by Avery Duff
“I’m sure it was some kind of misunderstanding.”
She rubbed her wrists with either hand, raised her eyes, and looked at him. “A . . . a . . . misunderstanding?”
“Yes, Mr. Pierce is a respected member of the bar and . . .”
She slapped the bottle away. “A misunderstanding?” her voice getting louder.
“Can you please, please, try to take it easy?”
She wasn’t listening. “He said—he told me he’d try Brian’s case if I had sex with him, and when I said no . . .”
“Alison.”
She stopped talking, still rubbing her wrists. “What?”
He had no idea what to say or do. He prayed she could calmly revisit whatever happened and change her mind. To slow her down, he asked, “Were you here alone?”
“Yes. I was alone. Here. I told you that already.”
She had not told him that, but he nodded anyway. “Right, right, you’re right.”
“When I said no, he went crazy. Grabbed my wrists and threw me against the wall. Pressed up against me, put his hand between my legs, pushed me down on the floor, and . . .”
She stopped. Even so, her narrative was the last thing he wanted to hear. On top of that, she was getting more agitated. Her breathing was faster, shallower.
“Did you—did you call the police?”
“He didn’t rape me, all right. I didn’t say he raped me. Did I ever say that?”
“No, you didn’t, of course not, but please, why don’t you come over here and sit on the couch? Then we can talk about it some more.”
“Sure,” she said. “You’re right, thank you, I’m sorry.”
He took her hand, helped her up. “Nothing for you to be sorry about, you’re gonna be—”
But she sank back to the floor, exhaling. Seconds later, she began to hyperventilate.
“What’s wrong?”
Helpless, he watched her face go white. She gasped for air. He had already hit 911 on his cell phone, even before saying, “Alison . . . please . . . don’t . . .”
Too late. She passed out and rolled over limp on the floor.
The metal plates were dented on the swinging double doors at Brotman Medical Center’s emergency room. That’s what Robert saw right after Alison disappeared behind them on a gurney. After that, he wandered around a minute or two before taking a stained cloth seat in the waiting room.
Leaning forward, eyes squeezed shut, he dug his knuckles into his forehead and went over the surreal events of the past hour or so.
When she first called his apartment, he listened to her saying Jack had done something bad, something wrong, and he agreed to come over. Her address was in the case file. He called and texted Philip. Nada, and that time of night it was only an eight-minute drive to her building in Culver City, a two-story stucco job from the seventies with open landings and rusted railings. She lived on the ground floor, right off the uncovered, spot-patched parking lot.
That late, the complex had been quiet and dark. No action on the landings. A few locked bicycles and a dead ficus. Probably hardworking Latinos and Anglos lived here, people who went to bed early. No security cameras, either, not that he could recall. Whether that was good news or bad, he wasn’t yet sure.
Not even now, pacing the parking lot outside the ER. He questioned his own actions after he took her call. What if he’d told her right then to call the police? Could have taken them an hour to get there, maybe more. Right now, she might be passed out in her apartment, and he would have failed to respond to her call for help. A client’s call for help.
Why not carry her to his car and drive her to Brotman himself? It was only a mile up Venice Boulevard from her apartment, if that. Even so, he still believed calling the ambulance was the best move. If something happened to her on the way—in his car—he would have been responsible. Forget good intentions. Once a Good Samaritan takes charge of a situation, he owns it.
No, he was on solid footing legally. So was the firm—except for her allegations about Jack Pierce.
He was dialing Philip’s cell phone again when Philip’s name showed up on his screen. About fuckin’ time, he thought as he took the call.
A swimming pool pulsed aqua light onto heliotrope bougainvillea as Sinatra sang “Summer Wind” for Philip Fanelli. At sixty-two, his gray hair thinning, Philip was only now starting to feel his age. He slipped on a terry-cloth robe in his Brentwood backyard.
Breathing hard, he said, “Sorry, Robert, I was swimming laps. What on earth couldn’t have waited till morning?”
