In Firm Pursuit (4 page)

A
bad feeling began to rattle around in the pit of my stomach as I made my way to Joseph Porter's corner office five doors away.

Porter was one of those lawyers who had a brilliant legal mind, but no people skills. His gruff, all-business demeanor made him about as approachable as a freshly watered cactus. I was the senior associate on three of his cases. I just prayed he wasn't summoning me to his office to talk about the Micronics case. I needed more time to plan a graceful way out of my predicament before being subjected to one of his grillings.

I paused just outside his door and took a deep breath before marching in. I did not expect a greeting and I didn't get one.

“Haley just advised me that you rejected an extremely reasonable settlement offer in the Randle case today,” he said, the second I appeared in his doorway. Porter was a tall man—basketball-player tall—with dark, thinning hair. He did not look up from the brief he was editing.

That little cow!
Haley must have blabbed to Porter the minute I left her office. I felt like I was standing in the principal's office. And, basically, I was.

I took a seat without being invited to. “I'm sure you're well aware of Micronics's position on settling cases that have a solid defense,” I began. “Micronics had given me the go-ahead to try the case.”
And so did you.

“Well, that fax we received this morning certainly changes things, doesn't it?” His head remained bent over the brief.

I couldn't disagree with that, so I said nothing. Porter's attitude didn't surprise me. When a case appeared to be going south, lawyer logic required finding someone else to take the blame. And I was Porter's someone else.

I looked around his office and tried not to wince. Although every O'Reilly & Finney partner received a generous stipend for office decoration, Porter had rejected his, calling it a waste of firm resources. He had never married, so there were no smiling family portraits to provide a personal dimension. Art did not interest him, so the walls were bare. His office had only the basic necessities: a wall-to-wall bookcase and matching credenza, a dated oak desk and two small chairs. Rumor had it that he had inherited his furniture from another partner who had died of a heart attack at his desk.

Porter finally put down his pen and looked up at me. “How come you didn't know about those other cases?” he asked, his face flooded with disapproval. “Didn't you inquire about past practice during your initial interviews?”

“Of course I did.” I was glad that I had taken the time to double-check my interview notes. “But, Kathy Fairbrother, my contact in HR, neglected to mention them. Frankly, I'm concerned that Micronics may have intentionally withheld that information from us.”

Porter shrugged. “Wouldn't be the first time.”

It only figured that Porter would be willing to hang me out to dry while letting the client off the hook. I wanted to push the issue, but that would have been a mistake. I had learned early in my career that when a case blew up in your face, you just had to suck it up and concentrate on putting the pieces back together. Complaining about it would only make you look like a whiner. And whiners didn't make partner.

There was another reason I didn't want to make any waves with Porter. Jim O'Reilly, the firm's Managing Partner, was my mentor and staunchest supporter. He had personally recruited me from another Los Angeles law firm two years earlier. For reasons nobody understood, Porter and O'Reilly despised each other. Porter would love to have a valid reason to derail the partnership chances of an O'Reilly loyalist.

“Let's get back to that offer you turned down,” Porter grumbled. “You should've checked with the client before doing that.”

I sat up straighter in my seat. “I had planned to let them know about the offer, but based on my conversation with HR last week, they were adamant about trying the case and teaching Reggie Jenkins a lesson.” I paused. “Anyway, I'm sure his offer is still on the table.”

“Good.” Porter picked up his pen again. “I just got a call from Rich Ferris, the VP of Human Resources. He wants the case settled. That fax you got this morning was the first he'd ever heard of those other cases.”

And you believe him?
I had only met Ferris a few times,
but I knew he was a micromanager. That kind of boss knew everything. He was the only African-American client I had not been able to forge a bond with. African-Americans in corporate America, by virtue of their limited numbers, tended to reach out to one another. But Ferris had seemed more and more standoffish every time we met. So I finally gave up.

“Ferris sounded pretty antsy about getting the case resolved right away,” Porter said. “In light of that memo, thirty grand is a steal.”

I had to agree, but I didn't want to call Reggie right away. “I think we should wait a couple of days,” I said. “If I call Jenkins now, he's probably going to up his offer.”

“No,” Porter said. “Call him now. Micronics wants the case settled as quickly as possible. They don't care how much it costs.”

“They don't care how much it costs?” I said, amazed.

“Since when? We can't be talking about the Micronics I know.”

Porter waved his hand as if he were swatting at a gnat. “Just get it settled.”

