by Thomas Locke
She felt burdened by everything Don wasn’t saying. The risk he took, the trust he showed. “But to go of-counsel. That’s just . . .”
“Inevitable,” he finished. “They were looking for a way to kick me out and keep my one remaining client. I gave them what they wanted.” Again the languid wave. Turning the page. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“You’re half Chinese?”
“One quarter. My father’s father. My mother says I swallowed up all the remaining Oriental genes. The only thing I got from her was my height. I’m over a head taller than Daddy. He’s basically spent his entire life being either proud of me or exasperated by how I don’t bend like Mom.”
Don clearly liked that. “Your unbending nature has taken us for quite a ride.”
The secretary’s phone had been ringing constantly. When she answered now, though, she looked at Lena for the very first time. Lena’s butterfly nerves had already started their frantic fluttering long before the secretary said, “Mr. Foretrain is ready for you.”
As they rose from their seats, Don said for the third time that morning, “Once we get inside, don’t say a single, solitary word.”
“Understood.”
“I mean it, Lena. Let me do the talking in there.”
Lena knew Don had every right to be worried. She was in this situation because she had found it impossible to follow orders. “I won’t open my mouth unless you give me the sign.”
12
When Lena and Don entered the conference room, the two lawyers and Roger Foretrain were on their cell phones. They stood by the window, angled so they could pretend to ignore her and Don’s entry. Beyond the glass, a late spring snowfall swirled. Lena’s gut was filled with the same churning freeze.
She settled into the seat across from Roger Foretrain. The Weasel was seated to her left, with an empty chair between him and Roger. She wondered if Roger had ordered the Weasel to keep a distance. She hoped he had detected the vile heart that beat beneath Wesley’s striped shirt. Or maybe he had pierced the man’s hundred-dollar haircut and discovered his brain did not hold a single original thought. Lena hoped it was so. She had spent many midnight hours hoping that Roger did not actually like the Weasel.
Wesley Cummins paused from typing into his phone long enough to smirk at her and mouth the same words he had written at the bottom of her report two weeks earlier: Crash and burn, baby. Lena turned away. She was all done thinking about the Weasel.
Roger Foretrain cut the connection and tossed his phone on the table beside her incorporation papers. The female legal associate took that as her cue and stowed her own phone. The senior lawyer was slower. Morley Shaw used the space between the conference table and the window as his personal stage. His leonine features and sweeping silver mane and elegant suit all declared that here was a man accustomed to ruling over earth-shaping legal disputes, at twelve hundred dollars an hour.
Finally Morley Shaw cut his connection and settled into the seat beside Roger. He eyed Lena, sniffed, then turned to her lawyer and said, “Really, Don, I’m disappointed in you. Very disappointed indeed.”
At first glance, Don Metzer was not up to a battle with Morley Shaw. He sat with his hands resting on the table. Motionless.
“This is your last chance,” Morley said. “For the sake of your legal future, I urge you to move over to our side of the table.”
“I’m here representing my client,” Don replied.
“Who is about to be brought up on charges by your firm’s client.” Morley was as polite as he was dismissive. “Let’s review how you come to be in this position at all. You falsely represented your client to the firm’s management board.”
“There was no misrepresentation,” Don corrected. “The matter of her employment was included in the summary document. Which I have with me, if you’d care to review.”
“But you failed to fully clarify the issue. Which a hearing of the bar’s ethics committee will take very seriously.”
“Ms. Fennan came to me with a simple M&A matter. I was engaged in the context of a corporate acquisition. This issue is ancillary to that engagement. The parties are all Colorado-based firms. Where neither our firm nor this bank have exposure. There was no conflict.”
“No conflict then. But there most certainly is now. Believe me, Don. It has been my experience that the bar tends to come down very heavily on attorneys who go off the reservation. Which you as a partner have done.”
“Former partner,” he corrected mildly. “I went of-counsel twenty-four hours ago. Surely you remember that, Morley. At the time you said you thought it was a wise move.”
The managing partner of Arnold and Shaw colored slightly. “You knew this was happening and were preparing for it. Which is how I will present your case, Don. And believe you me, I will personally take charge of this hearing.” He pointed at the chair on his associate’s other side. “Now remove yourself from this terrible situation and get over here while you still have a career to rescue!”
“Thanks, Morley,” Don replied. “But I’m comfortable where I am.”
Shaw lifted his arms in elegant disdain. “Really, Don, I feel obliged—”
Roger Foretrain’s phone buzzed with an incoming message. He scanned the screen, clicked it off, and said, “Let’s get on with it.”
Morley Shaw disliked being cut off in mid-flow. He redirected his ire at Lena. “Ms. Fennan, your employers have opted to hold this meeting in lieu of having you arrested. Against my own advice, I must tell you.”
Don interrupted, “Actually, there are no grounds for charges of any kind.”
The managing partner’s coloring rose several notches further. “It is precisely because of such weak and ill-advised counsel that we find ourselves here today.”