Philip listened to Robert’s quick rendition of the night. “Oh, no,” he said. “No need for you to come over here. Stay where you are. I’ll come to you. I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER 7
Rae’s diner was closed. Same went for Tito’s at Sepulveda and the Dunkin’ Donuts by the 405. Robert and Philip wound up having a drink at the Alibi Room on Washington Boulevard.
“She had your business card, how?” Philip asked.
“From the meeting yesterday morning, first time we met.”
Philip nodded. “Firm protocol to give her your card, and there was no family member to call?”
“According to her sworn affidavit when she filed suit—and according to what she said in the meeting—she’s the only living member of her family.”
“And that factored into your decision to respond to her call?”
“I was working on her release, a three-one-oh number came up, and I thought it might be Jack calling. Calling me a second time.”
Philip nodded again. “Right, but her family situation. You knew about it from her file and from the meeting. That went into your decision to assist her, correct?”
Philip sounded like he was repeating himself, but he wasn’t. Robert got it now. “Sure, yes, it did affect my decision. Once I knew who it was, I knew she had no family to call, and she sounded desperate. She was alone, so I responded by driving to her apartment. A very short drive for me, especially that time of night.”
“Well, then, your only conceivable misstep was answering in the first place, and no one can fault you for that. When she passed out, you were with her?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, “it was intense. For the first few seconds, it crossed my mind she might be . . . dying.”
Philip didn’t respond. Robert knew they were thinking along the same lines: maybe better if she had.
Then Philip touched Robert’s shoulder. “Thinking it doesn’t mean we hoped for it.”
Robert nodded and said, “We don’t know what happened tonight, and I get that. But you weren’t in the meeting with Jack and Chase.”
“Ah, Mr. Fitzpatrick is in the mix, too? Tell me how that went.”
“They tag-teamed her, but Jack did all the heavy lifting, roughed her up really bad. Said her deceased brother—a fairly young guy—died of cancer. Said he was weak, pathetic, that ten grand was all his life was worth. Maybe that’s true, I don’t know, but there was no need for it. And he kept hassling her. No parking validation, lost track of her car down in the garage. It was all way, way over the top. Cruel, almost.”
“Cruel.” Philip nodded.
“And after she left,” Robert said, “it was just . . . if you bring a woman to tears, you’re halfway home. Ever heard that expression?”
“No.”
“Neither had I. Not until today. That’s what Jack said about her after she left the room.”
“And you think that cuts against him?”
“She was in tears in the meeting, and he brought her to it. Those were his words—his exact words. And now we’re a mile from her hospital after his alleged sexual assault, having a drink after midnight.”
“You’re halfway home,” Philip repeated. “Jack’s phrase is capable of a variety of meanings, isn’t it?”
“Not if you were in the room,” Robert said.
“Robert, we practice corporate law, but the trial boys, the litigators? They’re in the trenches every single day
. We butt heads with the opposition, of course, but they often find it effective, necessary, to get down and dirty, as they say.”
Robert couldn’t let it go yet. “He all but said something like this would happen. Not exactly the way it turned out, but . . .”
“Let’s get clear on one thing: you don’t know what happened tonight. Neither do I.”
“Sure. I know that.”
“Now,” Philip said, “if she wants to take it up with the police or file with the state bar, she’s free to do so. But never forget this—Jack Pierce is a ruthless, heartless bastard. He is relentless, and yes, he is cruel. That’s one reason why Jack is at the firm now.”
Robert considered that comment. Everyone at the firm knew why Jack had been hired. He had pulled off a big judgment against Brightwell Industries over in Nevada. Oliver, the company’s house counsel at the time, sat in on the case and watched Jack blistering Brightwell witnesses on the stand. After that, he let Philip know—only a suggestion, of course—that Jack might make a great head litigator at the firm.
Now Philip told Robert, “And never forget, not for a moment, that Jack Pierce started out in life with nothing at all. Took him years to do it, but he clawed his way to the top, and he will protect that status with everything at his disposal. Never, Robert, never will he give up what he has gained.”
