In Firm Pursuit (26 page)

T
o my relief, Hamilton called just minutes after I hung up with Ferris. I was more than glad to hear from him, even it meant enduring a tirade from him, too. But he didn't go off the way Reggie had. After a short, pleasant conversation, I agreed to meet him at his office to discuss settlement.

By ten o'clock, I was sitting in the foyer of Hamilton's swank office in Century City. Walking into the lobby made me feel like I had stumbled onto the set of some TV show. O'Reilly & Finney was a pretty classy place, too, but Ellis & Dunlop was one hundred percent L.A. chic. The walls were creamy beige and you could see the entire city from the twenty-foot windows that encircled the lobby. A dramatic winding staircase with a stainless-steel railing took up one corner of the entryway.

Hamilton met me in the lobby and escorted me to his office. The first thing I noticed when I stepped inside was the ego wall behind his desk. Ego
billboard
probably would have been a more accurate description. There were two poster-size pictures of Hamilton on the football field during his Bruin and Raider days, as well as smaller photographs of him with every prominent politician, celeb
rity and professional athlete you could think of. An eight-by-ten of Hamilton and the Governor smoking huge cigars caught my eye, but I purposely gave the wall only a passing glance and admired the view from his window instead. I could tell from the way he lingered near the wall that my feigned disinterest disappointed him.

I headed for a chair in front of Hamilton's desk, but he placed his hand on my back and steered me in a different direction. “Let's have a seat over here,” he said, pointing to a red suede couch that had to be ten feet long. “Much more comfortable.”

He sat down on one end, facing me, and stretched out his arm along the back of the couch. A tall, busty brunette in a low-cut sweater walked in carrying a sterling silver tray. She placed it on the coffee table in front of us. The tray held Waterford crystal glasses filled with ice, two bottles of Evian water and an array of muffins, croissants and scones.
He had to be kidding.

“Well, before we get down to business,” Hamilton said, “don't you have something to thank me for?”

“Do I?” I had no idea what he was getting at.

“When I heard you'd been taken off the case, I figured something was up. So I told your little cohort that if Micronics wanted to settle the case, I would only deal with you. I figured letting you get the credit for wrapping everything up would be a nice feather in your cap before that partnership vote.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I guess I do owe you a thank-you.” I wasn't so sure though that what he had done was actually a good thing. In fact, I'm sure some people at the
firm would view his request as proof that something had indeed gone on between us.

“Like I said before, if the partnership thing doesn't work out at O'Reilly & Finney, we could use someone with your skills. Using the after-acquired rule was a pretty cold move. No one's ever sprung that one on me.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Not many attorneys have what it takes to be a trial attorney,” Hamilton said, his hazel eyes glued to my chest.

“I can tell you get off on trying cases just like I do.”

I wanted to tell him that there wasn't anything about me that was even remotely similar to him, but now was not the time to piss him off. “Thanks for the offer, but I'm here to talk about settling the Randle case, not my career. So let's get to it.”

He took a white terry-cloth towel from the top drawer of the end table to his right and bent down to buff the toe of his left shoe. “You really believe Micronics fired my client for sexual harassment?” he asked as he moved over to his right foot.

“Hamilton, I didn't come over here to argue the evidence. I know your version of the facts and you know mine. None of that has changed. Let's hear your number. If we're in the same ballpark, I can have a settlement agreement in your hands this afternoon.”

“Oh, so you've got it like that?” He placed the towel back in the drawer. “You're telling me you have full authority to settle this case without having to make a bunch of telephone calls.”

“Within reasonable limits.”

“What do you call reasonable?”

I laughed. “My client is the defendant. I'm not opening the bidding.”

Hamilton grinned. I could tell that he very much wanted to settle the case, but he also enjoyed toying with me.

“How long did it take you to build up that steel shell of yours, counselor?” he asked.

I looked up at the ceiling as if I were mentally calculating the time. “About three years from the time I graduated from law school, give or take a month. You like it?”

He smiled. “See, that's why I don't date lawyers. Much too hard to deal with.”

The man was getting on my nerves and I was finding it difficult to keep it in neutral. “Since I have no plans to date you either, that shouldn't be a problem.”

“And you black women are the worst. Y'all are on the attack all day at work, then come home at night ready to bust a brother's balls, too.”

“Please tell me you didn't have me drive all the way over here just so you could share your views on black female lawyers.”

