Such a small investment of her own respect and loyalty, with such endless rewards. These hired puppets working for Danton Majors didn’t stand a chance.
Her frame of mind was solidly in a state of offense and attack, so she had to remind herself that West Corp was the defendant here, and she didn’t get to just stand up and reveal all. The case was read, antitrust complaints brought by Superior Construction, monopolistic practices, so on and so forth, suing for seven figures of damages and a stay on any bid made by West Corp or any of its subsidiaries.
The evidence they brought forward was all in the public record: newspaper articles, building licenses, contracting bids, property deals, investments, tax returns. Celia wasn’t worried about any of her dealings being pried open and investigated. She ran West Corp as transparently as she could and adhered to all reporting laws for precisely this reason—she wasn’t going to be the one sideswiped in court, not over something stupid like a frivolous lawsuit.
One of her lawyers accompanied the team for the sole purpose of countering every single piece of evidence Superior Construction brought. The rest of her team was set to filing the countersuit and proving that Superior wasn’t what it said it was.
Her lawyers proceeded in a rapid patter of legalese, drowning the court in an avalanche of orchestrated data. Exhibit after exhibit entered into the record, charts and graphics showing that West Corp adhered to the spirit of the law as well as the letter, and the diversity of construction and contracting firms proved without a doubt that West Corp had not damaged competition in Commerce City.
Then the countersuit, after a motion to have Superior Construction’s suit thrown out as frivolous. The judge didn’t react, so this couldn’t have been unexpected. Good.
“Your Honor, we can show without a doubt that Superior Construction has not only not been damaged by West Corp’s business practices, but that Superior Construction, in fact, does not exist in enough of a recognizable corporate form to be damaged by normal competitive business practices.” This was Liz Bastion, one of West Corp’s senior litigators, thirty-five and a badass. Celia had hired her personally out from under another firm and liked her a lot. She wanted the woman on her side precisely so she’d never have to face her down in court like this.
Then came the evidence Espionage—Anna—had provided, cleaned, vetted, and supplemented so that all appeared legal and admissible. Mountains of paperwork followed, tax returns and property records, newspaper articles and testimony from public officials, and a beautiful visual aid, a chart showing organizational structures linking Superior Construction to the shell of a law firm on up to Delta Ventures and Delta Exploratory, and to Danton Majors. They never mentioned Majors by name, because that wasn’t the point here. But they didn’t have to. On the plaintiff side, McClosky glanced back nervously at Majors, which just about clinched it. They hadn’t expected Celia and West Corp to go digging, had they? They thought that legal loopholes and shields would protect their corporate façade.
Or they’d known the edifice wouldn’t withstand scrutiny, and in essence the true purpose of the charade was simply to embarrass Celia and delay the city development vote. Which was why her team needed not just to defend West Corp, but to crush the suit into oblivion.
“In obvious conclusion,” Bastion declaimed, “the plaintiff’s suit and claims are not merely frivolous, they are actively meant to damage the defendant and the defendant’s reputation. They are a conflict of interest and potentially illegal based on city statutes regarding business licensing and fair business practices, the details of which are outlined in a countersuit that West Corp plans on filing against the defendant. We’d like to enter a copy of the preliminary filing into the records as Exhibit BB. In light of these considerations, the defense moves to have the suit brought by Superior Construction against West Corp dismissed entirely because it is frivolous, obstructionist, and a conflict of interest for a plaintiff who is merely seeking to eliminate competition, not engender it. Thank you, Your Honor.”
The judge scanned the latest file folder that Bastion delivered to her, her frown growing deeper, her brow more furrowed. When the judge glanced at the plaintiff’s side, not with neutral regard but with active annoyance, Celia knew she’d won.
After a moment of thought, the judge announced, “Would both counsels please approach the bench.”
After a discussion that ran long enough to be agonizing, the judge straightened. “All right, it’s an unusual request, but I’ll give you more rope to hang yourself, if that’s what you really want.”
“Your Honor, I want to state my objection to this for the record,” Bastion said, fuming, her jaw taut.
“Your objection is noted and overruled. Counsel, you have the floor,” the judge said to the plaintiff.
What was going on? Then Celia found out.
“Your Honor, we’d like to call Celia West to the stand.”
Of course. It always came down to her. Bastards.
Bastion returned to the defense table. “I’m sorry, I tried to stop this,” she whispered to Celia.
Wearing a weary smile, Celia shook her head. “Don’t worry. This just proves it isn’t about the company at all. It’s about me.”
She suddenly wished Arthur was here, sitting in the gallery, offering his support by his mere presence.
—You know I’m always with you, don’t you?—
Her heartbeat steadied, her breathing slowed. —Thank you.—
—Of course, my love.—
She settled into the witness stand and, hand on Bible, gave her oath in a confident voice.
She couldn’t imagine what questions they wanted to ask her. Her own guilty conscience offered up bizarre possibilities: Is it true you’ve neglected your daughters in favor of furthering your business? Can you tell us how you’ve lied about your recent medical diagnosis? Aren’t your efforts to win the planning committee contract more about stroking your own ego than benefiting the city? Well, she wouldn’t say more, regarding that one. The considerations were about equal. The rest, she would throw herself on the mercy of the court and hope for forgiveness.
