Subpoena Colada

by Mark Dawson

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  He takes a can out of a fridge and spikes it. ‘No drinking on the job, right? I admire your dedication.’

  He sinks down into the room’s sofa and rests his feet on the table.

  ‘No Hannah today?’ I ask.

  ‘Left twenty minutes ago. She’s done for the day. I’ll catch up with her later. Some shit at the theatre she wants me to go to.’

  I suddenly know exactly what it is I want to say to him. It’s so obvious.

  ‘So - what can I do for you?’ he asks me.

  ‘I was just wondering-’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I was just wondering what it feels like to fuck my girlfriend.’

  A flicker of confusion passes over his beautiful face. ‘Come again?’

  ‘I was just wondering,’ I repeat, ‘what it feels like to have sexual intercourse with my girlfriend.’

  He laughs nervously. ‘You’ve completely lost me, man.’

  ‘Simple question. I just want you to tell me what it feels like. I can’t remember, see - since she stopped fucking me when she started fucking you.’

  He laughs again, more nervously this time. ‘This is a joke, right? Someone’s put you up to this? Is it Rip? It is, isn’t it - this is Rip’s lame-ass idea of a joke.’

  ‘No, no joke,’ I deadpan, taking a step towards him.

  ‘Hey, man, I’ve got like totally no idea what you’re talking about.’

  Now he looks concerned. He’s upright in the sofa, eyes darting left and right, working out angles of escape.

  I step forward again. He shuffles away from me. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror: with the bloody scab and the bruising on the side of my face I actually do look threatening. Sort of.

  ‘You told me all about her when we met on Monday,’ I say. ‘You said you took her off another guy, remember? And then I heard on TV how you’ve got engaged to her. So I’m assuming you’ve slept with her by now?’

  ‘You’re talking about Hannah? Hey, man, help me out a little - I’m lost here. Are you saying you’re her ex or something? I mean, if you are, man, what can I say? I’m completely sorry. I had, like, no clue.’

  The door to the room opens and the publicity guy returns.

  ‘Get security!’ Haines shrieks.

  The guy takes one look at me, snarling at Haines, and takes a step backwards. Laying down his life for his charge obviously isn’t in his contract.

  ‘Get this kook out of here!’

  The publicist spins and sprints towards the hotel lobby.

  I turn to Haines.

  ‘Get out,’ he orders, his spunk reinvigorated by the promise of imminent reinforcements.

  ‘We’re not finished,’ I say, doing my best Dirty Harry impression.

  I make my way back outside before the cavalry can arrive.

  A FAMILIAR SOLACE

  I need a drink. I feel wiped out - all the emotion has been sucked out of me. I also feel slightly pathetic; putting the frighteners on Haines was childish, and, now that the adrenaline has drained away, I’m disappointed to find that all I’m left with is embarrassment. After stopping at an off-licence to buy a bottle of whisky, I aim my taxi back towards the office.

  ‘Liverpool Street,’ I say as we pull out into traffic.

  ‘You all right back there, mate?’ the cabby asks me.

  I must look as bad as I feel.

  ‘I don’t want no mess in my cab.’

  I repeat myself, ‘Liverpool Street, please,’ and wrench open the cap of the bottle as we set off.

  En route, I tip out the contents of the novelty bag that was given to me after the press conference. There is a T-shirt, a poster, a collection of signed postcards with photographs of the stars, and a mug. I turn the mug in my hand: it’s decorated with a group shot of the cast, all of them either handsome or beautiful, all of them smiling for the camera.

  It gives me at least a measure of satisfaction to pull down the window, feel the cold air sting my lungs, and toss the mug outside. The china ruptures into a million fragments, scattered in the gutter.

  I rummage in the pack and slip the postcard of Hannah into my pocket.

  RUMOURS

  It’s getting late when I finally make it back. I feel nauseous, so I divert into the toilets to freshen up. It also occurs to me as I position myself at the urinal that I’ve been going more often than usual. It’s probably nothing but maybe I ought to mention it to the doctor the next time I see him for a check-up.

