by Ralph Zeta
Vance glared at me for a moment before shifting his attention to Pamela. “Let me get this straight, Mrs. Lord,” he said. “I know you to be an intelligent and capable individual, but his is simply ill advised. Have you thought this through?”
“Please don’t answer that,” I instructed Paula. “Vance, you know me well. You must know we didn’t come empty handed today. Mr. Lord is determined to deprive Mrs. Lord of everything she is entitled to. He is playing a very dangerous game. That sword cuts both ways. I think Mr. Lord should consider very seriously the fact that Mrs. Lord is here today to stand up to him and say ‘no’ to Peter Lord, the self-anointed king of fine women’s garments and even finer leather goods a man who can dress any woman far better than anyone else, regardless of gender or persuasion, I might add. As a matter of fact, I am told Peter Lord can screw a man as well or better than any woman out there.” I was reaching now, pushing buttons, dropping the gauntlet. The gloves were indeed off now.
There were exasperated gasps from the partners. The assistants wore frowns of disbelief. Vance scowled at me. Rubinstein shook his head in revulsion. Fountain just glowered down at the tabletop. Pamela, not the combative sort, just lowered her head and averted her eyes.
“Is this really necessary, Jason?” said Vance, always the voice of reason.
Rubinstein huffed, “This is not only insulting but a colossal waste of time!”
I let the outburst pass. Rubinstein appeared a tad more wound up than his usual uptight self. I had known that the remark would cause a stir. I did not want to be the cause of his appendix busting or an aneurysm. I was being facetious, even obnoxious, but it was a calculated gamble. My intention was to get under their skin, and if (as I expected) Mr. Lord was physically closer than his lawyers were letting on, I wanted to force his hand. I wanted him to lose his cool. Most of all, I wanted him to come out and confront his wife. I wanted him embarrassed in front of these men. I wanted his carefully crafted all-American-male facade demolished in front of the very woman he now sought to destroy. I wanted to leave him but one option: to do the right thing.
“I agree,” I said to Vance as I directed my gaze at him. I knew him to be a smart player, a shrewd lawyer and a negotiator who loved getting to the crux of difficult matters sooner rather than later. “Sam’s right: I am wasting valuable time. My apologies, gentlemen.”
It was time.
Vance seemed to like my apology. He nodded at me and went on. “In any event, I believe you are a smart woman, Mrs. Lord. But this course of action is not a smart move. Turning down Mr. Lord’s offer and choosing instead to go to court is simply not in your best interests. You could end up with nothing and lose your children, too. Is that a risk you’re willing to take?”
“I don’t think it will come to that, Vance,” I said as I again reached into my briefcase and pulled out some files. All red folders this time, to indicate the nature of their content: hot, inflammatory. “As individuals, we are all defined by the choices we make.” I contemplated the stack of folders in my hands for a moment, as if pondering what I was about to do. It was all theatrics. “Most of the time,” I continued, “the choices we make are mundane events, like what to have for breakfast or what color tie to wear. But every now and then, we are faced with a significant choice, one imbued with lifelong consequences. Big decisions. Bold choices that can ruin someone or propel him or her into the realm of greatness. Think Oprah.”
“Oprah!” Rubinstein threw his arms up in disbelief. “Is this for real?”
“What are you getting at, Justice?” Fountain finally chimed in. “Unlike you, we don’t have all day. We have more than one client to tend to, you know?”
I regarded Fountain. The man was a tool. His barb was not unexpected. He didn’t care much for me, had even declared himself my “enemy.” It was a shared sentiment. He had his hands carefully folded on the table, an exasperated look on his hawklike features. I wondered how anyone could ever work with someone with manicured nails. I wondered if he shaved his body hair, too.
“Walter!” I gushed. “So glad you decided to join us.”
Although he looks to be in his early fifties, Walter Fountain is probably just a few years older than I. The youngest of the senior partners, he eyes everyone with great mistrust and therefore uses language and facial expressions sparingly. He is a ruddy, thin guy with fastidiously trimmed graying blond hair and a matching goatee that looks fake but isn’t. In his sober, perfectly tailored suits, matching loafers, and gold cufflinks, the man says little and gives away even less. His only downside as a litigator is his short fuse.
