“Come on in, Prachi,” Maureen called.
Prachi steeled herself before she crossed the threshold and entered the room. Phil positioned himself in the open doorway with his arms folded across his chest. Maureen gave him a startled look. “That’ll be all, Phil.”
“No, ma'am. Given the situation, I was instructed to stay while you meet with her.” His voice was firm.
The situation? Okay, they definitely knew about the lab. Prachi started formulating her defense: She hadn't taken any office supplies. She’d used her own funds to acquire the material. She hadn’t even ‘borrowed’ a sample from the affected batch, yet. And she’d done all the work on her own time. While she was sure they would have preferred that she put in extra hours working on the database, her understanding of American labor law was that she could do as she wished outside of her scheduled work hours. She swallowed the cascade of arguments that wanted to pour forward. Better to wait to learn how much Maureen knew. There was no reason to confess to more than was necessary.
Maureen was still focused on the security guard. She said, “I appreciate management's concern, Phil. However, I know Dr. Agarwal quite well, and I'm not afraid of her.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” Phil gave a not-at-all-sorry shrug.
She fixed him with a sour look. “I need to speak to her in private. If you feel you must stay, you can post up outside the door.”
He scratched at his crew cut while he considered the compromise. Finally, he nodded. “Okay. I guess that works.” He took a step backward, turned, and closed the door behind him.
Prachi could see him through the frosted glass. He stood, blocking the doorway, with his arms folded across his chest.
She faced Maureen. Because she couldn't imagine what to say, she said nothing at all.
Maureen took a lined notepad and pen from a pile behind her and placed them precisely in the center of her desk. After they were arranged to her liking, she said, “Please have a seat, Dr. Agarwal.”
Prachi scurried to the visitor's chair and sat the way she'd been taught at grammar school: knees together; ankles crossed; her hands primly interlaced in her lap.
“I imagine you know why you're here,” Maureen began.
“Actually, I’m not entirely sure.”
She gave Prachi a close look.
“You're fortunate that Mr. Jefferson chose not press charges against you. But this is still a serious situation.”
Charges? Prachi squinted at her. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”
“It's very simple. Your behavior in his office—throwing a picture frame at him and breaking the glass—technically qualifies as an assault. He would be well within his right to call the police. But as it is, he's not even making a formal workplace complaint provided you attend an anger management class and there are no further infractions.”
Prachi stared at her wordlessly.
She went on. “Frankly, I think the only reason he's being so gracious is that we’re backed into a corner on this database project. We can’t very well revoke our sponsorship of your visa and send you home.”
“I didn’t throw anything at Mr. Jefferson,” she finally managed to say. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I saw the broken glass in his office. He said you flew into a rage when he told you there’s no room in the budget for an assistant to help you with data entry.”
“I didn’t—”
“I do understand that you're under a lot of pressure, Prachi, and that the timeline is tight. But’s it just not professional to have an outburst like that. At least, it’s not in keeping with our workplace culture.”
“That's not what happened,” Prachi protested.
The sympathy drained from Maureen’s face and she held up a hand. “Please stop. I'm not debating this with you. If you’re going to continue to work here, you’re required to take an anger management class.”
Prachi bit down hard on her lower lip. This was not the time to say what she was thinking. “I understand.”
“Good. Now, if there’s nothing else we need to discuss, I’ll—”
“Actually, there is.” Despite her best efforts, Prachi simply couldn’t stop herself. “You should know that Peter Jefferson is going to sell a product that hasn't passed the requisite heavy metals testing.”
Maureen’s voice was like ice water. “Don’t even bother. He predicted you’d try to concoct a counter-story. Until you've completed the anger management course, you are not to have any direct contact with Peter. You'll need to go through my office if you need to interact with anyone in Product Development and Innovation. Are we clear?”
“Yes. Crystal.” She dug her fingernails into her palms. She had to get out of this office before she really did lose her temper.
And then the memory of slamming Mr. Jefferson’s office door flashed through her mind. The force must’ve knocked over a picture frame on his desk and broken it. But why on earth would he tell Maureen she’d thrown it at him? It made no sense—no, actually, it made all the sense in the world. By claiming she’d gotten violent, he’d effectively forestalled her from making a stink about the testing results or, at a minimum, guaranteed that no one would believe her if she did.
Maureen was watching her face, so Prachi attempted a smile. “I apologize for letting my temper get the best of me. May I go now? I do have quite a lot of work to do.”
“Of course. Here’s the information about the anger management program. This particular class is for women only. I think it could help you a good bit.” She extended an envelope toward Prachi.
Prachi hesitated—her fingers hovering inches from the paper—then, as resignation settled in her gut, she plucked it from between Maureen’s fingers. “Thanks,” she mumbled.
“I hope you know I don’t want you to fail—I want you to succeed.”
She couldn’t bring herself to respond to Maureen’s treacly tone. She bobbed her head.
