In Firm Pursuit (23 page)

L
ess than five minutes later, we pulled into the driveway of a spacious ranch-style home on Shenandoah Street in Ladera Heights. The house stretched almost twice the length of every other home on the block. A narrow rainbow of flowers lined one side of a lawn plush and green enough for a
House & Garden
cover spread. A Lincoln Navigator and a BMW were parked side by side in the driveway.

“Who lives here?” Special asked as she unlocked the passenger door.

“James,” I said.

“Dang! He's living hella large off that white girl's trust fund. But how is that Uncle Tom brother going to help us?”

“Stop calling him that. We're here to talk to Melissa, his wife.”

I jogged up the driveway, while Special grudgingly dragged up the rear.

The housekeeper, an older Brazilian woman, opened the door seconds after I rang the bell and greeted me with a hug. Special, still grumbling to herself, followed as Ana led us down a long marble hallway that opened into a sunken den almost as large as Special's entire apartment.

“Dang,” Special said after Ana had left to find James.
“If marrying a white babe'll get me a crib like this, I might have to check out the lesbo scene.”

I pinched her on the arm.

“Ow! That hurt!” she said, rubbing her arm.

“Then hush,” I said. “Don't you know how to whisper?”

A large picture window took up most of the east wall of the room. If it weren't so smoggy, the Hollywood sign would have been visible in the distance.

Special walked over to check out the view. “I can't believe they have a live-in housekeeper!” she said, astonished. “They ain't even got no kids. That's just lazy.”

“Please be quiet!” I whispered. “And if you can't do that, at least lower your voice.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“And please be nice to Melissa.” I did not waste my time asking Special to be nice to James.

“Okay, okay. I'm cool with her. But you know I can't stand James's ass. He has some nerve thinking he's too good to date black women.”

“Special, I'm not playing. If you—”

“Hey, Vernetta,” James said, walking into the room. He hugged me with honest warmth, our tennis spat long forgotten.

“You remember Special,” I said.

“What's up?” Special said flatly.

James nodded in her direction. Neither made an attempt to hug or shake hands.

“Want something to drink?” James asked.

Special perked up. “I could use a glass of wine. What kind do you—”

“No, we're fine,” I said, cutting her off. “We're here for business.”

We all sat down. James and I on the couch, Special in an adjacent club chair. After swearing James to secrecy, I pulled out the Micronics documents and began giving him the background information. I left out some of the key details, like Carruthers's death and exactly how Special had obtained the documents. There was no need to drag James and his wife all the way into this thing just yet.

James listened without comment, then stood up. “Let me go get Melissa.”

As soon as he left, Special began strolling around the room, her hands clasped behind her back. “Yeah, they're living real high on the hog.” She stopped to examine a huge lithograph over the fireplace. “They spent some big bucks on this.” Special's nose was so close to the glass frame she left breath prints on it.

“And how would you know that?” I said. “Didn't you buy all of your artwork on the corner of Crenshaw and Adams?”

Special stuck out her tongue. “Excuse me, but I took a semester of Art Appreciation at USC. So I do know a little something.” She strolled over to the opposite side of the room and picked up a small sculpture sitting on a three-foot metal base. She held it high over her head so she could examine the bottom. “They paid some serious money for this, too.”

“Special, please sit your butt down!” I begged. “And I'm serious. You better be nice to Melissa.”

“If you ask me to be nice to that girl one more time, I'm gonna scream.” Special flopped down into the chair
and crossed her legs. She leaned over to get a closer look at a framed photograph of James and Melissa sitting on an end table.

“Girl, they look like Clarence Thomas and Marge Simpson,” Special exclaimed. “Thank God they haven't reproduced yet. But they might get lucky. Some of the homeliest zebra couples make the prettiest babies. I think God feels guilty for making ugly people.”

“Special, I'm not playing with you. You better—”

“Hi, everybody!” Melissa bounced into the room right behind James and gave me a frail hug.