  Jonathan Williams walks out of a cubicle and washes his hands at one of the basins.

  ‘So what’s happening with you and the Fey case?’ he asks as I zip up.

  ‘Nothing much,’ I say. ‘It’s running along.’

  ‘I mean, even I finally heard the rumours,’ he adds. ‘They get to me eventually, even down in the basement.’

  ‘What rumours?’

  ‘I thought you knew?’ He sounds embarrassed.

  ‘Knew what?’

  He fidgets. ‘It’s probably nothing. Listen, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. Just forget I said anything.’

  ‘No,’ I say, finishing up and joining him at the basins.

  He’s squirming, looking ready to make a quick escape.

  ‘You can’t leave it at that. What rumours?’

  He speaks slowly and carefully. ‘I heard you were coming off the case. I heard you’re going to get reassigned.’

  ‘You what?’ He nods. ‘Where to?’

  ‘That’s what I was kind of pleased about. Everyone seems to think you’re gonna be working downstairs with me. I mean, that’d be great news. I could certainly do with the company.’

  A LAST-MINUTE REPRIEVE

  ‘Any messages?’ I ask Elizabeth when I get back to my room.

  ‘Only one. Miss Wilson’s secretary called to cancel your appointment with her. She said something about Miss Wilson being ill. Food poisoning, apparently.’

  Double take. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I think she’s got food poisoning.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘That’s what her secretary told me. She said she left the office to go to the doctor’s this morning. I could check if you like.’

  ‘You beauty,’ I exclaim. She looks slightly confused.

  I plough ahead, ‘OK. This is what we’re gonna do. Print the marketing agreement off again. Maybe I can still sort this out.’

  She nods and turns to her screen. In five minutes I have a warm copy of the agreement in my hands. This is amazingly good luck; Wilson’s definition of sickness is being hospitalized. Someone is smiling on me for once. Perhaps this marks an upturn in my fortunes.

  MORE APOLOGIZING

  From: Tate, Daniel

  To: Delgardo, Rachel

  Subject: You have no idea…

  … how sorry I am and how utterly stupid I feel. I will completely understand if you don’t want to talk to me again. Brian Fey had an emergency that I had to go and deal with at once. It was really hectic and I only realized I’d stood you up when I was finished, and by then… it was too late. Anyway, what I’m saying is SORRY!!! and I hope you don’t hate me although I’d understand it if you do.

  PS: If you don’t hate me, maybe you’d let me make it up to you?

  She mails back after only a couple of minutes. So there’s still hope.

  Of course I don’t hate you although I was pretty annoyed last night. But these things happen and it’s no one’s fault. So apology accepted. But I’m not sure I’m going to risk dinner again with you at the moment! Perhaps we can have a talk at the staff Xmas party?

  The annual Christmas bash on Monday evening. The yearly orgy of drink, inappropriate staff liaisons and badly dancing Partners, providing enough licentious scandal to fuel the gossip until February. Great. I’d almost forgotten about it. I was going to stay away this year, but I suppose I could make a flying visit. Plus the drink is free: a persuasive argument in favour of my attending.

  THE L
AST LAST CHANCE SALOON

  Wilson’s absence has given me a last chance. I’m determined to seize it. Also, I need something to put thoughts of Brian out of my mind.

  Cohen is meeting Keith Chegwin and so, until he gets back, I’ve got the office to myself. To my surprise, I find that I remember most of my amendments to the agreement that I made yesterday evening. The work is tedious but I’m cutting through the pages at an encouraging clip. When Cohen returns at 4.30, I’ve finished making amendments and I’ve even managed to proofread two-thirds of the changes Elizabeth has typed up.

  I haven’t had time to prepare for my presentation to the partnership council but at least I’ve made a fist at recovering my position with Wilson.

  THE DORK HAS REASON TO CELEBRATE

  Dawkins walks past my office. He backs up as soon as he realizes that I’ve spotted him. His fat face has a gloating cast to it.

  ‘Just going for a quick drink, men,’ he says cheerily.

