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Wednesday,
December 23
Ice
cold. He pressed his hand to the window and watched the frost dissolve,
felt the moisture collect on his palm. He'd switched off the lights,
and the interior darkness mirrored the inky void outside. Standing
immobile, he could almost imagine that he was alone in the world
or better yet that he did not even exist, that he was simply a part
of this floating emptiness, transported by waves of black snow.
But
his lungs filled with air. He felt the rhythm of his breath, stark
and fatal as an accusation.
He
was alive.
And
there was work to be done.
Moving
away from the window, he switched on a Bestlite floor lamp, acquired
from a British import company during his last year of school. He
liked things to be well made. He surveyed the scene before him.
The space where he stood was cavernous, at least thirty feet long
and twenty feet wide. Part of a former warehouse, it was isolated
enough to meet his needs. His desk faced a sweep of tall windows,
while his clothes — Brooks Brothers suits, several shirts,
a tux — hung neatly on a portable chrome garment rack. A Bose
CD player sat on an antique table.
He
was pleased with the space. Everything was just as he liked it.
The barren surroundings only underscored the beauty and fineness
of his few selected possessions. His eyes traced the narrow confines
of his life.
Then,
decisively, he made his entrance.
Moving
to the CD player, he pushed Play. Instantly, the room filled with
the opening chords of Cherubini's Medea. A 1959 recording.
Remarkable music. Potent. Full of a terrible rage. He glanced down
at the CD cover, at the diva Maria Callas. Arched nose. Raven hair.
Hands splayed like claws. What was it he saw there? A passion for
vengeance — for justice — that matched his own. The promise
of its fulfillment. And with this, an unflagging sense of order,
of timeliness, of fate. It was this he needed above all else. For
even as the time for action grew closer, his confidence had started
to ebb. Why had he waited so long? The plan that had seemed so brilliant
when he first conceived it could at times seem almost absurd. Again,
he tried to push back these thoughts. It was dangerous to think
this way.
Sitting
down at his desk, he turned on his laptop computer. The screen flashed
bright. From here on, it was almost too easy. The most profitable
law firm in the country. Thirty-seven partners who counted themselves
among the most respected lawyers in the world. Power brokers and
advisers, they counseled governments, corporations, and the rare
private individual with sufficient wealth to pay their fees. And
yet cracking their computer safeguards had been child's play.
Strange,
the unerring detection of their clients' vulnerabilities and the
utter disregard of their own. Samson's computer network had just
been overhauled at huge expense. The mere fact of this investment
had seemed to assuage their concerns. There was something touching
in this naïveté, the almost childlike belief in money.
Their computer network was top of the line. Nothing more need be
said.
Besides,
the elder statesmen of Samson disdained technology, the proliferation
of desktop computers. They yearned for the days of dictation. Of
pretty secretaries, heads bowed, recording their every word. But
in the end, even Samson had been forced to submit. The firm's quaint
refusal to communicate by e-mail, once seen as a charming relic
of its patrician past, had begun to interfere with business. And
Samson was, first and foremost, a business. Bowing to the inevitable,
the firm edged its way into cyberspace, a territory as alien to
its rulers as the planet Mars. E-mail. The Internet. Standard issue
for more than a decade in the modern business world but still suspect
intruders at Samson.
And
so he found himself in the happy position of breaking and entering
an unlocked house. The attorneys' "secret" passwords gave the illusion
of privacy but none of its substance. Remarkable, really, the faith
placed by these brilliant men and women in a technology they didn't
understand. Hubris. The fatal flaw.
He
typed in her user ID, mwaters. Then came the password prompt. He
grinned as he typed in the response: password. That was it. The
same word for everyone. Something easy to remember. She could have
changed the defaults, of course. It would have taken only a minute.
But she hadn't taken the time. Like the others, she couldn't be
bothered.
