In Firm Pursuit

by Pamela Samuels Young

  “Thanks for coming,” Bailey said. “Why don’t you have a seat?” He pointed to an empty chair sandwiched between Porter and Norma. I stared at the chair as if it were the bull’s-eye for a firing squad.

  “We’d like to talk to you about this.” Ferris snatched a document from Bailey’s desk and waved it in the air.

  I did not need to see the fine print to know that he was holding a copy of the memo Norma had read to me in the sauna. I glanced over at Norma, who still refused to look at me, just as I refused to look at Porter. I felt like I was trapped in a packed elevator with twenty people breathing their hot breath down the base of my neck. Maybe the room would stop spinning once I sat down.

  I had yet to say a word. “I…uh…I need to go to the ladies’ room first.” I backed out of the room before anyone could object.

  Frantically, I scurried down the long hallway like a victim in a bad horror flick searching for an escape route. I had not been in this area of the Micronics building before, but I knew that a restroom had to be close by. That was the law. One restroom per X number of employees. I was certain I had read that somewhere.

  Just as I was about to turn around and begin my frenzied search at the opposite end of the hallway, I spotted a door with the familiar blue symbol and ducked inside. I stepped up to the nearest sink, gripped the sides with both hands and tried to catch my breath. I just stood there, my head bowed, my eyes tightly shut, my hands glued to the icy-cold porcelain.

  If the sink had been made of mere glass, my hands would have been all bloodied by now, pierced with fragments of a material too weak to withstand such a desperate grasp. Talking to Norma about that document had been a big mistake. I should have left the sauna the minute she mentioned Randle’s name. What in the hell had I been thinking?

  Now they all knew. They knew that Norma had shown me the confidential document and that I had failed to report her misconduct. Their suspicions about my loyalties, or the lack thereof, had been undeniably confirmed.

  This was not some oversight O’Reilly & Finney could ignore. This was an issue of ethics. There was no doubt now. I would not make partner. I would not even have a job. With O’Reilly & Finney or anybody else. Micronics would surely report me to the State Bar, which would probably mean a suspension or maybe even disbarment.

  There was no way I could go back into that room. What would I say? I tried to think of a decent cover story but nothing came to me. What good was a lawyer who could not lie on demand? I was a disgrace to the profession….

  I bolted up in bed. My satin nightgown was glued to my chest, soaked with perspiration, and my temples were throbbing with pain. It was only a dream! The digital clock next to my bed displayed 2:32 a.m. in bright fluorescent green. My head felt clouded and heavy. I grabbed the top sheet and pressed it against my sweaty face, mopping up the perspiration along my forehead. Plopping back down on my pillow, I tried to relax, but my heart refused to stop racing.

  What if Norma had told someone about our conversation? There would be no way I could explain away my behavior. I just hoped the woman had enough sense to keep her mouth shut.

  I hopped out of bed, put on a dry nightgown and walked into our spare bedroom that doubled as an office. I clicked on the light switch, turned on the computer and waited for permission to proceed. The next few seconds seemed to take forever.

  Grabbing the mouse, I clicked on the Westlaw icon. I typed in my ID and password, then entered the California database until I got to the Code of Professional Responsibility, which proscribed the do’s and don’ts for members of the California Bar. Almost instantaneously after typing the phrase conflict of interest, the screen listed dozens of matches. I entered a few more words to help narrow my search and quickly scrolled through each entry, slowing at relevant text.

  Rule 3-310(B): Personal relationships with an opposing party or witness must be disclosed to the client. Norma was not an opposing party nor was she a witness. At least not technically speaking. And a single conversation certainly did not constitute a “personal relationship.” Nothing I had done had violated that rule, I told myself.

  Rule 3-500: “A member shall keep a client reasonably informed about significant developments relating to the employment or representation.” Did knowledge of an employee’s theft of a confidential document fit the definition of a significant development? It was not as if Norma had handed the document to Hamilton. No. The information about Norma’s copying the document was not significant. It would not impact the outcome of the case.

  I dumped my head into my hands. Who was I kidding? No matter what a given rule said, any halfway decent lawyer could find a plausible basis for asserting the exact opposite proposition. That was exactly what my three years of law school had trained me to do. Pick a side, any side, and defend it.

  I said a quick prayer. Hopefully, after Reggie calmed down and discussed the motion with Hamilton, they would be calling me back singing a different tune.

  If the motion to amend didn’t convince them to fold, nothing would.

  CHAPTER 53

  At six forty-five the next morning, Special’s yellow Porsche sped out of her underground parking garage and headed south on Buckingham Drive.

  Cliff, the investigator hired by Ferris, was stationed outside in a white van. He started his engine and took off behind her but remained at least three car lengths back. He picked up his two-way cell phone. “All clear,” he said tersely.

  Inside the apartment building, two different men, dressed in dark blue handymen uniforms, emerged from the stairwell onto the third floor and headed in the direction of Special’s unit at the far end of the hallway. They easily jimmied the dead bolt and were inside within seconds.