She had short black hair that obviously had not seen the hands of a hair stylist in months. The age lines around her eyes made her look slightly older than James, even though she was three years his junior. She was wearing jeans, an oversized sweatshirt and the hardened look of a criminal prosecutor.

“You remember Special,” I said.

Melissa extended her hand. “Nice to see you again,” she said cheerfully.

Special reached up to shake Melissa's hand but did not bother to stand up.

“James already filled me in,” Melissa said. “Let's see the documents.”

I
expected to hear the low beeping of the burglar alarm when I opened my front door. But when I walked past the living room and into the den, I was surprised and a little perturbed to find Special sprawled across my Ethan Allen couch snoring like a foghorn.

It had been four days since Special moved in and our roommate arrangement was getting old fast. I noisily dropped my purse on the coffee table, causing Special to jump to her feet.

“Girl, you scared me!” Her hair was matted to the left side of her head and mascara was smeared underneath her right eye.

My face tensed as I took in my normally immaculate den. The grease stain on the arm of the couch hadn't been there when I'd left that morning. A Chinese take-out container sat in the center of the wrought-iron coffee table next to a coasterless wine cooler bottle. Two half-open shoeboxes and a Nordstrom bag were strewn across the floor nearby. Jaheim's voice floated from the stereo, but could barely be heard over
The Fresh Prince
rerun on the flat-screen TV.

Special yawned and sat up. “You're gonna have to start
calling me on my cell to let me know when you're coming home. You know how jumpy I am lately.”

I definitely could not put up with my friend's paranoia—not to mention her sloppiness—much longer.

Special propped up her feet on the coffee table. Her toes were still sporting that gaudy pink nail polish.

“I see you weren't too worried about somebody following you at the mall,” I said, staring down at her new purchases.

“Girl, you know how much shopping relaxes me. The four hours I spent at the Beverly Center today was the first time I've been able to relax since they tore up my apartment.”

“I thought you were trying to save money to buy some new furniture,” I reminded her.

“I needed this spending spree to help me with my emotional equilibrium. Shopping can do that, you know.”

I kicked off my shoes and sat down on the far end of the couch. I wanted to watch the local news but I knew Special would complain if I changed the channel. I did not enjoy feeling like a guest in my own home.

After a few minutes of “The Fresh Prince,” I traipsed into the bathroom, doused a hand towel with hot water and pressed it against my face. When I removed the towel, I nearly leapt two feet off the ground, startled by Special's presence in the doorway.

“You're almost as jumpy as me,” Special said, chomping on a half-eaten egg roll. My eyes followed the crumbs that fell from Special's mouth to my newly shampooed Berber carpet.

“Did Melissa get back to you about the documents?” Special took another sloppy bite of her egg roll.

“Yeah, but she has no idea what they are,” I replied. “She wanted to show them to this engineer she knows, but I told her to hold off. We need to be careful who we drag into this.”

“Isn't there anyone else you trust who can look at them?”

“Yep.” I blotted my face with the towel and reached for a bottle of moisturizer.

“Who?” Special asked anxiously.

“Bradley Davis.”

“That fine-ass lawyer you used to call me up and brag about every time you had sex with him?”

My face scrunched up all by itself. “I did not call you every time I had sex with him.”

“Oh, yes the hell you did. And every single time you sounded like you'd just gotten off the Matterhorn at Disneyland. That brother was definitely rockin' your world. I remember because I was jealous as hell. What does he know about engineering?”

“He used to be a computer programmer and he handles a lot of engineering-related patent lawsuits.”

“You better hope Jefferson doesn't find out.”

“Jefferson has nothing to worry about. I don't want anything to do with Bradley.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Special said. “I know you love your husband and everything, but you ain't never given me any indication that Jefferson was putting it down like Bradley.”

“Maybe I don't tell you
everything.
Anyway, let's change the subject.”

“Fine with me. You're the one who brought him up.”

I brushed past her and headed into the kitchen. Special stayed close on my heels like a hyperactive puppy.

