Wrongful Termination

by Mike Farris

  When Meg finally answered after several rings, her eyes were red and puffy. She wore blue jean cut-off shorts and a white tee-shirt that was stained by running mascara. I could instantly tell that she was drunk.

  “Well, the son of a bitch did it,” she said.

  “Did what?”

  She took me by the hand and led me up the short flight of stairs into her den. I took a seat on the couch. She picked up a bottle of beer from the coffee table then joined me. After taking a long pull from the bottle, she leaned her head against the cushions and closed her eyes.

  “The managing partner called me into his office and told me he’d learned that I had actually been fired at Black West. I told him I had resigned, but I had to admit that I was forced to resign. He also told me he had learned the reason that I had been told to leave was because I had been insubordinate, had slandered partners, and that I had been having sex in the office with a partner. He said if he’d known all that, he never would have hired me in the first place. He said I should have told them when I interviewed, and since I didn’t it was tantamount to lying to get a job. So he fired me.”

  “You think Tripp’s behind it?”

  “He said he’d ruin my career.”

  She started to cry. I had seen her cry before, always silently. Just tears running down her cheeks, not bothering anybody. But this time was different. This time, sobs racked her body. Her shoulders shook, and she gasped for breath. She laid her head on my chest, her hands clasped to her face. I wrapped my arms all the way around her shoulders, grabbing my wrists to lock her in.

  I didn’t say anything for a while, just let her pour it all out. She seemed small and weak in my arms, the opposite of what I knew her to be. After a few minutes, I stroked her hair, still holding her tightly. Still silent, just letting her cry. Finally, she cried herself out and went limp. I held her head to my chest and stroked her face with my fingers.

  “I’ve got some friends I can talk to,” I said. “I’m sure we can set something up with another firm.”

  “I’m already dead at every big firm.”

  “Big firms aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” I said.

  “They haven’t been for me. That’s for sure.”

  She pulled her head away, looked at me, and smiled sadly. I smiled back.

  “So we’ll look at smaller firms,” I said.

  She reached for her beer, put the bottle to her lips, and drank. “You know, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking today.”

  “And drinking.”

  “Helps me think. Anyway, I’ve changed my mind. I want to sue. Him and the firm.”

  “You sure about that?”

  She snuggled beside me. I pressed her to my side, and she put her hand on my thigh.

  “If I’m already blackballed…if I can’t find a job…what else have I got to lose? I’ll sue for wrongful termination, and if I find out for sure that Tripp’s blackballed me, I’ll add claims for defamation and tortious interference with contract.”

  I nodded my agreement.

  “But I’ll have to find someone who’ll take it on a contingency,” she said. “What little money I had, I sank into my car and student loans. I know Black West. They’ll throw tons of paper at me and make it as expensive as possible.”

  “That’s exactly what they’ll…I mean, what we’ll do.”

  I thought for a minute, absent-mindedly stroking Meg’s arm with my hand. She rubbed my leg.

  “I know someone who’ll take your case,” I said. “This is the kind of thing she’d take on as a crusade. She loooves going after the big boys.”

  “Would she take it on a contingency?”

  “She might want you to pay the expenses,” I said.

  “Can you imagine how much depositions, alone, will cost? With no job and no income, I can’t even afford that.”

  “She may front the expenses if we talk to her. If she won’t, I will.”

  Meg pulled away and looked at me. Her eyebrows rose, and an undried tear glistened on her cheek. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I can’t let you.”

  “You have no choice.”

  She watched me as if waiting for the punch line. I said nothing.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  She got up, turned the stereo to a soft-rock station, then stretched out on the floor on her stomach. “Now,” she said, “how about one of your world-famous back rubs? I’ve missed those the past few weeks.”

  She pulled her shirt up, exposing her lower back. I hesitated. She was drunk. Did she really know what she was doing? On the other hand, as she had once told me, we weren’t making any commitments.

  I straddled her waist, spread my fingers, and pressed my hands against her smooth, soft skin. She crossed her arms and rested her head on them as I rubbed. I moved my hands up her back, pressing with the heels while lightly prodding with my fingertips. I pushed the tee-shirt higher as I worked my way up. She lifted herself and pulled her shirt up under her armpits, then laid her head back down. She wasn’t wearing a bra. I settled in at the top of her spine, massaging the muscles in her neck and shoulders then worked my way down.

  She moaned lightly. I turned my hands and lowered my fingers to the side, running them over her latissimus dorsi. Hers were well-developed and firm, the result of years of overhand tennis serves. I worked my hands down her sides until they brushed against her breasts, which were pressed under her body. I lingered for a few seconds, and she moaned lightly. I worked my way to her upper back then headed south again.

  With my hands side by side, I rubbed the upper part of her lower back, stopped from going lower by her cut-offs. I twisted my right hand sideways and slipped it inside the top of her shorts and stroked the rows of muscle, stopping when I reached her underwear. My own physical reaction weighed on my mind as I slipped my fingers inside the elastic waistband. As I stroked the top of her bottom where it curved higher, I wondered what she was thinking.

