In Firm Pursuit (21 page)

R
eggie's tirade over the motion left me so rattled that I decided to leave work early. But instead of going home to my empty house, I called James, my law school buddy, and convinced him to meet me for a game of tennis in Fox Hills.

We had only been at it for thirty minutes or so when my energy began to wane.

“Stop playing like a girl,” James yelled at me from across the court after I had missed an easy shot. He knew his sexist taunts would prompt me to hit the ball harder and aim my shots more accurately. I was innately too competitive not to take the bait.

I had arranged the game under the guise of wanting to get some exercise, but what I really needed was my friend's advice. I was quite conflicted about being reassigned to the Randle case. While part of me longed to jump back into the saddle and prove that I could successfully resolve the lawsuit, I feared that in a case this fishy, there was a good chance that something else would go wrong. I needed James's take on things, but I wasn't quite sure how much I should reveal to him.

After a series of long rallies, we took a break with the score at three games to one in James's favor.

“When're you going to tell me what's bothering you?” James asked, joining me on a bench that was badly in need of a coat of paint.

I smiled at him. “What makes you think something's bothering me?”

“Because lately you only invite me to play tennis when you're mad at your husband or stressed out about work. From the way you've been playing, I'd say it's probably both.”

“If you weren't my friend, I'd hate you,” I said playfully.

James got up from the bench, picked up his racket and took a few practice swings. “Slaughtered any unfortunate black victims of discrimination lately?”

I made a sucking sound with my teeth. James enjoyed kidding me about being a sell-out for defending big business rather than the working man, but I wasn't in the mood to be teased. “Please don't go there today, okay?” I was now having second thoughts about discussing my troubles with him.

“You're awful touchy this evening,” James said. “Look, I know you're up for partner pretty soon and I also know how important that is to you. But despite all the wonderful stuff that partner said about you at that dinner Saturday night, you need to prepare yourself just in case it doesn't happen.”

James had always been one of my biggest supporters. I didn't need to hear such pessimism coming from him. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said.

“I'm not saying it
won't
happen,” he said, trying to backtrack.

“Then why even bring it up? I've worked my butt off and I deserve to make partner.”

“I agree,” James said. “You do. But life isn't always fair. Every law firm in America is talking about diversity these days, but that's all it is. Talk.”

“You're always so negative,” I said. “How are things supposed to change if no one is willing to give it a chance to?”

“I'm just looking at the facts,” he said. “If all the white-shoe law firms like yours really wanted to have some black and Hispanic partners, they would be there. Instead they sit back and complain that they can't find any qualified candidates. At the same time, they welcome in truck-loads of mediocre white boys, but expect anybody black or brown to walk on water.”

“You're always talking out of both sides of your mouth,” I said. “First, you criticize the law firms for not hiring minorities. And when they do, you attack the minorities who work there as sell-outs. You can't have it both ways.”

“There's no real contradiction,” James said. “I just don't think any minority who's racially conscious can survive for the long haul at a big firm. The law firm culture won't let them.”

“That's not true,” I insisted. “The more minorities the firms hire, the better it'll be for those who follow. And things
are
changing. Maybe not as fast as either of us would like, but there
has
been progress just the same. Remember Martin Miller? He graduated from Boalt the year before we did. He just made partner at Roosevelt & Womble's downtown office. And he's the third African-American partner there.”

“Now that's an example of real diversity. There ain't nothing black about that brother other than his skin.”

I wanted to sock James, but instead I opted to hit below the belt. “Yeah, you're probably right. I think he's married to a white woman, too.”

His face went slack and I could tell that my comment smarted. But James wasn't about to let me know that. “You can go there if you want, but my being married to Melissa hasn't changed who I am. I'm probably even more committed to my people now.”

“Whatever, James.”

“Look, I didn't mean to upset you. I just want to make sure you understand that playing by the rules doesn't always work. Look at the way you're dressed.”

James was really starting to rattle me now. “What's wrong with the way I'm dressed?” I glanced down at my outfit.

“You even look like a lawyer out here on the tennis court, dressed up in all your nice, bright white. You have on designer shorts
and
socks. How much did it cost you to have Kornikova's name on your shorts? Hell, this is the Fox Hills public tennis court, not Wimbledon. Nobody's gonna arrest you just because you're not dressed the part.”

James was wearing his trademark cut-off jeans and a purple-and-yellow Lakers T-shirt.

