The metal door to the snack room swung open. Prachi wiped away her tears, mortified that someone was going to see her crying. She'd assumed all her classmates had gone out to smoke cigarettes during their ten-minute respite, but the door opened to reveal the miniature brunette bar fighter standing in the doorway.
She regarded Prachi with an expression of warm concern, which had the unfortunate effect of making Prachi cry harder. Prachi buried her face in her hands.
“Hey, hey,” the woman—Sasha with the hyphenated name—said as she walked quickly across the linoleum floor. “Are you okay?” she crouched beside Prachi’s chair.
Prachi peeked out at her from between her hands. “No, I suppose I'm not okay.” She spoke haltingly as she tried to explain, “I don't belong here. I don't have an anger problem.”
The other woman chose her words with care. “Regardless of whether you think you should be here, it’s clear that Karen Hogan’s not going to let any of us get out of saying that we have a problem. My unsolicited, free advice, which is worth exactly what you pay for it, is to get with the program. Do the exercises and tell her what she wants to hear, so you can get on with your life.”
Prachi stared at her in amazement. Were all Americans so pragmatic and unprincipled?
“Why should I say I have a problem that I don't have?” Her frustration rose, and she slammed her hands down on the table in front of her.
Sasha raised an eyebrow and said pointedly, “I’m pretty sure that’s the sort of thing Karen doesn’t want us to be doing.”
Prachi laughed weakly. “Okay, I freely admit that I’m frustrated. But that's because I’ve been sent to this class to solve a problem I don't have. It's absurd.”
Sasha nodded and glanced behind her as if she wanted to confirm nobody could hear her. “Just between me and you and the vending machine, I couldn't agree more. I stopped a man from sexually assaulting a young woman who’d had too much to drink. For my troubles, he tried to attack me. All I did was defend myself. It’s not fair that I’m here.”
“But why are you so accepting of it?”
“Because I have a district attorney who's ready to file a criminal complaint against me if I don't take this class. You have an employer who’s willing to send you back to India if you don’t take this class. I don’t know about you, but I’ve worked too hard to get where I am. I’m not going to throw it all away because of pride.”
Prachi sniffled. She, too, had worked hard to achieve her place in the world. And she certainly didn’t want to return home under these circumstances—disgraced, ashamed. “I understand that. But how can I let him victimize me like this?”
“Who?”
“An executive vice president at the company where I work. He's the one who lied and said I threw a picture frame, which I assuredly did not. I did leave his office frustrated because he refused to listen to me about some test results, but I didn't throw anything.”
Sasha’s green eyes were thoughtful. “These test results are important, aren’t they?”
Prachi hesitated, unsure of how much to say. Finally, she settled on the short and sweet truth. “Yes. It’s a safety issue.”
“And you think your company sent you here in an effort to keep you quiet?”
“Of course. They concocted this anger problem so I’m under a threat of deportation. They want to cow me into silence. I’m working on a time-sensitive project; I’m sure that’s the only reason they haven’t already fired me.”
“Hmm.”
Prachi chewed on her lower lip for a moment and considered whether to trust this stranger. But the reality was, there was nobody else she could tell. And something about the woman gave her comfort. She lowered her voice and confided, “I'm constructing a laboratory of my own to re-run the test. If they won't do it, I will.”
“It seems they’ve misjudged you. You're a fighter.”
Prachi bristled.
Sasha continued, “I don't mean that in a bad way, not at all. You'll persevere to do what you think is right. Consequences be damned.”
It was true, Prachi thought, although part of her wished it weren’t. This woman didn't know about the trash-picking jobs, the slums she’d lived in, or how much her family had sacrificed to give her a chance. University and then a job in the United States had been the end goal her entire life—and now she was in danger of losing it all.
“I suppose so. That’s what my name means—fighter.”
Sasha smiled. “Great name. Well, look, I know a thing or two about being underestimated. Now, I’d prefer that you don't share what I’m about to tell you with our classmates.”
She paused and waited for Prachi to nod her agreement.
“I’m an attorney.”
Prachi scrunched up her face. “That’s your shameful secret?”
“I’m not ashamed of it. It’s just the fact that I specialize in commercial litigation. I wouldn’t want Lani, Gracelyn, or Carla to think that I could help with family law or criminal issues, which it sounds as if they have—in spades. I don’t say it to be unkind; it’s just the reality.”
“I see. But then, why are you telling me this?”
“Because I do know enough employment law to know that you likely have a whistleblower claim, as well as a retaliation claim against your employer.”
“No, I don’t want to sue. Surely they’ll cancel my visa,” she said, panicked at the mere thought of a legal battle.
“Take it easy. You may not want to file a complaint, but you need to protect yourself—particularly if you don’t plan to drop your concerns about this safety issue. Retain a lawyer, just so you have someone in your corner if—more likely when—the time comes. Think of it as mutually assured destruction.”
Prachi considered this. “You can help me?”
