In Firm Pursuit (2 page)

“T
his case should be settled,” barked the Honorable Frederick H. Sloan. The judge's demanding baritone required a response even though no question had been posed.

I looked over at Reggie Jenkins, my spineless opposing counsel, seated to my left in the judge's private chambers. The petrified expression on his face told me I would have to speak for the both of us.

“Your Honor,” I began, knowing how much judges loved to hear that salutation, “we're just too far apart. My client is ready and willing to try this case.”

Judge Sloan rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing more of his flawless tan. Most of the federal judges who sat on the bench in California's Central District did not fit the typical stereotype of a jurist. Sloan was both tall and handsome and had probably hit the gym during the lunch hour. If it weren't for his lush gray hair, it would have been hard to tell that he had bypassed sixty a few years back.

“How about you, counselor?” The judge swiveled his chair away from me and zeroed in on my opponent. “Are you prepared to try this case, too?”

Jenkins inhaled and scratched the back of his neck. A
chubby, middle-aged black man, he had chronically chapped lips and wore a short Afro that always looked uncombed. His beige linen suit needed a good pressing and his tie was as crooked as he was.

“Oh, no, Your Honor.” Jenkins cracked the knuckles of his right hand against the palm of his left. “I don't like wasting the taxpayers' time and money.”

I wanted to bop Reggie on the head with my purse. He settled all of his cases because he was too incompetent to go to trial.

Judge Sloan swung back to me and smiled heartily. “I've seen very few cases that were slam dunks. You sure you want to try this case, little lady?”

Little lady?
I hated it when judges talked to me like I was some bimbo. After only eight years of practice, I had some pretty impressive stats on my Bar card. I was a senior associate at O'Reilly & Finney, one of the most respected trial firms in L.A. I had also won a five-million-dollar verdict in a race discrimination case and defended a high-profile murder case. But taking crap from judges was par for the course.

Before I could respond, the judge returned his focus to my rival.

“Mr. Jenkins, what's your client looking for?”

“Your Honor,” I interrupted, “my client really wants to try this—”

Sloan held up a hand the size of a dinner plate, but did not look my way. “I'm talking to Mr. Jenkins right now.” He grabbed a handful of roasted almonds from a crystal dish on the corner of his desk and tossed a couple into his mouth.

“W-well, Your Honor,” Jenkins stuttered, “my client, Henry Randle, was fired based on trumped-up charges of sexual harassment. He was really terminated because he's a black man and because he refused to turn a blind eye to the company's fraudulent billing practices. He—”

I couldn't contain myself. “That's not true. Your client was fired for grabbing Karen Carruthers in an elevator and trying to kiss her. And there's absolutely no evidence that—”

This time the judge cut me off with a raised hand
and
a stone-hard glare. “Ms…. uh…”

“Henderson,” I said, annoyed that he couldn't even remember my name. “Vernetta Henderson.”

“Ms. Henderson, you will speak only when I ask you to.”

I locked my arms across my chest and slumped a little in my chair. When a federal judge called for order, he usually got it.

“Mr. Jenkins,” the judge continued brusquely, “I know the facts. Let's cut to the chase. Make Ms. Henderson an offer.”

Jenkins looked timidly in my direction and took a long moment before speaking. “I believe I could get my client to accept five hundred thousand,” he nearly squeaked.

“Out of the question,” I said, ignoring the judge's gag order.

Judge Sloan leaned forward and stroked his chin. “I'm afraid I would have to agree. Give us a more realistic number, Mr. Jenkins. What's your bottom line?”

Reggie looked down at his hands. “I…uh…I guess if my client received something in the neighborhood of thirty thousand, he might accept it.”

Thirty thousand.
I mindlessly doodled on the legal pad on my lap. That was a good offer. My client, Micronics Corporation, would easily spend ten times that in attorneys' fees by the time the trial was over. But Micronics's litigation philosophy mandated trying winnable cases, even when they could be settled for nuisance value. They firmly believed that if a plaintiff's attorney litigated a case for months or years and netted nothing for his efforts, he would think twice before suing the company a second time, knowing the battle that awaited him.

