Wrongful Termination

by Mike Farris

  “Hello?”

  Still nothing. He shook his head and smiled at his unfounded fear. Paranoia had become his constant companion. He put his finger on the armrest and started to raise the window.

  A gloved hand darted inside, grabbed him around the throat, and pinned his head against the headrest. He released the window button and tried to yank back the thumb on his assailant’s hand. It was like trying to pry away cold steel.

  The hand pressed harder against his throat, cutting the flow of oxygen. Thad tried to turn to get a good look at his attacker, but the grip was too tight, the leverage too great. He pushed at the floorboard with both feet, trying to lift himself in the car seat, to gain just a gasp of air. In his peripheral vision, he saw the faint outline of a tall figure standing outside the SUV. The outline grew fuzzier with each passing second. Soon it faded to a mere shadow.

  Within a stilled heartbeat, it faded to black.

  Chapter Eleven

  Fueled by ambition, Don Wallace launched into overdrive in his effort to sell United States Attorney Ray Pearson on his new investigation. He paced in front of Pearson’s desk, wearing down the royal blue carpet that matched the curtains in this corner office on the tenth floor of the Earl Cabell Federal Building in downtown Dallas.

  Don had arrived, fresh-scrubbed and eager, at the U.S. Attorney’s office in the Northern District of Texas just six years earlier, straight from SMU Law School. In that span, he had climbed the ranks to third in command in the Dallas office. Known for his aggressive trial tactics, the unabashed federal prosecutor wanted to make a name for himself. And he thought he had the very vehicle to accomplish that goal. If he could just convince the number one man, old guard Ray Pearson, to turn him loose.

  “This sounds like much ado about nothing to me,” Pearson said. Relaxed in his thickly padded executive’s chair, the silver-haired gentleman watched his young cohort carefully. He wore skepticism on his face as naturally as the wrinkles that testified to forty years of stress as a lawyer.

  “Do you really think it’s coincidence that every major law firm in town just happened to set the same starting salaries for their new lawyers, fresh out of law school?” Wallace asked.

  “Salaries went out of control a few years ago, and now they’re trying to rein them back in. They all know a general range they’re willing to pay, based on what the market will bear. They’ve got their own salary structures to stick to. It could happen.”

  “How do you think they set those structures? They’ve got to be talking among themselves. Ray, there hasn’t been a major salary increase for new lawyers in this town in four years.”

  “And you’re convinced it’s an anti-trust violation?”

  “I can see it in your face, Ray. You believe it, too.”

  “Who cares if law firms are trying to keep salaries down now? God knows they didn’t before.”

  Wallace stared at the old man, not believing anyone could doubt him. “It’s not about the salaries…it’s the way they’re doing it.”

  Pearson raised his hand and swatted at the air. “I just want to make sure we can support what we’re doing if we get called on it. No one’s going to be crying over lawyers not getting paid enough.”

  “This is the same thing major league baseball owners did years back. It’s collusion to keep salaries artificially low. The precedents are all there. Believe me, Ray, we can make this thing stand up.”

  Pearson walked to the window. Wallace waited quietly while the old man pondered his request. What he had asked Pearson for was unprecedented. He wanted to investigate the most powerful lawyers in town for violations of federal anti-trust laws, and to bring civil and—if necessary—criminal actions against them. For fixing salaries?

  Ray was right. No one cared about lawyers’ salaries. But these were the same law firms that had told Wallace he wasn’t good enough to work for them. He had interviewed with, and been rejected by, twenty-six of them after he graduated from SMU. By the grace of God and the influence of his uncle, who just happened to have been Ray Pearson’s best man at his wedding, Wallace had been hired by the U.S. Attorney’s office. And now, if he could get the blessings of the man who had hired him, it would be payback time. All twenty-six of those firms would be on his list of defendants.

  Pearson continued to stare out the window. “You’re gonna piss off a lot of powerful people.”

  “Those pompous bastards always look down on us government lawyers.” Wallace hesitated, not wanting to tip Pearson off to his personal motive. “They’re breaking the law. It’s our job to enforce that law.”

  Pearson turned and looked at Wallace. “What do you need to get started?”

  “Subpoenas. A lot of ’em.”

  Pearson took a deep breath—then nodded.

  Chapter Twelve

  Meg and I continued our trial, and things continued to go our way. Neither of us spoke about that night at her apartment, nor did either of us bring up Tripp and his antics. Things were all business, as they should have been. But I wasn’t happy about it. I felt that I had embarrassed her, straining our relationship.

  After we had been in trial for just under two weeks, the judge granted us a directed verdict on the bulk of the plaintiff’s claims. That meant we had to mount only a limited defense, and we got all our witnesses on in a day. We gave our final arguments on a Friday afternoon then began waiting for the jury’s verdict. The plaintiff and his lawyers waited in the courtroom, while Meg and I settled on benches in the hall. We released our client to return to his office, assuring him that we would call him as soon as the jury knocked. Since he officed only two blocks away, he could be back within five minutes.

  Meg sat at the end of a bench, watching as I paced. “Are you nervous?” she asked.

