Page 41

W hen I left my office, Uncle Nathan was leading the burly mover guys, who each had a dolly loaded with boxes, toward the filing room. I squeezed past them and quirked an eyebrow at Nathan. He grinned and made a rubbing motion with his fingers and thumb, the universal symbol for "I bribed them with cash."

As much as I appreciated not having to carry ninety-six boxes in the stifling swamp of heat and humidity that was Florida in June, the idea of owing yet more money to Uncle Nathan made me twitch a little. Shaking my head, I walked out to reception and found Aunt Celia still on the phone and Max just walking in the door.

Max looked around, gaping in disbelief. "What the heck is going on? What kind of case has ninety-six boxes of discovery before experts are even called in?"

"It's the 'bury them in paper' trick. He hopes he can force me to go bankrupt or drop the case, because I have to hire more staff to do document review, or because the case drains all of my time and resources. Either way, I won't have any hours left to devote to cases that might bring in some current cash."

She raised an eyebrow. "Do we even have any of those?"

"Hilarious. Maybe you can take that act on the road. But in the meantime, how about you help me catalogue these boxes and figure out some kind of organization?" I didn't even know where to start. If Addy were playing true to form, the docs would be organized in such a loose way that it could take months to figure out what I'd received.

The idea of transferring the case to a new — non -Sarah Greenberg – lawyer who had more resources than I did suddenly sounded awfully tempting. But I didn't want to give up on Charlie so soon. It might not be as bad as I thought.

" T his is worse than I thought," I said a few hours later, tossing a file folder on top of the box I'd just pulled it out of. "There is no discernible organization whatsoever. He really messed with these files. The good news is, that's against the rules of discovery production. The bad news is, I waste more time and energy filing a motion against him. By the time I get a new, organized production, or at least some kind of key to this nightmare, we've lost another few months, minimum."

Max sighed and leaned against the mountain of boxes that partially blocked the doorway to the hall. She looked around at the cardboard looming over us on all sides of the file room and shook her head. "I'm usually pretty good with this, after five years working as a paralegal, but I can't figure it out, either. The documents should be organized by matching them with the discovery requests – and they're not – or in the manner in which they were filed in the defendant's company, with an indication of which request they're answering – and they're not. It's a cluster fudge."

I had to laugh. Even in the face of my impending doom as a lawyer/business owner/somebody who could help Charlie Deaver, "cluster fudge" was funny.

Kind of.

"No worries, girlie. Sometimes you just need a man to bail you out of these things. Hey, did you hear about the three lawyers who walked into the bar?"

"Mr. Ellison!!" Max and I both yelled. "No lawyer jokes!"

He quit chuckling long enough to glare at us. "Hey! I don't have a hearing problem. No need to yell. So, as I was saying, I solved your problem," he said, looking unbearably smug.

I looked at Max. "What is he doing here? Isn't this Saturday?"

She shrugged. "I didn't call him."

We both looked at him. He stuck his hands in his orange and white plaid pants. As if the smirk on his face weren't bad enough, the pants were giving me a migraine. "You could just ask me why I'm here," he said.

I sighed. "I know I'm going to regret this, but why are you here?"

"Because Stella always calls me when she fixes tuna casserole. She makes the good kind, with green pea soup, not that nasty cream of mushroom that looks like phlegm."

I blinked. "Um, what does tuna casserole have to do with anything?"

He rolled his eyes and looked at Max. "For a big-city lawyer, she's not all that bright, is she?"

Max started sputtering, but he'd turned his attention back to me. "She's in the casserole brigade on its way down here to bring lunch and help. When she said your name, I figured you were in some kind of big trouble for the casserole brigade to mobilize. So here I am to bail you out."

I stood up, brushing paper dust off my shorts and wondering when my poor teeth would crumble into tiny bits from all the grinding I'd been doing to them lately. "Mr. Ellison, why – how – oh, forget it. Just tell me how you're bailing me out, please. Let's start there."

He preened for a minute longer, then waved for me to follow him. I looked at Max and shrugged. "Let's go. It's not like we're getting anywhere on our own."