Truth be told, I was psyched about trying the case for reasons of my own. If everything remained on schedule, my anticipated victory in the Randle case would come about a week before my law firm's partnership vote. Having another big win under my belt days before the vote would cinch things for me. I would soon become O'Reilly & Finney's first African-American partner. I was not about to let Judge Sloan steal my thunder.

“Your Honor,” I said, looking him fearlessly in the eyes, “my client isn't interested in settlement.”

Sloan propped an elbow on the desk and pointed at me with a finger the size of a wiener. “You
and
your client are making a big mistake,” he said with a controlled fury.

I swallowed hard and said nothing. Pissing off a judge, particularly a federal judge, would mean hell for me the next time I appeared in Sloan's courtroom. He could be as retaliatory as he wanted with no fear of repercussions. One of the many perks of having a job for life.

Sloan snatched a legal pad from his desk and started writing. “You want to try this case?” he said with a cruel
smile, “then you've got it. I'm expediting the filing of the pretrial documents. I want the trial brief, the jury instructions and all motions filed by Monday morning. And I'd like to see you two back here Tuesday afternoon for another status report.”

“Your Honor!” Jenkins whined, cracking the knuckles of both hands this time. “I'm a solo practitioner. There's no way I can get all those documents drafted in four days.” He took a Chap Stick from his jacket pocket and nervously dotted his lips.

“That's not my problem, Mr. Jenkins. Perhaps you'll be able to talk some sense into Ms. Henderson before Monday morning.” The judge grabbed another handful of almonds. “You can leave now.”

As I followed Jenkins down a long hallway that led back to the main courtroom, a flutter of apprehension hit me.
What if I didn't win?

Luckily, the flash of self-doubt did not linger. Reggie was a lousy attorney. Going up against him would be like trying a case against a first-year law student.

The Randle case was going to trial and I was going to win it.

R
eggie Jenkins made it back to his office on the low-rent end of Wilshire Boulevard in less than thirty minutes. Instead of getting to work drafting the pretrial documents for the Randle case, he gazed out of a window clouded with years of grime and sulked.

He could not understand why Vernetta Henderson was so adamant about trying the case. Especially after he had made a perfectly reasonable settlement offer. Women attorneys, particularly the black ones, always made everything so personal. The girl acted like she wanted to punish him for even filing the case.

The view of the alley two floors below did nothing to lighten Reggie's sour mood. To the right, three bums nodded near a metal trash bin overflowing with debris. The stench managed to seep into Reggie's office even though his windows had been glued shut for years.

Reggie regularly fantasized about having an office with a real view, in a swanky downtown high-rise with marble floors, round-the-clock security guards and windows so clean you could see yourself. His name would appear on the door in fancy gold letters:
Reggie Jenkins, Attorney-at-Law.
Or better yet,
Jenkins, Somebody and Somebody.

His secretary, paralegal and sometime girlfriend, barged into his office without knocking. “I just wanna make sure you gonna have my money on Friday,” Cheryl demanded. Her fists were pinned to a pair of curvy hips.

Reggie's teeth instinctively clamped down on the toothpick dangling from his thick lips. “I told you I would, didn't I?”

“You said the same thing last month, then you didn't show up at the office for three straight days.”

Reggie snatched his checkbook from his briefcase and scribbled across one of the checks. “Here,” he said, thrusting it at her. “Just don't cash it until tomorrow.”

As Cheryl sauntered out, Reggie shook his head and frowned. One day, he was going to have enough cash to hire a real secretary.

He stared down at his cluttered desk, realizing that he was about to lose another one and there wasn't anything he could do about it. Although he had promised Henry Randle his day in court, Reggie had never actually intended to make good on that vow. It was much easier to settle cases—the winners as well as the losers. He'd only had six trials during his thirteen years of practice and had lost every single one of them. He thought about calling Randle to update him on today's court session, but what would he say?
You'll get to tell your story to a jury, but you're going to lose.

