“Your analysis of forced labor and the trafficking act was spot-on,” Lewis said. “We’ve been looking for a corporation to sue for years, but we haven’t found the right target. We’ve never given serious thought to an international case because it’s hard to find plaintiffs and evidence overseas. But it appears you’ve done that for us. As much as I hate to admit it, I admire that. You’ve built a solid foundation in a remarkably short period of time.”
Josh hazarded a question. “What did you think about the Bangladeshi law claims?”
They were the weakest links in his case—the wrongful death and worker injury claims on behalf of Sonia, Nasima, and Joya Hassan—but they were crucial to the broader narrative of Presto’s sourcing practices and as a matter of simple justice. Before passing his memo along to Madison, he had shored up his own research with an opinion from a law firm in Dhaka. The Bangladeshi lawyers were of the same mind—it was a long shot, but not impossible.
Lewis took a swig of gin. “To be frank, I think they’re losers—”
“But, Dad,” Madison interjected, dismay written on her face. “You said . . .”
Lewis held up his hand, and her voice trailed off. “Having said that, I like them. They’re bold and creative, and the law of employer liability is as much of an anachronism as this drawing room. I can’t think of a good reason to leave it alone beyond precedent, which, as you know, gave us Dred Scott and Jim Crow and segregated schools and a host of other morally repugnant policies that happened to enjoy the imprimatur of history.”
Lewis’s ringing validation came within a hairsbreadth of making Josh smile. But he knew his father-in-law too well not to anticipate the blowback. Lewis was a devotee of Damocles, a man who lived in the perilous shadow of his own power. He took no action without assessing all the risks. And he gave no compliment without qualification.
“I have no problem with your claims,” Lewis went on. “I also have no problem with your plaintiffs. What concerns me is how you found them so quickly. Madison tells me you have a source, someone inside Presto. Anonymity doesn’t cut it with me. I need a name.”
As prepared as Josh was for this confrontation, he still had to fold his hands to keep them from trembling. “I can’t tell you. But if I did, you wouldn’t doubt his reliability.”
Lewis’s eyes flickered in the firelight. “You must think I’m a fool. Did you really come here thinking that I would bet my reputation and the organization I’ve built on a lawsuit against one of the most admired companies in the history of American business without knowing the identity of your source and understanding the game he’s playing?”
Josh took a slow breath and let it out. He glanced at Madison and saw the tension written in lines on her face. If only you knew what he has on me, Josh thought.
Lewis stood up suddenly, his agitation apparent. He set down his glass on a table and held out his arms like he did when he was in court. Immediately, Josh saw what was coming—a lesson in the art of oratory and a dressing down worthy of a drill sergeant.
“Let me spell this out for you. Let’s say we file this lawsuit in federal court. Presto will go out and hire a marquee law firm to defend against it. The firm will charge Presto a retainer of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars up front, because, of course, they’re going to put fifteen lawyers on it and bill for every fraction of a second they’re thinking about the case, even if they’re on the toilet, or in the middle of sleep and dreaming. At Presto’s behest, the first thing the firm is going to do is put together a sanctions motion. They’re going to make us look like neophytes and opportunists and maybe even communist sympathizers, and they’re going to ask the judge to dismiss the lawsuit and make us pay Presto’s legal fees, plus some unspecified additional amount to deter other plaintiffs from wasting the court’s time in the future. And then some tenderfoot law clerk in a back room in the judge’s chambers is going to read the motion and think how nice it would be to get a position at the marquee firm. And the clerk is going to form an unconscious bias against us before we even get a chance to respond to the motion to dismiss, let alone have our day in court. When it comes time to argue the motion, Presto’s attorneys will treat us like the dirt beneath their feet because, after all, who the hell do we think we are? Then we have to deal with the judge. Even if we happen to get assigned a jurist capable of thinking outside the box, he’s going to have to battle the howling contempt of Presto’s attorneys, the hidden bias of at least one law clerk, and the weight of his own humanity, which will no doubt be impressed by the rolodex of America’s Best Lawyers in front of him and more than slightly terrified by the thought of holding an American Fortune 50 company responsible for crimes and derelictions committed by foreigners ten thousand miles from his courtroom. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not afraid of standing up for the Hassans and Jashel and Alya and the millions of other workers who have been exploited. But I will not involve my daughter and my children’s inheritance in a suicide pact. Do you get my drift?”