Maybe it was the stress of everything I'd been through, but his critique had pushed me to the edge. Anger propelled me off the bench. “You know what? You're nothing but a hypocrite. You're only at the Public Defender's Office because you didn't have the grades to get a job at
a law firm like O'Reilly & Finney, and we both know you wanted one.”

I picked up my racket and slipped on the cover. “And you have some nerve trying to jam me up for going up against black plaintiffs. It must feel great to represent murderers and rapists.”

“That firm has really got you uptight,” James said, laughing.

“You're just jealous.” I grabbed my towel and water bottle and stuffed them into my tennis bag.

“Oh, sure, I'd love to work fifteen hours a day, seven days a week, dealing with pompous, privileged white boys. You have the perfect life.”

I spun around to face him. “Excuse me, but I'll gladly take my pompous white boys over those fake ass, do-good white folks you work with. Those white P.D.'s act so high and mighty because they're giving up big-firm salaries to defend blacks and Mexicans. But most of 'em aren't half as liberal as they profess to be. So don't give me that bull. Your ass wouldn't be living in Ladera if your wife didn't have a trust fund.”

“Just calm down,” James said, grinning. “You obviously haven't been getting any lately. I'm going to have to call Jefferson and tell him to get back home and hook you up. And forgive me for noticing, but you didn't have those bags under your eyes when we graduated from law school.”

“Remind me to call you the next time I need a friend!” I snatched my tennis bag from the bench and turned to leave.

James jumped in front of me and grabbed me by the shoulders. “C'mon, Vernetta. Stop overreacting. You
know I've got your back. Don't leave mad. Flash me that Compton smile.”

I pulled away from him. “Get outta my face.”

“See, that's why I don't deal with black women.” James was laughing even harder now. “White women don't act like that.”

James ducked just in time to miss the tennis bag that I had flung at his head. He was doubled over with laughter.

I had to walk past him to retrieve my bag.

“C'mon, homey, you need to lighten up,” he said, still in stitches. “Let's go to Simply Wholesome. I'll treat even though you make three times my meager P.D.'s salary.”

“Forget it,” I said, storming off the tennis court. “Go have dinner with your rich white wife!”

B
y the time I got home, James had left me three voice mail messages begging for my forgiveness. Frankly, I should have been the one apologizing to him. I was really on edge lately. I called him back and told him I was sorry for going off the way I had.

I showered, heated up some leftover pizza and was asleep by nine. When the telephone rang close to seven-thirty the next morning, I figured it was Special. Since Jefferson had been out of town, she had gotten into the habit of waking me up at the crack of dawn to share some inane gossip.

I grabbed the telephone from the nightstand on the third ring. “It's too early in the morning to be gossiping, so this better be good,” I said, yawning.

“Please excuse me for calling so early.” I didn't recognize the clipped, female voice.

I looked at the caller ID, but the number didn't register.

“I'm calling from Micronics Corporation,” the woman said.

I sprang up in bed.

The woman introduced herself as the secretary to Bob Bailey, the company's General Counsel. She explained
that Mr. Bailey needed to meet with me as soon as possible regarding the Randle case. Unfortunately, he was heading out of the country the following day and wanted to know if I could make it to corporate headquarters by nine. Although communicated in the form of a request, the urgency in her tone indicated that it was anything but.

I assumed that the General Counsel wanted a face-to-face meeting to personally smooth out my ruffled feathers. O'Reilly had mentioned that the overture would be forthcoming.

It took me only minutes to hop in and out of the shower. I put on my favorite black Tahari pantsuit with a white blouse for ultimate contrast. My coral earrings and matching necklace finished the ensemble. It was the most conservative outfit in my closet. I wanted to convey an unmistakable air of professionalism.

When I walked into Bailey's spacious office forty-five minutes later, a stormy tension smacked me in the face, causing my light mood to somersault into a dark cloud of panic. Bailey was sitting behind his desk, while Ferris, the Vice President of HR, occupied a chair off to the side.

Even before taking in the entire room, I felt the stoic presence of Joseph Porter, dressed in a polyester gray suit and a dated striped tie. He was sitting in a small chair facing Bailey's desk. His face was so flushed he looked three shades darker. Norma Brown sat only inches away from him, her head down, her hands cupped in her lap. She was the only one who had not looked my way when the door opened.

