I Take You (33 page)

I listen to a bit more. Then I scribble on a yellow Post-it. When Kostova turns to consult his notes, I slide the Post-it to Pete, making sure Kostova catches me doing it.

“I’d ask that the record reflect that counsel for the defendant has passed a note to the witness,” he says. “In clear violation of the rules of the court.”

“How dare you state that on the record!” I say hotly.

“What does it say?” Kostova asks Pete.

“Don’t read it,” I tell him.

“Read it,” Kostova says. Pete looks from Kostova to me, terrified.

“I instruct you not to read it,” I say.

“On what possible ground?” Kostova demands.

“On the ground of attorney-client privilege.” I roll my eyes. “Obviously.”

“It’s not privileged if you hand it to him during a deposition,” Kostova says, controlling his irritation with effort.

“It’s privileged to me,” I inform him.

“This is ridiculous! Either the witness reads the note into the record, or I’m calling the court.”

“I’m calling the court!” I repeat in a high-pitched whine, waving my hands helplessly in the air. “Oooh!”

Kostova starts berating me. I glance at the transcript running on the stenographer’s computer.

The video would have picked up my mocking tone, but the transcript doesn’t. Most stenographers capture only the plain text of questions, answers and objections. And that’s what this one was doing, exactly as I’d hoped.

“Fine,” I say. “Read the note please, Mr. Hoffman.”

Pete looks down at the Post-it. He clears his throat. “I hear the grouper special is excellent.”

Kostova turns to me, completely baffled.

“We’re making dinner plans,” I explain. “Please continue your questions. We’re wasting all that beautiful Florida sunshine.”

Kostova peers at me for a moment, then resumes his questioning. It takes him a little time to pick up his rhythm. And he’s lost a bit of his geniality toward Pete.

I try a number of different styles: rap, country. Beyoncé. Tom Waits really aggravates him. The stenographer is looking at me with her eyebrows raised, which, fair enough. But each time I object, the transcript simply reads:

I’m irritating Kostova, I’m distracting him, but most important, I’m wasting his time. By court order, these depositions have a fixed length. Once the day is over, so is Kostova’s time with Pete.

He moves on to the financial statements. “Mr. Hoffman, let’s talk about your involvement in EnerGreen’s 2012 financial reporting process.”

“Objection,” I say.

“I haven’t asked a question yet,” Kostova says sharply.

“I know. You’re cluttering the transcript with unnecessary speeches. If you have a question, please ask it.”

It takes him a minute to find his place in his outline. “Mr. Hoffman. At the time that EnerGreen Energy was preparing its 2012 financial statements, which were publicly filed with the SEC, were you deputy director of the financial services division of EnerGreen Energy Solutions?”

“Objection,” I say. I tap the table very softly with my finger. Pete glances at me. I give him a tiny nod.

“Could you repeat the question, please?” he says.

Kostova does. I tap the table again.

“Could you repeat the question, please?” Pete says.

“What don’t you understand about the question?” Kostova asks.

I jump in. “It’s so rambling and discursive that I don’t think any of us have any idea what you could be possibly driving at.”

“Ms. Wilder—”

“You mention EnerGreen Energy, you mention EnerGreen Energy Solutions, something about the SEC—”

“Ms. Wilder, will you—”

“—some vague time in the past that seems designed to trap the witness into taking a position on something about which he may have no recollection—”

“I demand that you stop talking!” Kostova says loudly. “You are coaching your witness, and that is impermissible. As I said earlier, you may state your objection as to form, and then—what are you doing? Stop doing that with your face.”

“I’m not doing anything with my face.”

“I would like the record to reflect that, that counsel for defendant is … she’s moving her lips while I’m speaking in a, in a … mocking fashion.”

I finish mouthing the words
mocking fashion
and smile at him. He knows that he sounds like a complete fool, and now it’s in the record. I tap the table.

“Could you repeat the question, please?” Pete says.

Kostova is lost. He asks the stenographer, who glances back into the transcript and reads out the question.

“Yes,” Pete says. “I was deputy director at that time.”

“And were you involved in the drafting and review of those financial statements prior to their being sent to EnerGreen’s auditors?”

I tap the table.

“Could you repeat the question, please?” Pete says.

Kostova repeats it.

“When you say involved—” I begin.

“Ms. Wilder!” Kostova snaps. “I will have no more of your speechifying!”

“Speechifyin’!” I shout, startling the entire room. “You call that speechifyun’, Mistah Fletchah?” I start mimicking his southern drawl. “I do declayuh, I have
nevah
, in all my boan days, been called a speechifyuh, and I—”

“If you do not stop immediately, I will—”

I pound the table. “I reject your insinuation that I am a speechifyah, and I say unto you that—”

“—have no choice but to call the court and—”

I tap the table with my finger.

“Could you repeat the question, please?” Pete says.

“Water,” Gran whispers.

I pretend to reach for my pen and knock my glass over. Water flows across the table toward Kostova’s papers.

“Dammit!” he says, sopping it up.

Gran gives me a wink. The few times I’ve dared to glance at her since we came back into the room, her expression has been completely impassive. Now I realize that she’s just trying to conceal how much she’s enjoying herself.

Kostova composes himself and continues. I dial back on the objections. Pete is warier now that Kostova has started in on the financial statements—his answers are nice and terse.