“You're right,” he said. “Forgive me.” He moved to the edge of the couch, letting his hands dangle between his knees. “I'll put my cards on the table. My client's tired of fighting. He can't find another job as long as his employment record shows that he was terminated for sexual harassment. He's been in Atlanta helping out with his father's dry cleaning business to make some cash, but it's been rough. So first, Micronics has to agree to change his personnel file to state that he voluntarily resigned so he'll be able to get another job.”

“Done,” I said.

Hamilton grinned. “Okay, cool. This might be easier than I thought. We also want Micronics to foot the bill for Randle's medical coverage for two years.”

Two years' medical premiums would total about fifteen thousand dollars. I could easily live with that, too, but I did not want to seem like a push-over.

“How about this?” I said. “Micronics will agree to pay Randle's medical premiums for two years, unless he gets a new job that provides the same level of coverage he had at Micronics. Then we're off the hook.”

“Just like a woman,” he said chuckling. “Always trying to get blood out of a turnip. Fine. I'm sure my client will buy that.”

“So what's your number?” I asked.

Instead of responding to my question, Hamilton picked up an Evian bottle from the tray, slowly unscrewed the cap and poured the water into one of the crystal glasses. He took a sip, then looked at me.

“One million dollars,” he said. “My client wants one million dollars.”

I
didn't react at first. Then I realized that Hamilton wasn't kidding and my heart sank.

We both smiled at each other for a few tortuous seconds. My smile was meant to camouflage my distress. If he was starting out this high, I had my work cut out for me.

“C'mon, Hamilton,” I said, “let's get serious. What's your
real
number?”

He straightened his tie. “You just heard it.”

“If the judge grants our motion,” I said, “you wouldn't get close to that, even if you were lucky enough to win at trial.”

“Judge Sloan's not granting that motion and you know it. The man loves me and he's still irritated with you for not settling the case for peanuts when you had the chance. When the jury hears about that white guy who grabbed some woman's titty and still kept his job, they'll know that Micronics discriminated against my client and they're going to pay him handsomely.”

“Tell me something,” I said. “How did Reggie find out about those other cases?”

“It wasn't that hard. People talk. One of Randle's coworkers heard about the other cases from an employee in
HR who was pretty upset about what had happened to Randle. And we'll definitely be calling her as a witness.”

I assumed he was talking about Norma Brown. She probably had no idea that she would have to testify. My breath caught. If that happened, my conversation with her would surely be revealed.

“I thought you were putting your cards on the table,” I said, even more motivated to settle the case. “You can start at a million, and I can start at ten or twenty thousand and we can go back and forth for the next two hours, wasting each other's time. Let's skip all the pretense. Tell me what you really want to settle this case.”

“A million dollars,” he said again. He stood up, picked up a folder from his desk and sat back down. “I asked one of my paralegals to get me some of the recent jury awards in race discrimination and whistle-blowing cases reported in
Verdicts & Settlements.
Let's see what we have here.” He shuffled through the pages. “Two million. One-point-five million. Ah, this one is ten-point-three million. Shall I go on?”

Despite my unlimited settlement authority, there was no way I could go back to my office and tell Porter that I had settled the case for a million dollars. I needed to resolve it for a much more reasonable sum if I was going to get past the humiliation of botching the original settlement opportunity.

I snatched my purse from the floor and got up. “Why'd you have me come down here if you weren't serious about settlement?” I was angry and I didn't care if he knew it.

Hamilton was also standing now. “I wanted to meet with you face-to-face so I could look you in the eye,” he said, locking gazes with me. “I'm a pretty good judge of character. I knew your eyes would tell me the real deal.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I just wanted to know if you really believed Micronics's lie about my client assaulting Karen Carruthers in that elevator.”

“So what're my eyes telling you?”

“That you don't believe a single word of it. You're just doing your job.”

I willed my body not to show any sign of emotion. “Is that right?”

“And I would also bet good money that this case has been messing with your head since the day you took it.” Hamilton reached down for his glass and took a sip. “I checked you out. You're pretty solid.”

“And just how did you
check me out?
”

“I've got my connections. You grew up in Compton. Working-class parents. You were vice president of the Black Student Union at USC. Even in law school you were a bit of a black activist. I was quite impressed.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Thank you.”

“Black folks who understand what being black represents can do what the white man pays 'em to do, but they can't do it
and
sleep at night. It's called having a conscience. And my research tells me you've got one.”

