by David Cooper
“That’s not all, though. You know that your letterhead uses the blue sea image behind the business name, in the top right? Well, he’s copied it. Just made the waves a bit bigger. And to cap it all, there’s some kind of mission statement running across the bottom.”
“What about it?” Karen asked. A sense of dread was beginning to well up.
“It reads ‘Ripple’s Out – Ride the Wave!’”
For a few moments, Karen was completely lost for words.
“Are you OK, Karen? Would you like me to send this over?”
“Er… Yes, please, of course. I’m just… I can’t believe he’s made this so personal. Nicking candidates was bad enough, but…”
“Nicking candidates?”
Karen quickly explained that she had been on the verge of suing, only to lose her nerve. Fiona’s response was robust.
“I’d really let him have it over this mailshot. Just think of how this is going to come across to any firms who haven’t dealt with you for a while. They might get the impression you’re closing down.”
“Fiona, you’re right. There’s no turning back now. I’ve got to take him to court, and I’ve got to do it straight away. Thank God you called.”
Thursday 28 th March
As Karen locked up her office ahead of the imminent Easter break, for which she could work up little enthusiasm, she was at a loss to understand why Avery had completely failed to react to Lennie’s increasingly robust correspondence over the previous three days.
Once Lennie had heard the news of Avery’s newly adopted trading slogan and its insulting reference to Ripple, he had sent Avery one final letter and had copied it in advance to the personal email address for Avery that Karen had provided. The letter had left it beyond doubt that proceedings would now be issued without further notice.
On the following day, Lennie had put together a witness statement comprising the evidence in support of the intended court application. He started by explaining how and when each of the three paralegals had defected, how their actions could not be put down to mere coincidence, and how they had become Ripple’s clients in the first place.
He then covered how Avery had come to leave Ripple, and how he was duty bound not to poach Ripple’s clients after leaving. The paralegals’ curiously similar emails to Karen, he explained, must have had Avery’s hand behind them, in blatant disregard for the duty.
Finally, Lennie had mentioned Avery’s newly created letterhead and its deliberate similarities with Ripple’s own logo, over and above the ‘Ripple’s Out – Ride The Wave’ slogan that Avery had adopted in an obvious attempt to create a false impression that Ripple was in some kind of trouble.
Lennie knew from his lengthy experience as a litigator that openness and a sensible flow of information were exactly what the modern court rules encouraged, even in as hostile a dispute as this one. With this in mind, he had sent Avery advance copies of the finalised statement, the accompanying claim form and the application notice, at the same time as he had despatched the originals to the court office for their formal processing. But even then there had been no response from the man who had once been Karen’s co-director at Ripple, and who had now evidently chosen to bite the hand that had once fed him.
Having allowed a sensible interval, Lennie had called the court to find out if there was any news about a hearing date. One of the clerks had told him that the application would be heard on Thursday 11th April, two weeks ahead, and promised that the sealed documents would be with Lennie for service on the defendants no later than the Tuesday after the Easter holiday.
The only drawback was that the judge in charge of the local High Court’s commercial division, Her Honour Judge Marian Banks QC, would be unavailable on the day because of a Judicial Studies Board commitment. Her cases for that day’s court lists would therefore be left in the hands of a deputy. Lennie noted that the earliest free slot for the supervising judge would otherwise be at least a week later, and confirmed that he had no objection to the hearing proceeding before the deputy on the earlier date.
He made a further call straight away, this time to the London barristers’ chambers whose members he usually engaged for any court hearings of that kind, and asked who would be available to take the brief. He had gratefully accepted the clerk’s suggestion of Gilbert Hopkinson, an advocate who had thirty years’ worth of practice at the Bar to his name.
Once again, Lennie had written to Avery to report the hearing date and the identity of Karen’s intended representative. Once again, this had triggered no response whatsoever.
Karen was left with a growing sense of foreboding, despite the fact that she was convinced that she had the moral high ground. What was Avery’s game? At least Lennie’s constant assurances that she was taking the right course of action were encouraging. To his mind it made no sense for anyone who had just launched a start up business, based on the assumption that any client of a former employer was fair game, to act in such an indifferent manner when faced with a serious threat that might stop the new venture in its tracks.
But despite Lennie’s attempts to put her mind at ease, the uncertainty was still eating away at Karen as she drove off from the city centre to her Moseley flat. With an empty Bank Holiday weekend ahead of her, save for the vague possibility of a meal out with a couple of like minded female friends on the Saturday evening, she reflected bitterly that the next few days might still end up being dominated by thoughts of work related problems.
In marked contrast, Dawn had set off two hours earlier for a fortnight’s holiday to celebrate her tenth wedding anniversary. Having left Karen with contact details for the temporary telephonist whom she had lined up to cover her absence, she emailed one more detail through to Karen about the events surrounding Avery’s departure. ‘The flowers man – I think his name was Paul Carter, assuming it wasn’t Wayne up to his tricks after all. No trace of anyone of that name on the books, though. Can’t understand why this mystery man would have gone to such lengths if we didn’t get him to sign up.’