“No, I’m not qualified. And the only thing worse than representing yourself is being represented by an incompetent attorney.” She removed a business card from her wallet and scrawled a name on the back. “This man specializes in employment and immigration law. He’s very good. Call his office first thing in the morning and tell him I referred you. I’ll send him an email when I get home tonight to let him know he’ll be hearing from you.”
“Thank you,” Prachi said. The words felt insufficient. Relief that someone was finally listening, finally willing to help her, warmed her from the inside out, much like a hot mug of her mother’s fragrant chai used to warm her when she wasn’t feeling well as a little girl.
“Don't mention it. Come on, we’d better get back before Mrs. Hogan locks us out.”
11
The crisis management consultant looked down at his cell phone display with a mixture of irritation and wonder. Although the nature of his job dictated he make a telephone number available to his clients, he took pains to impress upon them that they were not to call him after he’d been engaged to perform work unless there was a true emergency.
His explanation was sufficiently colorful, and the promised consequences sufficiently dire, that—to a man—no client had ever called. Until now.
“Yes?” he answered in a clipped tone, devoid of emotion.
“We have a problem.” Charles Merriman endeavored to keep the emotion out of his voice, as well, but with no success.
“I’m taking care of your problem,” he assured the man, placing slight emphasis to remind him that they didn’t share ownership of the problem—or anything else for that matter.
“No, you don’t understand—”
“The process is underway. The attorney is being neutralized. The wheels are in motion; you just need to sit back and be patient.”
“No, there's a new wrinkle,” Merriman insisted. “Something else has popped up. I need you to help out with it.”
The consultant bristled. He wasn’t a cleanup crew. He considered himself a surgeon—a precision operator, not a generalist. “Is this new problem related to my work for you?”
“No. Well, yes. I suppose it depends on how you look at
it. This issue could jeopardize the transaction that we hired you to protect from that … other situation.”
The consultant waited for him to finish hemming and hawing. “Is this problem related to the arbitration?”
“Not exactly. But it is related to the subject matter of the arbitration.”
The consultant considered this. He was a great believer in the saying ‘pigs get fed; hogs get slaughtered.’ He strove for complete satisfaction and would not ordinarily charge for any ancillary work that came up after he was engaged by a client. At the same time, unlike most service providers, he wasn't interested in repeat business—it was simply too risky. He liked to get in, get the job done, and get out. Never to be contacted again. And yet, if this new issue could undermine his work, that wouldn’t do.
Finally, his mind made up, he said, “I’m willing to discuss entering into a second, separate arrangement to handle this new issue. The compensation terms would be the same, including a new retainer.”
His listened for pushback. Pushback would mean this wasn't as big of a problem as the client wanted him to believe—maybe the man was just looking for a freebie. It was, after all, the American way. But no pushback came.
“Of course. Whatever you need. I’ll arrange for the wire transfer. When can we meet? There's some urgency here. We have a rogue employee who—”
“Not over the phone.” It was almost as though he didn't counsel his clients about proper precautions at the outset, he thought with disdain. He checked his calendar app on the phone. “Tonight. Seven p.m.”
“The same place?”
No. It was never the same place. He rattled off the address of a different hotel bar. It would have the same overpriced cocktail menu, the same interchangeable leather furniture, and identical dim lighting as the spot where they’d met before. But the bartenders, waiters, and valets —the people whose tips depended on remembering names, faces, and preferences—would be different. He ended the call and returned to the lap blanket he’d been crocheting when the phone had rung. He picked up his hook, counted his stitches, and found his place. The purple metallic hook flashed in his hand, fast and precise. He wielded a size H crochet hook with the same level of skill as he did his seven-inch tactical knife.
12
Leo jerked his head away from his laptop screen and toward the hallway at the sound of the snick. It was the sound of the front door lock turning. He glanced at the time displayed on his computer to confirm that it was only four in the afternoon. Then he saved his work and powered down. He hadn’t expected to see Sasha until seven tonight at the earliest. He padded barefoot to the front of the house to greet her.
“They’re both napping,” he stage whispered.
She turned from the entryway closet, where she was stowing her bag, and gave him a smile. “How long have they been down?”
“About twenty minutes. They had a pretty big day.”
“Music and movement class, right?” she asked as she wriggled her feet out of her heels and tossed them in the general direction of the staircase.
“Right. And we stopped at the park afterward. They should be tired out.”
He resisted the urge to instantly go straighten the shoes. An unexpected Sasha appearance in the middle of the day while the twins were sleeping was a rare bonus. He could think of several other things he’d rather do with her than tidy up her messes.
“That makes three of us.”
“What’s the occasion—did you climb out your window and sneak away?”
She laughed, but he could tell her heart wasn't in it.
“Not exactly. I just needed some air so I took a walk around the block, and well … I guess I just kept walking.” She stretched up onto the tips of her toes and planted a kiss on his chin, and then she walked toward the kitchen.
He followed her and watched as she filled a glass with water. “I thought you were busy getting ready for that arbitration that’s coming up.”