Hamilton looked very satisfied with himself.

I wasn't certain how I should respond. I could reassert that my client had done nothing wrong, but I wasn't sure
I could do it with the necessary amount of conviction. I was pretty decent at telling lawyer lies—saying what needed to be said for the sake of the case. But lying about my personal feelings wasn't exactly my strong suit. My ethical obligations to my client, of course, prevented me from saying what I really thought about Randle's case. Hamilton was right about me. And he knew that I knew he was right.

He raised his glass to his lips and took another sip. “Okay, okay, have a seat. I'll make you another offer. A serious one.”

We both sat down, though I did so with great reluctance.

“How's your girl, Special?” he asked.

I knew he was stalling, and I welcomed it. “
My
girl? I thought she was
your
girl?”

“I wished she could've been.” His tone was wistful. “Dealing with that babe was like trying to date ten women. She's hot and everything, but she's way too high maintenance for me.”

Hamilton paused and leaned closer to me. “But the girl is real. It would kill her to sell out a brother for the white boys. White boys who only care about how much money they can make off you. What are they billing you out at, three-fifty, four hundred an hour?”

“You trying to sidetrack me with a guilt trip, Hamilton? You're a partner in this firm. You telling me you don't make money off of your associates?”

“Touché,” he said.

I picked up the other Evian bottle from the tray and took my time opening it. “So, Hamilton,” I said, giving
him the warmest smile I could muster under the circumstances, “are you going to make me a real settlement offer or continue to sit here playing head games?”

S
pecial typed the Web address for PeopleFinder.com on her office computer and waited.

She was growing increasingly concerned about Vernetta, who was stressing out more and more every day about not being able to get the Randle case settled. Special couldn't help her best friend with that particular lawsuit, but she was confident there was another one she could put to rest.

Grabbing a handful of Nacho Cheese Doritos from the bag on her desk, she waited for the Web site to appear. She had not done a lick of work all morning, her thoughts consumed with the plan she was about to put into motion. She had almost talked herself out of it, but the whole thing with LaKeesha had been bugging the hell out of her. What she was about to do was definitely the right thing. Vernetta didn't need this crap. Neither did Jefferson.

When the PeopleFinder Web site finally popped up, Special clicked over to the appropriate page, then typed in
San Diego
and
LaKeesha Douglass.
She held up two crossed fingers as she stared hopefully at the screen. The computer took a while to complete its search, then the words
no match
appeared.

“Shoot!” Special reached for the can of Pepsi next to her computer monitor and took a swallow. She had already tried directory assistance. Maybe she could locate LaKeesha's telephone number through San Diego State University, assuming the girl was actually a student there, which Special seriously doubted. But convincing some admissions clerk to release a student's personal information would require some real maneuvering. Of course, she could have searched the Telecredit database, but she wasn't trying to get her ass fired for misusing company records.

She continued staring at the screen, then decided to try another PeopleFinder search. This time she typed LaKeesha's last name using only one
s.

“Bingo!” Special yelped when three names appeared on the screen. Only one of them listed a San Diego address. She wrote down the information on a Post-it note, then reached for her phone. She dialed the area code, then dropped the phone back into the cradle. She didn't want the girl to have her work number. Special dug her cell phone out of her purse.

“She not here,” a kid's voice replied after the first ring. The child could not have been older than four or five.

“Do you know when LaKeesha will be back?” Special asked.

“Nope. She in college.”

“Is there anybody else there I can talk to?”

The kid must have dropped the phone to the floor.

“Nana, telephone!” Special heard him yell.

When Nana came to the phone, Special explained that she was calling from a temp agency and was trying to
contact LaKeesha about a job interview. The woman gladly gave up LaKeesha's cell phone number.

Special checked the time. It was close to eleven, so there was a good chance LaKeesha would be in class. A flutter of hesitation hit her as she dialed the number. She shook it off when LaKeesha answered on the fourth ring.

“This is Special Moore,” she said, “I'm—”

“I know who you are,” LaKeesha spat into the phone.

“How'd you get my number?”

“Don't worry about that,” Special said sweetly. “I was just calling to give you a little warning. That workers' comp case you filed is bogus. And if I were you, I would drop it.”

“You have some nerve calling me,” LaKeesha huffed. “Ain't nobody scared of you. You call my number threatening me again and I'll sue you, too.”