A few
more clicks, and he was scrolling through a list of her files. Luckily
for him, she was one of the new breed, treating her hard drive like
a filing cabinet. He'd dipped into these files in the past, not
out of any real interest, but for the thrill he took in the fact
that he could. Confidential memos outlining trial strategies for
lawsuits worth tens of millions of dollars. Clinical dissections
of the odds of success. Privileged information that, if leaked,
would mean the loss of fortune and career. If blackmail were the
goal, he'd have had it made.
But
he had other things on his mind.
Exiting
WordPerfect, he clicked on the Calendar icon. In an instant, it
appeared before him, everything crystal clear. The perfect map.
Madeleine Waters's anticipated movements for the next twelve months.
He felt an adrenaline surge, stiff heat in his shoulders and neck.
The room was growing colder as the night chill deepened, but he
barely noticed. He had work to do, decisions to make.
He
reviewed the recent additions. December 23. With Christmas approaching,
the week had been slow: the usual assortment of professional engagements,
lunches, meetings, the occasional benefit or awards banquet in support
of a worthy cause.
And
then a single entry struck his eye.
Dinner
with Chuck Thorpe. At Ormond. January 5. He knew the restaurant.
Had in fact eaten there when it opened last year, unable to absent
himself discreetly from the Civil Rights Forum's annual dinner.
Such occasions always left him aching with hatred for the world
he'd been forced to inhabit. The smug corporate sponsors. The self-satisfied
attorneys who came to be feted, confident that their brief forays
into pro bono work conferred a sort of secular sainthood.
But
this miserable dinner had finally proved a gift in disguise. He
remembered the restaurant clearly, the low lights, the widely spaced
tables. Yes, it was almost ideal, better than he could have hoped.
A sense of euphoria swept through him.
Then,
without warning, it was gone, and he was spinning, spinning down
a cold black chute.
No.
Make it stop.
He
pressed his teeth together, already knowing what would come. Dizzy,
he grasped the table's edge. A sour sweat leaked through his pores.
The smell of fear. The smell of death.
I'm
moving as fast as I can.
He
tried to fight back, to win a reprieve. But it was no use. He was
already tumbling back. Back to where it all began.
A
dark room. And everywhere the scent of fear.
She's
sprawled across the floor. He looks down at her from above.
It feels strange to look down. He's always looked up at her
face, her beautiful, smiling face.
It's
so dark. For a long time, now. Why is she lying so still?
He
sleeps.
And
then it's light. She's still there, sprawled and broken in ways
that he can't comprehend. She's floating in a sea of red.
He
wants to get up, to go to her. But he can't stand up, can't seem
to move at all.
He
cries out, but there's something in his mouth.
At
first, he thinks she's asleep. But not really. Really, he knows
that she's dead.
He's
hungry. He's thirsty.
And,
even then, he knows that she's dead.
She's
dead, and it's all his fault.
And
then it was over. Slowly, the vision faded. Still trembling, he
stared at the wall. He felt weak, depleted, as if he could sleep
for days. But he couldn't give in to these feelings. Not with success
so close. He had to think of the plan. He had to think of the
plan. Soon, it would all be over.
And
he was finally ready to begin.
Monday,
January 4
Monday
morning. 7:05 a.m. A gray fog hung over the ice-glazed spires of
Manhattan. Pulling her red cashmere cape tight against the winter
air, twenty-six-year-old Kate Paine walked purposefully across Fifth
Avenue. The snow-dusted sidewalks were still sparsely populated.
A good two hours remained until the explosion of rush hour, with
its shrieking horns and screeching tires. In the relative quiet
of the morning, lulled by the city's dull roar, Kate clutched her
cape close and smiled.
The
holidays were behind her. She was home.
Approaching
the plate-glass doors of Samson & Mills, Kate felt a swell of excitement.
After more than a year at Samson, she still could hardly believe
that she'd been hired as an attorney at this legendary firm. That
of all the thousands of law school graduates who poured into the
workforce each year, she'd been one of the chosen few. Just out
of Harvard Law, and she'd already worked on cases that most lawyers
only dreamed about, cases that routinely figured on the front pages
of the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times.
