In Firm Pursuit (15 page)

I
stood at the podium facing Judge Lawrence Fetterman and tried hard to concentrate. “There are no material facts in dispute here, Your Honor. My client deserves summary judgment as a matter of law.”

I had a pounding headache, which hurt more every time I opened my mouth to speak. That would be the last time I overdosed on piña coladas the night before an oral argument.

The judge leaned over to allow his law clerk to whisper something into his ear. I continued, although I knew it was a total waste of time. Fetterman was one of those judges who made up his mind based on the briefs. The oration of Shakespeare could not convince him otherwise.

“The plaintiff has no evidence that her gender had anything to do with her manager's decision not to promote her,” I continued. I glanced down at my notes on the podium and tried to ignore the plaintiff's attorney, seated to my right, nosily ruffling papers. “I respectfully request that the court grant the defendant's motion in its entirety.”

When I finished, I took a seat to the left of the podium. The judge raised his eyes over the rim of his bifocals and peered at my opponent. “Mr. Grant, the undisputed facts
here demonstrate that your client was not the victim of sex discrimination. Do you have any evidence to the contrary?”

Donald Grant, a scrawny white man with a bad dye job, nervously stepped up to the podium. “Your Honor, my client deserves an opportunity to make her case before a jury and I think that—”

“That wasn't what I asked you, counselor. Ms. Henderson has demonstrated that your client had some serious performance problems. And over the last three years, her manager promoted two women who held the same position as your client. I just don't see any discrimination here, Mr. Grant? Do you have any evidence of pretext?”

“Well, not exactly, but—”

“Then my decision's simple,” the judge declared, picking up his gavel. “Summary judgment granted. Defendant is awarded costs.”

Grant looked stunned. “Your Honor, I—”

“I've ruled. Save it for your appeal, counselor.”

I happily scooped up my papers from the defense table. Despite the Micronics debacle, at least my other cases were going well. As I headed out of the courtroom, I spotted a sight that caused my air of accomplishment to go stale.

“Well, well, well, counselor. Nice job in there,” Hamilton said, walking up beside me.

“You're spying on me now?” I asked without slowing my pace. I had no idea whether Micronics still had somebody following him, but I did not want to take a chance of being captured in any more undercover photographs. I looked up and down the hallway, but did not notice anything suspicious. I increased my pace anyway.

“I wasn't spying,” Hamilton said. “I had a motion across the hall and saw you go into Fetterman's courtroom. I got done early and decided to hang around and check out the competition.”

I was practically jogging as we rounded the corner at the end of the hallway.

“Wait up,” Hamilton called out. He had to lengthen his stride to catch up with me. “You need to slow down and savor your big victory.”

“I have to get back to the office for a meeting,” I lied.

Hamilton acted as if he hadn't heard me. “I got a call from your second-in-command telling me you'd been taken off the case and that she was running the show now. What's up with that?”

I was sure Haley had enjoyed delivering that news. “Look, I really have to go.” I charged past him toward the bank of elevators.

Hamilton had not mentioned Karen Carruthers. It surprised me that the cat was still in the bag. I stepped into an already crowded elevator and Hamilton managed to squeeze inside just before the doors closed. When I exited on the first floor, he followed.

“You're just going to leave me hanging?” he asked.

“One of my other cases is heating up,” I said. I was relieved to see the courthouse exit just a few feet ahead.

Hamilton stayed close, practically stepping on the back of my heels. I had almost reached the tall double doors that led to the street when my legs stiffened.
What if the photographer who'd been following Hamilton was waiting outside?
For all I knew Micro
nics could have hired somebody to follow me, too. I did an about-face.

“Hey, where're you going?”

“The ladies' room,” I said. “See you later.”

I rounded the corner and disappeared inside the nearest restroom. Since I did not have to use the bathroom, I touched up my eyeliner, reapplied my lipstick, then leaned against the sink and waited. If someone came in, I planned to dash inside one of the stalls since I would look pretty weird just standing there. After about five minutes, I cracked open the bathroom door and peered up and down the corridor. Hamilton was nowhere in sight.

I darted out of the courthouse, over to the parking lot across the street, praying that I didn't run into Hamilton before I made it to my SUV.

T
wenty minutes after ditching Hamilton, I was back at my desk. I got halfway through my voice mail messages before noticing the time. The O'Reilly & Finney Attorney Dining Room would be closing in ten minutes. I would have to hurry if I wanted to grab a quick salad.

Stepping off the elevator on the eighteenth floor, I felt uneasy. I had avoided eating in the Attorney Dining Room since my banishment from the Randle case, limiting my lunch options to the sandwich shop in the lobby of the building. I could handle facing the curious or chiding eyes of the lone associate or partner I ran across in the hallway or elevator, but I could not stomach confronting a whole roomful of them.

But I had nothing to be ashamed of, I reminded myself. I squared my shoulders, darted my chin forward and barreled through the door. The second I entered, a familiar voice, spewing enough hot air to send a helium balloon off into space, smacked me in the face.

“I'm handling most of the work on the Randle case now,” I heard Haley brag. She sat at a small table for four, surrounded by three first-year associates, all male. If the
looks on their faces had been any more obvious, they would have needed bibs to sop up the envy.

