smell like vanilla, coffee beans, and heaven.

He concluded, “Now you can see, Jennifer, why I need to bring this
suit—because I believe the only thing ReplaceMax directors understand is money. If they suffer a severe financial punishment, others will be deterred from trying to sell defective organs for a quick profit.”

I found myself staring into those intense blue eyes and felt a shiver run down my back. “Dr. Morigi…,” I began.

“Sven.”

“Sven, I find your passion for justice inspiring,” I said, which was true. Many parts of me were inspired. “But I’ve got to ask why you want to take control of a company that you feel is so fundamentally flawed.”

“I won’t abandon Project Mimic, and the ReplaceMax facilities are still among the finest available.”

“I can’t tell you how much I admire your willingness to go to court.” I wished he’d stand up and turn around so I could admire 360 degrees of him. “Many others would quietly accept a deal and carry on their work elsewhere. I’ll do absolutely everything possible to help you, Sven.”

When he smiled, I felt ooky, but I think it was in the good way.

As he was leaving, Sven said, “Perhaps I’m being presumptuous, but would you like to join me tonight at the opening for Club Nice? I hope we might celebrate our new venture before you become embroiled in this suit.”

I was trying to figure out if he’d said “embroiled” in a suggestive way. It sounded a little dirty, but maybe it was just me. Shulky had been invited to the club’s opening, but she was invited to everything. This was
my
invitation.

I always advise my clients, “Take advantage of any opportunities to meet business associates off-site because they will often speak more openly and honestly in a relaxed setting.”

I told Sven yes, but I knew I’d need a savvy wingman so I asked if I could bring a girlfriend. Sven said yes, and we arranged to meet at the club at nine. Shulky never went clubbing that early, but I wanted to talk to Sven before the place got raucous.

He shook my hand and his grip was firm and cool. “I know that this is the beginning of a wonderful association, Jennifer.”

I nodded my head and watched him leave the room, the view of which was as impressive as anticipated, and then texted Dahlia.

Admission: It is true that I hadn’t felt the hot smexy fireworks with Dr. Stunning. However, I was overwhelmed by his beauty. My feelings weren’t anything like they had been with Ellis, but I’d fallen for his music, then his images and his reputation, long before actually meeting him. I’d had a false impression of knowing him before our
passionate tryst
haphazard hookup. But I didn’t know him. I still have no idea who he really is.

Tonight will count as a datish thing! I am giving myself 50 points—25 work-related points and 25 social points!

I spent too long trying to put in my contact lenses, which left me red-eyed and annoyed. I shifted to Shulky for fifteen minutes to get reenergized. She swilled a bottle of my best cabernet, watched wrestling on TV, sent new photos of her legs to the president of her fan club, called Ruth and caught up on superhero gossip, and ate a quart of Chunky Monkey before I could shove her back inside.

The trick worked, because I felt great and my eyes were clear.

Dahlia came to my place and helped me do my makeup, which meant she put on too much mascara and cat-eyed liner and said, “How did you swing an invite? I was maneuvering for weeks.” She looked adorable in a tiny purple dress with layers of fringe that swung each time she moved. Her contacts were violet, and her crystal chandelier earrings brushed her smooth brown shoulders.

“My new client and future husband, Dr. Sven Morigi, aka Dr. Stunning, invited me. Wait until you see him. He looks like a movie star, but more stunning. Did I mention how stunning he is? Should I wear something beachy?”

“In February? Why?” she asked and messed with my hair.

“Because it’s
Club Nice
, like
Nice
on the French Riviera.”

“It’s nice rhymes with mice, as in, ‘It would be nice if you stopped moving your head while I’m trying to make you look glamorous.’ ”

“Ohhh,” I said. “Accents always confuse me. I thought he might be saying ‘nice,’ but I wasn’t sure, and he’s so continental that I decided it must be
‘Nice
.’ ”

“Your chronic problem understanding accents is exactly why you were so popular with sleazy foreign exchange students, like the guy you thought was asking you ‘How do I get to San Fernando Valley?’ but he was really saying ‘How do I get some fellatio, baby?’ ”

“In my defense, lots of people need directions to the Valley.”

Dahlia convinced me to wear a silver mini and said, “Your legs look OMG! amazing, but when are you going to stop taking big tote bags everywhere you go?”

“I need big bags because I have to take my work essentials with me since this is sort of work-related. Also, it’s a requirement of being on call for the Mansion.”

“If they need emergency legal advice, why don’t they ask She-Hulk? Doesn’t she have a papal dispensation to practice law everywhere? Are they paying you for lugging around a huge horse feed bag day and night?”

“D, if you like, I can write up the extensive details of She-Hulk’s numerous law licenses and I won’t even charge you.”

“That’s generous of you, Jen. I’m not going to bill you for just fixing your hair,” she said, and I said, “I’m not going to bill you for that letter I wrote to your gym claiming that Rodney is a service dog,” and she said, “I’m not going to bill you for that makeover I did on your witness so she didn’t look like a psycho whore,” and I said, “You
did
bill me for that and I have the documentation,” and she said, “I didn’t bill you nearly enough because, damn, that bitch was a psycho whore.”

We did that for a while and then we cabbed it to Club Nice. At the outer edge of the Meatpacking District, I noticed a huge new mural of Shulky on the side of a brick building. She looked gorgeous and had a saucy grin on her face. “Larger than life,” Dahlia said.

“She always is.”

“Do you think she’ll be at the opening? You can
finally
introduce me.”

“If she shows up, I will, but she prefers making a fashionably late appearance.”

The sidewalk in front of Club Nice was already packed with people trying to get in and those watching the arrivals. Photographers and cameramen stood and waited for celebrities and A-listers. A guy who’d covered one of my big court cases called out, “Jen, heard you’re practicing terrestrial law again. How’s everything?”

“Fine! Good to see you,” I said.

“Are you meeting any of your superhero friends here tonight?” he asked. “Will Tony be here? Any tips you can give me?”

“Sorry! Attorney-superhero confidentiality,” I said, and he went back to waiting for celebrities.

Dahlia took me by the hand and pulled me to the doorman. “Jennifer Walters Esquire and Lady Dahlia deFrootenloop,” she said.

He didn’t even look down at this clipboard, but gave a warm smile and said, “Welcome to Club Nice, Ms. Walters, Lady Frooten… err. Dr. Morigi is already here. Go on in.”

We went into the crowded club, but no one was pushing or shoving. Everyone was acting nice. Most were drinking cocktails sponsored by Joocey Jooce—Jooceytinis and Jooceypolitans served in custom cocktail cups with lids and colorful straws. Neon signs blinked PLAY NICE! and smiling waiters and waitresses carried trays of appetizers.