“Mr. Hoffman,” Kostova says, pulling some documents out of a folder. “I’d like to show you a document marked Plaintiffs’ Exhibit H-14.” He hands a copy to Hoffman and passes one to me. “Are you familiar with this document?”

I tear off the first stapled page with a flourish and lay it flat on the table. This catches Kostova’s eye. I fold down the top two corners toward the center. He watches me, puzzled, then turns back to Pete.

“Now, Mr. Hoffman,” Kostova says. “Please turn to page five and take a look at the fifth bullet point. It discusses the issue of potential discrepancies between company data and the reported figures, does it not?”

“Yes, sir,” Pete says.

I fold the paper in half and bend the wings up. I make additional folds. I test the points with the tip of my finger. Kostova is staring at me.

“And—and Mr. Hoffman, what was the company’s procedures as to such—as to such discrepancies?”

“Objection,” I say, continuing to fold the paper.

“Well,” Pete says, “I would say that when you’re dealing with audited financials, there are always a lot of moving pieces, a lot of balls up in the air—”

Kostova is watching me and trying to listen to Hoffman’s absurd answer. He can’t focus.

“—and you’ve got various persons and cost centers utilizing different metrics and rubrics to achieve your ultimate outcomes. Any discrepancies would in the normal course be caught and corrected in the standard process of verification and reconciliation.”

I hold up a perfect origami swan and present it to Kostova with a grave bow.

“Ms. Wilder!” Kostova fumes. “Your behavior is very distracting.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Meesturrr Kostovvvaaahhh.” Kostova turns to Hoffman. “Could you repeat your answer, please?” I tap the table.

“Could you repeat the question, please?” Pete says.

“Could you repeat your answer, please?” Kostova says.

Pete chuckles. “This is like Who’s on First?”

Kostova struggles to control his temper. “Perhaps we should take a break.”

“I don’t need a break,” I say. “Do you, Mr. Hoffman?”

“No’m.”

“We’d like to keep going,” I say. “We’re eager to get out there and enjoy that beautiful Florida sunshine.”

Kostova is enraged but manages to swallow it and continue. He knows he’s running out of time. With every question, I now interpose an objection. I do a French accent, an Italian one. I do a robot voice. Robert De Niro. Kostova tries to ignore me, but he can’t. Every time he has to deal with my nonsense, he loses his rhythm. He can’t focus on Pete’s answers.

“Mr. Hoffman,” Kostova says. “What was EnerGreen’s standard practice regarding discrepancies between internal documents and drafts of its financial statements?”

“Objection,” I say.

He can’t let that pass without comment. “On what possible ground is that question objectionable?”

“The question is vague and ambiguous, contains an improper characterization and is compound,” I reply.

“Stop,” he says. “Just—”

“It’s argumentative. It’s leading. It incorporates hearsay.”

He’s getting very worked up. He’s all red and sweaty, and his hair is sticking up.

“You’re badgering the witness,” I continue calmly.

He is outraged. “I am not—”

I tap the table.

“Can you repeat the question, please?” says my good little parrot.

Kostova loses it. “You shut up!” he says.

We’re all silent for a moment.

“Let’s take a break,” Kostova says.

“You don’t want to finish your line of questioning?” I ask innocently. He pulls off his microphone and walks out of the room.

In ten minutes, we resume. Kostova has calmed down. The back-and-forth is smooth.

I make a few noisy objections, a few more speeches, but Kostova only smiles at me. He’s picking up speed again, getting into a rhythm with Pete.

Did I really think this would work? Kostova is too good. Any minute now, he’s going to present Pete with the financial discrepancies, Pete is going to collapse, they’re going to get to the e-mails, and then it’s over.

What would rattle this guy? He’s a fighter for the little guy. A David, always battling corporate Goliaths. He has a deep conviction that what he’s doing is right.

How can I
really
piss him off?

Kostova is questioning Pete about specific items in the 2012 financial statements. “And on page 4 of Exhibit H-21,” he says, “does Table 3 accurately represent EnerGreen’s gross revenue for fiscal year 2012?”

“Trying to figure out your cut?” I say.

Kostova looks at me over his reading glasses. “Excuse me?”

“You’re representing the plaintiffs on contingency, right? What’s your fee? Thirty percent of whatever you recover for the people who were actually harmed? Or is it forty percent? To cover your expenses, quote-unquote?”

“This is outrageous!” Kostova snaps. “I’m asking the questions here.” I whistle. “That’s a nice chunk of change. No wonder your firm fought tooth and nail to be appointed lead counsel.”

“Young lady,” Kostova says, “I have spent over twenty-five years fighting for—”

“You’re smart,” I say. “That’s why you only sued EnerGreen. You didn’t sue the manufacturer of the oil platform, because they went bankrupt—no good to you guys. And you didn’t sue the individual supervisors—the guys who were bribed to falsify the inspection reports, who are now in jail. That would have complicated matters. It would have messed up your story that EnerGreen, and EnerGreen alone, is responsible for everything that happened.”

“Ms. Wilder, I must ask you one more time—”

“Focus on the deep pockets, right?” I smile at him. “You know what, Kostova? You would have made a pretty decent lawyer at a real firm.”

That’s when he loses it. “Your behavior is out of line!” he shouts. “I want a ruling!”

“Fine,” I say. “Denied.”

“I want a ruling from the judge, you idiot! We’re calling the court.”

“Great idea.” I close my binder. “Who’s got his number?”