I stole a quick look around the dining room. Every table looked essentially the same. A sea of expensive ties, white skin and whiter shirts. The few female attorneys blended in so well, you would miss them if you failed to look close enough. Hispanic waiters dressed in imitation tuxedoes dashed about pouring coffee and picking up plates of half-eaten food, their presence effectively invisible to their all-attorney clientele.

“We're trying to get the case settled,” Haley continued to boast between bites of lasagna. “It's just me and Joseph Porter on the case now, no senior associate. If it goes to trial, I'll definitely be second chair.”

One of Haley's three lunch mates noticed me standing near the salad bar. He did not bother to give her a heads-up.

“I don't know the whole story about why Vernetta got kicked off the case,” she went on, lowering her voice just a notch, “but rumor has it a little hanky-panky was going on between her and the plaintiff's attorney. Can you believe she would be stupid enough to be screwing an opposing counsel?”

Haley stuffed a piece of sourdough bread into her mouth at the same moment our eyes met. Like a car window rolling down at the press of a button, a bright shade of red blanketed Haley's face. I didn't know whether a lack of oxygen caused by the bread lodged in her throat or the shock at seeing me standing within earshot of her table prompted the change in hue. I hoped it was the former.

I snatched a pair of tongs from the salad bar and began
slapping salad fixings into a plastic container. I doused ranch dressing on top, signed my name on the billing register and stalked out.

As I stood in the hallway waiting for the elevator to arrive, I repeatedly punched the down button although it was already lit.
Screwing an opposing counsel?
I pounded the elevator button again.
Is that what everybody thinks?

I thought about cornering Haley in her office and telling her off, but that would only make matters worse. I had to focus on the positives of my situation. Getting kicked off the Randle case was probably a gigantic blessing in disguise. Micronics was hiding something and when the case exploded, I didn't want to be anywhere in the vicinity. I also didn't want or need the hassle of dealing with Haley and Porter. Hamilton Ellis or Reggie Jenkins either. I had more than enough work to keep me busy.

The elevator doors glided open and I stepped inside and pressed the twelfth-floor button. Since my meeting with O'Reilly and Porter, I had tried my best to appear upbeat at work, but keeping up the facade was requiring more and more effort. Restful sleep still eluded me and an unsettled feeling kept my stomach perpetually tied up in knots. I had busted my ass for O'Reilly & Finney. Would this crazy allegation about me and Hamilton Ellis really blow my chances of making partner?

When I reached my office, I plopped the food down on my desk. I noticed that the message light on my telephone remained unlit. I had left a message for O'Reilly the day before, asking when he would have time for lunch. But he had yet to respond to my invitation. It was not like
O'Reilly to blow me off. The more I thought about what was happening to me, the angrier I got. If the firm was going to screw me over these ridiculous allegations, then somebody should tell me that to my face. Without giving it further thought, I headed for O'Reilly's office. When I got there, I found his door open.

“You busy?” I asked, peering inside.

“Never too busy for you, kiddo.”

Then why haven't you returned my call?

O'Reilly got up to close the door, something he only did if we were discussing a sensitive case. He sat back down behind his desk and leaned back in his chair. “So how's everything going?”

“Maybe I should be asking you that,” I said. I sensed an uneasy distance between us.

O'Reilly smiled, then picked up a gold pen from his desk and began twirling it between two fingers.

“Look, O'Reilly, I know partnership decisions are going to be announced in a few weeks, and I know you can't tell me anything,” I said hurriedly, knowing that he was about to say exactly that. In reality, if you had a partner with some juice backing you—a partner like Jim O'Reilly—then the vote was nothing but a formality.

“I just want to make sure I'll be considered for partnership based on all of my work. Not just this Micronics fiasco.”

“Of course,” O'Reilly replied, his rigid smile contradicting his words. “I'm sure this whole thing'll blow over before you know it.”

“O'Reilly, this isn't fair.” I hated hearing the angst in my voice. “I didn't do anything wrong.”

O'Reilly looked down at his gold pen. “Let's not forget that you could've settled this case for thirty grand,” he said. “You were the one who made the decision to pursue your own interests over your client's.”

My jaw tightened. “I didn't accept that settlement offer because based on the facts I knew at the time, I felt I could win the case at trial. And Porter, as well as the client, supported that decision. Micronics wanted to go to trial.”

“Well, they certainly don't now,” he said. “Kind of hard to prevail when your star witness is dead, don't you think?” There was nothing but condemnation in his voice. He sat forward and clasped his hands, a move that signaled the end of our conversation.

As I stood up, that unsettled feeling had disappeared from the pit of my stomach.

It now racked my entire body.

I
decided to leave the office early and do something to take my mind off work. I headed over to Magic Johnson's 24 Hour Fitness on Slauson to work off some of my frustration.

After thirty minutes on the treadmill and another twenty on the leg machines, I drove to the South Bay Galleria, hoping a little shopping might lighten my mood. I tried on four pairs of shoes at Nordstrom but none of them fit, which bummed me out even more. So instead of shoes, I bought a new Coach purse and picked up a Caesar salad at California Pizza Kitchen. On the ride home, I called Jefferson, but got no answer on his cell phone.

