Upstairs in my room, I lowered myself into the giant bathtub in a sea of steaming, lilac-scented bubbles and read more Stephen King. It felt wonderful to wash away the exercise induced sweat and exhaustion. I hadn’t felt this relaxed in years. And I hadn’t been to a gym in a while, not since my membership at the Bergen County gym had lapsed. Maybe it was time I bought a treadmill of my own.
I put on a caramel-colored suit made of lightweight wool and paired it with a cream silk blouse with pearly buttons. Pearl studs in my ears and soft brown shoes with sensible two-inch heels completed the ensemble. Hopefully I was neither overdressed nor underdressed for my meeting with a bunch of executives.
After my hair and makeup were done, the clock read 7:23 A.M., so I quickly picked up my purse and briefcase and ran for the elevator. Nervousness made my palms a little damp. Going to a power meeting with Mac by my side was both scary and exciting.
I was going to learn how to deal with an important client, how to extract information and make a profound decision. The next time I met with Lou Draper, I’d give him a tougher time than ever, I decided with a mental grin.
In the lobby, right outside the hotel’s main restaurant, I waited for Mac for over thirty minutes, pacing the floor, my temper escalating with each passing minute. I hadn’t had enough sleep, and I was hungry. Was he still frolicking with some woman while I’d given up an extra fifteen minutes in the tub just to be punctual? Was he at least up and about?
Just then he came sauntering through the lobby, with his usual air of male confidence and a formal greeting. “Good morning, Soorya. Let’s get some breakfast, shall we?” No apologies or explanations for his tardiness. But then, men like Mac probably didn’t see the need to apologize to junior employees who were of no consequence.
As we were shown to a table by a waiter, I noticed Mac’s eyes looked a little red around the rims. But he seemed to be in high spirits, dressed in a gray power suit and white shirt that looked bandbox perfect.
While Mac ate a hearty breakfast of eggs, toast, bacon, and coffee brimming with cream, I drank a glass of skim milk and toyed with wedges of watermelon and honeydew. Mac looked lean and fit despite the fat- and cholesterol-laden food on his plate, while here I was, starving myself and drooling over the aroma of buttered toast.
How was I supposed to believe in God when He made life so unfair for so many of us?
Mac had the concierge call a cab for us and we headed downtown for our meeting. Although the Murzak pulp mill was located in some suburb, the administrative offices were in the heart of the city. The building was a typical chrome-and-glass urban high-rise.
On the ninth floor of the building, we were welcomed by John Murzak, President and CEO, Kevin Gillies, Executive Vice President, and Rosemary Worth, Vice President of Operations. Murzak, a small, slim man in his sixties with wispy gray hair, was a friend of Mac’s. From their conversation I gathered they’d known each other from their college days.
So that’s why Mac had taken on this case himself instead of assigning it to someone else.
I patted myself on the back for wearing what I did. These people, despite the rumors about khakis and casual shirts—the dress code supposedly made popular by Microsoft and other West Coast software companies’ young and casual crop of employees—were dressed in conservative suits. Both the men wore dark gray and the woman had on a burgundy pantsuit.
While we made small talk about our flight the previous night and Mac and John reminisced about their college days, a pot of coffee was brought in.
Then we plunged into the business end of it, or rather Mac did. “John, what exactly can you tell us about your operation and why the EPA is focusing on Murzak Pulp and Paper?”
John explained to us in great detail that their pulp mill, the largest around Puget Sound, was being blamed as one of the major polluters of the sound. “The government’s conclusion is that the organochlorides discharged by our mill are harmful to the salmon residing in the sound and to the people who live nearby.”
Mac, who’d been taking copious notes, nodded gravely. “Mm-hmm. I get the picture.”
John gave an angered sigh. “They’re threatening to penalize us to the tune of a million dollars a quarter if we don’t do something.” His face was turning a dull red from what appeared to be frustration and rising rage.
“Rather steep. And what exactly are you doing to address the issue?” Mac asked.