“Screw you,” Fountain muttered.
“Do something for me, will you, Walter?” I replied. I knew which buttons to push. “Promise you’ll never change not even one single perfect hair.” I heard a muffled giggle from Pamela.
“Fuck you, asshole!” Fountain hissed.
“Mr. Fountain! That will be enough!” Vance placed a meaty paw on his partner’s narrow shoulder. “I will not tolerate this kind of behavior from anyone!”
“You forget to take your medicines again, Walter?” I remarked with feign concern, unable to stop myself.
“I don’t have to put up with his shit, do I?” Walter whined.
“Okay, that’s quite enough,” Vance interrupted. “Control yourself or I’ll be forced to ask you to leave this meeting. Am I making myself clear?”
An uneasy silence fell over the already chilly conference room. Vance knew me well. He knew of my dislike for his partner, and he also knew I could rattle Fountain at will. “Jason,” he said, “please get on with it.”
I slid a red file folder to each of the partners. I wanted them to see the contents of the files at the same time, because I wanted their collective reaction to carry beyond the confines of the room. I wanted Peter Lord to hear them, too.
“Gentlemen,” I said as the men took in the images before them, “what you have before you is, shall we say, something of a game changer.”
“What is this?” Rubinstein exclaimed, a look of disbelief creasing his swarthy features. He rushed thorough the large glossies quickly and noisily as if his brain refused to acknowledge what the eyes captured: images of Peter Lord in intimate attitudes with several younger men.
The first image depicted a casually dressed Peter and a young, attractive male. They sat next to each other in a dark booth at a restaurant, Peter’s hand resting on the younger man’s leg, too close to the crotch to be accidental. The next image revealed Peter and another young man, this one in his twenties, leaving a quaint hotel along a dark lake. Affixed with a brass holder to the opposite side of the file were a second group of images close-ups. These, taken from some distance through a large window, featured men scantily dressed in black leather and plenty of chrome, one holding a whip and another a leash men engaged in an S-and-M bondage fantasy. The faces were clear as day, with no possibility of a mistake. Not conclusive proof that Peter Lord was other than the man he portrayed himself to be, but suggestive enough to warrant attention. If these were made public, they would do untold harm to his meticulously fashioned public image. Still, the images alone did not prove that Peter Lord was in violation of the cheating provision in the prenuptial agreement, and I certainly didn’t expect the men before me to be suddenly swayed and rush off to advise Peter Lord to settle.
It would be challenging, but the situations captured in those images could be explained as innocent encounters taken out of context innocuous happenstances of time and place, which, while suggestive and embarrassing, at the end of the day proved nothing and did not further our case. Fine. True enough. While the potential damage to the man’s brand and business reputation was not a trivial matter, I was more concerned with Peter Lord’s reaction to these potentially explainable images. I wanted him to know that the implied threat within was far greater than the pictures suggested. I wanted him to know that I knew his secret, that there was more. I had images that I was certain would convince Peter Lord to recons
ider his position. The images revealed thus far were the tip of the iceberg, a warning shot over the prow. I prayed he wouldn’t force my hand. I did not wish to disseminate the contents of my file beyond the confines of the conference room. I did not want to harm him, his company, or the thousands of good people employed by the Lord America Group, Inc.
I stared at Rubinstein and said, “Please tell me I don’t need to explain the pictures to you.”
“This is nothing but garbage,” Rubinstein scoffed, and he spun the file back across the table. “You’ve got nothing, counselor. You hear me? This gets you nothing!”
“What did I tell you?” Walter was looking at Vance. He closed the folder noisily and shoved it back at me. “Expect a stunt like this. I mean, we all know how he operates, don’t we? Underhanded dealings, intimidation, blackmail. Coerce opposing party with some dirty trick that is Mr. Justice’s brand of justice, isn’t it?”