Josh stood up and walked to the window, looking out at Painted Hill crowned by glittering stars. He heard Cameron’s words again at the Lincoln Memorial. The threat the general counsel had made was clear, but the trigger for disclosure of the photographs and wire transfer slip was not. Cameron had to know that Lewis would ask this question, and he had to know that Josh would answer it. The public would never know what was said in this drawing room. They would only know what went into the lawsuit. And that was where Josh would draw the line.
He turned around and faced Lewis again. “My source is Cameron Alexander.”
His father-in-law stared at him. “What did you say?”
“Cameron Douglass Alexander,” he repeated. “Presto’s general counsel.”
Josh saw the light of recognition come on in Lewis’s eyes even as he saw Madison’s confusion. He waited in silence, savoring the moment as much as his jittery nerves allowed.
“Isn’t he Ben Alexander’s son?” Lewis finally managed.
Josh nodded. “One and the same.”
Lewis tugged at his whiskers, then sat down again in his chair, all the bluster from his speech forgotten now. “What exactly did he tell you?”
In short declarative sentences, Josh recounted the story of the e-mail summons and the meeting. “I tried to press him for more details, but his answers were mostly indirect. I asked him if he wanted me to go to the press. He didn’t. He sent me to you.”
Lewis reached for his glass of gin and drained it. “This changes everything. Presto’s malfeasance must be commensurate with the risk he took in approaching you. There must be evidence inside the company that the media would never find, evidence that could only come out in litigation. He knew the standard of proof and the potential claims. He knew a case was there. He just needed you to find it, and us to prosecute it.”
Josh traded a look with Madison and saw her excitement. “Does that mean we have a green light?” she asked.
Lewis was still for a long moment, staring into the fire. Then he nodded. “Yes. We’re going to bring this case. And if we’re lucky, we just might make history.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
EMIRATES FLIGHT 584
NEAR DHAKA, BANGLADESH
MAY 6, 2015
7:45 P.M.
The plane lurched in the sky, banking one way, then the other. The turbulence rattled tray tables and unsettled carts in the forward galley and sloshed water in the bottles on the console between Josh and Madison. They were in the first row of the plane, the window to their right. Madison’s eyes were glued to the pane, watching for the lights of Dhaka to appear in the clouds. Her long fingers were curled into balls, her lithe frame tense as a coiled spring.
Josh smiled sympathetically and reached for her hand.
“I bet I’ve flown a quarter of a million miles,” she said, glancing at him. “But you’d think this was my first flight.”
At last, the clouds broke and the city appeared in flecks of light. The plane leveled out and descended t
oward the runway, landing without a hitch and taxiing to the terminal.
At the gate, Madison retrieved her hand and gave Josh a grateful smile. “It’s been a long time since I went anywhere like this. It’s good to do it again.”
“I’m glad you decided to come,” Josh replied.
They collected their rollaboards from the overhead bin and left the aircraft. Because they were at the front of the crowd, the queue at immigration was brief. Josh led the way out of the terminal to the sidewalk. Taxi drivers swarmed them, offering to drive them into the city, but Josh carved a path to the battered Corolla at the curb.
“Mr. Josh!” Anis called out. “Welcome back to Dhaka!” He approached them swiftly and took their luggage, securing it in the trunk. “No more bags?”
“Short trip,” Josh replied, opening the door for his wife and sliding in beside her.
“Is he a friend of Rana’s?” Madison whispered.
Josh nodded. “Along with everyone else in this town.”