  As if in answer, she lifted her hips, rising beneath me. I had been sitting on her upper legs, so I lifted my weight to see if she was trying to buck me off. Wordlessly, she slid her hands beneath her waist. I heard the snap of her shorts then the buzz of a zipper being unzipped. With her hips still raised, she grasped the sides of her shorts and pushed them down to the middle of her bottom.

  “Lower,” she said.

  I shifted my weight further down on her legs and rubbed her lower back with both hands.

  “No, stupid,” she said. I heard a muffled laugh. “My shorts. Lower.”

  I hesitated again. I still wasn’t happy about her being drunk. And she was depressed. I didn’t want her to regret this tomorrow.

  Finally, I lifted my leg as if I were dismounting a horse and moved to her side. I took hold of her shorts, which she had now bunched just beneath her bottom, and pulled them down. She lifted her legs to help, and I slid them to her feet. She kicked them off then pushed them aside with her feet. She wore black bikini briefs, French cut and rising high on her thighs. Her buttocks just barely escaped at the bottom.

  “Now, keep going,” she said.

  I straddled her ankles and grabbed her legs with my hands. I began squeezing my way upward. I started with her calves and worked toward the backs of her thighs. She must have shaved her legs that day because her skin was smooth as a baby’s. My hands almost glided upward, thumbs on the insides and fingers on the outsides. The smooth glide stopped at the curve of her well-formed bottom, the bikini line of her underwear still inches away.

  I moved my fingers up the curve and slipped them inside. The material felt cool and gentle on the backs of my hands. Her skin felt cool and gentle on my palms. I squeezed her cheeks with both hands, watching my hands through the black material as knuckles and fingers raised and lowered. She felt made for my hands, fitting snugly into my grip. Firm and muscular, yet soft and pliable.

  She bucked her hips again
. I raised up then watched as she rolled over onto her back. With her tee-shirt pulled all the way up, her smallish breasts stared at me. She pulled me down for a kiss. Her lips parted to meet mine. They met, and we held for a few seconds. As we kissed, she unbuckled my belt and unzipped my pants.

  But as much as I wanted to keep going, this just wasn’t right. Not now, not like this. It was too much like I was taking advantage of her. I pulled away.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Go home, Bay,” she said.

  “What?”

  She pushed me off then got to her feet and struggled to put her shorts back on. “If you’re not into it, just go home.”

  I watched her for a moment, but she turned and went upstairs to her bedroom.

  I went out the front door and slammed it behind me.

  *

  Assistant U.S. Attorney Don Wallace ran his hand through his bristly hair and yawned. He had long since loosened his tie and unhooked the top button of his shirt. The starch had fizzled that morning under the lights in Judge Richard Nelson’s courtroom. The white shirt, stiff and chafing when he had first put it on, now clung to his torso like contact paper. He picked at a loose thread on his frayed cuff, just below the faded “DWW.” He couldn’t remember when he had bought the monogrammed shirts that he liked to wear at trial. He would have to buy new ones this weekend.

  Wallace glanced at his watch. Damn! Was it that late already? Springs creaked as he whirled around in his worn leather chair and looked out the window. The sky no longer glowed red on the western horizon the way it usually did for a good half-hour after the sun had set. It was pitch black. He had intended to go home hours earlier, but he was still flying on adrenaline from his cross-examination of the defendant and hadn’t paid attention to the time. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. The springs protested again.

  After a few minutes, Wallace leaned forward, the chair springs still creaking, and opened his eyes. He glanced at notes he had written in longhand on a yellow pad. He threw in a few finishing touches then looked at it again. He tossed the notepad in his briefcase and slammed the lid shut. He stood, rising all the way up on his toes, and stretched his arms to the side, then looked out the window again. The big round ball on top of Reunion Tower sparkled with flashing lights. Beyond Reunion, to the west, only a smattering of red taillights decorated Interstate 30.

  Not too bad, he thought. He could be home in Arlington, midway between Dallas and Fort Worth, in about fifteen minutes. He grabbed his briefcase and walked out the door, flipping off the light switch behind him.

  Five minutes later, an off-key bell signaled the arrival of an elevator to the top floor of the parking garage. The doors opened slowly and disgorged a lone occupant. Wallace blinked for a moment, letting his eyes adjust from the brightness of the elevator’s artificial light to the dimness of the garage. Where the hell had he parked? For an instant, he had a flash that his car had been stolen, but then his pupils expanded and he saw it catty-corner across the way.

  He trudged across the concrete floor, shifting his briefcase to his left hand as he fished in his pocket for the keys. As he neared, he saw an envelope on the windshield, tucked under the wipers. Curious, he approached and grabbed it. It bore his name in huge block letters, scrawled in pencil.