The plaintiffs had hired an experienced trial lawyer, and it was this guy, a Marshal Jones, who questioned her, not McClosky. Alas.
“Ms. West, to what lengths would you go to ensure that West Corp wins this city development contract?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“You’ve researched your competition, of course. You know the other companies competing for this contract, you know their resources. I simply want to know if you’ve taken any actions beyond the usual due diligence.”
She thought she knew what he was asking, but he was really just feeding her rope, hoping she’d tie it around her own neck, so she played dumb. “I’m still not sure what you mean. Can you give me some examples?”
“Is it conceivable, in your opinion, that your extensive influence among city officials gives you an unfair advantage and handicaps your competition?”
“No,” she said. “I think filing a frivolous lawsuit is what attempting to handicap your competition looks like.”
The few observers in the courtroom tittered. The judge frowned, unamused. “Just answer the original question, Ms. West.”
“I have no control over my competition, and my competition has as much access to city officials as I do. I’m better off not worrying about them and focusing on my own efforts. So to answer your first question, I’d do everything I legally could to present a solid bid that benefits everyone so the city can’t possibly award the contract to anyone else. No need at all for the kind of gamesmanship you’re implying.”
“You—and West Corp—seem to have what one might call … what would one call it?” He turned to his colleagues as if he really was asking for advice and not playacting. “Obsession? With Commerce City and its development.”
She chuckled. This was making no sense, but that gave her all the more reason to squash this clown flat so no one would ente
rtain the doubts he was trying to raise.
“Commerce City has been my family’s home for generations. West Corp is one of Commerce City’s oldest family businesses, and its dedication to making contributions to the city and its growth is well documented. I’m sorry that looks like obsession to you.”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit disingenuous, Ms. West, to call a multimillion-dollar corporate entity a family business?”
“No. Not when it’s been helmed by a West for three generations. What else would you call it?”
“A grab for power, Ms. West. Outside of normal political channels. Corporate domineering.”
She smirked. “I haven’t gone into politics precisely because I’m trying to do some good in the world, Mr. Jones.”
That got a laugh, and Jones flushed, finally looking a tiny bit flustered.
“And it’s your definition of good that must prevail—”
She leaned forward. “I’m just trying to make a living, like everyone else.”
The judge interrupted. “Mr. Jones, I think you’re finished here. Counsel for the defense, do you have any follow-up questions for the witness?”
“No, Your Honor, I do not,” Bastion said.
“Ms. West, you may step down.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said politely and returned to her place. By Bastion’s pleased expression—looking a bit like a cat with a plate of fresh tuna—Celia assumed her responses had been acceptable. She had to work not to slouch in her chair, deflated. Her performance had about tapped her energy reserves. Maybe this wouldn’t take too much longer. She could go home, tell everyone she was sick, and sleep for the next two months.
It didn’t. The judge spoke: “In light of evidence and testimony presented, I find the suit brought against West Corp by Superior Construction to be baseless. Not just baseless but baseless in the extreme. I encourage counsel for West Corp to proceed with any countersuit it might have prepared, but this initial hearing is over. And to the plaintiff, I have a warning: My statement on this case will be strongly worded, so keep that in mind if you’re thinking of appealing, because I predict such an appeal will not go well for you. Case most definitely dismissed.” The gavel cracked. Celia sighed.
She gathered the energy to look over her shoulder at Danton Majors—and found him staring back at her, frowning. So he really was out to get her. Not West Corp, not the development contract, but her, and she wondered why. Why he wanted to, and why he thought he could. He’d failed, and here he was, Danton Majors, lying bloodied and defeated on the field of battle, never to recover. Nice image, but nothing that could ever happen in real life.
Her team was shaking hands, congratulating each other. Bastion crossed the aisle to shake hands with Jones, who complied but snarled as he did. Celia settled her purse strap over her shoulder and passed through to the gallery.
“Mr. Majors,” she said. “I look forward to seeing you when the planning committee reconvenes to make its vote on the development contract.”
“Yes, I imagine you do. Don’t get too confident, though.”
“Oh? You have a backup plan in case this little dog-and-pony show didn’t work?” She couldn’t keep a dig out of her voice.
“Ms. West, I really must be going. I’ve been away from Delta too long. But it’s been interesting meeting you.”
“I just bet it has.”
* * *
The rest of her law team returned to West Plaza in taxis. Celia lingered, killing some time, ensuring that Tom would have brought the girls home from school by the time she returned to the Plaza. The end of the lawsuit had lifted a weight off her. Cleared a large part of her mind of worry. She felt light. The planning committee’s development contract would take care of itself now, and so would the chemo treatments for that matter.
She took a walk, just a short one, and stopped at a coffee shop near City Hall to indulge and bleed off some anxiety. Enjoy the brief moment of respite in the day. She could stand on the street and watch people go by, and didn’t that sound lovely?