  Cliff continued trailing Special as she sped down Green Valley Circle and made a left onto Centinela Boulevard. He was not worried about losing her. He had studied her routine for several days. It was Wednesday, so her first stop would be at Second 2 None, a beauty salon on La Brea, just south of Fairview. She would be there for at least an hour and a half. Then she would head downtown to her office in the Mellon Bank Building. On a rare occasion, Special returned home during the lunch hour, which was the only reason Cliff was trailing her. But it was really only a safety precaution. Justin and Paulie, the two men who had just broken into Special’s apartment, would be done long before lunchtime.

  Back on Buckingham Drive, Justin, an undernourished computer geek who could have been Steve Urkel’s twin brother, was conducting an intense search of every inch of Special’s apartment. If he found what they had been instructed to recover—the Micronics documents—a very big bonus awaited him. So he was highly motivated to do a very thorough search.

  The other man, Paulie, a husky Norwegian, had a different task. His job was to make sure their visit left the occupant a very clear message: You’re playing with fire. Paulie pulled a switchblade from his back pocket and dug it straight down the center of Special’s newly reupholstered couch. He pulled out a handful of the cotton stuffing, tossed it onto the floor and made a second cut which intersected with the first, forming a perfect X. He attacked the two matching armchairs in a similar fashion, then walked around to the back of the couch and kicked it hard, causing it to crash into the coffee table, spraying glass across the room.

  “Hey!” Justin said, tiptoeing into the living room. “Not so loud.” He returned to the bedroom and continued opening drawers and dumping their contents onto the floor. He never understood how women could collect so much junk. He lifted the top mattress off the bed, disappointed to find nothing there but a pair of nylons. He kneeled to peer underneath the bed, and found it crowded with shoe boxes. He opened each one, then hurled it aside. He smiled when he removed the lid of a shiny black box.

  Justin walked back into the living room carrying the box underneath his arm. “Look what I found.” He held up a long vibrator with tiny prongs on the end for his partner to see. He switched it on and grinned. “Zoom, zoom!”

  Paulie laughed. “Don�
�t break it,” he said. “She’s gonna need the comfort when she gets home and takes a look at our handiwork.”

  Justin grinned again and went back to work.

  Less than five miles away, Special pulled into a parking space in front of Second 2 None. She took a few seconds to touch up her lipstick before going inside the salon. Cliff drove his van into a strip mall directly across the street and parked between the Crab Pit and a mini-market. He had a clear view of Special’s every move, thanks to the large picture window in the front of the salon. Using high-powered binoculars, Cliff watched as Special made her way to a shampoo bowl in the back.

  He picked up his cell phone and chirped Paulie. “How’s it going?” Cliff asked. “Find anything?”

  It took a while before Paulie snapped, “Don’t bother us. We’re working.”

  Paulie slipped his phone into the front pocket of his overalls. He was standing in front of Special’s handmade silk curtains. He seemed to take special pleasure in each swipe of his knife, as he ripped the curtains into shreds.

  Justin rejoined him in the living room. “The documents aren’t in the bedroom,” he said, frustrated.

  Paulie looked at his watch. “We’ve still got lots of time,” he said. “We ain’t leaving until we find ’em.”

  CHAPTER 54

  Despite Special’s hysterical telephone call shortly after seven o’clock that evening, nothing could have prepared me for the disaster scene I saw as I peered into her apartment.

  Glass and debris littered the living room floor. Back issues of Essence and O magazines had been ripped apart and strewn around the room like confetti. Special’s floor-length chenille curtains hung from the ceiling like strands of spaghetti.

  I cautiously stepped across the threshold, struggling to find an empty space to place my feet. If a camera were rolling, it would have looked as if I were playing hop-scotch in slow motion. I peered past the living room out onto the balcony and spotted Special wrapped in the arms of a man the size of a grizzly. As I got closer to the balcony, I could hear Special’s low, sporadic sobs.

  The minute she saw me, Special pulled away from the man and ran to embrace me.

  “Girl, you see what they done to my crib!” she cried. I hugged her hard, which only seemed to make her sobs grow dramatically louder.

  I looked over Special’s shoulder at the huge man standing there staring at us. Since Special was too distraught to make an introduction, I did the honors. “I don’t think we know each other,” I said. “I’m Vernetta Henderson.”

  “Coleman. Detective Mason Coleman, LAPD,” he said in a strong, official voice. He was a large, portly man and looked too old to be a cop. The lapel of his nice blue suit sported a crusty yellow stain that looked like mustard. He did not bother to extend his hand since Special and I were still entwined like a rope.

  “What happened?” I glanced around the ransacked living room, still in disbelief. Maybe if I could get Special to talk, she would stop crying. “Did they take anything? Why would somebody do this?”

  “I just hope it don’t have nothing to do with that dead secretary,” Detective Coleman said.

  Special stopped mid-sob and pulled away from me. She gave Detective Coleman a dirty look and began twirling a loose thread on the hem of her blouse. “Hey, let’s go inside,” Special said, her voice hoarse from crying.

  “No, wait a minute.” I grabbed Special by the elbow. “What’s he talking about? What dead secretary?” I looked first at Special, then at Detective Coleman.