Fascinating cases of first impression that stretched the limits
of the law. And even more important, she had the chance to hone
her skills with the nation's most formidable attorneys.
Kate
passed through the revolving doors and into an enormous lobby. Tossing
off greetings to the security guards, she slipped her card key through
an electronic scanner. Then she moved toward the elevator, high
heels clicking on the marble floor.
Four
days into the new year, the lobby was already stripped of holiday
decoration. The scarlet poinsettias, with their incongruous shock
of color, had been whisked away. As had the majestic Douglas fir
and the electric menorah. Once again, the stately entry stood sober
and unadorned. Kate relaxed into the familiar space, felt its timeless
weight enfold her.
Thank
God, the holidays were over.
The
elevator was already waiting. Kate stepped on, and the doors slid
shut. Twenty. Thirty. The floors flashed by. As she'd hoped, Kate
was the first person to arrive on fifty-one. Making her way down
the deeply carpeted hall, past a row of identical doors, she flipped
on lights as she passed. Her own closed door was the next to last.
As she rummaged in her purse for the key, she studied a small brass
plate. Katharine T. Paine. The T stood for Trace, her mother's maiden
name. On impulse, she ran a finger across the engraving, the metal
cold to her touch. Then she turned the key and pushed open the door.
Stepping
into the office, Kate inhaled its familiar smells, furniture wax
mingled with Chanel No. 19, a fragrance she sometimes wore. She
cast an approving eye around her ordered domain, with its panoramic
views of the Hudson River and beyond. Even in the morning haze,
she could make out the Statue of Liberty in the distance, a tiny,
brave figure engulfed in mist. The room was just as she'd left it.
Neat stacks of paper lined her desk. Cartons of documents were stacked
against the wall. The preholiday cleanup. She'd try to enjoy it
while it lasted.
Kate
pulled off her cape and hung it in her office closet. Before closing
the door, she paused to take stock in a mirror affixed to its back.
She looked healthy and rested, her skin lightly browned from a week
of sun. She quickly ran a comb through her dark brown hair, cut
in the jaw-length bob favored by Samson's female lawyers, then straightened
her horn-rimmed glasses. The glasses were a recent addition, acquired
when she started work. Studying her face in the mirror, Kate decided
that she liked the effect. Professional. In control. A woman to
be reckoned with.
How
different she looked now from two years ago, when she'd roamed the
Harvard campus in ratty jeans and a backpack. Yet one thing remained
the same. Her reflected image inspired the same sense of dislocation
that it had since she was a child. Who is that woman? Me but
not me. She didn't dislike what she saw. To the contrary, she
knew she was pretty. Clear skin, high cheekbones, a fine straight
nose. Her eyes were a deep shade of blue. "Stormy," her mother used
to call them. A full-length mirror would have gone on to show the
strong but delicate form: shoulders broad enough that she always
cut the pads out of her suit jackets, a sweep of breast not entirely
concealed by her black-and-gray Tahari suit, narrow hips tapering
to long, slim legs.
So
why couldn't she see this person as herself?
It
was an old question, one that she'd long tired of considering. She
shut the closet door and turned toward her desk.
I'm
proud of myself, Kate thought, surveying the well-appointed
office. I did this all on my own. I could have fallen
apart. But I didn't. In the end, Michael did me a favor....
But
Michael belonged to the past; he had nothing to do with her new
life. Pushing the memories aside, Kate sat down and turned on her
computer. The screen flashed on. Responding to computer prompts,
Kate quickly typed in her user ID followed by the word password.
Then it was on to e-mail. Among the usual clutter of junk e-mails
— a paralegal looking for a downtown sublet, a secretary with
free kittens, an associate seeking a financial planner — she
culled the few messages that demanded immediate attention. From
Justin Daniels, her old friend and Harvard classmate: "Welcome back!