She was so rarely alone. At the Plaza she was surrounded by her West Corp employees or her family. She didn’t often go into the city unless it was to some event or to meet with officials, colleagues, friends. Tom or another driver ferried her back and forth. Arthur was almost always nearby. It wasn’t like the old days, when she lived alone and rode the bus alone and walked alone, and thereby inadvertently created opportunities for those who would harm her. Over the last twenty years, she’d insulated herself with layers of people who watched out for her, and she hadn’t meant to do it any more than she had meant to isolate herself during those rough years in her early twenties. It had been a consequence of the life she’d led. Now, the consequence of having a family, of having a stake in her company and her city, meant she was protected. She’d never looked at it that way before. Not until the protection was gone.
She was very occasionally alone when she stopped off for a cup of coffee or a sandwich between meetings, an echo of her early working days when she was just another woman on the street, one of thousands who would run into a café without thinking about it. She liked to think she wasn’t so much of the elite that she couldn’t buy her own damn coffee.
Fancy hipster coffee in hand, she emerged back on the street and didn’t think anything of it. She needed to call Arthur to let him know how the hearing had gone—he already knew, really, but she liked hearing his voice. She had a long list of items she’d been putting off without even meaning to: calls to Analise, to Mark. A talk with her mother, to tell her about the leukemia. The talk she’d promised Anna. Maybe she could even get rid of the scratchy wig and the pretense that she was well. The coffee didn’t taste like much since the treatments had affected her sense of taste. But the heat of it was comforting, and she sipped it gratefully.
She walked on to the corner, turned, and felt a sharp stab in her shoulder, like a narrowly focused punch. It seemed oddly familiar, and the wave of déjà vu that passed over her was so strong she paused, brow furrowed, trying to figure out the instinctive dread blooming in her gut even as her free hand pawed around to her back and met the cylinder of a syringe protruding from her suit jacket.
Just like the Destructor all those years ago when he’d kidnapped her and attempted to brainwash her for the sole purpose of striking at her parents. She felt the same astonishment, the same despair that she had somehow walked into a trap.
Suddenly, a man and a woman in dark suits, obvious bodyguard types, were at her sides, holding her arms, keeping her upright. One of them took the coffee cup and purse out of her hands before she dropped them.
“Ms. West, you seem unwell, let us help you,” the woman said very calmly. A nondescript black car was waiting at the curb, and the two impassive escorts guided her into the backseat. They wore dark sunglasses, and their expressionless faces made noting their features difficult. They might have been wearing masks.
They stared straight ahead, not at her, and when Celia thought to demand that they tell her who they were and what they thought they were doing, her tongue seemed to swell and fill her mouth. Her whole body had gone numb. Good thing she was sitting down, because the world was tilting sideways.
She had a weird, panicked thought about how the tranquilizer would interact with the cocktail of drugs already in her system. Had they just killed her without meaning to?
What are you going to do to me? She tried to speak but didn’t know if she actually said the words. The two kidnappers didn’t respond to her. Her whole face was feeling too big for her skin, and she was afraid she was drooling. Goddamn it, she could only think, over and over. And then, —Arthur, help—
He didn’t respond.
“Is she really the one? She doesn’t seem like much,” said the woman.
“She’s the one,” her partner answered.
The one what? Celia thought. Who am I? Filled with vague fear, she lost consciousness.
EIGHTEEN
ANNA got home from scho
ol and sprawled on the living room sofa to do her homework. To try to do her homework, rather. So. She and Mom were going to Have a Talk. Because Mom knew about Espionage and the Trinity, and Anna knew she knew, and everything else was pretense. Anna strategized the conversation, trying to figure out what she’d say. How she’d explain why she hid her powers. In hindsight, her reasons seemed mostly stupid. She hoped her mother would understand. Of course, if Anna could ask her why she lied about the business trip first, get in a preemptive strike that way …
Or maybe they could just have a talk.
Mostly, she stayed in the living room to get away from Bethy, who kept studying her like she was a bug pinned under glass. Anna would have to come clean to her, too. And Grandma. Maybe she could get Dad to tell everyone. She threw her pencil across the room out of frustration.
Dad was in his office, Mom was still at the courthouse, so she opened up her math text and tried to focus. She wasn’t entirely successful, but that was mostly algebra’s fault. And it seemed like Mom really should have been home by now, so she checked in on her—
Shoved the book away as she stood up and went to the window, as if she could look out over the city, the streets, the tiny little figures walking on the sidewalk far below, the toy cars driving on streets, and pick out which one was her mother. Because her mother was gone. She couldn’t find her.
Anna put her hands on her temples, squeezed, as if the problem was with herself, as if she could fix herself by wishing. But no, she could find Bethy, her grandmother, her father, Teddy, Teia, everybody except Mom, and that wasn’t right. It was a giant gaping hole that filled her mind at the expense of every other thought. That mental compass needle spun wildly, its pressure gone.
She didn’t know where her mother was. How could she not know?
A sudden bout of dizziness struck, and she sat on the floor, closed her eyes. The whole building seemed to be swaying. The whole world was swaying. She didn’t know how to make it stop. She just kept thinking of Mom, every thought and every memory she had, the good feelings and bad, all wrapped up together, and sent it out into the world to find her.
Dreams of the Golden Age Page 22