“I was. But now I’m not.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m off the case.” She drank the entire glass of water in one long gulp and rested the glass on the counter beside the sink.
“We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”
“It’s not that I don't want to talk about it but there's nothing to talk about. It’s the client’s call.”
Her words were matter-of-fact, but her voice shook with emotion. He wrinkled his forehead in confusion.
“I don’t understand. They've been so happy with your work. Why would they remove you from the arbitration team?”
“The optics. It wouldn’t look good for them to be represented in a complex commercial arbitration matter by a brawler.”
“Pardon?” he asked, certain he’d misheard her.
“The bar fight, Connelly. Somebody sent them a clipping from the Pittsburgh Legal Journal about my arrest.”
A shock of anger coursed through him. “Who would do that? And why?”
She shrugged at the indignation in his voice. “It's not worth getting mad about. I’m sure it came from opposing counsel’s office—or from someone at the target company. Pretty much any lawyer worth his salt would have done it. I might have myself if the shoe were on the other foot.”
He stared at her. “Would you really?”
“Maybe. An attorney’s supposed to zealously represent her client. If an advantage falls into my lap, I’d be remiss if I didn’t capitalize on it. And my bad luck is a godsend for them. I have them dead to rights, and everyone involved knows it.”
“So how does this help them—won’t Naya or Will just step in and take over?”
“They sure will.”
He shook his head. “Then what’s the point?”
“Well, what they actually wanted was a postponement. The same day my client received the clipping in the mail, counsel for Playtime Toys called and suggested that the parties delay the arbitration. He said, given my situation, they were willing to agree to a postponement of a month or two. By then, this would have all blown over and wouldn’t be a distraction.”
“That’s true, though, right? So why not just postpone the arbitration until after you finish ARD? Especially if the other side is going to be so gracious about it?”
She looked at him in amazement. “There’s nothing remotely gracious about the offer. They want us to agree to a delay because it would give them time finish the database, which, in turn, would obviate our claim that time is of the essence for the delivery of a fully-populated and functioning database. Or, even better, they still wouldn’t finish the database, but we’d pay the full price and have to go after them for a refund, which defeats the purpose of the pre-closing arbitration in the first place. They want us to close the transaction without getting what we paid for. They’re selling us a pig in a poke.”
He was getting a headache from trying to discern all the maneuvers and counter-maneuvers at play, and his hopes for an afternoon frolic and detour were evaporating.
He gave her a long look. “Your client was willing to agree to the postponement, weren’t they?”
She pulled a face but didn’t answer.
He continued, “This mess has all the hallmarks of your finely developed sense of right and wrong. You decided, on principle, that it would be better for you to step aside than to let Playtime Toys gain a tactical advantage, didn’t you?”
Her pursed lips turned upward into a faint, rueful smile. “Something like that,” she admitted.
“That’s why you’re so frustrated. You were hoisted by your own petard. The only person you can be mad at is yourself.”
“Okay, fine. You know me so well. Will said the same thing. But the fact that I fenced myself in doesn’t make it any less aggravating. This whole thing is all my fault.”
“How so?”
“Well, for starters, I was helping Naya with the due diligence review. But I’m not a transactional lawyer. I didn’t realize that one of the intangible assets they gave us was basical
ly garbage. I didn’t know what I was looking at.”
“But they more or less lied, right? I mean, isn’t that what the arbitration’s about? That’s not your fault.”
She blew out a breath. “Yeah. But then, this whole criminal mess came along. If I hadn’t stepped in to take care of that jerk in the bar—”
“Stop right there. It may be true that no good deed goes unpunished, but that doesn't mean we stop doing them,” he cut her off.
She was leaning against the counter. He moved in front of her, rested his hands on the counter with her in the middle, and covered her lips with a long kiss. When he pulled back, he searched her face. “Why don’t you give Daniel a call? I’m sure a session of sparring and hand-to-hand combat would help you clear your head and work out some aggression.”
Her green eyes pierced him. “I’m sure it would. But I was thinking of a different kind of one-on-one session to clear my head.” She raised her eyebrows and glanced toward the stairs.
“Oh, yeah?”
In answer, she slipped her hand into his and led him out of the kitchen.
13
The consultant leaned back and rested his head against the soft leather of the chair. He watched Charles Merriman’s face. His client was definitely panicking and possibly lying. The first condition wasn’t troubling—many of his clients were in freak-out mode by the time they involved him. The second condition was highly problematic.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Merriman demanded.
The consultant gave him a hard look before answering. “It’s not hard to follow. You have some scientist who believes one of your products is defective. Your management folks disagree. This is not the sort of thing you need me for. Just fire him.”
Merriman clucked in exasperation. The consultant noted that he sounded just like a chicken.
“First of all, it’s a she—some lady scientist from India. And we can’t just fire her. She’s building the database we need to hand over to Recreation Group, Inc. as part of the sale of the business. Nobody else can populate it as quickly as she can. As you know, we can’t meet the deadline as it is—hence, your work for us.”
Imminent Peril Page 6
