Maybe the Horse Will Talk

by Elliot Perlman

  ‘My past what?’

  Betga, who knew Carla better than Maserov did, drew breath to explain. He drew breath because he knew the force of the fury the explanation would draw. ‘They’re going to want to dig into your past romantic life, really they’re going to want to dig into your sex life. They’re going to want to bring up the fact, for example, that you’re an unmarried mother.’

  ‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Nothing, but since people are so often irrationally at least suspicious, if not downright condemnatory, of unmarried mothers, it’s likely to be prejudicial.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense to me. What has my marital status and the fact that I’m a mother got to do with anything that was done to me in the workplace?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, law and logic, it has nothing at all to do with it,’ said Maserov.

  ‘But as a matter of painting a picture for a jury,’ Betga continued, ‘Torrent Industries will try to make it have everything to do with it. Carla, you know what they’ll try to do to you. They’re going to try to paint a picture of a loose woman, a woman who sleeps around casually, with a history of sleeping around casually. They’re going to cast aspersions on the way you dress.’

  ‘The way I dress? You mean they’re going to try to give the jury the impression that I was asking for it?’

  ‘Yeah, begging for it, a bitch on heat,’ Betga explained. ‘They’re going to try to make it look like it was . . .’

  ‘It was what?’

  ‘Consensual.’

  ‘You are fucking kidding me?’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ said Maserov.

  ‘That’s what Torrent Industries is going to say. They’re going to say you didn’t fight back, that you took your time reporting it. They’re going to say that you stayed on good terms with your boss.’

  ‘He was my boss!’

  ‘They’ll try to find holes in your story. They’ll say that you don’t act like a victim.’

  ‘How does a victim act?’

  ‘You’re still working.’

  ‘I’m temping two days a week wherever I can get it.’

  ‘Shows resilience. That’s got to hurt you.’

  ‘You have got to be kidding me?’

  ‘No, Carla, sadly he’s not.’

  Carla was cutting bananas into ever smaller pieces for Marietta. ‘But wait a minute, aren’t you Torrent Industries? You’re the lawyer acting for Torrent Industries,’ she said, with an upturned hand in the direction of Maserov, a hand that was still holding the knife. ‘And you’re the lawyer acting for me,’ she said to Betga. ‘And you’re also the private investigator you said they’ve got to go digging about in my past.’

  ‘Yeah, that can’t last,’ said Maserov quietly. ‘He can’t keep doing both.’

  ‘Well, that’s between you two,’ she said. ‘But surely it can last long enough for you not to dig,’ she said to Betga, ‘and for you to tell Torrent that he dug deep and came up with Mother Teresa.’

  ‘They’re finding stuff on Mother Teresa now,’ said Betga, helping himself to a small piece of banana.

  ‘It’s not sexual though. Is it?’ Maserov asked.

  ‘It’s not sexual yet,’ cautioned Betga. ‘They won’t stop till they find something. That’s what happens when you take a vow of poverty, chastity and obedience. Everyone knows poverty’s the easy bit. With chastity and obedience you just become a target. It’s a disincentive to being Mother Teresa nowadays.’

  ‘Will you forget Mother Teresa? Are you even listening to me? Fuck, I hate lawyers!’

  ‘I’m listening to you,’ said Maserov sympathetically.

  ‘What about you? You’re my lawyer!’ Carla shouted at Betga.

  ‘I am listening to you, even when I’m not here.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, you unfaithful arsehole!’

  Betga’s mobile phone rang. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to take that.’

  ‘You’re not taking it ’cause it’s probably a woman,’ said Carla.

  ‘I don’t care who it is. I’m not taking it because I’m in conference with my client.’ By now he had the phone in his hand. He glanced at the number and winced. ‘I’m definitely not taking that,’ he said under his breath.

  ‘I think we should return to the matter at hand,’ said Maserov, a little uncomfortably.

  ‘Who was it?’ demanded Carla.

  ‘Couldn’t tell you,’ said Betga innocently.

