Page 46

M ax walked into my office, shuffling some papers and a notepad. "December, that clerical error isn't one, really. In fact, the accountant at the video company was fairly annoyed that we would question her record-keeping. She sounds like a female Mr. Ellison. So I got the number of the cameraman, and . . . why are you banging your head on your desk?"

I lifted my head and stared at her. "I only banged it once, then I realized it was stupid to hurt the front of my head when I already have stitches in the back. Not that anybody cares."

I put my head down on my folded arms on my desk and tried not to cry.

Then I tried not to think about why I wanted to cry.

Then I started crying, anyway.

Damn ex-husbands.

Max rushed over and started patting my back. "Oh, honey, what's wrong?"

I sat up and dug in a desk drawer for my travel pack of tissues. After I blew my nose hugely, I took a deep breath. "Mike's marrying my secretary," I mumbled.

"WHAT? That rat bastard! We hate him!"

"No, it's okay. And, anyway, she's his secretary now," I said.

"Even worse! It's sexual harassment. We hate him!"

"No, it's not sexual harassment. He asked her to marry him, not do him in the file room," I said, cringing at the thought.

"What kind of man gets married before the ink is even dry on your divorce papers? We hate him!" She stalked around the room, fists clenched.

My shoulders slumped, and I shook my head. "Thanks, Max, but there's no need for the best friend's moral support parade. I'm the one who dumped him , remember? And I love Brenda like a sister. It's just . . . it's just . . . stupid."

She finally sat down and looked at me with way too much perception. Damn beauty queens. "It's just that he's not supposed to get over you so soon or so easily, right? Can we hate him for that?"

I laughed. Or, at least, I think I laughed. It sounded a little hiccupy. "No hating. I'll have to call him back and congratulate him. And send them a present or something. Is there some guideline for what kind of gift you send when your ex-husband gets engaged to your ex-secretary? I bet Miss Manners doesn't have a chapter on that!"

My phone rang before I could answer. It was Mr. Ellison. "Hey, it's that camera man from the invoice, December. He says he'll only talk to you."

"Thanks, Mr. Ellison. Please put him through. Thanks for all of your hard work today, by the way," I said.

"Fair day's work for a fair day's wage. That's how I was brought up, girlie," he said, then I heard the clicking noise that signaled a line change.

"December Vaughn here. Thanks for calling. To whom am I speaking?"

"Don't worry about that," a man said in a low voice. "Look, I can't talk about this on the phone. We have to meet."

I shot Max a puzzled glance. "I think you have the wrong person. This is December Vaughn, and I'm only calling to ask you about the date you filmed a TV commercial for Greenberg Smithies."

"Yeah, I know who you are. Look, this is turning into a big nightmare. I can't – wait," he said, then I heard muffled talking. I waited about thirty seconds, and he finally came back on the line. "Look, Ms. Vaughn, I can meet you tomorrow. Tomorrow at noon, at . . . at the MOSH. Do you know it?"

"Mosh?" I asked, waving Max over to listen in. She nodded and did a thumbs up at the word mosh.

"Okay, noon at the mosh. Anyplace specific?"

"Uh, at the planetarium. There's a show on Mars that starts then. I'll be in the back row on the left of the door you go in, and I'll be wearing a red hat. Be on time, or I'm outta there."

I wrote down the specifics, then looked at Max and made a finger-twirling by my ear sign, a universal symbol for "nutcase alert." "Mars show, back row, left side, red hat. I'll see you there, Mr. . . .?"

"Don't be late," he warned. Then the line went dead. I put my phone down and stared at Max. "Either I'm dreaming all of this, or I've just walked into a B movie."

"Or a bad soap opera," she offered, helpfully. "The MOSH is the Museum of Science and History, by the way. Cool place. Are you going to meet him?"

"How can I resist after all that buildup? Don't tell Mr. Ellison, he'll think he was right about that government conspiracy stuff."

She shuddered. "If he ever says the words 'anal probes' again, I'm so out of here."

I put my head back down on my desk, then popped up again. "Hey, I need to learn something about criminal law before ten o'clock tomorrow. Any thoughts?"