We missed you and we know you missed us. Let's shoot for drinks
later this week. Cheers. J. D." From Andrea Lee, her friend and
comrade on countless late nights: "Can't wait to catch up. Call
me ASAP." There was also a plaintive note from Jonathan Kurtz, a
Harvard classmate who'd occupied the office two doors down until
a few months back, when he'd been shipped off to Kansas for a trial.
"I fully believe that I will be here in Wichita from now until the
end of time. I will never perform any task other than the preparation
of cross-examination books that will never be used at trial or anywhere
else. I will never see any of my friends or family again. On the
upside, I will never have to pay for another meal as long as I live."
Kate
laughed. Again, she felt a glow of pleasure, happy to be precisely
where she was. But the sense of satisfaction was short-lived. Soon,
she sat staring at an e-mail from Peyton Winslow, a senior associate
at the firm. "Greetings. I hope that you enjoyed your vacation.
Please prepare for a meeting this morning at 10 a.m. with Carter
Mills regarding a new matter. The Complaint (which we believe will
be served on January 13) and related papers are in distribution.
Please review and be ready to discuss."
Kate
glanced at her watch. Already after eight. Quickly, she thumbed
through the mountain of mail that had piled up during her vacation.
"Will someone just shoot me?" she muttered. Still, beneath the anxiety,
she felt a burgeoning excitement. A new case. And a matter
significant enough to involve the illustrious Carter Mills. To get
in on a case like this at the very start — what a coup! So
many of Samson's massive cases had been gathering dust for decades.
There would be nothing for years and then a brief flurry of activity
when the current crop of Samson underlings would try to make sense
of what their predecessors had done. The work often seemed more
archaeological than legal. Now she'd be in on things from the start,
positioned to watch the strategies unfold.
The
phone rang, but Kate let voice mail pick up as she continued to
search through the mail. She finally found what she was looking
for. The complaint, stamped "Draft" across every page, was captioned
for the Southern District of New York, the federal trial court of
Manhattan. The plaintiff's attorneys must have sent over a draft
in hopes of an early settlement. It was often done, the draft complaint
serving as leverage, proof of the seriousness of plaintiffs' intent
and the prima facie strength of their case.
The
draft complaint was twenty-three pages. Kate quickly skimmed its
contents, trying to get the gist of the claims.
And
then paused to let it all sink in.
This
was, in no uncertain terms, a sexual harassment suit charging Chuck
Thorpe and WideWorld Media with violations of both state and federal
law.
Chuck
Thorpe.
WideWorld
Media.
Kate
grappled with the implications.
WideWorld
was one of Samson's largest clients, a sprawling communications
behemoth with a seemingly insatiable appetite for new acquisitions.
Its recent purchase of Catch — a "relentlessly provocative"
men's magazine edited by Thorpe — had sparked a firestorm of
protest among stockholders. If they had been upset before, this
would send them over the edge. While the controversy might be good
for circulation — further enhancing Thorpe's status as publishing's
reigning enfant terrible — it would not play well with the
board of directors.
A tentative
knock on the door broke into her thoughts.
"Come
in!"
"Hi,
Kate. Welcome back!" In the doorway stood Jennifer Torricelli, her
unflappable nineteen-year-old secretary. Jennifer's dark fantasia
of a hairstyle gave new meaning to the phrase "big hair," but there
the stereotype ended. She typed ninety words a minute, kept flawless
tabs on Kate's ever-changing calendar, and managed to be nice as
well. In theory, Kate was supposed to share her services with a
first-year associate named Terry Creighton. But for the past six
months, Creighton had been in Nebraska, where he spent his days
in an unheated warehouse, poring through corporate files. Kate could
barely remember what he looked like.
"You
must've had a good vacation," Jennifer said. "You look great!"
Kate
gave her a distracted smile. "It was fine. Relaxing. But it's good
to be back."
Jennifer
looked at her, incredulous. "I don't believe you guys. The hours
that you put in here. And then you don't even like vacations. Boy,
if I ever went to the Caribbean, I don't think I'd ever come back."