The Weasel started swiveling his chair back and forth, the sort of tight little motions that an excited kid might make. He smiled as he watched her. This was what he lived for. Lena wanted to block him out, so she turned toward Don. Then she kept turning so she could examine the painting behind her. It was far more beautiful than the photographs she had studied.
When she turned back, she realized Roger Foretrain was observing her. He broke into Shaw’s monologue with, “You know it?”
She had spent eleven months hoping for a chance to talk with this man. Even so, she glanced at Don. Her attorney kept his gaze on Morley Shaw but nodded. Lena turned back and said, “The painting is entitled No Te Aha Oe Riri, which translates as ‘What has disturbed your peace?’ It was painted in 1896, one of a series Gauguin completed after his return to Tahiti. He was sick, broke, and disheartened. His paintings from this era are darker and less idyllic than those from his earlier time in the islands. Many critics consider this to be one of the artist’s finest works.”
Maybe it was how the Weasel had finally lost his smirk. Or perhaps it was how every eye in the room was locked on her. Most likely, though, it was because Lena knew this would probably be her one and only chance to talk with the man who had drawn her to a life on Wall Street.
She went on, “You own nine of Gauguin’s original oils and over two hundred of his sketches. You favor scenes where the painter portrays the Tahitian people, their thick lips and heavy hands and feet, all trademarks of Gauguin’s unique perspective. You secretly keep a sailing yacht permanently moored in the Moorea harbor, and you sneak out there at least twice every year. This table, as well as your desk and the coffee set in your office, are all shaped from Tahitian mahogany. You flew over a senior draftsman to supervise their assembly.”
The best way to describe Roger Foretrain was rumpled. He wore his tailored Turnbull & Asser shirt like a pajama top. His greying hair was a bird’s nest, his glasses were as askew as his tie. “I don’t remember seeing you. When were you in here before?”
“The first time I ever rode the executive elevator was coming up here for this meeting.”
“You know an awful lot about a guy you’ve never met.”
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“That’s my job, Mr. Foretrain. To gather up the hidden.”
The senior lawyer cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should refocus on the matter at hand.”
Without taking his eyes off her, Roger Foretrain unclipped the gold Rolex from his wrist and flipped it like worry beads. “Sure thing.”
“Ms. Fennan, you are facing the threat of some very serious charges.”
Don said, “I would ask that you address me as Ms. Fennan’s attorney.”
Morley clearly disliked that immensely. But he had little choice. “Your client must relinquish all funds she has gained from this highly questionable enterprise.”
“Let’s back up,” Don said. “We’re here to understand what precisely are the bank’s concerns.”
“That should be simple enough, even for someone as far off the reservation as you, Don. Lena Fennan is one of the bank’s employees. Her actions have violated the terms of her employment. Her contract contains a clause that specifically lays out her fiduciary duty to the bank.”
Don said mildly, “My client conducted all these transactions on her own account.”
“Did you even read her contract? Such transactions are a direct breach of their agreement!” Morley waved aside Don’s unspoken rejoinder. “I’m the one asking questions now. Your client identified a potential investment, did she not.”
“She did.”
“Research that was conducted on the bank’s time, using the bank’s resources.”
“That is correct.”
Clearly Morley had not expected Don to agree so readily. “Frankly, Don, I am still having difficulty understanding what you’re doing on that side of the table.”
“As your client requested, let’s set my personal motives aside for the moment.”
“Ms. Fennan then took it upon herself to raise three million dollars in private equity funds. Did she not.”
“Three point one million.”
“She used these funds to acquire three firms.”
“None were outright acquisitions,” Don replied. “Ms. Fennan purchased a controlling interest. As I stated before, all three firms are Colorado based.”
“Their location has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that she acted in breach of her own contract!” Morley slipped on a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses and extended a hand. His associate had the document ready. “By your client’s own admission, she made a profit of thirty-one million dollars.”
“Eighty percent of which went to her investors,” Don replied. “My client’s take before expenses was 6.82 million.”
“The bank insists upon receiving all profits,” Morley declared. “Your client’s investors hold no legal right to one cent of this transaction.”
Roger softly interrupted, “You made a thousand percent profit? In two weeks?”
Morley angrily hammered the air between them. “Let’s stay on target here. The contract between your client and her investors is superseded by Ms. Fennan’s duty to her employer.” He used his forefinger to take aim across the table at Lena. “Young lady, all proceeds from that transaction must be immediately transferred to the bank, your employer. If your investors choose to take you to court, that is between you and them.”
Don interjected, “Are you aware that my client put this proposal forward to the bank?”
Roger Foretrain leaned forward. “Say that again.”
Morley shot his client a look. “Even if it’s true, it changes nothing.”
“Actually, it does.” Don opened his briefcase and extracted a series of stapled pages. He passed out three copies. “Mr. Cummins, I assume you don’t require a copy, since your comments are scrawled on virtually every page. I have highlighted several of them. Your handwriting is somewhat difficult to decipher. But I believe you will agree the comment across the top of page one reads, ‘Adolescent rubbish.’ On page two, Mr. Cummins asks, ‘Have you been sampling these products?’ On page three—”
Morley protested, “As I said, this has no bearing—”
“Then on page four Mr. Cummins suggests that my client’s university degrees are falsified. And if you’ll turn to the last page, you will see where Mr. Cummins writes, ‘Denied with pleasure.’ And down at the bottom he concludes, ‘Crash and burn, baby. I would be doing the bank a favor to fire you.’”