Maybe he just fancied you, Karen thought. She discounted the chance that the anonymous stranger might be of any help in her battle with Avery.
Tuesday 2 nd April
When Craven reported for his first day at work, he arrived to a state of chaos. He had made the short walk from New Street Station to his new place of employment in Cornwall Street, in the middle of Birmingham’s commercial district. His very first experience of what lay ahead turned out to be an encounter with two workmen in white overalls, who were in the process of dismantling a tired looking sign for Bastable & Co. A replacement sign bearing the shiny new logo for BLH Solicitors awaited erection. This came as no great surprise to Craven, in view of what he had been told about the two firms officially merging on that date. But the presence of what was unmistakably a team of computer technicians bustling through the firm’s common areas in a state of frenzied activity was rather more unnerving.
The flustered receptionist had told Craven to take a seat and wait for Rufus Squire to come out and greet him, her manner clearly giving the impression that she had more pressing matters on her mind than making a new recruit feel at home. Twenty minutes later, Craven was still sitting nervously on his own, as chaos continued to reign. He had not been offered coffee, and he had not dared to pick up a newspaper, thinking that this might give the wrong impression if Squire suddenly appeared. He was on the verge of breaking the uneasy stand off and asking the receptionist how much longer he might have to wait, when his erstwhile interviewer came striding up and offered his hand.
“Welcome to hell, Paul. Follow me.”
The beaming smile and the charm were still just as much in evidence as they had been on the previous occasion, but Squire was clearly in no mood to waste further words as he marched up two flights of steps with Craven doing his best to keep close behind. Not pausing to introduce Craven to any of the secretaries at the workstations across the centre of the departmental floor, or to look into any of
the offices around the perimeter despite the many open doors that Craven noticed, Squire continued to a small office on the far side of the floor and gestured inside.
“Your new home.” The braying laugh was back. “Right, the most important files are on the desk right in front of you. Less important ones over there, on the other desk. Hopefully they’ve all got covering notes with them. Just jump straight in. You’re familiar with time recording in six minute units, I take it?”
Everything was moving a lot faster than the nervous Craven had expected.
“Er…yes, that’s what I did before.”
“Good, just what I like to hear. Time recording and billing’s by far the most important part of life here. Marketing’s a close second, but that can wait for now. Take a seat and get on with it. I’ll send my secretary in as soon as she has a moment, and she can explain how things really work round here.”
As Squire made to leave, Craven realised to his discomfort that he was not going to be given any fuller explanation of office procedures, at least not then and there. Nor was he evidently going to be introduced to any of his new colleagues. He was being thrown in at the deep end. His eye fell again on the second desk, where there was a phone and a list of internal numbers as well as a stack of files. He felt a brief jolt of anxiety as to whether he would be sharing office space, cramped as the small room already was.
“Er…are those all my files too? Not someone else’s?”
“All yours. But stick to the important ones first.”
“OK. Um…what about joining forms, and all that?”
“My secretary will deal with it. And I’m sure someone from accounts will be up shortly. I’d better leave you to it. We’ve had more disruption from this merger than we ever expected, you know, harmonising the systems and all that, and I’m up to my neck in it.”
Craven was left on his own as Squire walked out, not closing the door. He looked around and slowly came to terms with his new workplace and the immediate surroundings. In one sense, it did not trouble him simply to be left to get on with the task of advising and taking action on clients’ behalf. He had gladly done so in his previous job for years on end, without ever feeling unduly distracted by the office environment. But there was still something unnerving about being left to start work straight away, with no further explanation about office procedures and no introductions to anyone who might have made him feel more at home.
With a shrug, Craven closed the door and sat down at his desk, ready to begin the task of reading into the first of his new files. He was relieved to find a list of the active cases that had been delegated to him, highlighting which of the client matters were highest in priority, and he soon traced the file needing the most urgent attention. The lack of detailed guidance was curious. But he soon worked out that the next step was to advise the client why its customer considered itself legally entitled to reject an entire consignment of industrial components, and that he should then address what the next steps in the litigation would be.
Ten minutes later, his thought processes were interrupted, when the door opened. He hoped that it would be the promised visit from Squire’s secretary, to show him around or at least to explain a little more about how the office functioned. But it turned out to be an office junior bearing a large brown envelope.
“Mr Craven?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“This is for you.”
Without a further word, the junior handed the envelope over and left. For the second time that morning, Craven had to close the door himself. He opened the envelope and found a set of new starter paperwork and a brief covering note from the head of Human Resources. Putting it aside, he turned back to the unfinished client task. A further twenty minutes passed before he had finished dealing with everything that had called for immediate attention on the file. He was just about to make a start on the HR materials when the door opened once more, and a tall man in a suit and tie entered, only to make straight for a set of bookshelves above the spare desk and select a volume before noticing that the room was occupied.
“You must be – don’t tell me, Peter Craven, is that right?”
“Paul.” Craven stood up and offered his hand, which the stranger eagerly accepted.