  ‘A little early for that, isn’t it?’ Cohen says.

  ‘I’m celebrating,’ he says. ‘I’ve had a good day today. The interview went very well.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I say.

  ‘Isn’t it,’ he says. ‘And I’ve got a charming date to tackle the champers with me.’

  ‘Anyone we know?’ I ask despite myself.

  ‘All will be revealed, Tate.’

  ‘How enigmatic,’ I say.

  He smiles another of his bogus smiles.

  ‘Don’t let me keep you,’ I say.

  ‘Pip-pip,’ says the Dork over his shoulder.

  ‘You think that means he got the job?’ Cohen asks.

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘What an arse.’

  RED HANDED

  Dawkins’ early departure presents me with an opportunity’ to take the Japanese precedents I borrowed from him back to his office without having to endure ten minutes of his crowing. I collect the papers and wander round.

  I slip into the Dork’s office and quietly dose the door behind me. I stand at his window, raise the blind and take in the view. Stone and glass and shimmering darkness. The Christmas lights in Soho Square look gorgeous from up here, framed against another fresh covering of snow that must have fallen this afternoon, not that I’d know it from my own vantage point. London’s modest skyline glitters in the darkness. I watch as the blinking lights of a jet slowly move from left to right across the window.

  I could get used to a view like this.

  I drop the papers on Dawkins’ spare chair and then go around behind his desk and open up the drawers, one by one. They are all unlocked. I’d like to find a copy of his appraisal just to see how good the partnership really thinks he is.

  Even his drawers are efficiently organized. More ring binders, a few books, a bicycle helmet and his fetid gym kit. I run my finger along the spines of the folders until I reach the one labeled ‘personal’. Crouching down beneath the desk I pull the folder out and flick through its contents.

  I find a copy of his contract and note glumly, although without much surprise, that he’s paid £10,000 a year more than me. There are summaries of timesheets confirming that he’s averaged over 11 hours a day of chargeable time over the past twelve months. He probably deserves the extra he’s making. There are reams of inter-office memoranda, the kind of thing I usually read once, bin, forget about. And then, filed loosely towards the back of the folder, a document I recognize at once.

  The missing briefing note.

  I stare at it dumbly. I’m trying to work out why the Dork would have it in his office. Without even thinking about the significance of the find or what Dawkins is up to, I put the document back in the folder. I close the drawer, check quickly to make sure everything is as it should be, and return to my office.

  I’ve only got ten minutes before my presentation to the partnership council.

  HOW TO LOSE FRIENDS AND INFLUENCE NO ONE

  Nausea has settled heavily in the pit of my stomach. Nerves? Plus I’m feeling light-headed. I need a good blast of fully sugared-up black coffee.

  Caroline Lewis finishes her spiel. Inside, the lights have been dimmed and she is projecting slides from her laptop onto the wall at the end of the room. When I press my face against the glass panel in the door I can make out vague pie charts and graphs. And there’s Caroline, silhouetted by the cone of light from the projector, emphasizing the data with explanatory swoops of the cursor. In the brief periods of darkness, as one slide is replaced by another, I can make out the dark shadows of the partnership council. When she finishes, they applaud politely. I recognize Hunter’s syrupy smooth voice as he adds a few concluding words. Although I strain my ears hard, I can’t make out what it is he’s saying.

  ‘Thank God that’s over and done with,’ Caroline mutters as she backs out of the room.

  She’s got a large leather portfolio folder under one arm and a sheaf of spare handouts in a spare hand. The handouts have been glossily colour-printed and neatly spiral-bound.

  ‘Cheers,’ I say, feeling utterly inadequate.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ she asks quizzically, peering into my face. ‘You’re not looking that good.’

  ‘I think I’m coming down with something. It’s nothing. I feel fine.’

  ‘Best of luck,’ she says.

  I flash her a smile and step inside.

