No Legal Grounds (7 page)
Authors: James Scott Bell
Tags: #Christian Books & Bibles, #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery & Suspense, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers, #Legal, #Suspense, #Religion & Spirituality, #Fiction, #Mystery, #Religious & Inspirational Fiction, #Contemporary, #Christianity, #Christian Fiction
Sam took a shower and shaved in the downstairs bathroom, silently fetched his clothes from the bedroom, and got dressed. Then he made a pot of coffee for Linda. He left her a note saying he loved her and set it next to the coffee. Linda was still in bed when he left the house.
Sam stopped at Starbucks and took three shots in a latte. Overload, yes, but he had to be sharp this morning. Lew was counting on him. This was going to be the most important meeting with the clients yet. A rare Saturday meeting, because Allen Appleby wanted no distractions.
And what Allen Appleby wanted, he got.
Sam met Lew at the office, and they drove downtown in Lew’s silver Porsche. A little class, even though the clients wouldn’t see it in the bowels of the parking garage. Lew’s theory was if you look good you’ve won half the battle. You always went in with a little more confidence.
The other half of the battle was knowing what you were talking about, had it dead-on, and today that burden fell on Sam.
“You okay?” Lew said after they parked.
No, he wasn’t. “Fine.”
“You seem a little tired.”
“Just a little.”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up.” The edge in Sam’s voice might have scratched paint. “Sorry, I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night.”
“You feel ready?”
“Yes, I’m ready. Don’t worry.”
But Sam had a small fist in his gut as they took the elevator to the fortieth floor of the Taylor Building. The fist punched a couple of times as they were ushered into Allen Appleby’s office.
Appleby greeted them with an athletic handshake. The FulCo CEO was tall, gray-haired, and sharply suited in pinstripes. His office was all leather and teak, and large enough for a half-court basketball game. Large enough, too, to contain the massive ego of Stuart Hoch, FulCo’s in-house counsel. Hoch was around Sam’s age, prematurely bald, and seemed permanently sour about it. His response to Sam and Lew had always been on the tepid side.
Sam figured that was because Appleby had personally chosen Lew and Sam over Hoch’s objection. Appleby played golf with Lew’s uncle, Finch Roberts, which is what sealed the deal. There really was something to the who-you-know routine. It was the mortar of professional relationships in LA.
“Let’s get to it,” Appleby said. He was a get-to-it kind of guy, a former Ford executive who made the cover of
Business Week
twice in the same year, once when he moved over to the top spot at FulCo.
They all sat around the shiny conference table. Even before Sam had settled into a chair, Hoch said, “So do we have standing or not?”
So that was the way it was going to be. Hoch would throw fastballs, and Lew was counting on Sam to hit them out of the park, or at least solidly up the middle.
Sam took an immediate swing. “Yes. Not a problem.”
Hoch did not change his skeptical expression. FulCo was suing the federal government for breach of contract, for damages in excess of $800 million. The Feds had entered into an agreement with a major oil company for the purchase of low-sulfur fuel oil. Various subsidiaries of the oil company, relying on the contract, committed themselves to acquiring and transporting large quantities of crude. A year later, FulCo purchased the government contract from the first oil company.
The government then terminated its purchases of LSFO. The various subsidiaries had to sell their crude elsewhere, at a loss.
Sam and Lew were hired to file a breach of contract lawsuit on behalf of FulCo. But the government filed a motion for summary judgment under Rule 56 of the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure, challenging FulCo’s legal standing to bring a lawsuit. The Feds were arguing that the subsidiaries of the oil company were the real parties in interest, since they were the ones with the actual damages.
If the government were to win at this stage, and get upheld on appeal, it would mean FulCo would get zip, zero.
That’s why Sam had spent two weeks researching the standing issue. And he was sure of his answer. As sure as an advocate whose partnership was looking at a potential payday of around $300 million.
“Let me explain.” Sam cleared his throat.
And promptly forgot everything he was supposed to say.