In the past month, Josh had brokered the connection between Lewis’s team at CJA and Rana’s team at LA Legal. They had flown to Los Angeles for a meet-and-greet, and then Rana had brought his boss, Peter Chavez, to Virginia to hash out a framework for collaboration. LA Legal would take the lead on client relations and evidence gathering overseas, and CJA would spearhead the litigation and arrange for law firm support during the discovery process. Madison had reached out to her old firm, Keller Scott, and pitched the case to them, knowing they were always on the lookout for pro bono opportunities, but Keller had declined, citing a conflict of interest. So Madison had aimed her sights lower and trolled her contacts at regional firms. In time, she found Remington & Key, a forty-lawyer outfit in Richmond that specialized in product liability cases. They were masters of complex civil litigation and fearless in the face of corporate opponents. They were also media hounds who relished the spotlight. To them, Madison’s offer was like an all-expense-paid trip to legal Disneyland.
“Westin again?” Anis asked, driving toward the circle outside the airport.
“Yes,” Josh confirmed.
He gazed out the window at the clamorous night, stained amber by the city lights. He was surprised when he felt Madison take his hand. He looked at her in the shadows and saw the smile gracing the corners of her mouth. He heard it again like an echo inside him, the quiet voice of hope. Their singularity of purpose in building the lawsuit reminded him of the early days in their relationship when she had left behind the comforts of her familiar world and followed him around the globe because she believed in his dream of writing stories about the poor.
“Do you think Lily’s all right?” she asked.
“She’s fine,” Josh said. “She knows her medicine better than anyone. And your mother is meticulous. We’ll be back before her next clinic visit.”
It was the first time since Lily’s diagnosis that Madison had been away from home for more than a few hours. Josh had tried everything to convince her to come—reason, charm, the allure of world travel, the significance of meeting the plaintiffs in their own country—but in the end it was Lily who liberated her mother to take a risk again. I want you to go with Daddy, Lily had said. It’s silly to worry about me. For Josh, looking at Madison now, her face framed by the blur of Dhaka traffic, was like looking at her years ago, before the leukemia and the ghost of Maria had driven her inward into a cloister of anxiety and control.
Twenty minutes later, Anis pulled up to the hotel and unloaded their luggage. Josh tipped him and confirmed his availability in the morning. Then he and Madison walked to the front desk. The clerk checked them into two rooms on the sixteenth floor. Madison yawned as they waited for the elevator, and Josh caught the contagion. They had forced themselves to stay awake on the flight from Dubai. It was morning in Virginia, but their bodies were ready for rest.
When they reached their floor, Josh walked Madison to her door and bid her good night. She smiled at him tiredly and went into her room. He found his own just down the hall and began to unpack. As he put his clothes in the closet, his thoughts wandered into an arcade of memory—places they had traveled together, hotels they had stayed at, beds on which they had frolicked, turning love into the most exuberant of verbs. He pictured her in her room washing her face and getting undressed, turning out the lights and slipping under the covers. He imagined her closing her eyes, relaxing, letting go.
He was so distracted that he almost didn’t hear the knock at the door. He blinked once and listened. The knock came again. A cascade of thoughts crashed through his mind. He went to the door and pulled it open. Madison was still in her travel clothes, her long hair flowing down around her neck. Her lips parted, and her eyes formed a question that had only one answer.
He reached out for her and grazed her cheek with his fingertips. Then he took a step and drew her into his arms. Their lips met and their bodies came together by instinct, moving back into the room, past the bathroom, and onto the bed. Their clothes came off and their hands found each other without thinking, guided by the grace of much practice, elevating need and desire into an apotheosis of delight. There were moments in the midst of his pleasure when Josh realized how lucky he was, when the gift of Madison’s beauty and devotion broke through his rapture and filled his heart with gratitude. But the rest was all haze and joy and feeling and bliss, until the wave crested and the fragments washed into memories.
When it was over, Madison turned to him and ran a fingernail through the hairs on his chest. “I have only one request,” she said softly. “Please don’t hurt me again.”
He wrapped his arm around her and kissed her forehead, loving her more now than he ever had before. “I won’t,” he whispered. “I promise.”