I followed the glow of Mr. Ellison's pants into the kitchen, where another dozen boxes were piled. He'd opened them all and written on the sides in a dark green chicken scratch. There were neat stacks of paper lined up across the counter and all over the small card table and one of the two folding chairs.

Mr. Ellison stopped and swept an arm out. "Vowala!"

"Vowala?" Max asked.

"I think he means voila . But, anyway, what? Tell us already," I said.

"Don't you mean, 'tell us, already, please '?" he asked.

"Tell us already, or you're fired."

"Hah! Not very grateful, are ya? But out of the goodness of my heart, I'll tell you, anyway. The code is on the boxes."

Determined not to say another word that might draw this out any longer, I folded my arms across my chest and waited.

He walked over to the table and picked up a sheaf of papers stapled together. "These are the original requests for production. And, by the way, talk about a lot of useless gobbledygook."

He started reading from the page. "'A copy of every document, correspondence, writing, communication, memorandum, handwritten note, typed note, worksheet, investigative material, report (including drafts), record, summary, test, study, chart, diagram, drawing, design, photograph, film, blah blah blah for three more lines, which convey any information relating to all tests performed by you, or on your behalf, for the purpose of determining the effectiveness of the warnings issued and the placement of the warnings.'"

He stopped to suck in a huge breath. "This is what is wrong with you lawyers. Why couldn't you just say 'Give us everything that has to do with any warnings on that no-good insulin that killed Faith Deaver?' I'm guessing some poor sap charged a thousand bucks to write up this crap."

"More like several thousand," I muttered, thinking of my years of discovery management at True, Everett.

"What?"

"Never mind. And, not that I need to defend the entire legal profession to you, but there are reasons to be so careful. We lawyers, as you like to say, are careful not to leave loopholes that can harm our clients. Not that I drafted those, anyway. That was Charlie's previous attorney."

I realized I was defending the entire legal profession to him.

"Argh! Enough, already. Either tell me your miraculous discovery, or I'm going to find us some lunch," I said, as my stomach growled again.

"It's simple. Sheesh, hold on to your panties. See the one one on this box?" He pointed to one of the open boxes, labeled "box eleven."

"Yes, that was box eleven out of ninety-six, right?"

"Wrong," he said, grinning.

"Wrong?" I looked at the numbering on the other boxes, since I hadn't paid that much attention to the outsides before. "I'm not wrong. See, here is box twelve, box thirteen, box . . . twelve hundred and twelve?"

"It's not box twelve hundred and twelve," Mr. Ellison said triumphantly, almost jumping up and down with excitement. "It's the box that responds to request for production twelve and interrogatory twelve. See? Twelve and twelve!"

I grabbed the document requests out of his hand and flipped pages until I got to twelve. "Blah, blah, blah . . . communication with the FDA," I muttered, then put the papers down and started pulling file folders out of the box. "Regulatory division . . . Dear Mr. . . holy crap, you're right! Do they all match up like this?"

"Every one in this room does," he said, grinning.

I grabbed him and hugged him. "Mr. Ellison, you are a genius! I – oh, sorry," I said, dropping my arms and backing away.

Not really a hugger . Plus, "don't hug your employees" is probably pretty standard in the employee manual I have yet to write.

He looked at the floor and shuffled his feet, the tips of his ears bright red. "Aw, that's all right. I can see how you might get carried away. I always had that effect on the ladies."

Max, who had been standing there gaping, burst out laughing. "And you still do, Mr. Ellison. Because I just might have to kiss you."

He flinched and looked up at her, looking alarmed and hopeful all at the same time. "Now, now. I don't want you two to ruin a perfectly good friendship fighting over me. I'm sure there are plenty of men out there your own age," he said, sidling toward the door.

Before either Max or I could say a word, we heard an unfamiliar female voice call out in a musical tone. "Oh, Mr. Ellison! Will you be a dear and come help me set up?"

He winked at us. "Too many women, not enough time." Then he rushed out of the room, leaving Max and me staring after him.

"Did he—" I asked.

"Does he—" she asked.

Then we cracked up. By the time I could catch my breath, I had tears rolling down my face. "This is . . . this is great, though. Saved by the bus driver."