“So when is Bradley going to look at 'em?” Special asked.

“I have a meeting at his house the day after tomorrow.”

Special's hands flew to her hips. “Why didn't you tell me? I know you weren't about to go over there without me.”

Actually, that had been my plan. I stopped in my tracks when I got to the doorway of my kitchen. Dishes were piled up in the sink, the trash can lid was askew and there were three balled-up paper towels on the counter.

“Special, we have a trash can and a dishwasher,” I complained.

“I was going to clean up before I went to bed,” she said in a monotonous whine.

I pulled open the refrigerator and reached for the bottle of cranberry juice. The quart I had bought two days earlier barely had a drop left. I held up the empty bottle and eyed Special.

“Girl, I've been really thirsty lately,” she said. “I'll hook us up with some groceries when I get paid in two weeks. I just maxed out all my credit cards.”

Two weeks?
If Special was still here in two weeks, then
I
would be the one moving out.

T
he following afternoon, Jefferson stepped across the threshold of his Baldwin Hills home and froze in place. His overnight bag fell to the floor and he stared at his living room in amazement, certain that he had somehow parked in the wrong driveway and entered the wrong front door.

The place resembled the bedroom of a delinquent teenager. A big brown stain on the rug near the stereo caught his eye first. Clothes were strewn across the arm of the couch and an empty Starbucks cup and an open bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos occupied one of the end tables. He peered into the kitchen and could see a stack of dirty dishes on the countertop.

Two days after Special had moved in, Vernetta had called him in a tirade, complaining about her best friend's sloppiness. Jefferson figured she had been exaggerating. But now, seeing everything for himself, he realized that Vernetta had actually downplayed the situation.

“C'mon in, man,” Jefferson said to Stan, who closed the door behind him. “You'll have to excuse the mess.”

They had driven to L.A. just for the night so Stan could surprise his wife for their wedding anniversary. It would be
another couple of hours before she got off from work. Stan headed straight for the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

“Man, doesn't your wife eat?” Stan called out from the kitchen.

“Yeah, but only if it's from a take-out container,” Jefferson yelled back. “I'll order some pizza.” He picked up a stack of mail from the sofa table near the front door and was going through it when he heard the doorknob turn.

Special let out a frazzled yelp when she saw Jefferson standing in front of her. “You scared me to death!” She clutched her chest. “I was about to pull out my Mace.”

“Hello to you, too, Special,” Jefferson said, returning to the mail. “Shouldn't you be at work?”

“I left early so I could clean up before Vernetta got home,” she said, still rattled. “When did your wife turn into such a neat freak?” Special walked into the living room and picked up the Starbucks cup but ignored the Doritos bag. “Are you here to surprise her?”

“Nah. She's on her way home right now, so you better get to work. We're heading back in the morning.”

“Who's we?”

“We is me, your long lost lover boy!” Stan sloshed out of the kitchen chomping on an apple. “How you doing, sweetness?”

“You know what?” Special scurried from the living room, over to the front door. “I just remembered an errand I need to run.” She grabbed the doorknob and pulled it open, then shrieked again.

A bearded Hispanic man in his early twenties was standing in the doorway. Special ducked behind Jefferson for cover.

“I didn't mean to scare you, ma'am,” the man said. “I have a package for Jones-Parks Electrical.”

“That's for me,” Jefferson said. He set the mail back down on the sofa table and reached for the clipboard the messenger held out to him. After he scribbled his name, the man handed him a large white envelope and left.

“I wonder what this is?” Jefferson tore open the envelope. “None of my mail for the business should be coming here.” Special peered over his shoulder, hoping to get a look at what was inside.

Jefferson pulled a thick document out of the envelope. When his eyes focused on the words in the upper left-hand corner of the page, trepidation seized his body.
Law Office of Benjamin Wallace, Attorney for LaKeesha Douglas.

The reality of what he was looking at took only seconds to register. “Shit!”