Kate
glanced anxiously back at the papers on her desk. "I'll tell you
about it later. Right now, I have to get ready for a ten o'clock
meeting with Carter Mills."
Jennifer's
eyes widened at the mention of Samson's presiding partner. "Wow.
Good luck. Listen, I just wanted to say that there's a message from
Tara on your voice mail."
"Thanks,"
Kate said. She'd been right not to pick up the phone. Tara was her
best friend and college roommate. It would have been hard to cut
short the conversation.
"Let
me know if you need anything," Jennifer said, closing the door behind
her.
Returning
to the complaint, Kate glanced back at the caption to find out the
plaintiff's name. Stephanie Friedman. Briefly, Kate wondered what
she looked like, this woman behind the lawsuit. But her thoughts
quickly moved on. Where would things go from here? Of course, everyone
knew that sexual harassment cases were notoriously easy to file
and hard to get rid of, making them a frequent weapon of choice
for disgruntled employees. In her year of legal practice, Kate had
already seen more than a few such suits filed on tenuous facts in
hope of a speedy and substantial settlement, a sort of legal blackmail.
Who knew what had really happened? Still, it didn't take hours of
research to know that Thorpe and WideWorld had a mess on their hands.
There was nothing subtle about the allegations.
Thorpe
routinely referred to women as bitches, cunts, whores.
He
demanded that the women who worked for him wear short skirts and
tight sweaters.
He
interrogated female employees about their sex lives, demanding detailed
descriptions and subjecting them to elaborate dissections of his
own encounters.
He'd
threatened to fire several women if they refused to sleep with his
music producer pal Ron Fogarty.
It
went on from there.
Kate
tried to remember what she knew about Thorpe. With her eighty-hour
work weeks, she had scant time to keep up with current events. But
it would have been impossible to miss the media frenzy that broke
out several months back when Catch weighed in on sexual harassment.
The magazine's glossy cover featured a parody of Hustler's famous
meat grinder shot, a woman's legs thrust high in the air as her
body disappeared in the utensil's gears. But on the Catch cover,
the head disgorged by the grinder was that of feminist icon Anita
Hill. Smaller photos inside paired head shots of prominent female
activists with bodies from lasciviously positioned porno pix.
By
all accounts, the credit for the uproar was entirely due to Thorpe,
a flamboyant entrepreneur whose editorship of Catch had
made him a household name. A North Carolina native, Thorpe had started
Catch straight out of college with money raised from wealthy
classmates. Kate recalled him from television interviews, a compact,
powerful figure who pulsed with contained energy. He seemed to take
a grim delight in baiting the talking heads who grilled him. "I
respect women," he said repeatedly, in an exaggerated Southern drawl.
"In fact, my mother was one. My sister, too."
Intriguing
legal issues, celebrity scandal — what more could a young lawyer
want?
She
couldn't wait to begin.
Rounding
the corner outside Carter Mills's office suite, Kate slammed into
the portly figure of Bill McCarty, who was charging in the opposite
direction. Her notebook and pens scattered to the floor.
"Excuse
me," she gasped, bouncing back from the impact.
McCarty,
red-faced and breathing hard, responded with a short grunt and continued
full-speed down the hall, his short arms joggling at his sides.
As she gazed after the stout, balding figure, Kate rubbed her shoulder
and wondered what had him so upset. While she'd never worked with
McCarty, she knew him by reputation as diffident and unassuming.
McCarty was a workhorse, not a show horse. Rumor had it that his
election to the Samson partnership stemmed from his willingness
to endure crushing workloads without complaint. Fits of temper seemed
entirely out of character.
Kneeling
to pick up her things, Kate heard a clipped British accent behind
her.
"No
need to bow before entering. They did away with that years ago."
Kate
looked up to see Peyton Winslow. Not that she'd had any doubt who
was speaking. Despite three years at Yale Law School and six at
Samson & Mills, Peyton's Oxford intonations only seemed to grow
stronger with each passing year. Today, he sported a large pair
of red-framed glasses. The glasses were Petyon's signature; he had
a wardrobe of different styles, all slightly eccentric by office
standards.