  “Well,” Special began, then paused to let out a long, dramatic sigh. “I’ve—I mean we’ve been kind of looking into Karen Carruthers’s murder.” She moved closer to the detective, stepping over a piece of broken glass that used to be part of her coffee table.

  “What murder?” I silently cautioned myself to remain calm. I looked around for a place to sit but couldn’t find one. “Who said Carruthers was murdered?”

  “That’s what we were trying to find out,” Special said. “Don’t be mad, homey. I did it for you.”

  “Excuse me?” Anger had replaced my concern.

  “I just wanted to find out the real deal. The police found some documents in Carruthers’s car and Detective Coleman let me take a look at ’em. And I think—”

  “What?” I turned to stare at Detective Coleman. “What in the hell possessed you to do that?”

  A stupid grin spread across the detective’s face as Special smiled up at him. I glanced down at my friend’s shoeless feet. Each toenail was painted a bright fluorescent pink.

  “You’re both nuts!” I yelled.

  “Well, at least let me tell you about the documents that woman had in her car,” Special pleaded.

  “I don’t want to know about the documents.”

  “No, just listen. We—”

  “I said I don’t want to know!” I shouted. “I’m back on the Randle case now. What if somebody thinks I’m involved in what you did? This is not a game, Special. Look at your place. This is serious!”

  “I know, I know,” she said. Her voice grew shaky again, as if she were about to commence another crying spell. “I think I should go home with you.”

  I was worried about Special’s safety, but I was not in the mood for a full-time houseguest. “Wouldn’t you feel safer at your parents’ place?”

  “Girl, you know I can’t go there. My mama’ll be all up in my business. Just let me stay with you for a few days until the police figure out who did this.”

  I inhaled. It was probably best if Special did stay with me. At least I would be able to make sure she didn’t do any more snooping around. “Fine. But on one condition. Could you please let the police handle this from now on?”

  “You got it,” Special said. “This is scary.”

  “I’ll take over from here, ladies,” Detective Coleman said in a take-charge voice. “Special, do you have those pictures we took at the accident scene?”

  Special blasted Detective Coleman with another nasty look.

  “Pictures! Accident scene!” I looked at Special and then at Detective Coleman. “You actually took her to the accident scene? Couldn’t you lose your job behind that?”

  Detective Coleman stared down at the floor. “Well—”

  Special jumped to his defense. “I just wanted to see if there were any skid marks where that woman’s car went off that road,” Special said. “And there weren’t. That’s because they just ran her ass off that cliff.”

  I threw up my hands. “Micronics is my client! All this help you guys are trying to give me is going to cost me my job!”

  Special folded her arms and sulked. “You know I got your back.”

  “You got my back? Look around this place. You need to be worried about your own back!”

  “Don’t worry, Vernetta,” Detective Coleman interrupted. “I have those documents under lock and key.”

  I rubbed my eyes. I had no more faith in him than I did in Special. He deserved a starring roll on America’s Dumbest Cops. He had no business getting her involved in this. “Let’s just start cleaning up this mess so we can get out of here.”

  “That’ll have to wait until we can get some pictures and fingerprints,” said Detective Coleman. “A couple of officers from the burglary unit are on their way over.”

  “Fine, then. Let’s go,” I said to Special.

  “Wait. I have to go get my clothes.” Special ran into the bedroom and in seconds walked back into the living room dragging two large Louis Vuitton suitcases that she had apparently packed before I got there.

  Exactly how long was she planning on staying?

  She smiled seductively at Detective Coleman. “Sweetie, can you give me a hand?”

  He obediently lumbered to Special’s aid as if he were hypnotized by the mere sound of her voice.

  “Those won’t fit in your Porsche,” I said.

  “They’re not going in my car, they’re going in yours. My nerves are too bad to drive right now. You can bring me ba
ck to pick up my car in the morning.”

  I had no energy left to protest. I pulled my keys from my purse and followed the two of them out the door.

  CHAPTER 55

  As we drove east on Slauson Boulevard toward Baldwin Hills, Special was unusually quiet, a trait she rarely exhibited during waking hours.

  Regret began to tug at me. Special was only trying to help. Maybe I had been too rough on her. “You okay, girl?” I reached over and squeezed her hand.

  Special responded with a weak smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Everything’ll be okay. You have renter’s insurance, don’t you?”

  “Nope. I cancelled the policy two months ago. I’ve been paying renter’s insurance for a zillion years and never needed it.” She seemed to be on the verge of tears again.

  “Well, don’t worry about it right now.” I squeezed her hand again.

  “I just wish they hadn’t taken my laptop. That’s where I had all my information about the documents and the murder.”

  My bout of empathy instantly morphed into frustration. “Didn’t you hear anything I said at your place? You don’t need any notes because you and your detective friend are through with your little investigation. You just better pray this was a random burglary.”

  Special looked over at me and bit her lip. “I have something else I need to tell you.”

  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and tried to mentally brace myself.

  “Promise you won’t get mad,” she said.

  “Just tell me.” I was scared to imagine what else Special could have done.

  “Okay,” she said, scooting over closer to the passenger door. “I have a copy of those documents they found in Carruthers’s car.”

  “You what?” I screamed. “I thought Detective Coleman said he had them. How’d you get a copy?”