  ‘It’s a common tactic of the defence in sexual harassment cases,’ Maserov ploughed on, ‘to trawl for any evidence at all, however slight, that might suggest the plaintiff was promiscuous. Then, armed with that evidence, they try to suggest that the behaviour that forms the subject of the harassment claim was consensual.’

  ‘Well, that’s just absolutely disgusting,’ said Carla.

  ‘I agree completely,’ said Maserov.

  ‘Then don’t do it,’ Carla shot back.

  Betga and Maserov looked at each other.

  ‘He won’t be doing it, Carla. Someone else will.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Maserov, beginning his explanation. ‘Eleanor told you how I came to be the lawyer Malcolm Torrent’s got handling this.’

  ‘Yeah, you found out your boss was going to fire you and in a chance meeting in the men’s room with Mr Torrent you leveraged a hunch that he was pissed off that your boss wasn’t taking Betga’s claims, our claims, seriously enough.’

  ‘It was in the corridor, not the men’s room, but otherwise that’s pretty much it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So Maserov’s gamble didn’t save his job, it only bought him time, some of which he’s used up already.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that, for your sake, but how does that change anything for me and the other victims?’

  ‘Carla,’ said Maserov, ‘a moment ago, you said it was disgusting to use the plaintiff’s prior sexual history to suggest that the alleged harassment, that behaviour that forms the subject of the harassment claim, was consensual. And I agreed. But the decision to use it or not won’t be mine because I almost certainly won’t be running the case by the time it gets to court, if it gets that far. Because of the slow pace of these things —’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Litigation, the legal system,’ Betga chimed in support.

  ‘Because of the slow pace of litigation,’ continued Maserov, ‘it almost certainly won’t be me calling the shots. Whatever’s going to happen to me will have already happened by the time your case gets to court.’

  ‘Carla, what he’s trying to say is that the lawyer who takes on the defence of Torrent Industries after him won’t be anywhere near as reasonable as he is and that that lawyer, probably a man, is likely to come after you with all guns blazing. He’s going to try his damnedest to paint you as a slut so that when Mercer testifies that there was “unfortunately some regrettable sexual activity” between you and Mercer in the office, it was just two hard-working employees letting off steam.’

  ‘That’s not what happened at all. I thought lawyers weren’t allowed to lie to the court?’ Carla was close to tears.

  ‘The lawyer doesn’t have to lie to the court. It will be Mike Mercer who lies to the lawyer. The lawyer is merely acting on his client’s instructions. Then it will be Mercer’s word against yours and they will have done all they can to blacken your reputation.’

  ‘So what are you saying, exactly?’

  ‘I’m saying we should try to settle with Torrent Industries while Maserov is still the face of the other side.’

  Betga’s phone rang again and nobody in the room was happy about it. He went into Marietta’s room to answer it.

  ‘Carla, he’s right. I know this seems incredibly unfair to you. And it is. I know you’re angry and you’re hurt. You know, they teach us at law school that a damages payout, money, is meant to compensate the plaintiff to the extent of putting them back in
the position they were in before the damage occurred. I know that in this instance you can’t be put back in the position you were in before it happened. I’m not supposed to say things like this to you, not as the lawyer representing Torrent Industries but . . . well, the whole situation here is pretty unusual.’

  ‘You’re a decent guy, Stephen. You know that? I really do like Eleanor and I think she’s smart but I don’t think she’s in the real world in so far as men are concerned. Maybe she married you too early, didn’t experience enough of men, the way they can be. Guys like you don’t come around every day, not round here, anyway.’ She pointed to Marietta’s room from where Betga’s voice could be heard.

  ‘I told you, I can’t talk,’ said Betga into the phone.

  ‘She’s crazy to think that guy can hold a candle to you, frankly.’

  ‘What guy?’ shot Maserov. He was meant to be mollifying Carla. Suddenly, a thin film of sweat announced itself on his forehead and under his arms. Carla was tuning into Betga’s conversation.

  ‘I can’t talk to you. Not now,’ they heard Betga say.