  “I’m always nervous when the jury’s out.” I paused. “And during voir dire and opening statement and examining witnesses and closing arguments.”

  She laughed.

  “I’d be content if I went the rest of my life and never had to try another lawsuit,” I said.

  “You’d never know you were nervous in the courtroom.”

  “I hide it well.”

  “You’re really very good at it. Trying cases, I mean.”

  “Is that like your mother telling you that you’re beautiful?”

  She laughed and shook her head. Her auburn hair swung back and forth, flashing in the artificial lights.

  “I mean it,” she said. “I watch you, and I wonder if I’ll ever be that good.”

  “You’ll be better.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Trust me. You’re on your way. You’ve got as much experience now as it took me five years to get.”

  I sat beside her, and she turned to face me.

  “What happened the other night?” she asked.

  Her boldness stopped me short. “What do you mean?”

  “One minute everything was fine, then you suddenly got up and left. What happened?”

  I glanced down the hallway, checking for eavesdroppers. She put her hand on my arm. I turned back, and my eyes met hers.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

  “I just felt uncomfortable, that’s all.”

  “I guess that’s the part I don’t understand.”

  “I felt like I had gone beyond acceptable boundaries,” I said.

  “You didn’t hear me say anything.”

  “Isn’t that the whole deal with sexual harassment? Someone in a position of authority puts someone else in a position where it would be awkward to say anything?”

  She took her hand off my arm and leaned back. “Is that what you think it was? Sexual harassment?”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “You don’t think I was turned on?”

  “Were you?”

  “Are you some kind of an idiot?” she asked.

  “You are a young, beautiful woman with no reason at all to be even remotely interested in me. Why would I think anything I did wo
uld be appealing to you?”

  She appraised me for a moment, as if deciding what to say next. “You have no idea how attractive you are, do you? And you know what? That only makes you more attractive.”

  “What about our age difference?”

  She looked away.

  “Or the fact that we work together?”

  “Look,” she said. “It’s not like we’re getting married or anything. We’re not making any commitments.”

  “So we’re just two people having a good time? Is that all it is?” I paused, fighting my temper. “I was raised better’n that.” I regretted it as soon as I said it.

  “So what’s that say about me?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it.”

  She bit her lower lip. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking and wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I didn’t want it to just be about two people having a good time.

  “Forget it,” she said at last. “It was a mistake.”

  We lapsed into an awkward silence. She stood and began pacing. It seemed both of us had nervous energy to spare.

  “Have you heard anything about us?” I asked after a few minutes.

  “What do you mean ‘about us?’”

  “You know. About us…sexually.”

  She stopped pacing. “Is that what this is about?”

  “Just…never mind.”

  “Bay, if you’ve heard anything—”

  The bailiff stuck his head out the door. “Jury’s back.”

  I stood and headed inside. “Let’s go.”

  She hung back. “Bay?”

  “It’s nothing. Forget about it.”

  I entered the courtroom.

  *

  The jury’s quick return was a good sign. It might have helped that it was Friday afternoon, and they didn’t want to have the trial hanging over their heads all weekend, but they zeroed out the plaintiff on a take-nothing judgment. Whatever their reason, I was glad to have a worry-free weekend ahead.

  We reached the office before five o’clock. I told Meg I’d haul the trial boxes up myself, so she headed home. I exited the elevator on the firm’s main floor, not surprised to find things quiet. Most lawyers left early on Fridays, although I suspected they kept the meters running for several more hours.

  I pushed a two-wheel cart loaded with boxes to my office and stacked them in the corner. I was just checking my voice mail when Tripp came in.

  “Where’s Meg?” he asked.

  “She’s gone home.”

  “Before five?”

  “We just got a good jury verdict. I told her to enjoy the weekend.”

  Tripp crossed his arms, draped his tie, and blocked the doorway. He didn’t say anything but just stared at me.

  “You need something?” I asked.

  “Did she say anything to you about Horace Swanson?”

  “I don’t know who that is,” I lied.

  “He’s a client.”

  I shook my head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Are you sure she hasn’t talked to you about him?”

  I sat down heavily behind my desk. “Would she have reason to?”

  “Who knows what kind of pillow talk y’all have.”

  Blood rushed to my face, but I held my tongue.

  “Those long legs in those short skirts can do something to a man,” he said. “Haven’t you ever heard you shouldn’t dip your pen in the company inkwell?”

  “Watch it, Malloy.”

  “So tell me, Muckleroy. Is she any good?”

  I sprang up and walked around the desk, stopping just a few feet from Tripp. My bulk cast a shadow that nearly erased his scrawny frame. He backed up a step, as if afraid I would hit him—something I desperately wanted to do.

  “I’d be real careful what lies you decide to spread,” I said. “And whatever you may think about Meg and me, at least we’re not destroying documents.”

  He raised his eyebrows and a smirk settled on his face. “Now who’s spreading lies?”

  He said it with a false bravado. But, unfortunately, I had just confirmed that Meg had confided in me.

  “Just get out of here,” I said.

  “What little sweet nothings has she whispered in your ear?”

  I clenched my fists on impulse but kept my hands at my side.

