The Jezebel Remedy (39 page)

“Five million dollars. Sitting there on my boat in Virginia Beach—five million dollars. I refused. Enough is enough.”

“Thank you, sir,” Slayton said. “And thanks for traveling here today. I realize you have a busy schedule.”

“No problem,” Garrison said amiably. Lisa noticed a dab of mousse and a decent cut had improved his
Breakfast Club
hair. Still, even in his commanding suit and spiffy white shirt, a touch of awkward, slide-rule geek bled through, made him that much more appealing despite his enviable success and reputation as a take-no-prisoners CEO.

Phil Anderson capped a ballpoint pen and walked toward Garrison, stopping midway between the witness stand and counsel table. Anderson tapped his palm with the pen as he spoke. “Assuming, Mr. Garrison, that Mr. Stone did in fact forge a will, and assuming he did engineer this secretive, highly irregular transaction in the Bahamas, and assuming for the sake of argument he later came to you
seeking more money, assuming he'd done all these obviously corrupt things, why on god's green earth would he then sue you and put this deceit on the table and make it public for everyone to see? He'd have to be an idiot, wouldn't he?”

“Mr. Garrison isn't a mind reader,” Slayton objected. “Any answer would be improper speculation on his part.”

Anderson smiled. “My very first question, Mrs. Slayton, and you're already raising Cain.”

“I don't mind answering,” Garrison volunteered. “The same thought occurred to me several weeks ago, when we were sued. Seems like a fair topic to me, though I don't know the rules here.”

“Well, okay,” Slayton agreed. She glanced at Anderson, then the board members. “I'll roll the dice. Go ahead. You may answer. Objection withdrawn.”

Garrison nodded. “You see, Mr. Anderson, so much of my business is about competitive advantage, and that means secrecy and lots of valuable information held tight to the vest. The suit was a bluff, a shot across my bow. Your client calculated I'd fold immediately and pay him off rather than watch this innovation dragged into the public arena. The lawsuit has put my competitors on high alert; Mr. Stone knew that would be a complication for us. The lawsuit has also cost me and Benecorp and our stockholders untold thousands of dollars because we've had to hit our brakes given the uncertainty generated by Mr. Stone's false allegations. He made a judgment I'd pay him off quickly rather than see these things come to pass. He was wrong, simple as that.”

“Quite a gamble,” Anderson replied. “If he'd really done all this conniving, he'd have to realize suing you was suicidal.”

“Only if I chose the more difficult route,” Garrison argued. “I could've negotiated a quick settlement and been on my way and no one is the wiser. Also he can still deny any wrongdoing and hope for the best with a jury in his hometown; he still has that chance remaining. In the final analysis, I was unwilling to be continually blackmailed, though that position has put proprietary information at risk and is costing my company money in delays. He didn't think I'd choose this response. He told me as much at our Virginia Beach meeting.”

“You invited him to the beach?” Anderson inquired.

“Yes.”

“Although you claim that at the time you thought he was trying to scam you?”

“We felt the original will wasn't genuine. We were highly suspicious of Mr. Stone's later claim that a trust or foundation owned the VV 108 asset. I invited him to Virginia Beach so as to get to the bottom of matters once and for all.”

“But despite your testimony that you realized my client was a crook and an operator, you climbed right in bed with him, correct? You never called the police and said, ‘Hey, wait, I'm being flimflammed'?”

“I was willing to pay Mr. Stone on the first occasion because the numbers and risk avoidance made sense. I think I've explained my position.” Garrison leaned forward slightly. “It was a business decision.”

“So your issue with the alleged second request for money wasn't about principle and ethics, it was about price? Mr. Stone, according to you, wanted too much?”

“I felt there was a small chance he might be telling the truth. When it became apparent he was lying, I concluded that no payment would make him go away. If we paid him five million, I believed he'd return a month later with more threats and dishonesty, hat in hand.”

“And he wanted, or so you claim, five million dollars?”

Garrison paused. He stared at Anderson, frowned. “Sir,” he said, lowering his voice, “I'm not ‘claiming' anything. It happened. I have a recording of the meeting. Would you like to listen to it?”

Anderson was a seasoned lawyer. He kept his composure, didn't let on he'd been groin-kicked. “Perhaps after you finish on the stand,” he said casually. “But let's visit another topic. You claim you were in negotiations with Lettie VanSandt before her death, correct?”

