by Kilby Blades
“This information was illegally obtained,” David continued. “The courts found that Ms. Porter was in clear violation of her NDA on more than ten counts, including false representation. Ms. Porter manipulated negotiations, and admitted under oath that she revealed to Mr. LaRue Cella’s location and identified Dr. Piccarelli as an associate.”
But Kevin’s attorney interjected. “Marcella Dawes is a recognizable public figure. Do you expect this court to believe that a five-week stay in a small town did not garner public notice?”
“Then I challenge you to present evidence that knowledge of Ms. Dawes location was publicly available prior to Ms. Porter’s first meeting with Mr. LaRue. Ms. Dawes arrived in Longport on June 6th. Ms. Porter testified that her first private conversation with Mr. LaRue was on June 7th.”
Cella’s jaw slacked. She hadn’t known that detail.
“If you can produce evidence that it Ms. Dawes’s location was in the public domain prior to 11:30AM Eastern Time on June 7th, I’d like to see it,” David continued.
“Ms. Dawes lied to this court about her intention to buy Piccarelli’s,” Kevin’s attorney argued.
“And Mr. LaRue used an informant illegally to entrap her.”
“Does anyone care what I think?” Judge Scott asked, looking between David and Ms. Nathaniel. “Attorneys, please approach the bench.”
The courtroom was smaller than how courtrooms looked on TV, but still had enough distance between where Cella sat and Judge Scott’s bench that Cella couldn’t hear. Shifting her eyes toward Kevin, she saw that he’d affixed her with a hostile look. Unwilling to show any more of her own emotion, she gave him the finger only in her mind.
“May I see you in chambers, Ms. Dawes?”
The judge’s words startled her from her staring contest and the request sent Cella’s heart racing. Her eyes flew to David’s face, for clues. He gave her a nod she couldn’t read. As she stood, Piper slid a legal pad with three words written and punctuated by a smiley face: this is good.
By the time the bailiff waited for Cella to join David on the other side of the table, Judge Scott was already disappearing into the bowels of the building. Leaving through an exit in the back of the courtroom, David was silent as they walked a labyrinthine route to chambers. Judge Scott’s door was open. He’d removed his robe. In chinos and a navy short-sleeved sweater, he looked younger, and a lot less stern. His office was homey—distinguished with dark shelves containing the hundreds of legal volumes one would expect—but bursting with family pictures and toddler art from grandchildren it was clear he dearly loved.
“Miss Dawes…” He motioned for them to sit. “Reneging on an agreement made in a court of law is no trivial matter. Legal misconduct of any kind will become a matter of record that could hurt you if you’re ever involved in future litigation.”
Cella nodded, more relaxed in the welcoming space. “I understand, Your Honor. It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
“Your attorney has presented compelling evidence against Mr. LaRue.” Judge Scott nodded his head toward David. “But your reversal seems suspicious, and I am bound by duty to see that justice is served.”
David leaned forward to speak—before he got a word out, Cella set a silencing hand on his arm.
“Max doesn’t know I plan to bid for the restaurant. If he did, he’d fight me on it. For the past month, my realtor has been showing me restaurant spaces in Santa Monica. Two weeks ago, I bought a house in Malibu. It’s not even out of escrow yet. A house I loved, in Longport, sold five days ago.”
Judge Scott, who gently worried his glasses in his hands, brought the end of one of the temples to his lip.
“He’s this amazing chef…when I left, he was talking about reopening it himself.” By the time she said it, her voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t care how much I have to pay Kevin to get myself out of this, or how much I’ll have to pay to buy Piccarelli’s. Even if Max doesn’t want it back and you block me from opening it myself, I’d sell to someone who would keep it as it is. I can’t let it go to developers.”
Silence stretched for what felt like minutes as Judge Scott studied her with impressive focus. His face gave nothing away. Cella would have paid to know what he really thought of this convoluted story. After a long minute, he spoke.
“Did you know that I visited Piccarelli’s, Ms. Dawes? I still remember what I had, though I can’t remember what it was called. It was something with eggplant…it had this sauce and these capers and it was just…amazing.” He shook his head lightly, as if still in wonder.
“Caponata,” Cella smiled, fresh tears springing to her eyes. “You don’t see it on many restaurant menus.”
His voice took on a reverence. “Even if I had, I don’t think it would have tasted like hers.”
He tossed down his glasses and rubbed his hands together as he leaned into his desk and rested on his elbows.
“I think Piccarelli’s is worth saving. I think you’re being truthful. And I admire what you’re trying to do. But I need time with this. I’m still bound to the spirit of the law.”
“You may be seated. This court is back in session.”
Piper squeezed Cella’s hand. She’d barely picked at her lunch and crossing her left leg over her right had done nothing to stop her right foot from bouncing nervously on its toe. The judge had dismissed her from chambers following her impassioned plea. While waiting, she’d checked the real estate app on her phone at least ten times, to see whether the “On Sale” status of the restaurant had changed to “Sale Pending”. It hadn’t.