"Yeah, it's a good thing his neighbor bulldozed his shed, or we'd never be able to get a thing done," she said, which set us off again.

Finally, the sounds of clattering and clinking broke through our laughter, and I looked up. "Wait a minute. Did she say, 'help me set up'? And who was that? What is she setting up?"

Max grabbed my arm. "Even worse. Is that smell . . . tuna casserole ?"

We hit the door running.

I slowed down at the end of the hall to look more sedate and . . . lawyerly. Max didn't bother, so she shoved past me. When I reached her and looked over at her shoulder, Aunt Celia was standing in the middle of the room, directing a stream of blue-haired ladies — who each held casserole dishes — toward the table behind the reception desk. The unmistakable scent of tuna casserole perfumed the air.

And chicken casserole.

And – was that – Spam? Euwww . I plastered a smile on my face and threaded my way through what Mr. Ellison had called the casserole brigade to Aunt Celia. "Um, what's going on?"

She beamed at me. "Isn't it wonderful? All of my friends are here to help. They brought lunch, and they're going to help you with all of those files. Stella and Margaret and Helen and so many others brought casseroles and lovely pies. Isn't that sweet?"

"It's very sweet," I said, then leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Tell me everyone's name, so I can say thank you. I really appreciate the offer, but this is complicated work. I'm not sure they could help much."

She grabbed my arm and pulled me to the door, away from everybody. Then she put her hands on her hips and whispered back at me. "Now December Vaughn. You were not raised to think that just because a person is mature, she or he is not extremely capable. Mr. McChesney used to run our local branch of Bank of America. Stella was a paralegal for forty-three years. They've all offered to help you, and I'd think you'd be more grateful."

"Trust me, I'm very grateful for every bit of help I can get," I assured her, trying to put lots of enthusiasm in my voice, although my shiny new law practice was being bailed out by octogenarians armed with tuna casserole. It made me feel about twelve years old.

As I tried to find something else to say that would make Aunt Celia quit giving me the "I'd disappointed in you, dear" look, the door swung open and smacked me in the butt. Hard.

"Ouch!" I jumped and rubbed the place that was certain to have an enormous bruise by tomorrow, and my surprise guest walked in and looked down at me, grinning.

I should have known.

"Hello, Brody," I said, resigned to never looking like anything but a complete and total idiot around the man.

"I'm sorry, Vaughn. Didn't mean to hit you with the door. Are you okay? Anything broken?"

"You—" I started, but Aunt Celia put her hand on my arm and interrupted.

"Well, hello there! Are you a friend of DeeDee? Or Max's?" she said, suddenly all smiles again.

Oh, no. She smells fresh prey in the "let's get Max and December married off" sweepstakes.

Jake turned on the full-wattage smile, and one of the blue-haired ladies nearest to him nearly swooned. Not that I've ever seen anybody swoon, or even ever used the word "swoon" before, but, trust me, that was a swoon.

Not that I blamed her.

"Dee Dee?" he asked.

"No, he's not. Well, yes, he is, in the 'I just met him, but he helped me out in a crisis' sense, but not in a 'put your periscope up' kind of sense, Aunt Celia," I said, exasperated. "Jake likes to share private jokes about me with my opposing counsel, in fact."

Jake gave me a funny look. "I have never discussed you with Addison Langley, other than to tell him I couldn't go out of town today for him, since I had to do a job for you."

Then he held out his hand. "Jake Brody, at your service, Mrs. . . . ?"

I sighed. "Celia Judson, meet Jake Brody. Jake is a private investigator in town. Jake, this is my Aunt Celia. My Uncle Nathan is around here somewhere."

He shook her hand gently. "Mrs. Judson, I'm so pleased to meet you."

She nearly giggled. Boy, he was really turning on the charm. "Oh, please, Mr. Brody, call me Celia."

"Thank you, Celia. And call me Jake, please."

They stood there smiling at each other until I couldn't take any more, so I went to help set up casseroles. As I stalked off, I heard Jake's voice, pitched low. "Celia? Put your periscope up."