“Jason,” Vance said, motioning for Fountain to back down, “I’m afraid Mr. Rubinstein is correct. The pictures may be considered suggestive by some, I’ll grant you, but they don’t change the facts in this case, so I fail to see the point. What is it that you hoped to accomplish? Please tell me this is not an attempt to blackmail my client into a deal.”
I remained silent for a long moment and shook my head. I had no choice but to make my move. Leaning in closer to the starfish-looking gizmo on the table, I said, “Peter Lord, I know you can hear me.”
The room fell silent. The partners gazed back and forth at each other in disbelief.
“Are you kidding me?” Rubinstein said to no one in particular.
“Jason,” Vance said, “you’re way out of line here.”
I ignored them and pressed on. “Mr. Lord, you know what comes next. It’s up to you.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Walter Fountain hissed. He looked almost ready to spring at me.
I ignored him and fished out another file from my briefcase. “Suit yourself.” I glanced at a page in the file and said, “Does four-four-four Christopher Street, loft six-B, in Greenwich Village, New York, circa August twelfth of the current year, mean anything to you?”
Suddenly a side door to the conference room swung open. A tall, tanned, lanky man with rugged good looks and a mop of curly silver hair burst into the conference room. I recognized him immediately.
The room fell silent, and Pamela let out a gasp. It was Peter Lord in the flesh. Behind him, a large, squarish-looking man in a tight black suit, with a dark glare of distrust about him, entered the conference room. Hired muscle Lord’s security detail. The lawyers came to their feet.
“Peter!” Vance said, obviously embarrassed by the turn of events.
“Mr. Lord, sir!” Rubinstein said as he approached him. “We are very sorry about this...”
Peter Lord ignored them. His dark hooded eyes bored into mine with contempt and perhaps a dash of spite. He buttoned his navy blue sport jacket and took another step toward me. His eyes found the file in my hand. He extended a hand to ask for it. I handed it to him. Even if he and his goon ran away with it, I had copies safely stashed away. Peter Lord took a long moment to shuffle through the contents of the file and then unceremoniously closed it. The sound of the folder closing in his hands seemed disproportionately loud in the heavy silence. The file in his hands contained perhaps a dozen intimate pictures pictures that proved conclusively that Peter Lord had not only cheated on his wife but had done so with other men. Not so good for his image as the rugged all-American, thoroughly heterosexual male.
“I assume I will get everything. No copies will be saved anywhere by anyone. Negatives, too, if any exist. Yes?”
I nodded.
“And no one will ever disclose or have access to any of this material. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I replied.
Peter Lord held my gaze for a long moment. “How do I know you are a man of your word, Mister... ?”
“The name is Justice. Jason Justice,” I said curtly.
“Can I count on your discretion, Mr. Justice?”
“What does your gut tell you, Mr. Lord?”
Another long silence ensued. He probed my face as if searching for something. The look of contempt vanished, replaced with a knowing glare that said he knew he had no choice. After another long moment, he finally said, “Very well. We have a deal.”
“Well, then.” He turned and faced Pamela. “I commend you, Pamela. Didn’t think you had it in you.” She merely gave him a gracious smile and a curt nod.
“Vance, see to it that the document with the new terms is ready for my signature today.” Then, to me, he said, raising the folder, “I take it you have no further use for these?”
“All yours.”
Peter Lord turned toward the door and silently left the room, his burly bodyguard in tow.
Not much else was said in the conference room. Rubinstein and Fountain left without a parting glance while Vance stayed behind and apologized for his partner’s behavior. He would personally review Paula’s settlement offer and present it to Mr. Lord that very day. We shook hands, and Pamela and I left, feeling a bit giddy.
Two
Speed is as powerful a tonic as any. Roaring over the dark expanse of Lake Worth, I banked the powerful motorcycle into a hard turn and headed west on Royal Park Bridge, leaving the ritzy skyline of Palm Beach to fade in the rearview mirror. The wind was picking up, and the skies were quickly darkening as a stiff breeze pushed a heavy slate-colored canopy before it. Rain was not far behind.