“Yes.”

“How was that going?”

Garrison smiled. “Well, to be honest, she was very strong-willed.” Several lawyers in the gallery chuckled. “We hadn't reached a comprehensive agreement, if that's the question.”

“You sent representatives to speak with her?”

“Yes.”

“These people traveled under fictitious names?”

Slayton stood up. “Why is this relevant to our hearing today? I don't think this is a proper question. Whether or not Benecorp had dealings with Miss VanSandt has no bearing on Mr. Stone's dishonesty and ethical lapses.”

“But,” Anderson responded, turning a half circle to face her, “it has everything to do with Mr. Garrison, who appears here today painting himself as some virtuous babe in the woods, who claims he was shocked, just shocked, to discover there was mischief afoot in his dealings with Mr. Stone. He claims he knew the will was a fake but paid six figures to make it go away. Strange, isn't it? Why not just notify the cops and be done with it? He suggests he was in bona fide negotiations with Miss VanSandt, but, lo and behold, he's running a shady racket packed with sketchy people and sham IDs. I think we're entitled to present the full picture of Mr. Garrison so this board can evaluate his credibility and compare his actions to plain old common sense. I would submit that when you do so, when you scrutinize what he's telling you, it doesn't hold water.”

“Go ahead,” the chairman said.

“Do I need to repeat the question?” Anderson solicitously asked Garrison.

“No,” Garrison replied. “I'm happy to answer it. If I came off as sanctimonious, I didn't mean to. Making Mr. Stone disappear was a bargain for $750,000. I was worried about the money and Benecorp's interests at that juncture, not the principle. When I made the deal, I wasn't concerned with whether Mr. Stone should be punished by this panel or whether he should be allowed to practice law—that's your issue, not mine. As for our reps using confusing identities, I don't apologize for that. I didn't want to tip off every other drug manufacturer in the country we were attempting to purchase a formula that might be a blockbuster. I'm an aggressive, bottom-line businessman, Mr. Anderson, and none of this changes the fact that Mr. Stone used a forged will to gain money from me and then lied to me in an effort to leverage even more—very uncool. I'll admit I bargained with a devil, but I'll also tell you I finally ran out of patience with him when he crossed the line too far and started poking me with his pitchfork.”

“The names, please, of the people who came here to meet with Miss VanSandt?”

Slayton objected again. “Seriously? He's admitted his company takes security precautions. So what?”

“He's admitted his company breaks the law,” Anderson said.

“Not exactly,” Garrison interjected, before there was a ruling. “I understand our negotiators used middle names and maiden names, that kind of thing. Confusing, perhaps, but I'm not agreeing we did anything illegal.”

“How about we leave it at this,” Anderson said. “Tell us the real names, and we'll move on.”

“I'll do my best to locate the information,” Garrison promised. “Miss Rousch no longer works for us, but I'll be pleased to provide you and the board with her name and address. I'm not certain where she is these days. We have thousands of employees, and we don't follow them after they depart.”

“Does the notary who claims she witnessed my client sign the agreement still work for you, or has she evaporated also?”

“She's still on the payroll,” Garrison said.

“She's my final witness,” Slayton said quickly, darting her eyes at Anderson. “Helen Allyn. We anticipate she'll say she drove from a Benecorp company in Charlotte and met Mr. Stone at the Greensboro airport parking lot. Evidently, he wanted a large, explainable public place in case he was spotted.”

Anderson stepped closer to the panel, who sat on a dais in leather chairs used by legislative committees when the General Assembly was meeting. He scratched his head, said nothing. The room was silent. “Was the $750,000 a legitimate payment in the sense it was listed on your company's books? Was it reported to the IRS?”

“Absolutely,” Garrison answered.

“So why would Mr. Stone be rooting around in the Bahamas? There's a written contract in your possession, undeniable evidence of the deal, and you reported the payment to the government. Why would Mr. Stone go through all this rigamarole and allegedly send his wife to collect money in Nassau? What would he gain by that?”