Sam was four when he realized his father was the biggest man in the world. He liked it that his father was so big. The man could lift him with one arm and hold him that way. As Sam grew, his father still stayed big in his eyes. And never bigger than when Sam faced one disappointment or other.
Like the time Sam freaked out on an elementary school stage when he was supposed to give a speech during a Thanksgiving play. He forgot the speech, couldn’t even get started. The other kids started to laugh, especially the gap-toothed doofus, Jeffie Bogosian, known as “Booger” Bogosian to most of the kids.
Seeing Booger’s face in farcical paroxysm was the last straw, and Sam screamed, “Shut up!” and ran off the stage.
Later, his dad sat him down and without any anger told him that a man didn’t let things like that get to him. Everybody gets nervous or scared from time to time, and you suck it up and wait for the feeling to pass.
Thinking of Dad saved Sam this time. He very easily could have considered Stuart Hoch the latest incarnation of Booger Bogosian. Especially when Hoch sniffed, “Yes, please tell us.”
Sam tried to ignore Hoch’s tone, but it annoyed him. This whole setup annoyed him. It was like being called into the principal’s office. All this could have been done with a memo. Yet Appleby had insisted on a face-to-face, and on a Saturday yet.
Appleby drummed his fingers on the table. Sam rifled through the files in his briefcase.
And realized, to his horror, that the memo was not there.
He’d left it in the study, intending to give it a once-over before the meeting. But in his sleepy state he’d forgotten it.
He sat up.
“Well, the general rule is that the duties arising out of a contract are due only to those with whom the contract is made.” His voice sounded like a recording.
“That’s black-letter,” Hoch said, casting a glance at Appleby. “We all know that.”
The slight angered Sam, firing up his adrenaline pump. Good. He could use the jolt. “I just want to make sure Mr. Appleby and you get the whole picture. Now if you’ll hang in there, I’ll explain the two theories that give us standing.”
It was all coming back into focus.
“Two theories?” Hoch said. “I thought there was only alter ego.”
“There’s also integrated operation, so we’re covered two ways. And that’s a good thing.”
Now Appleby looked interested. “Explain.”
“There are two things we need to establish,” Sam said as facts and law poured into place. “First is privity of contract. Second is foreseeability.”
“Without the mumbo jumbo,” Appleby said.
“Privity of contract is a legal term. It means a third party isn’t entitled to the benefits of, or isn’t bound by, a contract to which it is not an original party. But there are several cases, most recently out of the Sixth Circuit, which apply similar facts as we have to establish privity. We’ll prevail on that.”
“What about foreseeability?” Hoch said.
“I was just getting to that. The government argues that they could not have reasonably foreseen that the original party to the contract would have entered into all these subsidiary agreements, forming in effect an integrated operation. That may have been a valid claim ten years ago. But I found three cases in three different circuits, all of which predate the contract, which greatly expand the definition of an integrated operation. These cases thus gave constructive notice to the government for the kind of operation we took over.”
Sam saw Appleby nod twice. “Sounds solid, but I’m no lawyer. I just want to know, bottom line, if we’re going to get to court and get our money.”
“We are,” Sam said. Even though he couldn’t, in reality, be sure how a single judge might rule on the government’s motion, Appleby was not a man who liked to hear nuance.
“Good. Issue two. I’m getting hammered in the press. They’ve got me in with all those scofflaw CEOs. I’ve retained an image consultant and I want you guys to work with her, because you’re going
to be talking to reporters, I’m sure.”
Sam didn’t like that idea. He didn’t want to talk to any reporters. He just wanted to do the work and stay under the radar. “Fine,” Lew said for both of them. “We’ll do whatever it takes.” “Then why extend this meeting any longer?” Appleby stood. “I
can still get in eighteen holes.”
Hoch pulled Sam aside before he left the office. “You better be
right about this.”
Sam wanted to knot Hoch’s tie for him, extra tight. “That’s what
you’re paying us for, isn’t it?”
Hoch looked like he wanted to do the same thing with Sam’s tie.
Not a good day for clothing, Sam decided, or in-house lawyers. “We pay to get a win,” Hoch said. “Make it happen.”