Just like Mac, I was scribbling notes on my legal pad. I had to look as official as I could. I noticed Rosemary Worth doing it, too, her long, pale fingers looking like the icicles hanging off our home’s eaves in the winter. She was a tall, broad-shouldered woman who reminded me of the late Julia Child, the famous chef.
“We treat our wastewater and test it before it’s discharged into the surrounding surface water, removing most of the toxic chemicals. Whatever is discharged has no effect whatsoever on the sound, but trying to get that through the EPA’s thick skull is another matter. That’s where you come in, Mac.”
“Uh-huh.” Mac was writing something at a furious speed.
“Windham is good,” said John, speaking about his local attorney, “and he works well with the Washington State Department of Ecology and the EPA’s local office, but he’s never crossed swords with the feds, Mac. That’s why I requested you to step in.”
I realized why Windham wasn’t included in this meeting. His shortcomings were being discussed—he was a corporate attorney but had no experience in environmental law.
“Any major problems with DOE so far?” Mac finished his coffee and pushed his cup aside.
John shrugged. Despite the chilly, air-conditioned atmosphere of the room, the sheen of perspiration on his face was apparent. “Windham’s managed to keep DOE off our backs. But now the EPA is all stirred up. They’re poking into our labs, running their own tests. They’ve turned their so-called findings over to their DC office. Our production is down to a mere twenty-five percent of its capacity.”
“What kind of damage are we talking about?”
“Damage? More like devastation!” John Murzak’s face had gone from dull to beet red and his face was dripping with perspiration. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped it.
I was afraid the man was going to have a stroke. Rosemary threw a worried glance at him, too. Kevin’s frown intensified. I felt sympathy for John Murzak. His mill was clearly a family business, probably had been in the family for generations, and if he lost it, it would be the end of him.
Mac held up a hand. “Take it easy, John. That’s what we’re here for. Damage control is our business.” His voice was quiet but stern, the voice of a friend-cum-counselor. It immediately served to calm the ruffled Murzak, who dabbed his face once again. “What’s the feds’ attorney’s name again?”
“Vasudev Rao.”
My head snapped up. Bingo! In that instant I knew why I’d been picked to accompany Mac. The mystery that had been bugging me for the past day and a half was solved. John’s pronunciation made it sound odd, but Vasudev Rao, pronounced Vah-sue-dev Rahv, was an Indian man. And from his name, it was quite likely he was a Telugu like myself.
Rao was the precise reason I was here.
Mac was going to use his neat little trick of throwing Vasudev Rao and me together and see whether we could work something out—as one Indian attorney to another. If things came out according to his plan, and from the look on Mac’s face he expected they would, I’d simply use my feminine charms or my Indian wiles on my fellow desi or countryman at the EPA. And I’d have to tie things up as neatly and expeditiously as possible.
Then the firm would bill John Murzak’s company for a tidy amount that would cover our trip to Seattle and then some. Murzak would be happy about getting away with only a few thousand dollars instead of millions, and Mac would have done his old college buddy a huge favor. The firm would have one more grateful client who might come in handy in the future.
I had learned that Mac held such
IOUs in escrow—to be cashed if and when necessary.
He was clever all right. They didn’t call him Mighty Mac for nothing. And his multilingual and multitalented staff was only one of the weapons in his war chest. I was the only Indian in the bunch, so despite my relative inexperience, I was his only choice to be pitched against Rao.
Worried about my role in this case, I wondered how old this Rao was. If he belonged to the older generation like Mac and my father, I’d be doomed. If he was a young man, there was a remote possibility that I could try to reach him on some level.
The feds were trained to be difficult. It was their job to nitpick and prod and pester and pursue. If I failed to bring Rao and the EPA around, would that be a black mark against me? I was still desperately trying to prove myself worthy of working for the firm. I had a long way to go yet.
After a few minutes of discussing some more facts, Mac came to a decision. He would take on the case.
