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Craven Conflict

Page 6

by David Cooper


  “What are they?” Craven asked.

  “This one’s your start confirmation, for the agency. The other’s their terms.”

  “Oh, right.” Craven took them from her and was about to sign the first one, when he hesitated.

  “Something wrong?” The question was disapproving rather than curious.

  “There’s a mistake.” Craven pointed. “The name of the agent’s company.”

  The form was printed on blank paper, rather than an official letterhead. It was headed ‘Start Confirmation’ in large bold type, and continued ‘I hereby confirm that I commenced employment with BLH Solicitors (formerly Bastable & Co) on Tuesday 2nd April as a legal executive. The agent who introduced me to BLH Solicitors was Wayne Avery of Wave Recruitment, Office 7 Chamberlain Suite, Brindleyplace, Birmingham…’

  “What do you mean?” Sheila asked, a tone of irritation creeping in.

  Craven hesitated once more, not wanting to write alterations on the start confirmation form itself. He found a large Post It label and carefully wrote out the details for Rutherford Professional and Legal Recruitment, drawing an arrow on the label and affixing it to the form precisely beneath the reference to Wave Recruitment.

  “I think there must have been a mistake.” He handed the two forms back.

  “Well, I’ll find out, but that’s exactly what I was told to type for the agent this morning. It’s really the last thing I want to disturb him about on a day like this.”

  Sheila walked off. Oblivious to her sense of annoyance, Craven was left to contemplate the permanence of the wide open door. He looked round at the desk once more and began to size up how feasible it would be to turn it at a ninety degree angle from its current location. He had only just picked up a stack of files, with a view to rearranging his furniture then and there, before Sheila was back.

  “Sign them as they are. The agent’s with a new company. Mine not to reason why, and probably not yours either.”

  “But surely…” Craven paused. “OK, then.” He remembered that he had effectively been told at the end of his interview that he need not concern himself with the arrangements between the firm and Avery. Putting the issue aside in his mind, he signed the forms and handed them back. He noticed that the agency terms bore a pencil inscription ‘Do Not Date’ in the line beside his newly added signature. It struck him as unusual then and there, but it was a common formula in legal documents that were officially completed at a later date.

  “Don’t forget the contract.” With one final brusque parting shot, Sheila was gone.

  Seven hours later, Craven was ready to leave. His working day had only otherwise been enlivened when his immediate supervisor Caroline Shore, the associate serving her final weeks at the firm ahead of her maternity leave, had come in to explain more about the firm’s working practices. He had sensed that she was reluctant to be facing the need to share her secretary with him, but relieved to hear that Craven was sufficiently skilled in typing and office software to be able to deal with most of his own production. Having promised him more client files in the immediate future, she had left him to his own devices. Squire had also shown his face once more, but seemed more interested in taking possession of Craven’s signed employment contract than in asking how he had found his first day at the firm.

  As he set off to catch his train, Craven felt a great sense of relief that he had started back in work once more, and tried not to think too much about his somewhat unusual welcome to his new job at BLH Solicitors. His route to New Street Station took him past the Regal House offices where he had had his recent daunting but productive session at Ripple. He wondered whether Dawn the receptionist had received his flowers, but accepted deep down that by choosing to make the gift anonymous, he would probably never know.

  * * * * *

  “Hi Karen, it’s Lennie. Thought I’d call you rather than email.”

  “Thanks. How’s it going?” Karen had been on the verge of calling it a day when the phone rang.

  “Couple of items to report. First up, I’ve found out where Avery’s based himself.”

  “Go on.”

  “Newish development in Brindleyplace. Serviced offices.” Lennie gave Karen the full address. “I’ve been up there once before. Ideal place for a start up. Everything’s managed for them, but it’s a bit on the pricey side.”

  “Really? God knows how he could have afforded that.” Karen thought of how Avery’s pay at Ripple had always involved an approach based on low salary and high commission. “How did you find out about it?”

  “His website’s up. My trainee found it for me earlier. He’s plagiarised your logo on that as well. Not forgetting the ‘Ripple’s Out’ slogan. Bold as brass.”

  “He’s got a bloody nerve. Hope you can get him for that. What’s the other news?”

  “I had the sealed court papers back this morning, so it gave me the chance to send the process server straight up to Brindleyplace. I thought he might have had to go to Avery’s home address and leave an appointment card. Might have been awkward when we’re up in court so soon.”

  “Any joy?”

  “You could say so. Let me read this out.” Lennie picked up the email that the process server had sent him fifteen minutes earlier. “Here we go. ‘Mr Avery readily identified himself to me, so I gave him the papers and explained what they were. He then invited me in forceful terms to go away, commenting on the colour of my skin and questioning my parentage as he did so.’ Charming man, I don’t think.”

  Karen laughed bitterly.

  “That’s Wayne all over. Scratch the surface and you’ll find someone who hates anyone getting the better of him.”

  “Well, let’s just hope the next one to do that is you.”

  Thursday 4 th April

  Craven’s second day in his new job had passed without difficulty. He had methodically carried on with the task of reading into files and trying his best to ensure proper continuity for the clients, despite the change in responsibility for their active cases. But matters took a turn for the worse barely an hour into his third morning.