On the drive back to the office Sam said, “We’re lawyers, not talking heads. I don’t want to deal with this media person.” “What’s the big deal?” Lew said.
“It’s a distraction. Right now I don’t need any more distractions in my life.”
“Come on, what’s it going to hurt? We go out to a nice dinner on Appleby’s dime, yak it up a little, it’s nothing.”
“It’s time. And it’s not what we do.”
“Hey, this is the media age, Mr. Trask. Everybody’s got to do it. And when our biggest client to date tells us that’s what he wants, we give it to him. I don’t understand, Sam, you — ”
“I’m sorry, Lew. Like I said, it’s been a little distracting. Heather’s going through her deal, and that’s not making life more pleasant.” Sam decided to hold off on telling Lew about Nicky Oberlin. No use worrying his partner too much.
“I hear you, pal,” Lew said. “Girls especially, am I right?”
“I grew up with two older brothers, so it’s been a real education.”
“The more you know about women, the less you know about women.”
“You’re a real philosopher, Lew.”
“Call me Lewistotle.”
Lewistotle was right about women. But Sam determined he would do something radical, something he probably should have done a long time ago.
Something frightening.
He would try to understand Heather’s music.
But first he would clear the air with Linda. A cool fog had descended on the home since the revelation about his out-ofwedlock child.
Nicky had done it. Managed to inject poison into his marriage. It wasn’t fatal, but it was certainly a presence, the proverbial elephant in the room.
He stopped at Conroy’s for some flowers. He loved the can’tmiss flexibility of flowers. Good for wooing when young, apologizing when middle-aged, and decorating when you cashed in your chips. Flowers did it all, cradle to grave.
Selecting a multicolored collection that included lilies and gerberas, Sam picked one of the nicer cards in the rack. Being a guy, Sam reflected, he usually spent as much time on a card as he did checking the rearview mirror for traffic. Not this time. This one was for Linda, the woman he loved. More deeply, he realized, each time he did something clunky to their marriage.
He even did the hide-the-flowers-behind-the-back routine at the front door, ringing the bell. When Linda answered he smiled, then brought them out with a flourish.
They worked their magic.
“Beautiful,” she said.
“Look at the card.” He was particularly proud of the card.
Linda took the card out of the flowers and read it. Sam had written,
My one and only, always.
Her eyes misting, Linda said, “A nice card.”
Sam put his arms around her, then walked her inside. No need for words. They were enfolded in the silent security of twenty-two years together.
Inside, as Linda put the flowers in a vase, Sam told her about his idea of going to hear Heather’s band.
“Is that crazy?” he asked.
“I think it’s a great first step.” Linda set the flowers in the greenhouse window of the kitchen. The afternoon sun was starting to turn orange as it fell behind the Santa Monica mountains.
“You want to come with me?”
“I think both of us there would freak her out. Besides, I have to pick up Max at seven thirty.”
“Where’s Max again?”
“With his friend Todd.”
“So that means I have to go to this place all by myself?”
“Why don’t you just slip in the back a little after eight o’clock? And try not to look too old.”
“Shall I shave my head before I go?”
“Heather would love that,” Linda said. “Why don’t you?”
The Cobalt Café was a venue for new bands along the Sherman Way corridor in Canoga Park. There was an alien crowd spilling out into the night street when Sam arrived. Young people, multichromatic in clothing, with piercings and heavy makeup. All smoking and trying to out-sullen one another.
Sam ached for them. They were the flotsam and jetsam of the failed social experiment of the last thirty years, the one that put a low priority on family. The culture of divorce, coupled with the decline of public schools and the endless temptations and pressures on kids, ended up with youth adrift. An ocean of lostness in the urban jungle.
But had he done all he could to keep Heather out of this despair? He and Linda had tried to get her involved with church. Didn’t take. They tried to get her to go to private school, but she wanted to stay with her friends. Maybe that’s when he should have insisted, drawn a line.
The only certain thing was that Heather was now part of the lost, and he had no idea what compass he could use to find her.
Maybe tonight would be a start.