Special remained poised and professional. “If you don't drop your case, you're going to be facing charges for perjury, filing a false claim and a whole lot of other stuff.” Special wished she knew some more legal-sounding words to throw at the girl, but she couldn't think of any.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” LaKeesha said smugly. “I'm about to get
paid.
”

“I'm talking about you trying to blackmail Jefferson.”

“You're trippin' and I don't have time for this.”

“Well, hopefully you have time to listen to this.” Special hit the Play button on her microcassette tape recorder and held it up to the phone.

I know you didn't harass me. But in a court of law, it's my word against yours. And who do you think they're
going to believe? The cute, young college student or the older, married man whose wife is out of town?

“How did you…? Where did you…?” LaKeesha struggled for words.

“Don't worry about how I got you on tape. Just know that I do. And like I said, you'd be smart to drop your little fake ass stress claim.”

Special wished she could see the girl's face. “As it stands right now, Jefferson doesn't even know I have this tape. But if you don't dismiss your case, I'm giving it to him and he'll be turning it over to his lawyer.” Special waited a beat. “They put people in jail now for filing fraudulent workers' comp claims. You might wanna ask your attorney about that.”

She could tell from LaKeesha's labored breathing that the girl was in shock, but the jolt did not last long.

“I wonder how Jefferson would like it if I called up his wife and told her how her little Goody two-shoes husband let me give him head,” LaKeesha said coolly. “I bet you that's not a lie. Why don't you put
that
on tape?”

LaKeesha's words hit Special like a blow to the head. She tried to recall the rest of the conversation on the videotape. There was nothing about
that
on the nanny cam tape. Then Jefferson's odd denial came back to her and it all made sense.
I didn't force that girl to do shit!

“Oh, so you don't have nothing to say to that, do you?” LaKeesha said snidely. Now she was the one on the offensive. “I guess Jefferson forgot to mention how much he enjoyed letting me suck his dick.”

Special reached for the Pepsi can and drained it dry. She
was standing up now, one hand gripping the cell phone, the other one grasping her hip. “You know what?” she said slowly, her voice cool and collected. “Your word choice is very, very interesting.
Let me give him head.
Not, he came on to me, or he asked me to give him head, or he tried to get with me. But
let me give him head.
That obviously means
you
came on to
him.
What brother wouldn't be happy to have some ho' throwing it in his face? Women like you are the reason brothers can't do right even when they want to. Tell me something. How many dicks did you suck this week?”

“I don't have to take this shit from you, you old ass bitch!”

“Old!” Special shouted. “I look younger than you do. And if I were you, I'd find myself a better role model than Monica Lewinsky.”

“Fuck you!” LaKeesha yelled, and the phone went dead.

Special crunched up the empty Pepsi can, then tossed it across the room, missing the trash can by a mile. She fell back into her chair, satisfied that she had gotten her point across. Then her thoughts went to her best friend. If Vernetta found out about her husband's little tryst with LaKeesha, she would absolutely freak. Within seconds of meeting the girl, Special could see that LaKeesha was up to no good. How come Jefferson didn't see that?

“Men are such knuckleheads,” she said out loud.

Special wasn't all that good about keeping secrets this juicy, but she was going to lock up this little tidbit and throw away the key. The girl had all but admitted that she had come on to Jefferson, not the other way around. The
man did not deserve a divorce behind this one little misstep. Special just hoped that was all it was.

“Whew!” Special said, “preventing injustice is hard work.” She dropped her cell phone back into her purse and zipped it up. She was going to pick up a tuna sandwich at Subway, then run over to the mall on Broadway to do some shopping. Retail therapy always calmed her nerves. Luckily, she had just gotten a new credit card in the mail. Starting next month, she was going to get her financial house in order and stop spending so much.

She was almost at the door when she remembered a very important message that she had forgotten to deliver to LaKeesha. She sat down behind her desk, took out her phone and hit the redial button. This time, LaKeesha's voice mail came on. Special tapped her fingers on her desk as she waited for the message to finish playing.

“I'm calling back because I forgot something I wanted to say,” Special began, her voice as snotty as she could manage to make it. “And you should take this advice in the helpful spirit in which I'm giving it. Your boobs are entirely too big for you to be prancing around without a bra on all the time. If you don't start strapping 'em down, you're gonna have two pancakes flapping against your chest by the time you're thirty. So after your next class, you need to take your ass to Target and buy yourself a bra.”

Special closed her cell phone and smiled. Mission accomplished.