  The next live action that Caroline Shore brought through to him, struggling under the sheer weight of the file in the process of doing so, involved a neighbour dispute. Craven was dismayed. His workload in his previous firm had rarely gone beyond commercial litigation arising out of disputed debt claims, where he had mainly acted for claimants. Here and now, it was not only disconcerting to be taken so far out of his personal comfort zone, but also a source of great unease to be defending the indefensible on a client’s behalf.

  As his supervisor explained how the initial bitter argument over boundary encroachment had been aggravated by alleged wrongful lopping of overhanging tree branches, Craven felt himself glazing over. The actual location of the two flashpoints was a considerable distance away from the warring parties’ houses. He could not understand why the trivial sounding debate over the boundary could not be compromised via a suitable degree of give and take on both sides. Nor could he see why the conflict over the aesthetic appearance of the trees had excited such passions. The litigants were now half way through court action and had both instructed expert surveyors and tree surgeons, all of whom were now being briefed to meet on site and then in turn produce joint statements of areas of agreement and disagreement.

  “You need to remember, Paul, that Fraser Mansell and his family are some of the firm’s most important clients. They’re incredibly wealthy and they need to be humoured. We make really good fees out of them, year in year out. If he wants his day in court, he needs to be allowed to have it. We’ll make thousands out of it, win or lose…”

  “But what’s the point, Caroline? Even I can see that this one cries out for mediation. Can’t we just…”

  “Don’t question it, Paul, just jump as high as he tells you to jump. You’ve still got so much to learn. Anyway, look on the bright side. You’ll probably be asked out to Dillingford Hall at some point, when the experts get together for a j
oint site inspection.”

  At that moment Craven could think of nothing less appealing, and he cringed inwardly at the prospect. He somehow made the effort to listen to the remainder of his briefing. Caroline’s parting shot was that he would be expected to copy Squire in on all proposed outgoing correspondence on the dispute, for prior approval before anything was actually sent out. Craven wondered why Squire could not have kept the case to himself if the client was so important, and concluded that Squire must have felt it was not worthy of full time partner attention. On that discordant note, he started on the thankless task of familiarising himself with the wider background.

  Three hours later, Craven had made enough progress to tackle the most pressing task on the file. Having read the correspondence from beginning to end, he had produced a lengthy draft letter to the client. It began by summarising the expert report that had just been served on behalf of his opponent, and went on to explain what facilities needed to be offered for the joint meeting at the property. He wondered whether to send the draft to Squire by internal email or to take him a paper copy. He decided that the latter was likely to be better received, only to be rebuffed when he put his head round Squire’s door.

  “Just email it. I don’t have the time right now. I’ve an important call to make.”

  As Craven retreated in embarrassment, feeling as if he had been shooed away like a stray dog, Squire picked up his phone and called the number he had just been given, his sense of curiosity quickly turning to irritation when the client answered. His advice to the client was succinct.

  “Give Tony Wagstaff a ring about it in ten minutes once I’ve had a chance to alert him. It’s best that I’m not seen to be involved, at least not in the open. But you can mark my words that I’ll be doing whatever I can to help you destroy her.”

  Squire ended the call. He consulted the firm’s technical department, and found to his relief that the previous two days’ internal communications problems had now been resolved for once and for all. The Edgbaston office of the former Lewis Hackett firm was now finally able to receive correspondence instantly and seamlessly from Bastables in the city centre via their common server. He proceeded to fire off an email to Wagstaff to tell him exactly what their newly acquired client would be calling him about.

  Friday 5 th April

  When Lennie returned to his office half way through the morning, after a routine court appointment, he found two messages, both of which related to Karen’s dispute with Avery. Putting the message with the unfamiliar name and number to one side, he initially returned the call from the court office. The clerk told him that the application listed for the following Thursday afternoon would be heard by His Honour Judge Tristan Chandler. The name rang no bell with Lennie as he called his Counsel’s chambers and passed the information on, before turning to the second message and making his next call.

  “Wagstaff.” The voice on the other end sounded blunt and unwelcoming.

  “Mr Wagstaff, this is Lennie Rose from Thornbury & Summerson. I understand you called me about my client Karen Rutherford.”

  “Oh yes, that one. I’ve been instructed by Wayne Avery. First things first, I see we’re down for two hours at two o’clock next Thursday. I don’t think that’s anywhere near long enough. I suggest we agree a postponement.”

  Lennie was in no mood to be intimidated.

  “I’m afraid I can’t agree with you. This is an urgent application and everything’s going to be pre-read. Even if we don’t get full reasons on the day, we’ll certainly get a decision.”

  “From what I’ve been led to understand, I think you’re taking too much as read. You’re not going to get any concessions from my clients, and we’ll be opposing this application and defending everything.”

  “Oh, really?” Lennie was content to take the fight to his opponent. “I’m keen to see how you’re going to explain what’s in the paralegals’ emails.”

  “You’ll see all right.” Wagstaff replied. “OK, I’ll leave it at that. You’ll get it in writing shortly, and I’ll put you on notice now that if we go off part heard next week because you fouled up your time estimate, we’ll be asking for costs.”