Reggie had checked around and learned that Vernetta was an excellent trial attorney.
He
clearly was not. Juries unnerved him. Whenever those twelve pairs of eyes focused on him and him alone, something inexplicable
happened and he turned into a bumbling idiot. If a witness responded with an answer he had not expected, it startled him and he froze up. When an opposing counsel yelled
Objection—hearsay
in the middle of his question, it wrecked his rhythm, causing him to stumble like an old drunk taking a step off of a curb he didn't know was there. By the time the judge had ruled on the objection, Reggie did not know what to say next because he could not even remember what question he had asked.

He rummaged through the unruly stack of papers in front of him and pulled out the
Randle v. Micronics
complaint. The day Henry Randle had walked into his office and told his story, Reggie felt like someone had handed him a blank check. He had never had a case with allegations of race discrimination
and
whistle-blowing. Randle swore that he had never even laid eyes on Karen Carruthers before running into her in that elevator, and he certainly had not grabbed the woman or tried to kiss her. And Reggie fully believed his new client's claim that Micronics trumped up the whole thing to silence his complaints about the company's fraudulent billing on some multimillion-dollar contract with the Air Force.

But as the litigation progressed, Reggie's enthusiasm for the case waned. Just as it always did. Now he simply wanted his thirty-three percent of whatever settlement he could get so he could move on to the next one.

He turned on his ancient computer and prepared to get to work on the pretrial documents. Before he could open a blank screen, an idea came to him and his dour mood immediately brightened. After mulling it over for a few
minutes, Reggie grabbed his car keys, checked his breast pocket for his cell phone and rushed out of the door.

If his brilliant little plan actually panned out, he was about to turn the tables on Ms. Vernetta Henderson
and
her scheming client.

A
fter being released from detention in Judge Sloan's chambers, I headed back to my office, where I checked my voice mail messages and quickly browsed through twenty-three new e-mails. Finding nothing that couldn't wait, I made my way to Haley Prescott's office on the other side of the twelfth floor.

Haley was a second-year associate assigned to assist me with the Randle case. She had only been with the firm for six months, having clerked for a federal judge in D.C. after graduating from Yale Law School.

The sweet smell of lavender prickled my nose the minute I stepped inside Haley's office. The place smelled like a florist's shop. The oversized bouquet sitting on the corner of her desk looked like it had just been picked from somebody's garden. Haley's fingers were gliding across her computer keyboard, her eyes glued to the monitor in front of her.

“Hey,” she said flatly, not bothering to look my way. Haley saved her more enthusiastic greetings for male attorneys. The partners in particular.

“I just got back from court,” I said as I walked up to her desk. “I hate to deliver bad news, but Judge Sloan
wants all the pretrial documents in the Randle case filed by Monday.”

Haley's fingers froze in place. “That's not possible. I'm spending the weekend at my condo in Mammoth.”

As hard as I tried to like the girl, she never failed to get on my last nerve. What bothered me most was her air of superiority, something that was no doubt bolstered by having a mother on the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, a politically connected father and the looks of a runway model. Almost every attorney in the firm—partners and associates alike—treated her as if she were rainmaking royalty. Considering the potential clients she would likely attract to the firm because of her parents' connections, she probably was.

But ruined travel plans came with the territory. So I ignored her grousing. “Which documents have you drafted so far?” I asked.

Haley rudely went back to typing. “None of them.”

“I thought you told me you had already started drafting the trial brief and jury instructions,” I said.

She paused to tuck one of her curly blond locks behind her left ear. The girl had long, feathery, Pamela Anderson hair. And from what I could tell, it was the real thing, not that dull, pasty shade that came from a peroxide bottle or years of overexposure to the sun. It was no doubt the only genuine thing about her.

“This isn't the only case I have,” Haley snapped. Her voice took on a Bostonian pitch that hadn't been there a second ago.

“I don't know what other cases you have,” I snapped
back, “but I'm sure they aren't going to trial in a matter of weeks.”

All I could do was stare at the girl. It was times like this that I really missed my friend, Neddy McClain. She'd been the only other African-American attorney at O'Reilly & Finney besides me. Neddy and I had started out on rocky ground, but ended up getting pretty tight after defending a big murder case together. She had recently moved to Atlanta, where her new fiancé, a former police detective, had opened his own private investigations firm. I would've loved to see Haley give Neddy the kind of attitude she was throwing my way. Neddy would've had Haley running from her own office in tears.