  Wallace set his briefcase down. Using a car key, he tore open the envelope. He pulled a sheet of folded notepaper out and opened it. Its message was simple, typed in the center of the page:

  SALARY-FIXING ISN’T THE REAL EVIL; THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL IS THE LOVE OF MONEY–BILLABLE HOURS, HOURS, HOURS.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I parked in the garage and made my way to the firm. After exiting the elevator, I cut through reception on the way to my office. I had almost passed by when I heard my name called. Turning, I saw Bill Patterson. He approached and we shook hands.

  “How you doing, Bill?” I said. “Down here to see Tripp?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got some documents he needs for production.”

  “How’s the case going?”

  “Could be better, I suppose. It would be better if you and Meg were still working with us.”

  “Yeah, well, you know.”

  “She seems to be doing well at her new firm. I’ve even sent her a few files.”

  “I didn’t know you sent her business,” I said, not sure whether to tell him she had just been fired.

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  “I’m surprised Tripp didn’t say something about it. He got pretty ticked off when I told him.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “Yesterday morning when he was over at the office.”

  Suddenly it made perfect sense. Now I knew why Tripp called in a marker at Holloway & Davis and got Meg fired.

  “I guess you’re pretty busy, though,” Patterson said.

  “Oh, not too bad,” I said. “Actually, I’m at a bit of a lull right now. I could use some work.”

  He frowned, wrinkling his brow and setting his jaw. “I thought you were swamped, and that was why you begged off my case.”

  “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “That’s what Tripp said.”

  I folded my arms across my chest but opted to crush my tie rather than emulate Tripp. “I never knew what he told you about why he fired me on the case.”

  “He fired you?”

  “Yep.”

  “So he lied to me.”

  “Draw your own conclusions.”

  “What happened?”

  “He just told me I was off the case. No explanation.”

  Patterson scratched his head. “And you have no idea why?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “God knows I’m not looking forward to that after the billing thing. I hated auditing his bills, but I felt like I had to.”

  “You audited the bills?” I said.

  “I was a little surprised that y’all don’t keep hard copies of all the billing back-up.”

  “We do. It all goes into the computer, then a hard copy gets printed out and kept in accounting. Just in case we ever do get audited.”

  Patterson’s face darkened. He walked to an empty conference room, motioning me to follow, which I did. He closed the door then faced me.

  “Tripp said it was only on computer. That’s why it took him so long to get them together.”

  “Ask him about it again. See what he says.”

  Tripp entered the reception area. He looked around for his client then spotted us in the conference room. He wasn’t happy to see me talking to Bill Patterson.

  “There’s your man, Bill,” I said. “I gotta run.”

  I opened the door and left, ignoring Tripp, who glared as I walked past. I went quickly to my office and summoned Ellie inside. I motioned for her to close the door.

  “Can you access the billing records on the computer?” I asked.

  “How do you think I enter your time?”

  “I mean, can you access someone else’s time entries?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  “Can you tell from looking at them if anything’s been changed?”

  She shook her head. “I can only tell when someone made an entry. The computer logs the date and time something is entered. Unless I know what was there before, I can’t tell if anything’s been changed.”

  “I may need you to do something for me,” I said. “Confidentially.”

  *

  Robin Napoli readily agreed to meet to discuss filing suit on behalf of Meg. I heard excitement in her voice at the prospect of going after Black West & Merriam. She considered big firms to be the scourge of legitimate law practice. She leased office space in Dallas’s West End, across from the district and county courthouses, near Black West’s building. When I explained to her how sensitive the situation was, she agreed to meet at my house rather than at her office.

  Ro
bin couldn’t make it until late, so I invited Meg for dinner, which I promised to cook myself. When she arrived, I had already prepared a meal of grilled chicken breasts, baked potatoes, and tossed green salad. She wore full-length jeans, a tee-shirt, and a light jacket, and looked happier than I had seen her in weeks. I assumed it was the relief of finally having made a decision and committing to a course of action.

  I also wore jeans and a tee-shirt—a TCU football shirt, to be exact. We made small talk and fed scraps to Rufus during dinner. We were both nervous, and dinner had the feel of a first date as we danced around what had happened—or hadn’t happened—the other night at her apartment. We had just cleared the dishes when the doorbell mercifully rang, ending our strained conversation.

  Rufus and I greeted Robin at the door then brought her back to the kitchen where Meg waited. Robin also wore the uniform of the day—jeans and a long-sleeve tee-shirt. After making the appropriate introductions, we sat at the kitchen table while Rufus lay by the back door. I brewed coffee and Meg set out cups, waiting for the final drip. Robin filled our cups then sat at the table.

  “God help you, Scratch, if your own firm finds out you’re helping us,” she said.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Meg cut a glance my way, as if to ask, “Scratch?”

  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” I said.

  We all laughed, but it was a nervous laugh. I knew what I was doing could boomerang on me, and Robin and Meg both understood the seriousness of my position.

  “From what you told me on the phone, this Malloy sounds like a bad guy,” Robin said.

  I nodded. “Let Meg tell you the whole story. And I should leave the room, or the attorney-client privilege won’t work.” Meg looked at me questioningly. “I’m not your lawyer,” I said. “In fact, I work for the enemy.”