"Very
funny," said Kate, clambering back to standing position and smoothing
her gray wool skirt. "I was just cut off at the pass by Bill McCarty,
and everything went flying. He seemed furious about something. Any
idea what?"
Peyton
gave her a skeptical look. "Interesting," he said. "I thought he
was computer-generated. It never occurred to me that emotions were
part of the package."
Kate
grinned. She was always surprised by Peyton's bouts of irreverence.
A rangy figure in his early thirties, Peyton often seemed younger
than his years, all eager legs and feet. But appearances could be
misleading. Everyone knew that Peyton was a rising star. He was,
in the Samson vernacular, "highly regarded." Affectations aside,
he was incisive, hardworking, and an excellent manager. He'd be
up for partner in two years and was widely viewed as a shoo-in.
Together,
they proceeded into Carter Mills's reception area. His secretary,
Clara Hurley, was immersed in dictation, her fingers flying across
the computer keyboard. She jumped when Peyton tapped her on the
shoulder.
"You
scared me," she said reprovingly, pulling the Dictaphone
headset off her tight gray curls.
"Sorry
'bout that," said Peyton. Clara visibly softened. Peyton had clearly
gotten on her good side. Smart move, Kate thought. When you were
trying to get a brief out on time, a good relationship with the
person typing it was at least as important as your legal skills.
"Have
a seat, and I'll see if Mr. Mills is free," she said. Clara's use
of Mills's last name sounded quaint to Kate's ears. Except for the
most inveterate old-timers, everyone at Samson was on a first-name
basis. But of course, Clara had been with Mills for decades.
Waiting
outside the closed office door, Kate felt shy and very young. She
could feel her heart beating faster. From the corner of her eye,
she saw that Peyton was working. His features were locked in concentration
as his pen flew across some junior associate's draft. Kate envied
him his seeming calm.
For
what felt like the fiftieth time, Kate turned back to her notes.
If even a fraction of the allegations were true, Thorpe and WideWorld
had a major problem. And even if they weren't true, the
case had all the earmarks of a public relations nightmare. The timing
— right on the heels of Thorpe's splashy attack on the very
laws under which he was sued — couldn't have been worse.
"Come
in, come in." Carter Mills was standing in the doorway. As she jumped
to her feet, Kate felt a subtle change in the atmosphere, a sort
of electric charge. Up close, Mills was even more imposing than
she remembered. He was tall, well over six feet, with penetrating
slate-blue eyes. Despite gray streaks in his thick dark hair, he
gave an impression of youthful vigor. Everything about him —
his voice, his bearing, the aristocratic cut of his features —
seemed to exude authority. Mills's grandfather, Silas Mills, was
one of the firm's two founding partners. Yet family connections
were the least of Carter Mills's credentials. He was widely regarded
as one of the nation's leading trial lawyers, the subject of countless
feature stories and news reports and a perennial fixture on top-ten
lists. Mills was, Kate thought, a rare blend — a scholar who
could still woo a jury, a $600-an-hour mega-lawyer who could roll
up the sleeves of his $300 shirts and speak directly to the people.
Mills
gestured them into his office. Peyton slipped into a chair. Kate
sat down beside him. As Mills returned to his desk, Kate took a
quick look around. Several large abstract paintings. A black leather
sofa. The decor took Kate by surprise. There were, to be sure, some
traditional touches. Family photographs. Harvard diplomas. An impressive
grandfather clock. But it was not what she would have expected.
She was intrigued by the room's appearance, intrigued and also pleased.
It seemed to affirm Mills's uniqueness.
"Madeleine
Waters will be joining us shortly," Mills said, after buzzing Clara
for water. "If you'll excuse me for a moment." He was already back
at work.
The
words pulled Kate back to the present. Another intriguing surprise.
