“I was speaking figuratively,” said the reporter unnecessarily. Sloane saw dimpled Cliff Colgate slouched against the side of the building, taking a puff out of an e-cigarette, which he then slid into the pocket of his satchel. “Mrs. Glover?” The reporter leaned into her line of vision.
Sloane’s attention snapped back and she looked directly at the reporter, who really did wear entirely too much mascara, and that meant something coming from Sloane.
“I don’t answer them,” Sloane said. “Those allegations are a distraction meant to keep us from being able to focus on the original issue, which was a company that allowed a man like Ames Garrett to behave with a lack of discretion for years unchecked because no feasible options for women existed to complain outside of the legal system without fear of retribution.”
“So you think Truviv is out for revenge?”
Sloane considered this. “I think this situation has gotten out of control and I think we need to ask ourselves why that is.”
Cliff was casting his chin, gesturing for her to head in his direction. He wore black-rimmed glasses and a white button-down with no tie. She wondered if it was possible for someone his age and in his position to have never actually worn a tie. We were entering the age in which every child had grown up on smart devices and wasn’t casual work wear in some ways part-and-parcel of the same trend? She excused herself from the reporter.
Cliff kicked his weight from the building, pocket-sized notebook in hand.
“What now?”
He stuffed his hands into the pockets of gray chino pants. “Follow-up piece,” he said. “Your former colleague, Elizabeth Moretti, just came forward as the creator of the BAD Men List.”
“She what?”
Cliff drew the golf pencil from where it was balanced on the top of his ear and jotted something down. “Don’t write down my face.” She wagged her finger at the notepad.
He grinned and winked and she wondered if she would ever see someone wink without thinking of Ames.
“A magazine was preparing a piece. It was going to out her. She’s getting ahead of the story. She suggested you.”
Office buildings: strangely devoid of places to sit outside, Sloane was realizing.
“So, I guess it’s safe to say you didn’t know she’d masterminded the spreadsheet?”
She cut him a look without saying a word.
He lifted his palms. “Not writing down your face.” Sloane hadn’t felt this dizzy since Abigail fell off the monkey bars at preschool and the school sent her an email—an email for God’s sake—to let her know that her daughter was in the emergency room, the details of the broken arm and, not, say, a neck injury, only coming once Sloane arrived at the hospital and spoke to one of the very competent, patient doctors on staff.
Her mind spun. On balance, perhaps she shouldn’t have been that shocked, given all that had happened, all the things in this world that mattered more than Elizabeth Moretti starting a spreadsheet.
But she might have told her.
“Care to comment?” The point of his pencil, sharpened to draw blood, hovered at the ready.
Whatever she chose to say in this moment certainly wasn’t going to be wise. She took a deep breath. “I’ll get one to you by end of day. I have your card.”
The corners of his mouth sagged, but he flipped the pencil around, so that it was blunt-side down. “Fair enough.” She began to leave, to extract herself from the circus of which she was either ringleader or clown. “I spoke to my source in the Dallas PD, Sloane.” She went cadaverously still. “They think they’ve got new information on Ames’s death.”
“Ames’s suicide,” she corrected.
Cliff looked out at the street. Sun glinted off his lenses. “Ames’s death. Somebody who knew something, might have seen something. Someone. I don’t know.”
“Who?”
He scratched his temple with his pencil. “That’s all I got.”
Sloane hiked her purse—heavy with broken crackers, wet wipes, checkbooks, and ten expired credit cards—further up her shoulder. “That’s ridiculous. Ames jumped off a balcony. Everyone knows that.”
Naturally, that wasn’t true. Not even she knew it. It was just, Dear God, could anything else go wrong? And that wasn’t a dare.
Sloane was a good person when it came down to it. Mostly. And she had friends. Lots of them. She shouldn’t be in the middle of a … of a murder investigation.
Why hadn’t any of her friends brought casseroles?
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“Hamlet,” she answered. “You … have the tragedy part right.”
Sloane pushed the revolving glass door.
“Email me!” He cupped his hands around his mouth to call after her. “I’m one of the good guys, Sloane.”
She pushed her weight so that the door slid backward and she was nearly encased in the cylinder of glass. “Are you sure that’s not an oxymoron?” she called back.
* * *
Sloane slammed her fist into the pad held by Oksana and pain fired up her shoulder. Jab, cross, hook, and jab. She followed the pattern, one after the other after the other, wind bursting from her lungs.
With every punch, the image of Ames flashed. Crimson seeping from his head, splattering up into the air, raining down on the sidewalk, a river flowing from the shattered bone in his leg.
She punched harder, faster. Forgot to breathe. Sweat dampened the hairs underneath her ponytail. What if she were responsible? What if this were all Sloane’s doing? She hit. Fire up her elbow. Her muscles burned. Someone knew something or saw something. Or someone. It could be Grace—why had Grace never mentioned that she smoked cigarettes with Ames on that balcony before? It could be Ardie—had Ardie lied about the time she received the payroll signature and, if so, why? Or Katherine—what had caused her to change her story so abruptly?
What was this new information? Could it even point … to her?
