In Firm Pursuit (3 page)

T
he CEO of Micronics Corporation strolled down the spacious hallway of the Cypress Club with a decided, purpose-filled gait. His eyes bore straight ahead, ignoring his elegant surroundings. The rich wood paneling, the expensive Oriental rugs, the Picassos and Monets that lined the walls. Any other time, J. William Walters would have taken notice of the Pavarotti aria wafting from the expensive Bose speakers. Not today.

A casual observer might have assumed that Walters's brain cells were consumed with annual reports, stock prices or one of his company's newest inventions. But in reality, unshakable images of newspaper headlines and prison cells had been his primary focus for several weeks now. At night, it was becoming increasingly impossible to shake the visions—he refused to call them nightmares—of SEC agents raiding his posh office, slapping handcuffs across his meaty wrists and taking him on a preplanned perp walk as cameras from all the major networks shined blinding lights into his eyes.

Making a sharp left, Walters headed for the Ronald Reagan Room, one of a dozen or so private meeting places reserved for the Cypress Club's most exclusive members. Exclusive in Walters's world meaning not just rich, but
rich and powerful. When he reached his destination, he did not bother to knock before thrusting the door open and stepping inside.

It took a second for Walters's eyes to adjust to the near darkness. The ominous room seemed more suitable for a late-night poker game than clandestine corporate decision-making. He nodded in the direction of the room's sole occupant, sitting in a red velvet club chair. Rich Ferris, Micronics's Vice President of Human Resources, was a fair-skinned black man who was as buttoned-up as a born-again preacher. Ferris nodded but did not otherwise greet his boss of the last seven years. Instead, he quietly took a sip from his second vodka of the evening.

The CEO was a long-time member of the Cypress Club. Thanks to Walters's connections, Ferris had recently been extended an invitation to join the elite society. Unlike some of his colleagues, Walters had not raised a fuss when the club finally gave in to outside pressures and began actively complying with its nondiscrimination provision. No matter how many blacks or Jews walked through the door, it would have no tangible impact on his life. Certain people were impervious to change. At least, that was how it had been.

“Well, let's get to it,” Walters said, wishing he had a drink, too. He eyed the fully stocked bar in the far corner of the room. The thought of getting up to fix one for himself had not occurred to him. An attendant would arrive shortly. He would wait.

“How're we going to fix this?” Walters's harsh eyes rested pointedly on his subordinate.

Ferris did not rush to respond to the question. In his
own right, he was a well-educated, impressive businessman whose innovative workforce strategies had earned him profiles in publications like
Forbes, Black Enterprise
and the
Wall Street Journal.
At the moment, though, he looked like a scared little boy.

The CEO let the silence linger to the point of punishment. “You don't have any ideas?” The sarcasm in Walters's voice failed to mask his anger. “Let's not forget that we're in this together. If the feds come calling for me, they're eventually coming after you, too. So I'll ask the question one more time. How do we fix this?”

Ferris sat forward and cleared his throat. “I've taken care of it,” he said. He raised his glass to his lips but did not take a sip. “In fact, everything is well under way.”

“Go on,” Walters said.

“I don't think I should say any more than that. The less you know the better.”

The CEO grimaced. He wanted to hear the specifics, but Ferris was right. If somebody sat him down in front of a polygraph machine, he liked the idea of being able to honestly plead ignorance. Too bad he had not taken that approach months ago.

“When will we know for sure that everything's been resolved?” Walters asked.

“A month at the most, maybe less.”

“What about the media?” Walters absently rubbed his jaw. “Are you certain there's nothing out there that some overambitious reporter won't uncover?”

“There's no paper trail to speak of,” Ferris said. “We've covered our tracks.”

Walters wanted to explode. Ferris had just lied to him. Intentionally, no doubt. There was indeed a paper trail. A very troublesome one. But Walters had already put his own clandestine cleanup plan into motion, knowing he could not leave something this serious up to his circle of incompetents. If and when real trouble surfaced, the minions he had carefully positioned on the front lines would be there to take the fall.

The CEO had personally picked each of his nine direct reports as much for their shrewd business acumen as their unique personal frailties. They were all yes men. Brilliant yes men, but clearly followers, not leaders. Intellect without strength. At the time, Walters had not wanted an equal among his inner circle. Now he could have used one in the room.

“What about the Randle case?” he asked.

“That's being taken care of as well.” Ferris spoke with genuine confidence for the first time.

Walters nodded again. “Who's handling it?”

“O'Reilly & Finney. If something goes wrong, it'll look better if an outside law firm has a hand in it.”

“Good,” Walters said, nodding.

“I had them assign the case to Vernetta Henderson. She handled that wage-and-hour lawsuit at our Long Beach facility last year,” Ferris said proudly. “She also defended a big murder case a few months ago.” He paused. “And she's African-American.” Ferris actually preferred
black
over
African-American,
but was trying to sound politically correct.