Madeleine Waters, the acknowledged beauty of the Samson fold. Madeleine
wasn't the first female partner at Samson & Mills — there
was Karen Henderson in the tax department and Michelle Turner in
trusts and estates — but she still stood in a class by herself.
The first female partner in the litigation department, a club within
a club at Samson, she was a role model for younger women. She seemed
to embody a bright new world, a place where power and femininity
could coexist.
Kate
briefly wondered if Madeleine could be working on this case and
then rejected the thought out of hand. Madeleine Waters working
with Carter Mills? No way. While Mills had once been Madeleine's
mentor, they were now said to be barely on speaking terms. Something
to do with a failed love affair, if firm gossip was to be believed.
A rustle
at the door. Clara Hurley appeared with a crystal water pitcher
and glasses. The perfect secretary of the old school. Carefully
setting down the tray, Clara poured water for Mills, her stolid
features suffused with a maternal glow.
Without
looking up, Mills accepted the glass.
"Clara,
could you see what's keeping Madeleine. Tell her we're ready to
meet." Beneath the sonorous calm of his voice, Kate sensed an edge
of irritation.
"Yes,
Mr. Mills."
And
then Madeleine was standing in the doorway, a slim figure in a jade
silk dress.
"I'm
sorry I'm late," she said. Her voice, slightly breathless, was lower
than Kate had expected. Madeleine sat down on the black leather
couch, a little apart from the group.
Peyton
jumped up and motioned toward his empty chair. "Would you —"
"No.
I'm just fine here. This is perfect." Catching Carter Mills's eye,
Madeleine gave him a faint smile. "Perfect."
The
smile seemed familiar. Then Kate realized where she'd seen it before.
On a sphinx at the Metropolitan Museum. The so-called archaic smile,
mysterious and ever watchful. Again, Kate studied Madeleine's face.
She really is lovely, Kate thought. Up close, she'd expected
to discern flaws, a harshness of expression or tone. What she saw
instead was an utterly harmonious play of feature: a tumble of dark
hair tamed by a velvet band, high cheekbones, clear skin, wide-set
eyes that seemed to match the vivid green of her dress. Madeleine
must be in her late thirties by now. However, hers was the sort
of beauty that lasts, defiant of the passage of time.
Carter
Mills drew a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of his starched
white shirt. After placing the glasses on his nose, he clasped his
hands on his desk. "I assume you've all read the draft complaint.
Based on the facts alleged, I don't see much chance of dismissal
or summary judgment, though we'll certainly want to examine those
options. Assuming the complaint's actually filed on the thirteenth,
when is our answer due?"
"Under
Rule 12, we have twenty days," Peyton said. It was the sort of critically
important yet mundane fact that associates were charged with tracking.
Failure to meet a deadline could result in dismissal of a case.
"So if the complaint is actually served next Wednesday, the answer
would be due on February second."
"Fine,"
Mills said, making a notation in a leather-bound appointment book.
"In the meantime, we need to get straight on the facts and law.
I've scheduled a meeting on Wednesday at one with Chuck Thorpe and
Jed Holden. Please plan to be there. After that we'll be in a better
position to devise a game plan."
Again,
Kate felt a thrill of excitement. Jed Holden. WideWorld's CEO. One
of the nation's most powerful businessmen. The closest most Samson
associates would ever get to someone of Holden's stature was preparing
an affidavit for his signature. For an associate, and a junior associate
at that, to attend a meeting with Holden present — it was almost
unthinkable.
"Are
there any questions?" Mills said.
"I
have a question, Carter." Madeleine's low voice seemed to linger
in the office air. "Would you agree that we can't represent both
WideWorld and Thorpe without a conflicts waiver from WideWorld's
board?"
Mills
looked at her, his face impassive. "No," he said. "I would not."
The
two partners locked eyes. Sensing the tension, Kate found herself
staring at her lap. There was something unsettling about the scene.
She was curious, of course — who wouldn't be — but also
strangely disturbed. It was almost like she was very young again,
listening to her parents argue.