Oksana called time and Sloane collapsed in a heap. She hung her head between her knees. Oksana draped a clean towel around her neck and Sloane dragged it over her face.
“‘A’ for effort today,” said Oksana.
“I ate a sandwich. With the bread.”
Oksana nudged Sloane with the toe of her Truviv-branded sneaker, pushing her into a plank position, which Oksana joined because she was a sadomasochist. Or at least, that was probably the reason.
“Ames was coded red on the appointment book.” Sloane barely lifted her head because her torso was in grave danger of being split in half. “None of the female trainers would work with him anymore.”
When a wet drop plopped on the yoga mat below her, Sloane didn’t know whether it was sweat or a tear, only that it seemed fitting that she’d lost the ability to tell the difference. She’d lost control of basically everything else in her life—her marriage, her daughter, her friends, her career. She was 99 percent sure that she had been trying to do the right thing when she filed that lawsuit. But there was that pesky remaining percentage that made her worry that actually she had just been meddling. That she’d been a bored, middle-aged woman masquerading behind tailored, wool pants and a fancy-sounding title so that no one suspected how completely boring and middle-aged she really was.
“You’re going to be okay.”
But Sloane didn’t know how much stock she could put in the words of someone who smelled so strongly of coconut-banana tanning lotion at three in the afternoon.
Cliff,
Here is your quote: “Elizabeth Moretti believes in one central tenet: knowledge is power. She made knowledge available. She shared her power. We’re all trying to protect each other in the ways we know how and this was hers.”—Sloane
Transcript of Interview of Grace Stanton Part II
28-APR
APPEARANCES:
Detective Malika Martin
PROCEEDINGS
DET. MARTIN:
Grace, did you see Ames Garrett on the day that he died?
MRS. STANTON:
I did, yes. I did.
DET. MARTIN:
How did he seem?
MRS. STANTON:
He seemed agitated, on edge. He felt misunderstood. Like he hadn’t done anything wrong and he wanted me to understand that.
DET. MARTIN:
Did you?
MRS. STANTON:
I don’t know.
DET. MARTIN:
What do you mean?
MRS. STANTON:
I felt conflicted. None of this stuff is as black-and-white as people want it to be. I—I don’t know. At the time, I felt angry. I felt that Ames had misled me. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t the type of woman to ignore bad behavior. I wanted him to feel remorse. I didn’t know that he was in such a dark place.
DET. MARTIN:
Did something happen that you think upset him further?
MRS. STANTON:
Yes.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
2-MAY
The news came that Truviv wanted to meet the next morning. A general consensus had been brewing that the depositions had not been going well. Grace received the call from Helen Yeh on her way to work. “I’m going to tell you what I think,” said Helen without introduction. “I think we need to hear them out. Find out where they’re coming from. After that, we don’t need to make any rash decisions. But, we should…”
“Listen,” Grace finished as she took the Pearl Street exit to downtown. She still hadn’t gotten used to speaking into a hands-free device, so her voice came out at a decibel closer to a yell.
“Exactly.”
Grace checked her blind spot. “Have they listened? To us?”
She turned onto Main, driving past the park, in the center of which sat a thirty-foot statue of an eyeball—most noticeable for its red capillaries and startling blue iris and the fact that it was an impossibly huge eyeball—known as the “Eye Sore.”
“I hear you, Grace, I do. But, look, my job, as your attorney, is to protect your interests. You all are lawyers, but if you were doctors, you wouldn’t perform your own heart surgery, okay?” Grace might have been a doctor were it not for all the blood. But look where she’d ended up now. “I have to advise you to do what I think will be best for you in the long run. Maybe they’re ready to drop the whole thing. We can hope. But you all are in free fall.”
So this is what Ames felt in those last few seconds, Grace thought.
Free fall.
* * *
Helen met them at the office. Twentieth floor. Grace reminded herself that it was Helen’s job to tear them down, prepare them to accept whatever was being offered to them like starving dogs. It was a classic strategy used on unsuspecting clients to make them feel as though their lawyer had gotten them a great deal. Grace ruffled at the thought of Helen having a quick “chat” on the phone with Cosette before the meeting: I think I can try to sell them on it.
Maybe Grace was being unfair. Maybe not.
She took a seat next to Ardie while what Grace had come to think of as the “usual group” gathered. “How are you doing?” she murmured. Ardie had lost at least seven pounds, by Grace’s estimation, probably without even noticing.
“Okay,” Ardie said. “I—well, I don’t know what I’m going to tell Tony, though.”
“We don’t know—” Grace started.
“Please.”
Grace didn’t have an answer. She had Liam. She was the lucky one. If she didn’t want to work, she didn’t have to. Liam had said as much the moment that Emma Kate slid out of her nether regions headfirst. In fact, he’d probably be pleased to see her home. No more washing bottles for old Liam!
Moms were only supposed to work if they needed to work. Grace knew this. That was why she’d never let on exactly how secure their finances really were. If they gave up now, Grace would be giving up her career forever. She could see the future spinning out ahead of her as she twisted the diamond ring—newly back on her finger—around and around and around.
Sloane arrived.