  The tables in the conference room have been rearranged to form a horseshoe, with a single desk in the centre at one end. On this desk sits an open laptop and a projector. Caroline has left one of her handouts behind. I flick through it as I’m waiting for the partners to finish making their notes on her presentation. Hunter and Fulton are conferring quietly. Surely only for show, though? I can’t imagine they haven’t already given the Dork the nod.

  These presentations are being given to the entire partnership council. The council comprises the five senior partners in the firm: Charles Hunter; James Fulton; Victoria Wilson; Richard Tanner; David Turner. Any hope that Wilson might be too unwell to attend is immediately dashed. She’s sitting next to Fulton, fixing me with an icy stare.

  Tanner catches my eye and gives me a smile of encouragement. Hunter and Fulton finish their hushed conversation, and Hunter then addresses me with a toothy smile.

  ‘Thanks for coming down, Daniel,’ he says. ‘Have you got any slides you’d like us to look at?’

  ‘I wasn’t planning to use any,’ I admit. ‘I’d rather just make a quick speech if that’s all right.’

  I scrutinize his face for a reaction but he keeps it diplomatically blank.

  ‘Well, why don’t you get started? We’re all very keen to hear what you’ve got to say. We’ll interrupt if we have any questions.’

  I clear my throat, rub my sweaty palms against my trouser legs and scrabble around for somewhere to begin.

  ‘As you all know, I’ve been at White Hunter for a few years now. During that time I’ve worked on some excellent files and, I think it’s fair to say, I’ve had some good results.’ Tanner nods conspicuously. ‘I’m an ambitious person, and I’m very interested in developing my career here. I’d like to acquire my own list of clients and I think I’m well on the way to doing that.’

  ‘You’ve certainly got a good reputation outside the firm,’ Tanner acknowledges - bless him.

  ‘Although it wouldn’t hurt you to get your name mentioned in the legal press a bit more,’ Fulton suggests. ‘I’d like to see you in the Media Lawyer, something like that.’

  ‘Bob Monkhouse speaks very highly of you,’ Tanner says.

  ‘I enjoyed working for him,’ I say.

  ‘And I received a letter of thanks from Geri Halliwell after the work you did on her new recording contract.’

  ‘It was interesting - and she’s very kind.’

  ‘Where do you see yourself in five years’ time?’ Hunter asks.

  ‘Here, I hope. Established as a partner with a great list of clients and a couple of assistants working for me. Making the firm a l
ot of money.’

  There’s a pause. I smile in anticipation of a question. ‘Before you go on, Daniel,’ Wilson says, ‘there’re a couple of things I’d like to ask.’ She opens a folder and takes out a document. ‘I’ve just got off the phone with Trish Parkes. A very important manager with a lot of industry clout. Daniel’s been working on her file. It seems Trish received this document this morning. I think it’s relevant to Daniel’s presentation.’

  She hands me the document, and I scan it. ‘Do you recognize it?’ she says.

  It’s the half-finished marketing agreement Dawkins stole from my desk. It has the scribbles and swirls of my manuscript amendments on it.

  ‘It’s a draft marketing agreement I’ve been working on,’ I say. ‘But I haven’t sent it to Trish. Someone else must have.’

  ‘Someone else sent your unfinished work over to Trish?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who’d do something like that?’ she laughs scornfully.

  ‘Oliver Dawkins.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘No, it’s not. He stole some papers from my desk. I just found them in his office. He must’ve taken this too and then sent it out.’

  Wilson throws her hands up. ‘That’s utter nonsense, Daniel.’

  ‘I have to agree,’ Fulton says.

  ‘He’s trying to discredit me. He obviously sent it to Trish because he knew she’d get straight on the phone to you.’

  ‘Daniel, that’s ludicrous,’ Fulton says.

  ‘Come on, then.’

  ‘Come on what?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  BROUGHT TO BOOK

  I lead Hunter, Fulton, Wilson, Tanner and Turner up to the second floor and around to Dawkins’ room. To my surprise, he’s sitting at his desk, working.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he says.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Oliver,’ Hunter says, ‘but Daniel says you removed some documents from his desk and sent them out to one of Victoria’s clients.’