  “I want to know, Muckleroy. What has she told you?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Huh? What’s she been telling you? About Swanson? And about Patterson McBain?”

  “I said none of your business.”

  I spun, disgusted, and walked back to my desk.

  Tripp closed the door.

  “Are we going to have pillow talk now?” I asked. “Aren’t you worried people will think we’re a coupla funny boys in here with the door closed?”

  Tripp’s face turned bright red. His upper lip quivered, pulling back to expose teeth. “Let me tell you something, mister. How I run my business is none of your affair, and it’s none of that bitch’s.”

  I held up my hand. “Better stop right there.”

  “Is this where you come to the aid of your little whore? How gallant.”

  I approached, put both hands on his chest, and slowly pushed him backward. I struggled to keep it a slow push, but he was so slight, he skated backwards almost out of control. What I really wanted was to pick the little twerp up and throw him through the window. When I got close enough, I grabbed the door handle, opened the door, and pushed him out into the hall. I’ll admit to a little extra oomph on that last shove. He staggered backward, struggling to keep his footing.

  “A bit of advice, Muckleroy. Stay out of the way or I’ll take you down with her.”

  I slammed the door in his face.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A week later, I had a deposition out of the office that finished early, so I went straight home. I stripped out of my lawyer uniform and put on shorts and running shoes. With the ever-faithful Rufus at my side, I roamed the house for a while. Then I went outside for fresh air but found only stifling August heat. As I walked around the yard, watering wilted flowers I had planted that spring, I tried to push all thoughts of the firm and Tripp Malloy from my mind.

  I was just rolling up the water hose when Meg’s maroon Nissan Maxima pulled to a halt in front of the house. I went to greet her, only remotely self-conscious that I was half-naked and soaked in perspiration. Rufus raced ahead to greet the stranger, bouncing around beside her car. She ignored him, out of character for the animal lover in her. She walked toward me almost at a run, her lip quivering.

  “The bastards fired me,” she said.

  Then she burst into tears.

  I hugged her, pulling her close. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed into my sweaty chest. She put her arms around me and squeezed, digging chewed-to-the-quick fingernails into my back. Rufus whimpered his sympathy and nuzzled her hip. I held her until she was ready to talk, which turned out to be close to five minutes.

  At last she pulled away, her eyes puffy. I wiped a tear from her cheek then pushed aside the hair that had stuck to her tear-stained face.

  “The bastards fired me,” she said again.

  “Who fired you?”

  “Malloy. The Management Committee. They were all there.”

  “Let’s go inside and talk,” I said.

  I put my arm around her, and Rufus fell in at her other side. Wordlessly, we walked up the sidewalk and into the house. I led her through the red-tiled entryway, across the den, and back to the kitchen. In my growing-up years, the kitchen table had been the venue for discussing problems and discovering solutions. It would be so again today.

  I pulled out a chair for Meg then busied myself making coffee. Rufus sat beside her and put his head on her knee. She scratched behind his ears as she watched me. Her gaze made me uncomfortable. Once the coffeemaker started, I raced to the bedroom and put on a tee-shirt, then joined her at the table. I took her hand and held it.

  “Now tell
me everything that happened.”

  “I got a call from Alvin saying he wanted to talk to me, so I went to his office. When I got there, the whole committee and Tripp were waiting. That’s when I knew what it was about.”

  “An ambush.”

  She nodded. I squeezed her hand tightly, and she squeezed back.

  “Alvin said Tripp had a complaint.”

  *

  Alvin Peoples sat behind his huge desk, the top of which was a haphazard mess of paper, legal pads, and books. He had a corner office, the largest in the firm. Windows on two sides viewed the Dallas skyline to the west, and City Hall to the south. A cigar smoldered in an ashtray on his desk, and another smoldered in an ashtray on his credenza.

  Steve McGinnis and Matt Cunningham sat in chairs across from the desk, while the aging Jake Goldblatt—small, balding, and probably in early stages of Alzheimer’s—sat on the couch, reading the ABA Journal. Tripp Malloy stood against the windows looking west, already in his conversational stance. When Meg entered, she knew by their faces it was bad news.

  Jake squinted at her through glasses that owlishly magnified his eyes. Speaking with the unmistakable accent of the Brooklyn-born, he said, “Where do I know you from?”

  “That’s Meg Kelly,” Matt said. “Muckleroy’s Meg Kelly.”

  “Ahh,” Goldblatt said. “Now I remember.”

  “Have a seat, Meg,” Alvin said, gesturing to a chair.

  Meg hesitated for a moment then complied. She perched on the edge, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

  “We’ve heard some pretty ugly things about you,” Alvin said. He dug at his ear with the pointed end of a pen cap. He frowned, extracted the cap, and looked at the prize he had mined, then wiped it on his pants leg.

  “We understand you’ve been going around making accusations against partners,” Alvin continued. “Specifically, you’ve accused Tripp of destroying evidence and of padding the billings on his files.”

  He paused, as if waiting for Meg to speak. She remained silent.

  “What exactly did you tell Bay Muckleroy about me and Horace Swanson?” Tripp asked. “And about Bill Patterson’s case?”

  “My conversations with Bay were in confidence,” she said.