He was aware of some looks through the smoky haze, but he had not worn his lawyer outfit. He had on jeans and a red knit shirt, covered by a brown leather jacket. Not exactly Goth, but not Donald Trump, either.
Inside it didn’t really matter, because the place was dark as desert night. Purple lighting gave the least semblance of direction. Tables were jammed with people drinking and trying to shout over the piped music, though its resemblance to any music Sam might have appreciated was purely accidental.
“You wanna sit down?” said a voice from the darkness.
Sam saw what he thought was a young woman, though at this point he was not going to place any bets. Now he had to figure out why she asked.
“I’m here for the show,” he said.
“So you wanna sit down or what?”
“Yes, I think I would.”
“Ten dollars gets you a seat and a drink.”
“Fine.”
“Come on.”
She led him through the shadows to a small round table with
four chairs, three of them occupied. Sam took the empty chair with scarcely a glance from the three specters in the others. “Whattaya want to drink?” his guide asked.
“Coke.”
“What?”
“Coke!”
“Cool!”
She disappeared into the dark forest. Sam wondered how well they could check IDs in this place. They’d have to be on it, because a lot of the audience looked on the edge of twenty-one, give or take. Heather could perform under the musician’s exception, a construct of California law that allowed places that served alcohol to showcase talent under drinking age.
By the time his server got back — it seemed like an hour—the first band was starting on the little stage. The noise they produced was as loud as anything Sam had ever heard, twin industrial trash compactors on either side of his head. It was everything he could do not to bolt.
But he was here. For Heather. He’d stay.
He sipped his Coke, which was more melted ice than cola, and tried to engage the music, find something to appreciate. He concluded he was totally out of it, and he might as well come to terms with that fact.
Another band eventually took the stage. When they began their set Sam started to think it would be preferable to be an Egyptian mummy — having his brains sucked out through his nose — than hear any more of this music. But through a clever use of head position, he leaned against his hand and managed to cut the noise down a little.
He ordered another Coke.
“Good stuff!” someone said.
Sam turned toward the shadow at the next table. Some guy in shades and a fedora was giving him a thumbs-up. Sam had barely heard the voice, which was shouted right over the music.
Sam nodded halfheartedly, and noticed a ponytail at the base of the fedora. Wasn’t that fashion statement old school? What a laugh. Sam was positively eighteenth century here. He was an oxcart among Hummers.
The current band, featuring two scantily clad young women —
Please don’t let Heather dress like that
— and two rail-thin, shirtless young men, finished after two songs. Sam had failed to pick up many of the words, except the four-letter ones.
And then it was announced that the next band would be Screech Monk. That was Heather’s.
Sam’s stomach took a turn on a spit.
He wanted her to do well. He wanted her out of here. He wanted his daughter to be happy, but not this way. Yet he wanted Heather to know the joy of accomplishment on her own terms.
He didn’t know what he wanted.
The Coke settled his stomach a little. When the band came out, the barbeque in his gut flamed again.
Heather was dressed to accentuate her positives, though thankfully not as much as her friend Roz. This couldn’t end well. This was Courtney Love revisited. His daughter was going to become a heroin addict.
Screech Monk broke into sound, loud as all the others. Heather was the only one not playing an instrument. She had the microphone. Lead singer.
Sam’s palms were sweating.
Heather started to sing.
Beautifully.
She had a clear, strong, absolutely beguiling voice. Sam could even make out some of the words, and thankfully they were not offensive at all. Heather was singing about lost love. It was to a hard beat, not exactly Beach Boys. But he enjoyed it.
His daughter really could sing. Sam had no idea she could belt out a song like this.
Maybe she really did have a future.
“Great stuff there!” It was fedora man again, but this time Sam smiled and nodded vigorously.
“My daughter!” he shouted.
Fedora gave him another thumbs-up. “I’m in the business, I know whereof I speak.”
Peace flickered inside Sam then. Maybe this would really all turn out okay. God was in control, right? That’s what the bottom line was supposed to be. Maybe God was sending him a little message, a whisper of grace.
He’d take it.