Still, Cella couldn’t shake her sense of impending doom. She’d gotten a call from Alison from Pepper Pot over lunch. Apparently, Max had “totally freaked out” about the idea of going to the bigger signings, but it had “only taken a little arm-twisting” to get him to agree to come to the later ones. Even more disturbing was Alison’s comment that she was sure the media coach could get Max comfortable enough on camera to do national TV. It should have been positioned as his choice—not a hard sell, and she’d tell him as much when next they spoke. That was, if he would ever speak to her again given the stunt she was about to pull.
“Will the attorneys please rise?”
Cella didn’t hazard a glance in Kevin’s direction.
“In light of new evidence, I order that earlier testimony regarding collusion with Dr. Max Piccarelli be stricken from the record, and that restrictions placed on Ms. Dawes with respect to business with Dr. Piccarelli be lifted.” The judge looked pointedly at Kevin’s attorney. “And I will warn you, Ms. Nathaniel, to refrain from presenting illegally-obtained evidence in any court of law. Ms. Dawes and her legal team are within their right to file a complaint to the State Bar of California as well as the Los Angeles County Bar Association and I encourage them to do so. Mr. LaRue, please rise.”
Cella did look then, long enough to see Kevin cast an accusatory glance toward his attorney.
“Mr. LaRue, I find you in contempt of court for obstruction of justice. Your fine is set at $100,000. Do you have an ability to pay within thirty days?”
Kevin looked like he had the wind knocked out of him. “No, Your Honor.”
“When will you have the ability to pay?”
“I don’t know, Your Honor,” he stammered.
“Can you describe the nature of your financial hardship?”
Kevin looked miserable. “My bank accounts have been seized.”
Cella blinked on widened eyes.
“On what date did this occur?” The judge looked utterly unsurprised.
“I-I don’t know.”
“Then I’ll refresh your memory, Mr. LaRue—they were seized on July 21st. The same day you were charged with ten counts of tax evasion. But your settlement agreement with Ms. Dawes wasn’t signed until July 25th. Which means that you were still under the original contract when you failed to notify Ms. Dawes of material impacts to your financial situation. Not only did you breach your contract, Mr. L
aRue—you did it on my watch.”
Holy shit.
“I rule that your settlement agreement dated July 25th is null and void and that any obligations, payments or other actions specified under the contract be immediately reversed. Pertaining to the original partnership contract, I rule that you return all funds invested by Ms. Dawes—an initial sum of $1.3 million and all subsequent costs incurred, with interest. Within six months, I require that you cover all expenses submitted by Ms. Dawes, past and present, related to communications and public relations. I further rule that these court records be sealed and that you remain under a suppression order that prevents you from discussing or publicizing any commentary about Ms. Dawes, apart from issuing a public apology. Heaven knows she deserves it.”
By then, Piper was squeezing Cella’s hand so hard that it compromised her circulation.
“Do you have any questions?” Judge Scott asked sternly. Kevin had turned completely pale.
“No, Your Honor.”
The judge turned to Cella, something much kinder in his eyes. “Do you have any questions, Ms. Dawes?”
Hastily, Cella stood. “No, Your Honor. Thank you, Your Honor.”
He smiled as he gave her a nod. “I wish you the best of luck in restoring Piccarelli’s, Ms. Dawes.”
He picked up his gavel and banged it on his sound block.
“This court is adjourned.”
38 The Setback
“Hello?”
Max had grabbed the phone from his night stand, swiping blindly to answer. He pried one dry eye open only after he’d picked up the call. It took a second for his eye to focus. When it did, the clock on his nightstand told him it was seven-thirty in the morning.
“I found another unicorn.”
“Natalie?”
The night before, he’d gone to the bar and had a beer or six with Jake and Linc. Linc had bought a house. Max had found a buyer for the restaurant. Rachel was expecting again. They’d stayed in the bar past two.
“It just came through yesterday,” Natalie went on. “This application…you’re gonna love it.”
“We have our buyer.” His voice was hoarse.
“Uh-uh,” Natalie said matter-of-factly. “We don’t have a buyer until the papers are signed. Deals sometimes fall through. Until then, we hedge our bets.”
Max didn’t want to look at another buyer. In his own mind, it was a done deal. But he respected Natalie—she was doing a great job, and, so far, she hadn’t steered him wrong.
He yawned. “Alright. Send it over.”
“If you like this buyer better, let me know and we’ll get him in for a showing. Then you can decide.”
Before he could respond, Natalie had hung up, which left Max looking down at his phone. Swiveling out of bed, Max made his way downstairs. It was times like this that he appreciated having been a travel doctor. His bag was full of goodies he could use to self-medicate when he was hung over. A Zofran for the nausea and a B-12 shot would do him a world of good. Administering that shot and taking his pill, Max traded coffee that morning for a Gatorade in the back of his fridge. Looking guiltily at Cujo, who gave him the much-deserved stink-eye for the fact that Max had left him alone all night, Max showered, dressed and took Cujo for a walk that dragged a bit as Max pulled himself together.
By nine-thirty, Max was feeling better. He’d fixed himself a greasy bacon and egg sandwich and pulled out his laptop. And Natalie was right. The application was amazing.