Garrison wasn't ruffled. He answered immediately, his tone steady
and confident. “We assumed he didn't want this on the local radar. It wasn't about taxes. Three-quarters of a million lands in your account in a smaller community, tongues wag. Also, he had to believe that if this arrangement went south on him, the privacy of a Bahamian bank might make it more difficult to establish he actually received the cash. We thought he was simply building a barrier between himself and the payment.”

“Sounds slick when you say it, Mr. Garrison,” Anderson replied, “but it makes no sense when you seriously think about it. Me, I'd just ask for cash dollars in a suitcase. Really difficult to trace cash handed over in an alley or at the Greensboro airport.”

Slayton objected and the chairman sustained her, warning Anderson to ask questions, not offer editorials or his opinions.

Anderson twisted a small grin. He'd scored his point, and the mild rebuke was the price for doing it. “A final question, then: Where are Miss VanSandt's pets?” He was walking away as he spoke, his back to Garrison.

“Her pets?” For the first time, Lisa could sense Garrison was surprised. He added the classic, guilty protest, his voice half a register too high: “What pets?” He shrugged. “We donated five thousand dollars to the Henry County SPCA, more than the original will required. Does that answer your question? Beyond the donation, I have no idea about Miss VanSandt or her pets. Sorry.”

Phil Anderson requested a brief break, and he, Lisa, Joe and Kaye Slayton met in a small room behind the panel's platform, the door closed, none of them sitting. “Did you sandbag me, Kaye?” Anderson bristled. “You gave me a list of your exhibits and evidence. What the hell is this about some recording from Virginia Beach? On Garrison's boat? You never, ever disclosed it.”

“First of all, Phil, I'm not required to, not in a disciplinary hearing. I did you a favor by giving you our information. I try to be fair. I do more than is required, so you can climb down off your high horse. This recording is news to me. I gave you everything I had. It's not like I chatted with Seth Garrison every day. I was as surprised as you.”

“Have you listened to it?” Anderson asked.

“No,” Slayton answered. “I'll be glad to have the investigator get it
from Mr. Garrison. We'll listen to it right now if you want. Together. It is what it is.”

“Fair enough,” Anderson said.

Anderson motioned for Joe to follow him, and he and Lisa left Slayton and huddled in a corner at the very front of the main room. They could see panel members milling around, the audience seats full of lawyers and friends. “So?” Anderson whispered, his head tucked, peering over his spectacles.

Joe was stoic, calm, almost beatific. “Sorry. There's no doubt our friend Seth has my voice saying ‘would you pay us five million?' or ‘would you settle for five million?' something in that ballpark, though I'm also damn sure the rest of the recording will have been doctored and patched together.”

“You didn't actually ask him for five million, did you?”

“Only rhetorically,” Joe answered, his voice emotionless. “I didn't really—”

Lisa interrupted him. “Joe sort of threw that figure out to gauge, to, you know, sort of peg just how valuable the formula was to Benecorp. We never truly tried to get paid. Hell, we never—I never—received any money in the Bahamas. This was Joe mentioning a number so we could see if this formula is as big as we think it is. Garrison never flinched. He offered
us
money, Phil, which we turned down flat. This is all crazy. I can't believe how conniving and…cunning this bastard is.”

“Okay,” Anderson said, “but I'm going to hear Joe on tape asking for five million dollars? Is that what I'm understanding?”

“Yep,” Joe said. “Probably. You won't hear the complete conversation, and you won't be privy to the context, and the tape will've been edited, but you'll hear me ask for the money.”

“Damn,” Anderson replied. “Not helpful, to say the least.”

Joe touched Anderson's shoulder. “You did a great job with Garrison. We made some progress. Thanks. Unfortunately, I've left us in a bind. Not your fault. Garrison has outmaneuvered Lisa and me. He was tuning in to all this and writing his story before we'd even thought about it.”

The investigator returned with the recording, a CD, and loaded it
into Slayton's laptop, and the contents seemed genuine, seamless and logical, beginning with chatter about breakfast and the stray sounds of a table being set with glasses and china and silverware, and next came a discussion about Lettie and a trust and the formula, and then there was Joe, no mistaking his voice or his demand, asking Garrison if he'd “settle” for five million dollars, and Garrison, righteously angry, warning them not to sue him or they'd regret it and making arrangements for the Stones to leave his ship. Finally, they heard Joe smugly carrying on about his seafood omelet, sounding like an asshole.