I f I could have found a wise, mentoring attorney through Hollywood central casting, Jim Thies would have been him. Handsome, distinguished, and with a smile that made you want to confess every crime you'd ever thought of, Jim's was the name that kept coming up in conversations about criminal law in Orange Grove. He'd worked as a prosecutor, then as a criminal defense attorney for a couple of decades, and his steel-trap mind and gregarious personality made him a favorite of the local judges and even his opposing counsel.

Naturally, I'd called Aunt Celia, but this time Uncle Nathan was the one who helped me out. "Call Jim Thies," he'd said immediately, when I'd explained my problem. "He helps me get the legal issues in my novels right, and he's a great guy."

So now I was sitting at dinner — with a man who'd forgotten more about the law than I'd probably ever learn — and taking page after page of notes.

He'd just gently shot down my idea that Bear was harmless.

"Well, no theft is harmless. He took what didn't belong to him, right? A first offense is a second-degree misdemeanor. Usually, he'll face a fine and a shoplifting course. If he does it again, he'll get jail time. You need to impress on Bear that this behavior has got to stop now. If you don't think he'll understand, you need to find somebody who can make him understand."

"That sounds kind of harsh. In my world, corporate executives who steal millions of dollars rarely face any jail time at all. This poor man who took a lamp home, fully intending to pay for it, is in big trouble."

He laughed. "Don't get me started on the inequities of the criminal justice system, young lady. That's why I practice on this side of the fence. My criminals are much easier to understand than yours."

After another twenty minutes of helpful discussion — and he wouldn't even let me pay for dinner — I felt a lot better about Bear's hearing. I'd also referred any future case that even smelled a little like criminal law to Jim's firm. "Dabbling" in law is usually called by its other name: malpractice.

I may be blonde, but I'm not that blonde.

A fter a couple of post-dinner hours back at the office checking in with some of my potential expert witnesses who were in west coast time zones, my expert list was shaping up. I'd disclose a few more than I planned to actually use at trial, just to be sure I had all of my bases covered. From what I'd learned from Charlie's file, his former attorney hadn't made much progress there, other than talking to a local endocrinologist about diabetes. I'd need way more specialized expertise against the big guns BDC would undoubtedly hire. Wouldn't a large settlement offer be wonderful all the way around?

I shut down my computer and closed my calendar, then rubbed my eyes. Probably sleep was one of those luxuries that new business owners got little of for the first, oh, dozen years. Not that I'd slept much in my old firm, though. Maybe lawyers were doomed to chronic sleep deprivation.

The phone rang, startling me. "December Vaughn," I said, wondering who would call me in the office at ten o'clock at night.

"Ms. Vaughn, it's Addison Langley. I'm calling to express my . . . apologies over the tone of our previous communications. These cases are getting to us all, I think," he said, conveying both warm sincerity and honest regret.

I didn't buy either for a second.

But I played along. "Certainly, Mr. Langley. I agree our clients will only benefit if we can maintain a civil tone."

"That's great," he said, and this time I believed the relief in his voice. It was too clear to be fake, unless he was Oscar-caliber. "In that regard, we'd like to offer to settle Mr. Deaver's case."

"You – what? " I grabbed my legal pad and started writing.

DEAVER: T/C LANGLEY

APOLOGIES – "CIVIL/CORDIAL" —SETTLEMENT??????

HOW MUCH??

"How much? I mean, what is the nature of the settlement you're proposing?" I asked, slipping on my tough negotiator shoes. That I'm surprised doesn't mean my client gets a bad deal, especially since I knew exactly what he was up to. He'd lowball me, just so he could lay the paper trail of his "attempts to accommodate" and my "refusal to be reasonable." Probably something on the order of fifty grand and no admission of liability, and then –

"One million dollars."

I nearly choked.

ONE MILLION DOLLARS?!?!?!?!

"You have twenty-four hours to discuss it with your client and get back to me. Naturally, we admit no liability and would insist on a confidentiality agreement," he continued.

"Naturally," I said, weakly.

"Thank you, Ms. Vaughn. I look forward to hearing from you."

After I hung up the phone, I sat and thought about the offer. One million really wasn't that much for a life, and Langley had to know that I'd refuse his offer. I'd be committing malpractice to accept an offer like that without doing more discovery on the case. What if BDC's negligence was so hideous that I'd have been able to get him tens of millions?

Why would he even make the offer, was what I didn't understand. Either way, I needed to tell my client about it.

I picked up the phone and dialed, and he answered on the first ring. "Charlie, it's December. We need to talk."