  ‘Who’s he talking to?’ Carla asked herself out loud. ‘Betga, you shit, stop hiding in your daughter’s bedroom, taking calls from women when you’re meant to be advising me.’

  ‘Got to go. Now,’ said Betga hurriedly into the phone. He was still putting the phone in his pocket when he became visible again to Carla and Maserov.

  ‘That was a woman, wasn’t it? You pretend you want to be back in our lives but take time out from giving me legal advice to take a call from a woman. That’s the sort of stunt Ron would never pull, nor Stephen, here, for that matter.’

  ‘I do want to be back in your lives and that wasn’t a woman.’

  ‘Would you try that shit on Eleanor?’ Carla asked Maserov.

  ‘If it was a woman? No, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Carla, it wasn’t a woman.’

  ‘He says it wasn’t a woman,’ Maserov offered weakly in Betga’s defence.

  ‘I swear, that wasn’t a woman!’ offered Betga.

  ‘Yeah, prove it. Prove it or you can leave right now and I’ll get some other lawyer to represent me against Torrent Industries.’ Maserov didn’t know what was going to happen next. He was still reeling from the announcement of a man in Eleanor’s life that couldn’t hold a candle to him.

  ‘Well, how do you want me to prove it?’

  ‘Put your phone on speaker and redial the number that called you.’

  ‘I can’t. It’s unprofessional. And it would betray a confidence.’

  ‘You’re totally full of shit.’

  ‘Carla, it’s a man. I was talking to a man.’

  ‘Then call him back.’

  ‘Look, how about this. You see the number here?’ Betga walked over to her and showed her the number of the previous two callers. ‘You see that number?’

  ‘Yeah, I see it.’

  ‘Okay, I shouldn’t be doing this but I’m going to play you a voice message left for me on my phone from this guy’s number. You see it’s the same number?’

  ‘Yes, it’s the same number,’ Carla said suspiciously.

  ‘Okay, listen.’ Betga played the voicemail message from the number and turned his phone speaker on so that the message was broadcast to the room. Then came the voice.

  ‘Look, I don’t know your name but I’ve been given your number. Well, given this number. I think . . . I need to talk to you.’ It was a man’s voice. Maserov could see Carla was comforted by this but he wasn’t. He knew that voice but couldn’t quite place it.

  ‘He sounds like he needs help,’ Carla said. ‘Are you going to help him?’

  ‘I don’t know if I can.’

  ‘I know that voice,’ said Maserov. ‘That’s Featherby.’

  ‘Who’s Featherby?’ Carla asked.

  ‘He’s the lawyer from Freely Savage that was handling the sexual harassment cases before me.’

  ‘Why are you talking to him?’ Carla asked.

  ‘Okay, look, I’m not meant to tell you this. It has nothing to do with you. It has nothing to do with either of you.’ Betga hesitated, looking at his fingers, which Maserov interpreted as meaning that either he was trying to come up with something both he and Carla could live with or that he was weighing up whether the situation called for a betrayal of confidence. Then, evidently having made up his mind, Betga continued. ‘As Maserov knows, there’s a group, a support group, called the FSS, the Freely Savage Survivors. It helps former lawyers, former employees of Freely Savage, to get over the trauma of having worked there. I’m currently the chair of that support group.’

  ‘You’re chair of the FSS?’ Maserov asked incredulously.

  ‘Yes, why does that surprise you? I’m a very caring and sensitive man. The tragedy is that in the absence of other people knowing this, I’m forced on occasion to say it myself.’

  ‘Why’s Featherby calling you? Doesn’t he work there anymore?’

  ‘No, he does work there but he wants to join the FSS. He wants to meet with the group.’

  ‘I was never sure it really existed. Isn’t it supposed to be for former employees?’ asked Maserov.

  ‘It exists. It’s exhausting trying to heal all these people, believe me. I do it pro bono. I keep telling him that he can’t join until he’s a former employee but he says he thinks he’s on the way out.’

  ‘God, that’s a lawyer at Freely Savage?’ asked Carla. ‘He sounded desperate. I didn’t think someone way up there at Freely Savage would ever sound like that. He sounded like he was about to cry.’