Late nights poolside, Philip had discussed Jack with him. How Jack graduated from Venice High, his rough-and-tumble life, broken family, the LA race riots roiling Jack’s mixed-ethnic neighborhood. In spite of that, he made it to the top of the hill in Bel-Air. Life’s pinnacle for some people.
But Philip calling his partner cruel and ruthless, a heartless bastard? Words like that? Not even close. No matter how many bottles of wine had been opened beside Philip’s pool.
Philip had even more to say: “He isn’t a man you want to cross swords with. His memory runs long, and it runs hot; his reactions can be wildly disproportionate to a perceived offense.”
A warning and Robert knew it: Back off.
Even so, Robert asked, “I’ve been at the firm five years. In all that time, why did I never work with him?”
“You did, on a few research questions and on several contracts that I recall specifically.”
“Not one-on-one, never directly with him. The workflow always came from you and went back to you. Always, until yesterday.”
Philip nodded. “I was concerned you two might be a volatile mix, so I acted as a buffer. Then again, perhaps you aren’t asking the most pertinent question about why yesterday’s one-on-one occurred.”
Robert felt his pulse quicken. “You mean, why yesterday? Why was I working directly with him yesterday?”
Philip smiled. “It was Jack’s idea. He insisted on it before we invited you to become a partner in Fanelli and Pierce.”
He could barely breathe. “Partner? I’m making partner?”
Philip raised his glass to Robert. “Next partners’ meeting is in three days.”
“I’m going to make partner?” It was sinking in now. “Mr. Fanelli . . . I can’t . . . thank you . . .”
“You’re more than welcome. High time it happened, far as I’m concerned, but I want you to listen up, to pay heed. You need to know what I’m about to tell you, but you must hold your cards close to the vest.”
“Yes, sir.”
Philip drained his wineglass. “One year, almost to the day, after Jack married Dorothy Brightwell, he took over Brightwell Industries. They became his client.”
His client? “Didn’t you and Oliver bring them into the firm?”
“True, but I couldn’t fight it under the circumstances, with his marriage to Dorothy Brightwell, so I allowed it to happen for the good of the firm. Once Jack took control, all the Brightwell time sheets started going through him.”
He could imagine Philip’s natural disappointment in losing a client of twenty-some odd years. He knew, too, that Philip wanted no sympathy, but that didn’t change what Jack’s control of the Brightwell time sheets meant: Jack Pierce took the lion’s share of the credit for Brightwell fees. At the partner level, that gave him real power.
Philip took it even further. “That means he controls over forty percent of the firm’s gross billings. Not a good situation for the firm, being so beholden to one client, and that particular forty percent is our bread and butter. We cannot lose it. If Jack took it and went out on his own, the firm would . . . it would be quite problematic.”
“Can he do that?”
“I seriously doubt Dorothy or her father would sit still for it. Even so, you can never be certain what pressures he might bring to bear. At home. In private.”
In the bedroom with Dorothy, Robert was thinking, finding it difficult to quiet his mind.
“As you can imagine,” Philip said, “there was considerable back and forth about bringing you in. Fortunately, the quality of your work, your billable hours, and your work ethic carried the day with a majority of partners. I gave them my word I would signal nothing to you about your impending partnership, but in light of tonight’s goings-on, I think it imperative to break my word.”
“Exigent circumstances,” Robert said.
“Or not,” Philip replied. “Again, we’re in the dark as to what happened tonight, so my fervent admonition to you is this: under no circumstances mention anything to anyone, especially to Jack, about tonight’s episode.”
Goings-on. Episode. “Of course, but I told the nurse I’d check with her before I went home.”
“Then by all means, follow through. On this one, though, I’d say the fewer bread crumbs you leave behind . . .”
“The fewer the better.”
Philip checked his watch. “Well, then, I have an out-of-town guest. She’ll be worried about me.”