I climbed into bed around nine with a bag of microwave popcorn and a strawberry Snapple. I fell asleep halfway through the popcorn and fifteen minutes into
CSI.

When the telephone rang at 1:47 a.m., it took a few seconds for me to gather my bearings. As the numbers on the clock came into focus, I felt a twinge of panic. A call this late had to be bad news.

I reached for the telephone on the nightstand and fumbled with the receiver. “Hello.”

“Are you naked?”

The fear that had gripped me dissipated at the sound of my husband's deep voice. “Yeah,” I said. “How 'bout you?”

“Yep. Straight up butt naked,” Jefferson replied.

“Wanna have phone sex?”

“Uh, it depends,” I said. “Who is this?”

Jefferson laughed. “That wasn't funny.”

“I miss you,” I said softly. “I'll be so glad when your project is over.”

“Me, too,” he replied. “Now you know how I felt when you had to spend every waking hour in trial.” His words were full of regret, not criticism.

“I guess I do.” Neither of us said anything for a long, long while, happy to just share this quiet time, despite the miles between us. But I knew my husband. He had something on his mind. He worked so hard during the day that the only thing he wanted to do in the middle of the night was snooze.

“Is everything okay, Jefferson?” I asked.

“No, not really. We're way behind on the second phase.” He yawned. “But how are you doing? They still got you off that case?”

“Yep.” I started to tell him about my meeting with O'Reilly, but decided that for once, the conversation did not need to be about me.

“It was a sexual harassment case, wasn't it?” Jefferson asked.

“Yeah. Except it's the guy they fired who's suing the company, not the woman he harassed.”

“What exactly went down?”

“He grabbed a woman in an elevator and tried to kiss
her. But he claims the company trumped up the charges because he was complaining about fraud.”

“You believe him?”

“I didn't at first, but I'm not so sure anymore.”

Jefferson yawned again. “What exactly
is
sexual harassment?”

I fluffed up my pillow and turned over on my side. Jefferson had never shown more than a superficial interest in the details of any of my cases before. He must've really been having a hard time sleeping, I thought. “Are you asking me for a legal definition?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said.

“Well, there are two types,
quid pro quo
and hostile work environment harassment,” I began. “
Quid pro quo
sexual harassment is when you condition an employment benefit upon a sexual favor. Like,
Sleep with me or you're fired.
Or,
I'll give you a promotion if you go out with me.
”

“Okay,” Jefferson said. “But what about when there's none of that?”

“The other kind of cases fall under hostile work environment. That's when someone claims the harasser has made the working environment hostile, intimidating or offensive.”

“How do you prove that?”

“It's not all that hard. Let's say something consensual occurred away from the workplace, but the relationship is over and now there's some hostility between them. And let's say the guy is her supervisor. Now when he looks at her the wrong way or criticizes her work because she doesn't want to sleep with him anymore, that can make her working environment hostile, intimidating or offensive.”

“That's all it takes? Just looking at somebody the wrong way?” I didn't like the distress I heard in my husband's voice.

“I'm exaggerating a little,” I said, “but I've seen lots of lawsuits based on some pretty flimsy facts. Anyway, most cases are settled.”

“How much do they usually settle for?”

“Depends on the facts. I've settled some for as little as five thousand and one for as much as two hundred and fifty grand.”

“What if the guy didn't do it?”

“It may not matter,” I said. “It can cost upward of three or four hundred thousand dollars in attorneys' fees to litigate a case all the way through trial. And that's if you win. So if the plaintiff's willing to take a few thousand dollars to go away, then it makes sense to resolve the case short of trial—even if you think the case is bogus. It's a decision based on economics, not principle.”

Jefferson didn't say a word.

“What's up, Jefferson? Why the sudden interest in sexual harassment law? Don't tell me one of your guys has done something stupid?”

“Uh…no.” He hesitated. “Stan's…uh…cousin was accused of sexual harassment, but he claimed the woman made it all up. She was the one who came on to him, but lied and said it was the other way around. I couldn't believe the company would actually pay her off. But I guess based on what you just said, it's true.”

“Probably,” I said. “The conduct has to be unwelcome to amount to sexual harassment, but it's typically a case
of he-said, she-said, and in my experience, the female victim is often the more credible of the two.”

“That don't seem right,” Jefferson said.

“Nobody said the law was fair,” I replied. “Anyway, I don't want to talk about this stuff anymore. I really miss you.”

“I miss you too, babe. Hopefully I can make it home in another week or so.”

Jefferson was quiet for good long stretch. “Vernetta?” He almost whispered my name.

“Yeah.”

“You know that I love you, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“No matter what happens between us, that won't change. Ever. I can't imagine not having you in my life.”

Jefferson's words made my eyes well up. “Are you sure everything's okay, Jefferson?”

“The only thing that's not okay is that you're not lying here next to me.”

We hung up a few minutes later. I tried to get back to sleep but couldn't. After my husband's profession of his everlasting love, I should have felt like I was on top of the world. But instead, a dozen different scenarios were running through my head.

And not a single one was good.