“Thanks for coming.” A mint bobbed on the back of Cosette’s tongue. “We’ll keep this brief. Ames is dead.” She folded her hands on the table. “We have a key witness on our side that has gone under oath stating that not only did she experience no sexual harassment at the hands of Ames Garrett or anyone else, but that the three of you harbored a personal vendetta against Ames, a sort of mob mentality stemming from a failed romance between Sloane and Ames Garrett.” Grace pictured Cosette practicing this speech in the mirror of her hotel bathroom. “Grace’s own words support the idea that he was a good, capable boss for whom she was willing to vouch. Ardie Valdez seemingly didn’t like that she wasn’t promoted in line with her colleagues. The timing of the lawsuit, on the cusp of Mr. Garrett’s ascension to CEO, was designed to effect maximum damage, to pin the company to the wall. None of these facts are good for you. Ames Garrett killed himself because of your unfounded accusations and actions.”
“You know we take issue with literally all those conclusions, right?” Sloane said.
This was what frightened Grace most: Sloane. Sloane hadn’t barreled into the room. She hadn’t made a flippant remark about running five minutes late. She sat subdued. Tranquilized.
“Noted. But Truviv is prepared to fight this one to the bitter end if need be. The shareholders, having heard the testimony and the facts of the case, are ready to back this up with a sizeable trial budget. It just makes financial sense, frankly. But here’s what I can do for you. Give up your stock options. Resign. Settle with Truviv for five million dollars to cover the cost of legal fees and reputational damage. Walk away from this and Truviv will provide letters of recommendation and sign a nondisclosure agreement prohibiting anyone at the company from speaking poorly of you either personally or professionally.”
“Five million dollars. You want us to pay you five million dollars?” Ardie scoffed. “Where do you think we would come up with five million dollars?”
Grace didn’t volunteer that she could come up with the money. If she had to. At least, her share of it, perhaps even the whole thing, but she’d have to go to her parents and, well, that wasn’t a particularly attractive option. And besides, it was the “resign” part of Cosette’s proposition that made her blood run cold. And nondisclosure agreement or not, there’d be no keeping quiet the whos, the whats, or the whys within the legal community.
The diamond ring spun and spun and spun around her finger. She had been so stupid. She would be her own undoing.
“We can set up a payment plan. If we need to negotiate on the total number of years for payment, I think that’s something I could probably sell to the board.” Cosette checked over her shoulder at the thick-bodied man, the board member from the independent review committee, and he pressed his eyes closed and frowned: Sure, sure, let’s let them have this one.
“This is vindictive,” said Sloane. “It’s extortionate.”
“No,” Cosette said, evenly. She was already placing papers back into her briefcase. “It’s preventative. The terms will be on the table until tomorrow. After which Truviv will plan to move forward with its case against you.”
It was clear that if you cut open Cosette Sharpe’s veins, you would find them crusty with freezer burn. And really, who in this room wouldn’t like to try?
The room emptied except for Grace’s team. Helen sat at the back end of the table, her mouth pursed, waiting.
“There is a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women.” Sloane ground her teeth.
“Madeleine Albright,” said Ardie.
Sloane moved to stand at the window and stared down the face of the building. “Really? I always thought it was just something Taylor Swift said to Tina Fey. But still.”
But still. Grace felt a rush of love and nostalgia for her friends. Maybe this was exactly when people felt rushes of both love and nostalgia. Necks in the guillotine, as it were.
“You would be free of the wrongful d
eath suit.” That was just the lawsuit, though. It’d have no bearing on criminal charges. However, the optics wouldn’t hurt.
What if I love my job as much as my baby? What if I love it just a tiny bit, a tiny bit more?
Sloane spun back around. “Five million dollars, Helen.”
Helen was a small woman, a body like one of those space-saver bags, vacuum-sealed from fat. She ran insane distances on the weekends for fun. “I know that sounds like a lot of money. But for Ames Garrett, that’s actually cheap.” A sale on Ames Garrett’s life. It was their lucky, lucky day. “If you lose a wrongful death suit, you’d be on the hook for a lot more. At least—at least—three times that.”
“And Katherine?” Grace asked, trying to keep her voice neutral. Ever since she’d spoken to the police, she’d harbored a hope that they would find Katherine to be at fault for Ames’s death. Grace felt wicked, but that was the bare truth. She was further from God than she’d ever been in her life and it wouldn’t bother her if they crucified Katherine. She supposed on some level they were both Judas now.
“As I understand it, she’ll be getting a … promotion. I’m not privy to the details. Sorry.” Helen took a deep breath. “My firm says I can’t keep representing you on contingency. I’m sorry. You know I want to. But this wasn’t even what I initially signed on for.” Grace looked to Sloane for some reaction, but Sloane’s face shut down. “Honestly, I seriously doubt that any other high-level employment firm in town is going to want to grind through this volume of work for free.”
No one said anything. It turned into the longest silence that Grace had possibly ever experienced with her two friends, who also happened to be the smartest and most capable women she knew. But in the end, it wasn’t about intelligence or competence. It never had been. And because of that, they were going to lose.
Whisper Network Page 28