“She?” Robert asked, finally able to smile.
Philip left a hundred on the bar. They headed for the door.
“I’m older, Robert, not dead.” And Philip was smiling, too.
Outside, Philip chirped the locks on his Mercedes sedan. As Robert was getting inside, Philip shared one last thought: “By the way, you did a decent thing helping the Maxwell woman, taking her to the hospital. But practicing law isn’t about right and wrong. Never let yourself get emotional about clients.”
After Philip dropped him off at his car, Robert picked up his laptop from home and returned to the ER. Still, he had no luck working. Whenever he came close to settling down, Jack Pierce ricocheted around his mind.
What was it Hanalei Ragsdale said? It had to be Jack recommending she use litigation as a negotiating tactic. No doubt about it: more and more activity at the firm seemed to involve litigation, and Jack was legendary at winning. With his tailored or designer-everything, it was hard to picture him in the Venice High bleachers yelling, “Go, Gondoliers!” After that, Jack had attended UCLA and Sandra Day O’Connor College of Law at Arizona State. Odd to Robert that Jack’s law school was named after a woman, especially a Supreme Court justice. And when Jack actually practiced trial law? Tough and shrewd, even did a stint in criminal-defense work downtown, specializing in high-profile money-laundering cases.
“Mr. Worth?”
He looked up. The ER nurse walked up to him, a coffee cup miraculously balanced on her clipboard.
“How’s she doing?” he asked.
“Dr. Zweig wanted me to tell you, it was good you brought her in when you did. Doctor said it looks like tachycardia secondary to acute anxiety. Her EEG confirmed it.”
“Then she’ll be okay?”
“Doctor said she should be. Her heart rate’s getting back to an acceptable level, but doctor wants to keep her overnight for observation. Oh,” the nurse said, “Dr. Zweig noted her wrists. They’re bruised. Both of them. And she wanted to ask if you knew how that happened.”
“I have no idea. Better ask her.”
“Will do. Her family contact was left blank. Who’s the family member we should contact in an emergency?”
�
��A brother, died last year. Other than that?” He shrugged.
“Then if you’ll come to my office, sign these papers.” She headed toward a door off the waiting room. But when she turned around in the doorway, Robert was already headed out the front door.
CHAPTER 8
No doubt about it. With the hospital trip behind him, Robert decided that an all-nighter lay ahead of him. That ought to give him time to go over the Maxwell release again and to handle any last-minute questions that came up around the Palmer deal. Turned out, he made the right call. At 5:15 a.m., as he printed hard copies of the Maxwell release, an e-mail rolled in from Nashville.
The Palmer deal was in the process of blowing up. Palmer warned that it couldn’t come up with Brightwell’s certified check due at closing, claiming an Asian bank screwed up a funds wire. Robert didn’t buy in to Palmer’s excuse, and after hours of back and forth, he recommended a dry closing to Nashville counsel. All parties would sign each document. Palmer then had forty-eight hours to deliver the certified check. If it wasn’t there on time, the deal was off at Brightwell’s election, and if that happened, Palmer would be on the hook for Brightwell’s legal fees on the deal. Take it or leave it, Robert told them. And the other side took it.
Three minutes after he put out that fire, for the first time ever, Jack Pierce walked into Robert’s office, unannounced.
“Finish the Maxwell release?” he asked, even before sitting down.
“It’s right here, sir,” Robert said, trying not to let the sudden entrance throw him while guessing that throwing him off was Jack’s point.
Two hard copies lay on Robert’s desk. He handed one to Jack, kept the other for himself. Jack glanced at the first page but didn’t appear to be reading it.
“I had one item I wanted to run by you,” Robert said.
“About the release?”
“Yes, sir. I was thinking that—”
“Wait. Is what you just threw at me finished or not finished?”
Robert knew he hadn’t actually said it was finished or thrown it. He also knew it was a bad idea to argue either point. “I wanted to tell you, I made a judgment call on whether to release wrongful death claims specifically.”