  ‘This shouldn’t surprise you,’ said Betga, ‘of course he sounds like he’s going to cry. He probably is going to cry. He’s a lawyer in the corporate sector. Sooner or later all lawyers cry. Seven per cent of the general population have a drinking problem. Twenty-one per cent of lawyers do. Seven per cent of the general population suffer from depression. Twenty-eight per cent of lawyers do. These figures come from the American Bar Association. It’s probably higher at Freely Savage. But I can’t help him. I’ve told him that the FSS exists only for people who have left the firm. The lawyer has to be in recovery. I told him that if they get rid of him, then we can talk. So you see, I wasn’t talking to a woman.’

  ‘No, you were denying help to a desperate man.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Betga.

  Both Carla and Maserov felt much better.

  VIII

  Jessica was simultaneously compelled to continue reading and repelled by what she was reading. The compulsion came from a sense of guilt. She was employed in the one department in the company with a heavy concentration of women, even a female boss, the one department with the explicit mandate to look after the wellbeing of staff. She had gone into the office day after day, week after week, half suspecting that this kind of thing was going on but never knowing the specifics and never making it her business to ask. As she had explained to Maserov, the whole culture there was one of don’t ask, don’t tell.

  She felt too small, too powerless, to ask the people who also felt too small and too powerless to tell. She was a young woman, Indian too, in a white males’ world, almost as likely as any of the female support staff to be a victim. Almost. It was the almost that got stuck in her throat. She had got herself an education which she had used to gain a marginally less vulnerable position. When she interviewed and was offered the job she hadn’t known that what she would be doing was serving the interests of the people who allowed her to be slightly safer than the less-educated women at the front line. That, and ensuring there was sufficient alfalfa on the sandwich trays that were served at lunch during in-house seminars.

  As she lay on her bed in her apartment reading the affidavits, she felt that the company’s regular salary payments into her bank account were in fact dependent on her not voicing her concern with its treatment of women and she started to wonder in what sense she was complicit with its underlying culture. It was a culture she put on a brave face to negotiate every day,
right after she applied her make-up in the safe space of her own bathroom. But after reading this, how was she ever going to look at herself in the mirror again? She had been terrified of being in the position in which these women had found themselves but had managed with guile and deft manoeuvring, sometimes deft physical manoeuvring, to avoid the worst that could happen. These women had not been so lucky.

  Jessica knew that there were men who, after they loosened their ties at the end of the day, turned their attention to the women who, having groomed themselves first thing that morning after choosing their clothes carefully the night before, had fought their way to the Torrent Industries tower through impatient morning crowds clutching coats and bags, fingers tight around the dignity they brought from home for pay that would have left the pack cold. It was an attention these women, these stress balls for the men they worked for, could each feel in the air. In a touch, a look, a remark above the chatter of keyboards they would hear the subliminal sounds only feral dogs make. And soon, here and there, the teeth would emerge from behind a rapidly vanishing dissembled smile. The bite was coming, any moment now.

  And if ever the taste turned sour, they would say she asked to be bitten, that she wanted it, she wanted the imbalance of power, the humiliation, the uncertainty as to her future prospects and earning capacity, the instant evaporation of self-esteem, the torn clothing, the smeared make-up, the sleepless nights, the counselling, the whole thing. You could just tell what she wanted, your honour. It was consensual. Jessica knew all of this, had seen it herself.

  Having read what had happened to Pauline Hart, Jessica read what happened to Lilly Zhang, twenty-two, and then Monika Galea, twenty-five. There was another reason Jessica felt compelled to read on. She wanted to see what could happen to her.

  Jessica remembered talking to Monika Galea at end-of-financial-year drinks. Though she’d seen her many times in passing, until that night they’d never really said much more than ‘hi’ and ‘good morning’ to each other. But even then there was something bright, something engaging and sympathetic in Monika’s eyes that made Jessica feel that they might get on, that she might be someone nice to have lunch with if the prospect of eating with someone from HR didn’t put Monika in a difficult position socially with the other secretaries in her department.