Walters had made it known that he liked having
African-American attorneys heading up Micronics's defense team when black plaintiffs sued the company. In the CEO's mind, having a black mouthpiece diffused the issue of race for the jury. Ferris wholeheartedly agreed.

“Good,” Walters said again. He glanced at the door. He could not wait much longer for his drink.

“The trial's just a few weeks away,” Ferris continued.

“According to Ms. Henderson, a defense verdict is all but a certainty.”

A stunned look glazed Walters's face. It took a moment before he could speak. “Are you out of your mind? That case can't go to trial.”

Ferris unconsciously balled up his left fist, then set his empty glass on the table to his right. “We already gave Ms. Henderson the go-ahead to try it.” His voice came out in a near whimper. “It's going to look pretty strange to suddenly ask that it be settled.”

“Not half as strange as you and me sharing a prison cell!” Walters yelled. “If this thing gets out they'll hang us all out to dry!”

Ferris pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ms. Henderson's a real go-getter. She's going to ask a lot of questions.”

“I don't care about her questions,” Walters said through clenched teeth. “Just get the damn case settled. Now!”

I
left Haley's office and nearly ran to mine. After reading that Micronics memo, I was anxious to confirm that I was not the one who had screwed up. Finding out how your client handled similar claims—no matter what kind of case—was Employment Law 101.

Snatching open the middle drawer behind my desk, I pulled out two file folders. As I perused my handwritten interview notes, I could feel the pace of my breathing escalate. I had asked every question
except
that one.

I was close to full-scale cardiac arrest when I finally found what I was looking for on the fifth page of my interview notes with Kathy Fairbrother. I fell into my chair and let out a loud sigh.
Thank God.
My notes reflected that the HR Representative had told me that Micronics only had three significant allegations of sexual harassment in the past few years. Each one had been investigated, but HR had been unable to substantiate the charges. None of the cases listed in the fax were among them.
Had Fairbrother intentionally lied to me?

I picked up the telephone and dialed Fairbrother's number. To my surprise, a secretary informed me that she was no longer with the company. Rich Ferris would be handling all inquiries concerning the Randle case.

It was quite unusual for the VP of Human Resources to serve as the point person on a run-of-the-mill employment case. Somebody at his level only got involved in high-exposure litigation. I asked to be transferred to Ferris, but he was out of the office.

According to my interview notes, Fairbrother had only been a Micronics employee for four months at the time I interviewed her. Maybe she didn't know about the other cases either. But she claimed she had checked.

I reluctantly closed the folder and thanked God a second time. Haley was right. Reggie had done a piss-poor job during discovery and probably would not discover this information on his own. And we had no obligation to voluntarily provide it to him since his original discovery requests had not asked for information about similar claims.

Just to make sure, I pulled out the pleadings file and scanned Reggie's discovery requests. He had only served a single request for production of documents and a set of twenty interrogatories. His questions focused solely on Henry Randle's work history and the specifics of the allegations made by Karen Carruthers. Thank God for shoddy legal work. I breathed another sigh of relief.

Despite the inferior legal talent of my opponent, this evidence made the case far too risky to take to trial. I had to get it settled.

The telephone rang, interrupting my thoughts.

When I picked up, I was happy to hear my husband's voice. “Don't kill me,” Jefferson said, “but I'll have to work Saturday
and
Sunday, so I won't be coming home this weekend.”

For the last three months, Jefferson had been living in San Diego during the week and coming home on weekends. The small electrical company he owned with his partner, Stan, had won its first big commercial job—a strip mall about two hours south of L.A. Our young marriage did not need the separation. We had recently survived a short breakup, caused primarily by my demanding work schedule. But now Jefferson's work was keeping him even busier than me.

“Don't sweat it,” I said. “I have to work all weekend, too.” I was about to tell him about my crazy day, when my secretary, Shelia, knocked on my open door.

“Mr. Porter wants to see you in his office.” Shelia made a face that said she felt sorry for me. “Immediately.”

“M
an, at the rate we're going, I'm never gonna get home to see Vernetta again.” Jefferson Jones stared down at the blueprints spread out in front of him on the rickety card table.

His business partner, Stan Parks, stood next to him at the rear of the trailer that served as the on-site office for Jones-Parks Electrical. They had been studying the blueprints for the last twenty minutes, trying to figure out exactly what had gone wrong.

“Don't freak out yet,” Stan said. “I think the problem is someplace over here.” He made a circle with his index finger in the northwest quadrant of the blueprint, then dumped his two-hundred-fifty-pound frame into a cheap metal chair that could barely hold him. Stan was a dark-skinned man in his mid-forties who smiled a lot because he liked showing off the gold tooth he had front and center.

“And like I keep telling you,” Stan continued, “you don't need to be running home to your wife every weekend. Let that woman miss you. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, my brother.”

Before Jefferson could respond, the trailer door opened and LaKeesha Douglas walked in. A sophomore at San
Diego State, LaKeesha had been working part-time as their office assistant for just over two weeks.