I struggled to get up from the small chair in front of Porter's desk. His guest chairs were so low to the ground that anyone sitting in them, no matter how tall, had to look up at him. Everybody knew Porter was dying for a judicial appointment. His seating arrangement was apparently his substitute for feeling like he was sitting on the federal bench.

“Too bad the Randle case isn't going to trial,” Porter muttered before I got to the door. “Haley did a great job on that trial strategy memo.”

I looked over my shoulder at him, my brows arched in confusion. “What trial strategy memo?”

“You haven't seen it?” Porter rotated his chair, picked up a document from the credenza behind his desk and handed it to me.

As I skimmed it, my face grew hotter with each passing millisecond. I was the senior associate on the case. Haley should have reviewed the document with me before giving it to Porter.

“Excellent legal analysis,” Porter said.

“What?” I had briefly zoned out.

“That memo there. Stellar work for someone at her level. Don't you agree?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Wonderful.” I handed the document back to him and left.

I was sitting at my desk, steaming over the Micronics fax, Haley's big mouth and her little trial strategy memo, when the firm's Managing Partner popped his head into my office.

“Why the long face?” Jim O'Reilly asked, walking inside. O'Reilly was a big, firmly built man who had the swagger of an Irish cop strolling the beat. He also made fifty-two look like forty.

“My Micronics case just went south,” I said.

O'Reilly closed the door behind him and took a seat. He was wearing a light blue shirt with a navy blue pin-striped suit. Either Armani or Valentino, the only labels he owned. He was by far the best-dressed man in the building.

“What happened?”

I quickly recapped the latest on the Randle case.

“That was an extremely reasonable settlement offer,
Vernetta,” he said. “Sounds like you took a pretty big gamble.”

“I wasn't gambling,” I said. “We had a strong case and Micronics had instructed me to try it. I could have won it, too.”

O'Reilly chuckled. “I like your chutzpah, but there're no sure bets when you're in the hands of a jury. You shouldn't have dismissed an offer that low out of hand.”

I started to defend myself but decided to let it go. “I was just about to call the opposing counsel to accept his offer when you walked in.”

O'Reilly stood. “Good idea,” he said. “And be careful. You can't afford any screwups before the partnership vote. You know how much of a nitpicker Porter can be.”

I nodded, then glumly turned to my computer to look up Reggie's number.

I
had been on hold for far too long when Reggie finally came on the line.

“Jenkins here.” His greeting was a welcome contrast to the snippy woman who had answered his telephone.

“I've had a change of heart,” I said. “I think Judge Sloan was right. Your offer was pretty reasonable. So I guess we have a deal.”

Reggie chuckled. “Do we?”

I sighed. I was not in the mood to play games. “I can get a draft of a settlement agreement faxed over to you in a couple of hours,” I said.

My words were met with prolonged silence.

“Are you there?” I asked after a moment.

“Yep, I'm here,” Reggie said. “But I'm not so sure that offer is still on the table.”

The man was so sleazy. “C'mon, Reggie. I have a lot of other cases to deal with and I assume you do, too. If this case goes to trial, chances are pretty good that I'll win.”
Provided you don't find out about those other sexual harassment cases.

“Maybe
I'll
win,” he said.

I heard an unfamiliar bravado in his voice. “Only if you know something I don't.”

“Maybe I do.”

I choked back a gasp. There was no way Reggie could know about those other cases.
Was there?
“You just offered to settle the case a few hours ago,” I said coolly.

“Now you're turning down a guaranteed thirty grand? What's up, Reggie?”

“I've had an opportunity to reassess the value of my case,” he said, “and I no longer think that's a viable offer.”

I chuckled derisively. “Okay, Reggie, let's hear it. How much do you want?”

“Oh, that's interesting. You flatly reject my offer and now you're asking me to name my price? Why don't you tell
me
what's up, Ms. Henderson?”

“I never said my client would pay more. I was just curious to find out what you were looking for.”

“What we're looking for is a jury verdict in our favor,” Reggie said. “Mr. Randle wants his day in court so he can tell the world how your client railroaded him.”

I inhaled. “Reggie, you have a very weak case and you know Judge Sloan's going to have a fit when he finds out that you reneged on your settlement offer.”

“I'll handle the judge,” he said, sounding more and more comfortable with his newfound confidence.

“I can't believe you really want to try this case,” I said.

“Actually, I do. See you in court on Tuesday.”