Seemingly
oblivious to the younger lawyers, Madeleine pressed ahead, her tone
deceptively light. "You can't ignore the fact that WideWorld has
potential claims against Thorpe. When WideWorld agreed to buy Catch,
Chuck Thorpe was fully aware of Ms. Friedman's sexual harassment
claims. He'd already been informed that the EEOC would investigate.
Yet he failed to disclose the potential liability — something
the stock purchase agreement clearly obligated him to do. If there's
an adverse judgment in this case, WideWorld may have to consider
asserting claims against Thorpe. WideWorld's stockholders can't
be expected to foot the bill for Thorpe's —"
"We'll
talk about this later, Madeleine." There was a warning note to Mills's
voice.
Madeleine
shrugged, and settled back in her seat. The same faint smile Kate
had noticed earlier again played on her lips.
Kate
tried to make sense of the exchange. What Madeleine had said seemed
logical, obvious even. Samson's duty was to its client, WideWorld.
You didn't need to be a specialist in legal ethics to know the dangers
of dual representation in a situation like this. But simply thinking
this through felt somehow disloyal. After all, Kate chided herself,
without actually reading the purchase agreement, it was impossible
to know anything for sure. And even if Madeleine did have a point,
why raise the issue like this — why pick a fight with Mills
in front of two associates? Only one thing seemed clear: if Carter
and Madeleine had ever been lovers, the affair had not ended well.
For
a time, Mills seemed lost in thought. Then, he suddenly resumed
command, as if the previous exchange simply hadn't occurred. "That's
about it for today." He was speaking directly to the junior lawyers,
as if Madeleine wasn't there. "Madeleine will be overseeing your
work on this case. Of course, you're free to come to me with any
questions."
Surprised,
Kate glanced across the room. Her eyes met Madeleine's. There was
an appraising glint in the other woman's eyes. For a confused moment,
Kate wondered if Madeleine had been watching her. But before she
could be sure, it was over. Madeleine was studying her folded hands,
and Carter Mills was winding up the meeting. "I want a legal memo
by the end of next week. I'd like Kate to start in on that. If there
aren't any other questions, I'll see you all Wednesday afternoon."
After
the two associates left the room, Madeleine Waters remained seated
on the leather couch. Still smiling, she studied Mills. But when
she spoke her voice was cold.
"I
can see that the magic hasn't faded."
He
returned the gaze but said nothing.
"In
any case, that was quite a demonstration. Make them feel like they're
part of your world. The quickest path to loyalty and devotion. Not
to mention endless billable hours. That's what you taught me, isn't
it? Well, congratulate yourself. It worked like a charm. You could
see it in their faces."
Mills
had assumed an air of calm detachment. "You see what you want to
see," he said. "You always have."
Madeleine
paused, as if contemplating the next maneuver in some delicate game
of chance. "How comforting to find that nothing has changed," she
finally said. "It's been quite a while since we've worked together.
Closely, that is. And you always wonder" — and here she pronounced
the words with odd emphasis — "if — something — might
— change. And then you realize that nothing ever does."
A smile
flickered across Mills's face.
"It
sounds like you've got it all figured out, Madeleine. Let's be clear
about this. Neither of us is happy with this arrangement. Unfortunately,
Thorpe has demanded that you work on this case. Obviously, we have
no choice. You have no choice. I'm sure you understand that."
But
Madeleine was barely listening. Her mind seemed to be somewhere
else. "That associate. Kate Paine. You hired her, didn't you? It's
because of you that she came to work here."
Mills's
expression didn't change. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
And
now it was Madeleine who was silent as her eyes roamed Carter Mills's
face. Then, abruptly, she laughed. When she spoke her voice was
heavy with scorn.
"You're
so obvious, Carter. It would be fascinating if it weren't
so pathetic. Are you wondering how I knew? Just look at her."
Copyright©
2001 by Amy Gutman
(c)
Copyright 2001, Bookreporter.com. All rights reserved.
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