  “I’ll wait for your reply evidence before I say anything else. I’ll leave it at that.”

  Lennie found himself listening to the dialling tone as the phone at the other end went down on him. Some people, he thought. So much for the overriding objective of the court rules, even when the rules have to accommodate disputes as heated as this one. He realised that his opponent, in his apparent haste to sound as intimidating as possible, had not even confirmed where he was from, although the number had clearly been a local one. Logging onto the Law Society’s online directory, he found an Anthony Wagstaff listed as a partner in Lewis Hackett, a ten partner firm in Edgbaston. The name sounded familiar…..hadn’t they just merged with someone else in the city centre? He dismissed the thought, sent a quick updating email to Karen and turned back to the task of briefing his Counsel for the application.

  * * * * *

  “Coming along, then?”

  Craven looked up and realised that Roger Blake was clearly not going to take No for an answer. He had hoped that what he had heard three days earlier about Friday lunchtime pub sessions might not ensnare him after all, even though he appreciated that any opportunity to speak to some of his new colleagues in a less formal setting ought to be worthwhile. If only it did not have to be in a pub.

  With the exception of Caroline Shore and her numerous visits to hand files over, he had come to notice that very few non-partners had taken the trouble to introduce themselves properly to him, let alone pass the time of day to any extent. The two other city centre litigation partners had at least done so, and had been reasonably welcoming. One of them had even suggested a visit to what had become the Edgbaston satellite office, to meet the members of their newly expanded team. Craven mentioned that Anthony Wagstaff had interviewed him, learning in response that Wagstaff was a tough litigator who rarely gave an inch.

  Craven glanced at the client file in front of him, realising that he had reached a natural pause on the task he was addressing. He could not think of any credible reason to decline Blake’s invitation.

  “OK, I suppose so.”

  As they left the office, with Blake setting a brisk pace, Craven asked where they were heading.

  “The Old Joint Stock, on St Philip’s Place. You know it?”

  “No, sorry. I’m not from these parts.”

  “Never mind.” Blake did not take the trouble to ask where Craven lived. “I’m sure you’ll like it. We send the trainees along half an hour ahead, to make sure they bag our regular tables. Can’t take any chances with the Friday mob. Probably heaving by now.”

  Craven’s already minimal enthusiasm for the excursion ebbed away even more. He was lost for a suitable response. When they reached the entrance, Blake pushed the door open, revealing a deep crowd round all three sides of the central bar. Against his better judgment, Craven forced himself to carry on inside rather than make an excuse to leave straight away.

  “What will you have, Paul? There’s usually about six different ales on draught here. Or a few high class lagers, if that’s what you prefer.”

  “Sorry, I don’t drink. Just an orange juice for me, please.”

  Blake reacted with a fleeting glance of disbelief.

  “Whatever you say. Oh good, there’s Caroline and Niall.” Blake jostled through to the bar where he had seen his two colleagues, managed to attract a passing barman to shout a drinks order, and remembered Craven almost as an afterthought. “You know Caroline, of course. Won’t be with us much longer, but she’ll be back.”

  Blake’s delivery of the final words in low growling Terminator fashion was lost on Craven. Realising that he had been cast adrift again, as Blake engaged himself deeply in conversation with Caroline Shore, he felt a moment of panic before the intense figure to her right introduced himself as Niall Cook, and fired a series of que
stions in his direction as Blake passed their drinks over. Five minutes later, Craven was left in little doubt that Cook was a proselytising born again Christian, and wished he could find it within himself to walk away without giving offence.

  Craven’s opportunity presented itself shortly when Blake gestured towards the tables that the firm’s trainees had indeed commandeered some time earlier. With a call for food orders ringing out, Craven finally cracked as he saw the cramped seating arrangements, and decided he could stand it no more. He mumbled a barely audible excuse and made to leave. As he turned his back on the tables, the remaining Bastables litigation lawyers struck up a chorus of theatrical boos, their jovial nature utterly lost on their ever more embarrassed new recruit.

  “Don’t worry about that lot, it’s all in good humour.” The reassuring words from Blake were cold comfort. “Give it a few more sessions and you’ll be part of the furniture just like everyone else. See you here next week.”

  “Maybe.” Escaping the bedlam, Craven hurried back to the office. Once he had sat down at his desk once more, it took a number of deep breaths before he had fully recovered his composure. Although he was soon comforted by the thought of a decent spell of privacy and quiet, he made a silent vow that he would never go along to another Friday pub session for as long as he remained at the firm.

  Monday 8 th April

  Once Lennie had sat down at his desk, at the beginning of a new working week, it did not take long before he realised that his latest litigation opponent had been as good as his word. Wagstaff had written to confirm his involvement on the other side of Karen’s dispute with Avery, in tones that almost overstepped the boundaries of professional courtesy. The letterhead provided the answer to the question that Lennie had pondered earlier, confirming that ‘BLH Solicitors’ was the trading style of the newly merged firm of Bastable Lewis Hackett. Lennie’s emailed response to his new opponent was succinct.

 

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