I heard a click. The slob of an attorney had hung up in my face! I was about to hit the redial button, but changed my mind and dropped the receiver back into the cradle.
Micronics wanted the case settled. I could not afford to start a fight. I knew the game Reggie was playing. He didn't want to spend all weekend drafting the pretrial documents any more than I did.

I glanced at my Bulova. Reggie would probably call back in an hour asking for another ten or twenty grand and the case would be a done deal.

U
nfortunately for me, Reggie did not call back.

When I walked into Judge Sloan's courtroom Tuesday afternoon, I was shocked to find Reggie already there. During prior court appearances, he was usually rushing in at the last minute, looking winded and disheveled. Today, he was sitting in the front row of the gallery, both arms stretched along the back of the wooden bench, seemingly poised and relaxed. He turned around and acknowledged me with a slight nod and a big smile.

What in the hell did he have to look so happy about? I still planned to say something to him about hanging up in my face.

I took a seat across the aisle from him, two rows back. Reggie was dressed in a nice gabardine suit that was actually pressed. We were first on the court docket and the clerk called our case just minutes after I sat down. I rose from my seat and stepped through the swinging gate that led into the court's inner sanctum. I was pulling documents from my Coach satchel when I noticed a man standing next to Reggie at the defense table.

“Your Honor, I'll be associating in another attorney,” Reggie said, puffing out his chest as if he had already
won. “Mr. Hamilton Ellis will be taking over as lead counsel.”

I stared across the courtroom in disbelief. How in the hell had Reggie convinced Hamilton Ellis to sign up for
this
case?

Hamilton had the double blessing of being one of the best trial attorneys in the state as well as quite nice to look at. He was six-two with large hazel eyes and a neatly trimmed goatee. His warm smile and dazzling personality radiated manliness. Women wanted him. Men wanted to be him.

Judge Sloan waved his hand in the direction of the court reporter sitting down below him. “Let's go off the record,” he said.

I exhaled.
Thank God.
The judge was going to lambaste Jenkins for bringing in new counsel so late in the case.

“Mr. Ellis,” the judge said, smiling, “I just want to say it's great to have you in my courtroom. I read that feature article about you in last month's
California Lawyer.
Congratulations.”

Hamilton flashed the judge an even bigger return smile. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

I looked around the courtroom as everyone stared at Hamilton in awe. Most of the spectators probably remembered him as a star running back for UCLA. A knee injury ended his football career five months into his first season with the Oakland Raiders. Luckily, he had brains to fall back on. He later graduated from Stanford Law School at the top of his class.

I leaned forward and tried to steady myself, pressing all ten fingertips against the defense table, making two little
teepees with my hands. I wanted to object. But to what? The judge kissing the plaintiff's attorney's ass and the plaintiff's attorney doing it right back?

“Okay, let's go back on the record,” Judge Sloan said.

“I see both sides have filed all of the required pretrial documents. How many witnesses does the plaintiff expect to call and what's your estimate for the length of trial?” He looked in the direction of Reggie and Hamilton.

Reggie was sitting down now, his right ankle resting on the opposite knee, glad to have his new co-counsel running the show. “Based on my review of the case,” Hamilton began, “we'll have six witnesses, not counting our experts. I'm fairly certain we can complete our direct in no more than four days.”

“You've had time to get up to speed on the case already, Mr. Ellis?” the judge asked with a degree of compassion I never knew he possessed.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Of course you would,” Judge Sloan said, smiling again. “I wouldn't expect anything less from an attorney of your caliber. There're a lot of members of the Bar who could learn a thing or two from you, sir.”

Sir?
I looked at Hamilton, then at the judge, then back at Hamilton again. I had never seen Judge Sloan show any attorney the kind of deference he had just displayed toward Hamilton Ellis.

“Ms. Henderson, are you with us?” the judge said. His voice had hardened considerably. “I asked for your trial estimate.”

“Uh…yes, Your Honor.” I looked down at a document
in front of me. “About seven days. And I expect to call ten witnesses.”

Judge Sloan scowled and pointed that wiener at me again. “That's a lot of witnesses, Ms. Henderson. I'm warning you right now, if the testimony starts to get repetitive, I'm cutting you short.”

I almost wanted to laugh. This wasn't happening.

The judge asked a few more procedural questions, then dismissed us.

I stuffed my papers inside my satchel, my mind a muddle of anger, confusion and dread.
How in the hell had this case taken such a crazy turn?

It wasn't until I looked down at the document I was holding that I realized my hands were shaking.