“What's up, boss men?” She dropped her book bag on the floor near one of the two desks that sat on opposite sides of the trailer. She had micro-thin, shoulder-length braids that were pulled back into a loose ponytail. Her Baby Phat jeans were so tight, the seams along her hipline threatened to rupture at any second. She was braless underneath a thin, red-and-white tank top, making it hard for Jefferson and Stan to keep their eyes above LaKeesha's neckline.

“What you guys got for me to do today?” She forced her hands into the front pockets of her jeans, which gave her bosses an even better view of her erect nipples.

Jefferson realized he had been staring and abruptly turned back to the blueprints. “We need some more supplies. Coffee and sugar for one.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and took out three twenties. “Check to make sure we have enough cups and napkins, and stop by Staples to pick up a case of paper for the printer.”

“Aye-aye, captain,” LaKeesha said, giving him a salute. She grabbed her book bag from the floor, took out her keys and a small purse and headed out of the squeaky trailer door.

Stan shuffled over to the window and watched LaKeesha walk away. “That little tenderonie is gonna hurt somebody one day. Too bad it can't be me.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, man,” Jefferson laughed. “She's barely legal.”

Stan remained bent at the waist, peering out of the window. “Where I come from, twenty-one is old enough
to do a whole lot of fun stuff. She might not want my fat ass, but she would definitely give you some.”

Jefferson grinned. “I'm a happily married man, remember?”

“We're talking apples and oranges, my brother. One thing ain't got nothing to do with the other.”

Jefferson shook his head, then rolled up the blueprints and stuffed them into a long plastic tube. “C'mon, man,” he said, opening the trailer door. “Let's go fix this problem.”

LaKeesha returned while they were out and restocked the supplies, cleaned the coffeemaker and straightened up the desks.

A short while later, Jefferson entered the trailer. When he made a move toward the coffeemaker, LaKeesha jumped in front of him.

“I'll get it for you,” she said.

“You don't have to do that, LaKeesha. I can fix my own coffee.”

“I don't mind,” she persisted. “You guys have been working pretty hard out there.”

Jefferson relented and sat down at his desk.

Seconds later, LaKeesha sauntered over and set a cup on his desk. “Just the way you like it. One cream and two packets of sugar.”

Jefferson took a sip. “Thanks,” he said, enjoying the personal attention. He caught a pleasant whiff of her perfume.

Stan had insisted on hiring LaKeesha over his objections. Jefferson thought it would be too much work trying to keep
the guys off of her, but the girl had no trouble fending for herself. She seemed pretty streetwise and admitted blowing a couple of years after high school hanging out and partying before finally deciding to go to college.

As LaKeesha walked over to the miniature fridge to the left of the coffeemaker, Jefferson could not help staring at her ass. Breasts were nice to look at, but he was an ass man. In his younger days, as long as a woman had a decent face, a small waist and a big behind, not much else mattered. And LaKeesha had a whopper.

Jefferson watched as she bent down to open the fridge. She held the pose far longer than necessary, which made him smile. The girl was obviously messing with him. But he was well past the age when he could be played by some youngster.

He took another sip of coffee, then lowered his head to the desk and rubbed the back of his neck. Before he knew it, LaKeesha was standing behind him massaging his shoulders. Jefferson stiffened at her initial touch, but quickly relaxed.

“Your trapezius muscles are really tight,” LaKeesha said, kneading her fingers along the base of his neck.

“You have quite a bit of tension in your shoulder area.”

Jefferson knew he should stop her, but it felt far too good. “You sound like a professional masseuse,” he said.

“I was for a while,” LaKeesha replied. “Had to give it up, though. Ran into too many perverts.” She used her right elbow to press deep into Jefferson's shoulder.

“You've got quite a bit of lactic acid buildup on your right side, but I think I can break it up.”

And after several minutes, she apparently had because he felt great.

“So how does it feel now?” LaKeesha asked.

Jefferson twisted his head from side to side, then rotated his shoulders. “That definitely hit the spot. I think you're in the wrong business.”

LaKeesha beamed with satisfaction.

Jefferson's cell phone rang and he grunted. “Now what?”

“I'll get it.” LaKeesha grabbed the phone from the desk before he could reach it.

Jefferson listened as she politely and professionally explained that he was not available, jotted down a quick message and hung up.

“You're pretty good at that, too,” Jefferson said.

“If you want, I can screen your calls for you,” LaKeesha offered with a coy smile.

Jefferson did not ponder her offer long. “Sounds like a plan.” This time he smiled. It had been a long time since he'd had a female as young and as fine as LaKeesha shooting him vibes and it felt pretty cool. But he knew what was up and he was not stupid enough to screw up his marriage over a five-second orgasm with some kid.

“Just let me know if you need another massage,” LaKeesha said, walking back over to Stan's desk. “I have quite a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Jefferson smiled to himself.
I bet you do.