“That'll be all. Phil will walk you back to your work station.”
8
An unfamiliar wave of self-consciousness hit Sasha as she walked into the Law Offices of McCandless & Volmer. She told herself she was being silly. The people who worked with her and Will weren’t just employees or colleagues—they were among her closest friends. Nobody in the firm was going to judge her. She’d been dreading this moment since Will and Naya had picked her up from jail the night before.
Even when they dropped her off—in the sanctuary of her own home—she could barely meet Connelly’s eyes. Thanks to Maisy’s help, he’d put the twins to bed, and they were sleeping soundly. Sasha had stood in the nursery for a long time, looking down at them as if she were trying to memorize every small detail—Finn’s cherub cheeks, rosy and fat; the way Fiona threw her arm over her brother, protective of him even in sleep. Connelly had crept into the room and stood beside her. He’d wrapped his arm around her waist and murmured in her ear that everything was going to be okay.
She’d slept fitfully and woke with a knot in the pit of her stomach at the thought of going to work. It was a sensation she hadn’t felt since her associate days at Prescott & Talbott. But she wasn't an associate; she was a name partner and a principal in the firm, which meant she needed to get her butt into the office and run her business. So she’d showered, gulped down her morning coffee, and snuck out of the house while Leo and the kids were still sleeping.
Now she hesitated outside the lobby door. You didn't do anything wrong, she reminded herself. As far as mantras went, it had limited effectiveness. But it gave her the determination she needed to push the door open and hurry through the lobby. She breezed by the reception desk with her head down and mumbled a hello in the general direction of Kim, the friendliest of their receptionists—the one who always asked after the twins.
Once she was safely ensconced in her office, she closed the door firmly behind her and leaned against it for a moment. A knock sounded from the other side, startling her.
“Mac?” Naya’
s voice called. “Open up. I have coffee.”
She turned and opened the door. Naya extended an oversized mug from Jake’s.
She took it gratefully. “Thanks.”
Naya narrowed her eyes. “I figured you could use a boost. And I know you don’t need a lecture.”
“But?” Sasha sipped the coffee and waited for whatever scolding was coming.
“But you can’t hide in here forever. It makes you look guilty.”
“I’m embarrassed.”
“So? Get over it. Do you think you were wrong to help that drunk girl?”
“No. But …”
“But what? But nothing. If you think you did the right thing, act like it already.”
She would have answered, but Naya was already walking away. She left her door ajar and took her coffee to her desk and powered up her laptop.
Naya’s words rattled around in her brain while she went through her morning routine of answering emails and reading legal articles online.
She had just pulled up a set of interrogatories that she needed to answer when someone rapped on her office door. The door swung in, and Jordana, the part-time filing clerk, stuck her head in.
“Hey, Sasha.”
“Why aren’t you in school?”
Jordana was still in high school, so she mainly worked summers, school holidays, and a few weekend hours, here and there.
“Administrative day. My mom didn't want me to spend the day at home playing Minecraft, so I asked Naya to schedule me.”
“Are you doing anything interesting?” Sasha asked, already knowing what the answer would be. To Jordana, it was all interesting—even the most mundane work seemed glamorous to the teen.
“Yes! I’m helping Caroline organize all the articles that Will’s written. He’s published a lot. I’m reading them as we go. He’s been involved in some cool criminal cases.”
Sasha couldn’t help but smile at the girl’s enthusiasm. Will had definitely handled some interesting representations in the course of his white-collar defense career. But she’d read enough of his writing to know that ‘dry’ was the most apt descriptor.
“Great. So what can I do for you?”
“Will asked Caroline if you were in yet, so I said I’d walk down and check. He wants you to stop by when it’s convenient.”
“Tell him I’ll come to see him after I answer these interrogatories.”
“Will do.” Jordana nodded before disappearing from view.
The interrogatories weren’t all that pressing, but she knew that Will would likely want to discuss his breakfast meeting with the district attorney’s office, which would no doubt prove distracting. And she needed to focus on work for at least part of the day.
Will’s door was open, so she walked in.
“I heard you wanted to see me.”
He looked up from The Wall Street Journal. “Did you get your interrogatories taken care of?”
“Pretty much.”
“Good. And how are you feeling this morning?”
“Fine.”
He studied her face. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. To be completely honest, I was feeling ashamed of myself, but I had a conversation that reminded me I didn’t do anything wrong.” She gave him a level look. “If I could go back in time, I don’t think I’d do anything differently.”
He frowned. “In that case, I admire your conviction, but I’m afraid you aren’t going to like what I have to report. Pull up a seat.”
She took the visitor’s chair across from him and braced for the worst. “You met with ADA Lewis?”
“I did. The man you beat up is a fellow by the name of Steve Harold. There’s no dispute about the fact that Mr. Harold was pestering those three young women. Lewis said that the witness statements from all support your version of events. And Annie, the woman who was the target of Mr. Harold’s attention, told the interviewer that she and her friends were beginning to feel very unsafe and were unsure about what to do when you came over.”