“Roger Blake. I’m what you might call the senior associate round here. I’m in a bit of a rush at the moment, but I’ll make sure you’re well looked after at the Friday session.” Blake noticed Craven’s bewildered look. “Every Friday lunchtime in this department, all the non-partners head off to the pub. No one’s expected back until half two. Green light from Rufus and the other partners. Good for morale and all that.”
Craven gave a brief nod and tried to disguise his lack of enthusiasm for what Blake had described. A lifelong non-drinker, his dislike of everything that the British pub atmosphere had to offer had scarcely been improved by the ban on smoking in public places, another of his pet hates. Even the thought of walking past a smokers’ retreat and catching the odour of ash caused him discomfort. He wondered if he might somehow be able to find an excuse to miss it.
“You’ll soon get used to the books, with a bit of luck.” Blake continued.
“The books?”
Blake pointed to the shelves. “Not much library space here at the moment. All the books have been dispersed to wherever they could go. See you around.”
Once again Craven found himself looking at the unclosed door as his visitor left. It dawned on him that he would have to put up with interruptions from colleagues looking for books, if that was where they belonged, and hoped that the volumes in his room would not be in heavy demand. He decided to take at least a small step towards reducing the disturbance. Finding a sheet of paper and a roll of tape in one of the desk drawers, he wrote ‘Please Close The Door Behind You – Thank You’ on the sheet in large block capitals and affixed it to the filing cabinet closest to the door, convinced that no one could fail to notice it.
He turned back to the set of joiners’ paperwork and quickly filled in the contact details sheet, before reaching a health questionnaire. His initial impression was that the document looked more suited to a factory floor than an office environment, but he flew through the form ticking a succession of ‘No’ boxes until he was pulled up by the last question.
‘Do you suffer from any form of disability, mental or physical? If so, please give full details.’
Craven paused. He knew, from his research into a subject that was painfully relevant to him, that this was no longer a legally tolerable line of enquiry to be put to job applicants or interviewees, at least not without an exceptional reason. This was consistent with the legal protection from discrimination that now embraced disability, alongside the long established areas of race and sex. But what about new starters, he thought? How far could they be asked questions like this, once they had accepted a job offer and turned up for work?
As he contemplated the question once more, knowing that this was his first day in the new job he had so desperately wanted, he found himself torn by conflicting thoughts. His instinctive desire was to keep his Asperger’s syndrome as much of a secret as possible, and to rely on his coping strategies. Based on his past experience, he was as certain as ever that he would be able to do the work that BLH Solicitors would expect of him, despite his condition. But would he find himself in danger of criticism, or even of failing his probation altogether, if he did not tell the full truth? Could he respond ‘prefer not to answer’, or would that just make it worse?
With a lingering sense of hesitation, he ticked the ‘No’ box in answer to the final question, and signed the form. As he moved to the payroll form, he realised that the office handbook mentioned on the covering memo was missing, and that there was no mention of a contract of employment. He looked down the internal telephone list for the number of the head of HR and made his first internal phone call, only to be told that the handbook was still being overhauled and that he should ask Squire about the contract. His plea for more information ab
out office practice and procedure was brushed aside with a suggestion that Squire’s secretary would be the best person to approach.
Fortunately for Craven, the door opened at that very moment and a large middle aged woman entered. Her demeanour was polite but unenthusiastic.
“Hello. Never had a chance to come in earlier. You’ve really picked a good day to join this place. I’m Sheila Driver, Mr Squire’s secretary.”
Craven felt a stab of discomfort. It was hardly his fault that he had been told to start his new job on a day when the firm was in disarray, thanks to the demands of a practice merger and a computer systems overhaul. But he was careful not to overreact to the unwelcoming remark, as he stood up to greet his visitor.
“I’m Paul Craven. I was told to expect you.”
“Good. Let me show you around the department first.” She turned to the door, saw the notice that Craven had attached to the filing cabinet, and frowned. “That’s not allowed, I’m afraid.”
“What isn’t?” The unexplained reprimand left Craven with a further sense of anxiety.
“Closed doors. There’s a strict open door policy here for everyone except the partners, and most of them follow it anyway. You’d better take that down before Mr Squire sees it.”
“Oh…” Craven was grateful to have been told, but disappointed at the discomfort it would cause him. As he thought about whether he could mitigate the disturbance by turning his desk round, so that he would not be facing the open door and looking straight across the secretarial floor, Sheila bustled out and gestured for him to follow her. After a whistle stop tour of the department, with a rapid fire explanation of where to find the stationery cupboards and an occasional pause to introduce some of Craven’s new colleagues, they were soon back in his office. Craven was by now a little more familiar with his surroundings but knew he still had a lot to learn, especially as few of the names had sunk in properly.
“Right, I’ve been told to give these to you.” Sheila extracted a set of documents from a plastic wallet. “This is your contract of employment. You need to sign this and get it back to Mr Squire before the end of the day. Obviously you’ll need to read it first. And these two here, he wants signing straight away.”