Haley's lips remained pursed into a tight pout. “Like I said, I really can't work this weekend.”

My right hand went to my hip. “And, like
I
said, the documents have to be filed by Monday.”

As far as I was concerned, the fact that Haley's mama was one step below a Supreme Court Justice did not mean she didn't have to work just as hard as everybody else. I was actually glad to be throwing a wrench in her plans.

Haley allowed several beats to pass, then fixed me with an infuriated look that didn't need translation. “Fine,” she said tightly.

I turned to leave, but Haley stopped me. “I forgot to give you this.” She shoved a document at me. “One of the secretaries from Micronics's HR Department faxed it over this morning.”

I quickly scanned the four-page fax and felt a heavy pall come over me. It was a memo to file written by Bill
Stevens, Micronics's former in-house attorney. When Stevens left the company, the Randle case was transferred to O'Reilly & Finney. The memo briefly summarized allegations of sexual harassment made against six Micronics employees, not including Henry Randle, during the past five years. Most of them had been accused of misconduct far more egregious than what Randle was accused of doing. One of the men allegedly grabbed a woman's breast. All six were white. To my dismay, even though an HR investigation confirmed the charges against each of them, none had been fired.

I looked at the date in the upper left-hand corner of the page and thought I was seeing things. “This document was written months ago,” I said, more to myself than to Haley.

“The secretary said the memo was misfiled with another case,” Haley explained, her full attention still on her computer screen.

“Why didn't you call me the minute you got this?” I paused and tried to collect myself, not wanting Haley to pick up on my rising stress level. “You knew I had a court appearance in the Randle case today.”

Haley huffed out a breath of air. “Actually, I tried,” she said. “But you apparently didn't have your cell phone on. I didn't leave a message because I figured you were already in court.”

I felt a light pounding in my chest. I walked over to close the door, then turned around to face my subordinate. “I just passed up a chance to settle this case,” I said. “Something I probably wouldn't have done if I'd known about this fax.”

Haley shrugged. “I was out when it came in and I didn't
think you'd be discussing settlement at a pretrial conference. It wasn't scheduled until two o'clock. If you'd come into the office this morning, you would've known about that fax.”

“I had a dental appointment,” I said testily.
Why was I explaining myself to this child?
It took most junior associates until their third or fourth year before they stopped being intimidated by the partners and senior associates. But my senior status apparently meant nothing to Haley.

She tucked another loose curl behind her ear. “How much did Jenkins want?”

I exhaled. “Thirty thousand. And I should have taken it.”

“I thought you were so eager to try the case.”

“I
was.
” I waved the fax in the air. “But this changes everything. This memo basically proves Randle's discrimination case. Every one of these guys—who all just happen to be white—got off with a mere slap on the wrist. We can't take a chance of going to trial with these facts.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing, Porter's not going to be happy when he finds out you passed up that settlement offer.”

Tell me something I don't know.

Porter was the partner in charge of the Randle lawsuit. He'd been riding me ever since we got the case, something he seemed to enjoy doing to most associates.

“Well, look at the bright side,” Haley said. “That document is attorney-client privileged so we don't have to produce it. And the odds are pretty good that Jenkins won't find out about those cases on his own. He didn't even ask for information about prior sexual harassment claims during discovery. The man is totally incompetent.”

I suddenly felt protective of my fellow black brother.
I
could call him incompetent, but I didn't like hearing him criticized by this pompous little sorority girl.

I reread the fax and my rage slowly shifted from Haley to Micronics.
Why hadn't somebody at Micronics told me about these other cases?
I was certain that I had asked HR about prior sexual harassment claims.
Hadn't I?

“If you ever get another fax or letter or telephone call or anything else with important information about a case I'm working on,” I said, “I want to know about it. Right away.”

“No problem.” Haley gave me a Cover Girl smile.

I headed for the door and did not bother to look back.

“I'll expect to see a draft of the trial brief and jury instructions by noon on Saturday.”