“Thanks for coming,” Bailey said. “Why don't you
have a seat?” He pointed to an empty chair sandwiched between Porter and Norma. I stared at the chair as if it were the bull's-eye for a firing squad.

“We'd like to talk to you about this.” Ferris snatched a document from Bailey's desk and waved it in the air.

I did not need to see the fine print to know that he was holding a copy of the memo Norma had read to me in the sauna. I glanced over at Norma, who still refused to look at me, just as I refused to look at Porter. I felt like I was trapped in a packed elevator with twenty people breathing their hot breath down the base of my neck. Maybe the room would stop spinning once I sat down.

I had yet to say a word. “I…uh…I need to go to the ladies' room first.” I backed out of the room before anyone could object.

Frantically, I scurried down the long hallway like a victim in a bad horror flick searching for an escape route. I had not been in this area of the Micronics building before, but I knew that a restroom had to be close by. That was the law. One restroom per X number of employees. I was certain I had read that somewhere.

Just as I was about to turn around and begin my frenzied search at the opposite end of the hallway, I spotted a door with the familiar blue symbol and ducked inside. I stepped up to the nearest sink, gripped the sides with both hands and tried to catch my breath. I just stood there, my head bowed, my eyes tightly shut, my hands glued to the icy-cold porcelain.

If the sink had been made of mere glass, my hands would have been all bloodied by now, pierced with fragments of
a material too weak to withstand such a desperate grasp. Talking to Norma about that document had been a big mistake. I should have left the sauna the minute she mentioned Randle's name.
What in the hell had I been thinking?

Now they all knew. They knew that Norma had shown me the confidential document and that I had failed to report her misconduct. Their suspicions about my loyalties, or the lack thereof, had been undeniably confirmed.

This was not some oversight O'Reilly & Finney could ignore. This was an issue of ethics. There was no doubt now. I would not make partner. I would not even have a job. With O'Reilly & Finney or anybody else. Micronics would surely report me to the State Bar, which would probably mean a suspension or maybe even disbarment.

There was no way I could go back into that room. What would I say? I tried to think of a decent cover story but nothing came to me. What good was a lawyer who could not lie on demand? I was a disgrace to the profession….

I bolted up in bed. My satin nightgown was glued to my chest, soaked with perspiration, and my temples were throbbing with pain.
It was only a dream!
The digital clock next to my bed displayed 2:32 a.m. in bright fluorescent green. My head felt clouded and heavy. I grabbed the top sheet and pressed it against my sweaty face, mopping up the perspiration along my forehead. Plopping back down on my pillow, I tried to relax, but my heart refused to stop racing.

What if Norma
had
told someone about our conversation? There would be no way I could explain away my behavior. I just hoped the woman had enough sense to keep her mouth shut.

I hopped out of bed, put on a dry nightgown and walked into our spare bedroom that doubled as an office. I clicked on the light switch, turned on the computer and waited for permission to proceed. The next few seconds seemed to take forever.

Grabbing the mouse, I clicked on the Westlaw icon. I typed in my ID and password, then entered the California database until I got to the Code of Professional Responsibility, which proscribed the do's and don'ts for members of the California Bar. Almost instantaneously after typing the phrase
conflict of interest,
the screen listed dozens of matches. I entered a few more words to help narrow my search and quickly scrolled through each entry, slowing at relevant text.

Rule 3-310(B): Personal relationships with an opposing party or witness must be disclosed to the client.
Norma was not an opposing party nor was she a witness. At least not technically speaking. And a single conversation certainly did not constitute a “personal relationship.” Nothing I had done had violated that rule, I told myself.

Rule 3-500: “A member shall keep a client reasonably informed about significant developments relating to the employment or representation.”
Did knowledge of an employee's theft of a confidential document fit the definition of a significant development? It was not as if Norma had handed the document to Hamilton. No. The information about Norma's copying the document was not
significant.
It would not impact the outcome of the case.

I dumped my head into my hands. Who was I kidding? No matter what a given rule said, any halfway decent
lawyer could find a plausible basis for asserting the exact opposite proposition. That was exactly what my three years of law school had trained me to do. Pick a side, any side, and defend it.

I said a quick prayer. Hopefully, after Reggie calmed down and discussed the motion with Hamilton, they would be calling me back singing a different tune.

If the motion to amend didn't convince them to fold, nothing would.