Another turn had me heading north on South Flagler Drive toward my law office. Beneath me, the four-cycle engine of my Ducati Superbike 1198 R Course growled eagerly. I twisted the throttle, and the bike lunged forward like a startled thoroughbred. Clearing the turn, I twisted the throttle again and shifted up through the gears. My navy blue suit jacket billowed behind me in the wind, and my silk tie whipped out behind the full-face helmet. The big red and white bike roared forward, tach needle edging up toward 8,000 rpm, its powerful 180-horse engine, straddled inches below my crotch, thrusting me forward into the warm, humid air. Of course, the bike was capable of much more, but city streets were not the place for it. Although fairly wide at four lanes, Flagler Drive was a well-traveled city street with a posted speed limit of thirty-five. I had reached close to eighty in a little over two seconds. I eased off the gas and lightly tapped on the brake handle. The massive dual front disk brakes bit hard and quickly decelerated the bike to just under forty. The wind that only seconds before had buffeted me with the ferocity of a tropical cyclone suddenly became almost pleasant, and my suit jacket no longer felt as though it was being ripped to tatters. My tie came to rest somewhere over my shoulder.
I was in a bit of a hurry to get to the office, which was odd for me. I never really hurried toward work this late in the day, especially not on a Friday. Friday afternoons were usually downtime for me. As far as I was concerned, law practice was a convenient way to earn a living. I had no agenda and no delusions of making a difference in the world. There were pretenders and do-gooders aplenty already. For me, being a lawyer was just something I did to earn a living. It made me enough money to do most of the things I wanted to do. Like most people, I detest having to work for someone else. Nor do I care much for ringing phones, nagging spouse or partners, headline news, sanctimonious television preachers or news anchors, professional wrestling, porn stars, button-down shirts, full-Windsor knots, wingtips, crowded courtrooms, and the endless mediation sessions so common to the not-so-common world of nine-figure divorces. Fortunately, this area of the law gives me some flexibility, and my time is my own, which is precisely the reason family law became my area of practice. Also, I get to pick and choose my clients. I have no one to report to and no partners to contend with. Whatever happens is entirely up to me. I’ve had stellar years and some less-than-stellar years. This was one of the latter. The bad economy had taken its toll in all areas of life, including domestic Armageddon.
My specialty is high-net-worth divorces involving prenuptial agreements. If it’s in writing, I can usually find a way around the offending clause. My work and, therefore, my reputation has not won me many friends. Sour ex-spouses have a tendency to harbor a grudge. When it comes to money lost and money won, memory tends to endure in direct proportion to how much of their fortune was affected as a result of my direct involvement. There have been even been a few death threats. As far as Vance and his partners are concerned, however, I rank right down there with the lowest ambulance chasers, extortionists, and blackmailers, and just a couple of notches above child molester.
Despite their disapproval of my methods and tactics, Vance and, to some extent, Rubinstein are polite enough to treat me with the same modicum of courtesy they afford their midlevel partners. In their haughty yacht-club eyes, I’m a nonconformist, and even if I try my best to conform, I will never match their idea of someone you invite over for dinner. My hair is on the longish side and often disheveled, my arms are a little too thick and sinewy, I have a tattoo here and there and a few ragged scars that make me look more jailbird than Ivy Leaguer, and I’ve been told that my manners sometimes come across as a bit threatening. To make matters worse, I don’t take myself or my profession too seriously, and I live by a few simple rules. Something unacceptable to serious lawyer types and therefore deemed objectionable in their lofty circles. When I don’t absolutely have to wear a suit, I default to jeans and T-shirt, if not swimming trunks. And whatever the situation, I never wear khaki clothing of any type or brown, green, any shade of pink, or periwinkle. My work wardrobe consists of several suits in dark blue, pinstriped navy blue, dark gray, darker gray, and plain old black. I also have a tux stashed away for those blessedly rare formal occasions. Shirts are not where I choose to make a statement. The color doesn’t matter as long as it’s white or light blue. I do allow some room for self-expression when it comes to ties. Shoes? Size twelve, double D, so they had to be comfortable. Choices there were just as limited; at work I wore basic burgundy or black loafers. Otherwise it was sneakers or sandals. Socks, depending on the occasion, were optional.