The buyer said specifically that there would be no selling of the land, no tearing down of the restaurant, no alterations to the structure. It seemed as well that this buyer had revered Piccarelli’s. But it was more than that—he had a vision to run a biodynamic kitchen: locally-sourced, seasonal dishes using organic, humanely-sourced meats and produce bought from small farmers in Longport’s surrounding lands.
But one thing was strange: answers to visionary questions had been inspiring, but when it came to simpler questions details were suspiciously thin. Looking hard at the contact information, Max saw that it was for a corporation with an address in Delaware. That wasn’t uncommon. Lots of companies incorporated in Delaware, for tax purposes, but usually the smarter, bigger ones.
Smelling something fishy, Max dug for information on Capeside Restaurant Group. A simple google search yielded nothing. Nothing on Manta or D&B and no website. Tracking down a federal registry, Max found a profile. The company had been formed only three months before, and the operating address was listed as Los Angeles. Now fairly certain that a larger restaurant group was masking its identity, Max dug deeper to find images of corporate paperwork that would be a matter of public record.
Digging, he found some images of the original filings, which held the same information as the searchable database he’d found online. He was just getting ready to try something new when a detail caught his eye, the name of the law firm that had handled the paperwork: Calgutt & Webb. He wracked his brain to figure out why the name rang a bell. It took him a minute to put it together.
Cella.
He’d seen the name in passing a few times over the summer. On a folder he’d once caught sight of. On appointment alerts on her phone. On her caller ID. Realization dawned of what she must be doing. Anger swelled in his chest as he fished for his phone.
She’d better fucking pick up, he seethed. It was a long shot. They hadn’t caught each other live on the phone since she left. Not even once.
By some miracle, she picked up that time. He didn’t wait for her to speak, didn’t mask the anger in his voice.
“Why?”
“A lot of reasons,” she said calmly. The idea that she’d been expecting his call only infuriated him more.
“You have no right, Cella. Why couldn’t you just let it end the way it had to end?”
“Because it doesn’t have to end this way.”
“Yes. It does. It should go to someone who really wants it—someone who would use the space to do something good.”
“Who says I won’t do something good with it?”
“Are you gonna sit here and try to tell me you aren’t buying it so you can be waiting in the wings when I change my mind? Admit it—harassing me until I take it back is all part of your plan.”
Her silence was as good as an answer.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Now he was blazing mad, but he stopped himself, thinking of her motivations. She thought she was doing it for him. “Cella. I know your heart’s in the right place, but this isn’t your decision. Let me let it go.”
But her calm voice was back. “I will. As soon as you tell me the real reason why you’re selling.”
“Because it’s over.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“Uh-uh. You don’t get to corner the market on deciding to walk away.”
Silence.
When she spoke again, there were tears in her voice.
“You think walking away from you was easy?”
“Maybe not. But it hurt like hell. A lot more than it should be hurting you that I’m selling. It nearly killed me, but I didn’t fight you on it. I didn’t try to change your mind. I trusted that you were doing what was best for you.”
“I didn’t do it for me, you idiot,” she ground out, as if through clenched teeth. “I left so you had a shot. I got out of the way so you could do what you were supposed to do.”
What is she talking about?
“How does that even remotely make sense?” he demanded hotly, thoroughly on a roll.
“Piccarelli’s was yours. But us being together would make it so you’d never get your credit. Everything you earned would somehow be linked back to me. Every restaurant review. Every news article. Every mention of your name—never alone, but right beside mine.”
Max blinked. At that moment, he couldn’t have cared less about the restaurant. In his mind, it was already gone.
“You wanted to stay?”
Max had spent the better part of three months forcing himsel
f to believe what he’d seen in her eyes had been a figment of his imagination. He’d tried to convince himself again, even after her impromptu visit had given him his doubts.
“There was no way for it to work, Max. I don’t want to retire. I knew that even if I took a break, wanting my own restaurant again would only be a matter of time. And where would that have left us? With two competing restaurants? With the media pitting us against each other by comparing us, and both of us working crazy hours?”
She sighed heavily.
“Me being a celebrity would draw bigger crowds, bigger buzz, bigger everything. It wouldn’t matter how amazing Piccarelli’s was—sooner or later, you’d resent me. I left because you would’ve wound up hating me and I would probably wind up hating myself. How could I make you stand in my shadow when you were meant to shine?”
Max swallowed, his throat suddenly dry and his nausea returning. Not once had anything she said ever crossed his mind. And he was still stuck on one thing, because she hadn’t said it and he needed her to.
“You wanted to stay?” His voice was hoarse.
“Of course I wanted to stay!” she practically shouted, then paused, her voice losing some of its fire. “I’ve never been so happy as I was when I was with you.”
Please be public. Please be public. Please, please, please be public.
Max chanted the mantra in his head as he waited for Cella’s website to load. A minute before, an insistent flight attendant had shooed Cella off of the phone. He’d dug into her so quickly that he hadn’t bothered to ask her where she was. It seemed she was on a commercial airplane that was about to take off.
But where was she going? Max didn’t know. He didn’t even know what city she was flying from. What Max did know was that he had to see her. Today. Clicking on the “Events” button on her home page, he prayed that whatever was on her schedule that day would be open to the public.
ChefCon America