The look Roger Foretrain cast his divisional manager stripped all the starch out of the Weasel’s features.
Morley cleared his throat and said, “But Cummins did not follow through. Your client was not dismissed. Her actions are therefore still governed by her duty of loyalty.”
Don stowed the document back in his case and resumed his almost subservient position, hands folded on the table. “Are you also aware that my client does not actually have a contract with the bank?”
This time both lawyers blanched. “That is utter rubbish.”
Don paused then, and looked at the Weasel for the first time since entering the room. And smiled. “Twelve weeks ago, Mr. Cummins issued my client a new contract. Ms. Fennan considered the terms to be below her expectations. She refused to sign. As a result, Mr. Cummins froze her paychecks. She has not received any remuneration since. Not one penny.”
The electric silence was finally broken by Roger asking, “How long did it take you to put together this analysis?”
Lena looked at the Weasel and allowed a trace of her fury to boil up. “Less than a week.”
Don went on, “Given the fact that my client’s direct superior stated categorically that the bank had no interest in her concept, and how she does not at present have any legally binding contract, a court of law would question any claim put forward by the bank.”
“A court of law?” Morley’s wrath lifted him partway from his seat. “A court of law? Do you have any idea what you are suggesting?”
Don seemed utterly uninterested in his managing partner’s ire. “Actually, I do.”
“The blowback could be catastrophic. To have you represent Ms. Fennan against our client could ruin us on the Street! Now either you relocate yourself to our side of the table where you belong, or I will personally bring you before the partners and demand that you be summarily dismissed!”
“No need,” Don quietly replied. “I resign. Effective immediately.”
Morley’s inability to penetrate Don’s calm only added to his apoplexy. “You cannot be serious!”
“I have never been more serious in my life. I quit. It’s what you’ve wanted. Now you have it.”
“You have ten seconds before I pull the lever. All your fiscal drawdowns will be rescinded. Your credit is erased. Forget pension, paycheck, equity! It’s all gone. This very afternoon I will bring you up on charges before the bar! Are you listening to me? They’ll carry you out with the garbage.”
Don waited through a pair of Morley’s raspy breaths, then replied, “Fine. I withdraw my representation from Ms. Fennan.”
There should have been more satisfaction to the moment for Morley Shaw. But by this point he had been blindsided enough to suspect there was more. “Ms. Fennan is no longer your client?”
“That’s what I said.” Don returned the papers to his briefcase.
“In that case, Ms. Fennan, your employer—”
“Could I say one more thing before I leave? Not as her attorney. Just an interested third party.”
“Absolutely not, this is no longer—”
Roger cut in with, “Go ahead.”
“Lena Fennan has been offered a job by Charles Farlow.”
Roger asked Lena, “Doing what?”
Don replied for her, “Charles Farlow has offered Ms. Fennan a vice presidency within his financial group and a chance to develop her own investment portfolio. I have been offered a position as her in-house counsel.”
Morley sputtered, “The only way they could possibly have heard—”
Roger held up his hand. “Let him finish. You’re not done, are you.”
“I’m not, no.” Don rose to his feet.
“Lena will stay with your bank, but on certain conditions.”
“She is in no position—” Morley was halted by a look from Roger that matched the intensity with which he had melted the Weasel.
Roger said, “Go on.”
“You drop all consideration of claims against the profits Ms. Fennan made from this transaction. You instruct your legal team to withdraw any threat of action against both her and me. And you match Farlow’s offer, the size of the portfolio, and the level of compensation.”
“Anything else?”
“Just one thing. You fire the Weasel.”
“Who?”
“Him. Wesley Cummins. He’s gone.” Don walked to the door, held it open, and lifted Lena with his gaze. “Just so you are aware, Farlow has offered Lena his full legal team to draw upon, should you decide to move forward with any complaint. Oh, and Morley, that offer of legal assistance covers anything you might wish to throw my way as well.”
13
Lena sat in her former cubicle. She had not formally resigned. But whatever happened, her days here were over.
A sulphuric residue from the battle upstairs silenced the entire bull pen. Heads popped up, examined her, and disappeared again. Robin listened to Lena’s account in utter stillness. Lena finished and just sat there. It felt good not to have to do anything, go anywhere, jump at the opening of elevators in fear that the Weasel was coming to wreak more havoc on her life. She tasted the odors of stale bodies in the overchilled air. It had probably always been there. Only now it was something she no longer belonged to.
When she’d first started working here, Robin’s hair had been long and dark as a river. Lena knew one of her grandparents was from Ecuador. It was one of those things that had drawn them together, the various strands joined in the blender of modern American culture. Now Robin’s hair was trimmed to frame her face, tapered feather-light about her neck.