So far, this didn’t sound bad, but Will’s serious expression kept her from getting her hopes up.
He continued. “While it’s lucky for them that you were there, it’s perhaps unlucky for you.”
“Didn’t the witnesses corroborate that Harold took the first swing? He tried to lay hands on me first.”
Will nodded. “Yes, Lewis agrees that it went down that way.”
“So what’s the problem? I was in imminent peril of bodily harm.” She was rusty on her criminal self-defense theories, but even a first-year law student knew imminent peril.
“Ah, but there’s the rub. The district attorney isn’t so sure you were. Mr. Lewis noted that you’re highly trained in self-defense and hand-to-hand combat. So you were far more equipped than the ordinary person to handle yourself in a physical altercation. And the hapless Mr. Harold never actually laid hands on you, did he? He tried to push you and you neutralized him. Then he attempted to hit you with a bottle, and you, well, you incapacitated him.”
“Are you saying I should have let him push me—or crack me over the head with a bottle?” Surely that’s not what he was saying.
“I know it sounds ludicrous, but that is Lewis’s position. He believes you may have responded with greater force than was commensurate to the threat you faced.” Will delivered the news in a sad tone.
“How can he mean that? I mean, look at me.” All her life, she’d been underestimated because of her size. Now, finally, someone was going to discount the fact that she was not quite five feet tall and just shy of a hundred pounds, and it was going to inure to her detriment? What a crock.
Will nodded and his voice took on the faintest hint of hope. “Right. Lewis knows if this goes to a jury they're going to take one look at you—especially compared to Mr. Harold—and return a swift not guilty verdict.”
“So …. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that Harold's causing a real ruckus. But I think I've worked out a deal with the district attorney's office.”
A deal. She didn’t like the sound of a deal. “You know I'm not going to admit to any wrongdoing, right? Because I didn't do anything wrong.”
“I surmised as much.” He stood and walked around to the front of his desk. He leaned against it and looked down at her. “You and I and the district attorney's office all know that their case is a loser. But we all also know that the process of going to trial will harm your reputation and possibly the firm’s, as well. You need to think about your employees and your family.”
“But—”
“If you thought it was embarrassing to be fingerprinted and photographed for a mug shot, you really won’t enjoy being dragged through the mud in a criminal trial.”
“I know that, Will.”
He kept talking. “Everything will be fair game, and—”
It was her turn to interrupt. “What do you mean, everything? I don't have anything to hide,” she bristled.
“Come on, Sasha. Be realistic. You’ve been involved in how many situations where the police were called?” He started ticking off names on his fingers. “Laura Peterson; those sisters up in Firetown; Jeffrey Bricker; the knife fight with the coroner—”
That was a bridge too far. “Hang on, wait a minute. It wasn’t a knife fight. It was a stabbing—and I was the victim.”
“And, then, of course, there's the FBI agent whose neck you broke—and that’s just a partial list.”
“He fell,” she argued, frustrated and flustered.
“You see? They’ll bring up each of your past … escapades, and you’ll be forced to explain. And you know what Noah always used to say.”
“If you’re explaining, you’re losing.”
“Precisely. Now, again, I don’t think you’d lose in the sense of a guilty verdict. But I’m confident reliving each of those events in public would be difficult, demoralizing, and damaging.”
“How would that all even be admissible? It’s past conduct.” She hated t
he panic she heard in her voice.
“Perhaps. Or it perhaps would be deemed admissible to show pattern and practice. Do you really want to find out? Or do you want to agree to Accelerated Rehabilitative Disposition without entering a guilty plea?”
She narrowed her eyes. “That’s the deal? ARD?”
“Yes. You’d be on probation for six months and you would have to complete a court-supervised anger management program for first-time female offenders.”
She shook her head. “Will, I really don’t think that’s called for.”
“Your record would be expunged. You wouldn’t have to report anything to the Bar.”
She stared at him wordlessly.
“Honestly,” he continued, “it’s probably no more painful than the average CLE course.”
“Did you really just equate a court-supervised anger management program for criminal offenders with a continuing legal education class?” He was pulling out all the stops.
“It’s a fair offer—it’s more than fair. It’s a get out of jail free card. At least talk it over with Leo.”
She stood, her pulse thumping in her throat. “I will. And listen, it’s not that I’m not grateful for what you’ve done, meeting with Lewis and getting him to make the deal. It’s just …”
He studied her face for a moment after she trailed off. “It’s just that you don’t believe you did anything wrong. I know. But I also know that clients tend to get nervous when their lawyers are caught up in criminal investigations.”
Something in the way he said it gave her pause. “Did a specific client say something already?”
He pulled the day’s Pittsburgh Legal Journal out from underneath The Wall Street Journal that he’d been reading and handed it to her. “Not yet. But you made the PLJ.”
Imminent Peril Page 4