“What is it?” Stan asked, talking with his mouth full.

“It looks like LaKeesha's suing y'all,” Special announced.

Jefferson stuffed the papers back into the envelope, walked into the living room and slumped down on the couch. Stan had all but convinced him that LaKeesha's threat about suing him for sexual harassment was just the temporary wrath of a scorned woman. And Jefferson had gladly put the whole LaKeesha saga behind him. He told Vernetta that they had decided to lay LaKeesha off because the project was winding down. That news had seemed to please her, and to his relief, she had not asked him another question about the girl.

Stan took another bite of his apple. “Aw, man,” he said, “you gotta—”

Jefferson raised his hand. “Just be quiet, Stan. Don't say another word.” He turned to Special. “Stan and I need to talk privately about this. Weren't you just about to leave?”

“I was,” she said, “but now I think I should hang around. At least until Vernetta gets here.”

Special joined Jefferson on the couch and held out her hand. “Let me see them papers. What's that little heffa suing you for?” Special made a move for the envelope, but Jefferson pulled it out of her reach.

“Special, this is a private matter that I need to discuss with my business partner. Why don't you just run along?”

“C'mon, brother-in-law, you know Vernetta's going to tell me everything anyway. If it's something really bad, you might as well tell me first so I can help you break the news to your wife.”

Jefferson's brain was a muddle of confusion. He was about to be the target of a nasty sexual harassment lawsuit. There was no way he could keep it from Vernetta. If he tried to hide it and she found out later, that would only make matters worse. Special's reaction would be a preview of Vernetta's. He reluctantly handed Special the envelope, then slumped farther down on the couch, closed his eyes and started praying.

Jefferson did not need to read the document to know what it said. It probably recounted every dirty little detail of what had happened in his room at the Residence Inn. Considering how mad LaKeesha had been when he fired her, it would not surprise him if she had made up a bunch of extra stuff.

When he finished praying, Jefferson looked over at
Special, studying her face. She didn't seem all that disgusted, but Jefferson knew he wouldn't be that lucky when Vernetta read that document. He hung his head and started to pray again.

“This ain't that big a deal,” Special said, stuffing the papers back inside the envelope.

Jefferson stared hard at Special, trying to make sure she wasn't playing with him. When he saw that she was not, he almost wanted to hug her. If Vernetta reacted this calmly, he was going to start attending church every Sunday for the rest of his life. Hell, he might even become a deacon or join the men's choir.

“But there's some good news and some bad news,” Special said, handing the envelope back to Jefferson.

His cheeks expanded with air. “I'll take the good news first.”

“It's just a workers' comp case,” Special said. “A stress claim.”

Jefferson wanted to jump for joy. When he had first opened the envelope, he had been too stunned to read any of the words past LaKeesha's name at the top of the page.

“Half the people I work with have filed stress claims,” Special went on. “Including me. You got workers' comp insurance, don't you?” Special asked.

Jefferson nodded in disbelief at his good fortune. LaKeesha had apparently thought better of suing him for sexual harassment after he reminded her that his wife was a lawyer. His workers' comp insurance would take care of her stress claim without him even having to think
twice about it. They'd pay her some chump change and it would be a done deal.

Stan whistled. “Man, you are one lucky dog.”

“Why is he so lucky?” Special asked suspiciously.

Jefferson frowned at Stan and abruptly stood up.

“Uh—we were late paying our workers' comp insurance,” Jefferson said, trying to think fast. “If she had filed this case a week ago, we wouldn't have been covered.”

“So what's the bad news?” Stan asked.

Special stared up at Jefferson. “Well,” she said, “LaKeesha's stress claim is based on sexual harassment. What's that all about, brother-in-law?”

Jefferson slid the document out of the envelope and flipped to the second page. His eyes burned as he scanned the words.
Hostile and intimidating working environment…forced to engage in sexual conduct…severe and pervasive sexual harassment.

Jefferson tried to speak, but couldn't. His lips were sealed shut from both rage and fear.