He immediately put me in charge, too. “Soorya, I’m going to leave this to you. Why don’t you stay in Seattle today and get acquainted with John’s attorney, then get in touch with the local EPA? Maybe you could confer some more with John and Kevin and Rosemary here and take it from there.” He turned a brilliant smile on me that sparkled.
I nodded. Coming from the emperor, it wasn’t a mild suggestion, it was an order. “Sure, Mac—no problem.” I noticed Rosemary giving him the eye. She seemed dazzled by Mac. But then, he had that effect on a lot of women.
Mac got ready to take his leave. “John, can we please talk a bit in your private office?” He turned to Kevin and Rosemary. “Don’t worry too much. We’ll do our best to get you folks out of this.” He shook hands with them warmly. “I have a meeting in DC tomorrow, so I’ll be heading out after John and I confer.” He briefly placed a paternal hand on my shoulder. “I’m leaving you in Ms. Giri’s capable hands.”
He made me sound like a bright, shining star. He had accomplished what he’d come out to do and handed over the reins to me. In sports lingo, the ball was in my court now.
I clutched the imaginary ball close to my chest and stood on the court, a little bemused but furiously trying to work out a strategy. Best-case scenario: Vasudev Rao would turn out to be a ball of putty and I could mold him to my way of thinking. Worst-case scenario: He would turn out to be a demon and I’d lose. Either way, I’d have to find a way of dealing with him.
Rosemary shot another worried glance at John, who still looked flushed. She then ushered me out of the conference room and introduced me to the company’s legal counsel, Craig Windham, a gentle and quiet man in his fifties with a balding head, glasses, and a neat goatee.
Windham’s records were meticulous, so getting copies of the required paperwork was not a problem. He and I went over dozens of files and folders over the next couple of hours.
When Rosemary stopped by to offer to take me out to lunch, I realized it was well past noon and I was starving. The drizzle outside continued. It had been only hours since I’d landed here and already I was homesick for the sunshine in New Jersey. Another couple of days of this weather and I’d be crying from depression.
Rosemary drove me to an upscale café that served an endless variety of salads. It was exactly my kind of place. She turned out to be a very friendly and chatty lady. Lunching with her was a pleasant experience.
Later, hoping to keep my stay in Seattle to a minimum, I worked with Windham late into the evening. Windham seemed relieved to have someone more knowledgeable about environmental matters take the load off his shoulders.
As soon as I returned to the hotel that evening, armed with loads of paperwork, I called the airline. Thankfully they were able to move me from an afternoon flight to a morning one the next day. I decided to skip dinner that evening and went straight to the gym.
Some thirty minutes of fitness torture and I found myself back in the giant bathtub. That thing held the same kind of fascination for me that a pond filled with squiggly tadpoles held for a little boy. This time, instead of Stephen King, I settled back in the luxurious bubbles with Murzak’s legal documents.
Much later, just as I was about to go to bed, the phone rang, startling me. Wondering who it could be at this late hour, I gingerly picked up the phone.
It turned out to be Rosemary. Her voice told me something wasn’t quite right.
“I have some bad news, Soorya,” she said, confirming my hunch.
My stomach dropped. “What is it?”
“John Murzak had a heart attack earlier this evening.”
“Oh no!”
“He was taken to the hospital by ambulance.”
“Is he—” I didn’t know how to ask. Was he dead? Dying?
“He’s been stabilized,” Rosemary replied, reading my thoughts. “But he’s still in the ICU according to Beth, his wife.”
“I’m so sorry.” No wonder the man had been perspiring so much and looking ill during our meeting. “Thanks for letting me know.” I wondered about how it would affect Mac and me. “In that case, do you think I should hold off on the legal work?” I asked gently.
“No. John wants you to keep working on it. He’s adamant about it.” She paused. “I think it’s all these legal problems that brought on the heart problems to begin with.”
“You may be right. I’ll continue doing what I’m doing, then. And I’ll inform Mac about John, too.”
We spoke a little longer before ending the call on a grim note. When I tried to call Mac’s cell phone, I got his voice mail, so I left a brief message explaining the situation.