The next morning Anis took them to Old Dhaka, to the home of Nadia Jalil. The day was bright and hot and the gardens inside the gate festooned with flowers. Rana was waiting for them in the foyer, wearing jeans and a polo shirt. At his suggestion, Josh and Madison had also dressed casually to put the plaintiffs at ease.
Rana gave Josh a bear hug and Madison a kiss on the cheek. “We’re ready for you in the living room. I set up the video camera in the parlor. We’ll get their statements afterward.” He fixed his eyes on Madison. “I’m glad you came. The fact that you’re a woman will help.”
“Have you gone over the contracts with them?” she asked as she and Josh trailed him across the marble entry hall to a pair of imposing mahogany doors.
Rana nodded. “I made sure they understood that lawsuits in America are long and hard and that many plaintiffs never receive a monetary verdict. All of them said they would do it for no money. But they wanted to know why we would.”
Josh grinned at Madison, thinking about the night before. “We can answer that together,” he said. She nodded and turned away, a slight blush on her cheeks.
“How is Sonia?” Josh asked.
Rana lowered his voice. “She has a lesion that’s putting pressure on her brain. The doctors we consulted are recommending surgery. A lot of the nerve damage may be permanent, but there’s a chance she could recover some of her sight and hearing with therapy. Her father’s willing to do it, but he wants to help pay for it.”
Josh thought about the huts in Kalma where Ashik lived. “Tell him we’ll work something out, but we’re not going to take food off his table.”
“I did,” Rana said. “We’ll dignify him, and my parents will cover the rest. One more thing: My dad worked some magic and got copies of all the interbond licenses between Rahmani Apparel and Millennium for two years before the fire. A lot of them are Presto orders.”
Madison whistled softly. “You’re making this look easy.”
“See what I told you?” Josh said, proud of his friend. “The sultan of Bangladesh.”
Rana smiled. “That would be my father. Are you ready?”
When they nodded, he swung open one of the giant doors. The living room was more commodious than the parlor and lined with windows. There were
tapestries on the walls and earth-toned rugs on the floor—teak, Josh guessed. The furniture, all collectibles and antiques, was arranged to encourage conversation. Josh saw Jashel sitting in a chair that looked like a throne. Across from him on a sofa were Ashik and Sonia. The girl’s eyes were closed, and she was resting her head on a pillow. Alya was standing by one of the windows, watching a gardener tend to a flower bed. They turned as one and stared at Josh and Madison.
“Suprabhata,” Josh said, greeting them with the Bengali words he’d been practicing for a week. “Good morning. It’s good to see you again. This is my wife, Madison.” He knew as he was speaking that he had butchered the pronunciations. But it didn’t matter. Their faces, initially uncertain, softened and began to glow.
Madison shook their hands and sat in an armchair beside Jashel. Josh and Alya found seats opposite them, and Rana took a place beside Ashik on the sofa. For a moment, Madison waited, making eye contact with each of them. Then she took out her phone and showed the plaintiffs photos of Lily and her parents and the Virginia countryside. By the time she finished, they were smiling easily, comfortable in her presence.
When she took a seat again, she caught Josh’s eye and nodded. He took a breath and began to speak. “I know all of you are wondering why we’re doing this. Why did Rana and I travel to Bangladesh and Malaysia and Jordan to find you? What’s in it for us? We’re interested in the chance, however unlikely it may seem, to change the way the world works. Right now back in America it’s nighttime. All 2,543 Presto stores are closed. When they open in the morning, people are going to show up and buy all sorts of things not knowing where they came from or who made them. They’re not going to think about that because they—and all of us—have been conditioned not to think about it. That’s part of the great deception in the global economy. Things just appear on our shelves, pretty things, desirable things, things we need and want. They’re right there in front of us, made and assembled, all shiny and new. We give a company like Presto our dollars, and we walk away with them, never considering that they might be the fruit of abuse and exploitation.”
A Harvest of Thorns Page 25