I tossed and turned most of the night, worrying over John Murzak and his future. My first real big case, and it had started on an inauspicious note.
But John wasn’t an old man yet, and he had plenty to live for. He’d pull through. He had to. I promised myself that I’d work extra hard to make it all right for that poor man. I’d do everything in my humble power to save his paper mill.
I fluffed my pillow and turned on my side yet again, wondering what Roger the rogue was up to. He had a way of creeping into my brain at the oddest times. I tried hard to banish him from my mind and get some sleep.
All I could do was sigh deeply and stare at the ceiling. And think some more about Roger.
Chapter 11
When my flight landed at Newark Airport the next day, it was nearly five o’clock in the evening. And it was raining. And here I’d thought I was heading home to some sunshine.
I called Sandy from the airport for my messages, then retrieved my car from the airport’s parking lot and drove home in the mad rush-hour traffic, first on the New Jersey Turnpike and then the Garden State Parkway. Statistics said they were two of the highest traveled highways in the country. I could see why.
Sandy had said one of my messages was from Lou Draper. I was impressed at Lou’s quick response. He wouldn’t have called if he didn’t have news for me. I certainly hoped it was good news. John Murzak’s heart attack had left me more depressed than I’d realized, and I needed a pick-me-up.
And I certainly got one when I reached home. Mom gave me such an exuberant hug one would have thought I’d been gone for years instead of a day and a half. “Welcome home, baby. You look tired. Worked too hard?”
She had on hunter green pull-on pants with a green and white flowered top. She smelled of herbs and Downy. Any other scent and it wouldn’t be Mom.
“I am a bit tired, Mom. Guess it’s jet lag.” I didn’t want to dampen her spirits by telling her about Murzak. “I’m hungry, too.” I sniffed and guessed Mom had made tomato rasam, a fiery hot South Indian soup—just what I needed on a rainy Wednesday night. It felt good to be home.
“Dad is on his way home,” Mom informed me. “You want to eat now or wait for him? Pamma is already eating, so you can join her if you want.”
I shook my head and said I’d wait for Dad. It was always nice to sit down to dinner as a family, although poor Pamma needed to eat early. She often ate alone.
S
tepping into the kitchen, I realized Pamma hadn’t even heard my arrival or Mom and me conversing in the laundry room. She sat in her white sari, her white hair in a braid, her blouse looking a bit loose around the sleeves. Had she lost weight? Her feet were generally clad in socks and fuzzy blue slippers, even on a warm evening. Compared with her hometown in India, any day in New Jersey was cold.
At the moment, she was chewing on her soft-cooked rice and rasam at a painfully slow pace and staring out the window. I wondered what went on in her mind when she gazed at the landscape like that. Whatever her thoughts were, she kept them to herself. I sensed that she missed her home in India and all her neighbors and the servants she’d had for years. Mostly I thought she missed her late husband and the children and grandchildren she’d left behind.
Perhaps sensing movement, she turned her head and broke into a delighted smile. “Baby, you came home! Business finished so soon?”
I walked up to Pamma and squeezed her shoulder. “I got done a bit earlier than I’d thought.”
“Good, good. Now you eat dinner.”
I loved seeing that expression on Pamma’s face. Although Dad and I lived in this house, it was like she’d never expected to see either one of us here. She always looked startled and elated when Dad and I returned home each evening.
That’s what was great about coming home from work. Mom and Pamma were thrilled to see me. Dad, although not quite that overtly ecstatic, was still mighty pleased to have his only child with him at the dinner table. It was my favorite time of day.
Dad and I talked mostly about the kind of day we’d had and swap stories about the clients we’d seen—without compromising their privacy, of course. Ethics was of the essence in both our professions.
The only way I found out about Dad’s celebrity patients was if and when the media somehow got wind of it, after which I’d pester him for details and ferret out a morsel here and there. After he’d inadvertently given away some tidbit, he’d shake his head in mock regret. “I never should have sent you to that fancy law school. You’ve become too clever for an old man like me.”
The Full Moon Bride Page 10
