Blame it on Paris

by Lise McClendon

  “So that’s why he’s doing this? Because you turned him down? You did turn him down, right?”

  “Of course. But he’s been complaining about stuff, like every day. Maybe just to be close to me, I don’t know. The drink thing came out of nowhere. I haven’t been friendly with him. I did not flirt with him at all. I’ve wracked my brain trying to figure out what I did that made him do this. God knows I do flirt.”

  “But not with twenty-somethings.”

  “Not at work at all. I was cured of that years ago. Too many uncomfortable moments. It never goes well. Remember that lawyer, the partner who got caught having sex with his client?”

  “Who could forget it? The firm got rid of him, didn’t they?”

  “Not because they wanted to, but, yes, eventually. He got suspended from practicing for mishandling funds so that made it easy.”

  “But this isn’t like that. There’s no evidence. How do you prove you didn’t say what he said you did?”

  Francie sighed. “If only I knew.”

  Seven

  Return of Lawyrr Grrl

  Blog tagged J’accuse!

  Well, Grrls… this has been one interesting week here at Casa Legal Eagle. If I didn’t know better— that I am just a tiny speck of starlight in the universe— I would say that Evil Forces are aligning for an Epic Battle.

  But that would just be me being dramatic. The truth is more down-to-earth. Garden variety workplace complaints that morph into potentially career-ending accusations. That kind of truth.

  You wouldn’t think that a female lawyer would get accused of sexual harassment. Not often anyway. It’s like that Michael Crichton novel, right? She wants sex, he refuses, she accuses, he counter-accuses. J’accuse!

  In the movie Demi Moore was a sleaze-babe. Well, I am not a sleaze-babe. I play it straight and fair with employees, as long as they do the same. I am a professional and I expect you to be one too. You might not get the result you want from me but you will not get underhanded, manipulative blowback. If you don’t get what you want it’s because there’s a reason: you’re too pushy, you’re not that smart, you don’t play well with others, your dandruff is disgusting. There are a million reasons to get a promotion, and a million reasons NOT to get one. But when you add a human resources complaint to your reasons, we know what column that’s in, sonny.

  But in the meantime you are going to hurt a lot of people at the law firm. Yourself, but mostly the lawyer being falsely accused.

  The problem is the system we wrote is for sexual harassment by powerful men against less-powerful women. It should work both ways, and now that it is in play, we’ll see how that works out. Who will people believe? The accuser, in general, gets benefit of the doubt. I always supported that. Always.

  Until it happened to me.

  My problem is— me. I have been, in the past, called a flirt, a cock-tease, a coquette. A slut— by those who didn’t get what they wanted. And the truth, although it pains me to admit it, is that I enjoyed that status for a time. When I was young there was power in it. You could see it in men’s eyes, the hunger you conjured up. There was a kind of sick pleasure in shutting them down.

  This new incident isn’t remotely like that. I stopped flirting at work ages ago. There was a moment, painful to remember, back in law school, when a classmate pinned me against a wall and groped me. He got his hand up my skirt before I could get my breath to scream. He was the sort of asshat we all recognize, the sneering macho stud, the swinging dick whose testosterone has gone from his little head to his big head, leading him to believe it is his right to do dangerous things to women. Leading him on, as I may have, with little sparring barbs he found seductive instead of their real meaning. That’s the trouble with flirting: you never know if you and the object of your flirtations are on the same page. Is it innocent and fun? Or is it a glimpse of a rape fantasy?

  That incident stopped my outrageous flirting. But it didn’t stop me forever. After my divorce I felt rejected and unlovable. I had quite a few ‘boyfriends.’ But I kept it out of the workplace, knowing full well how badly that would turn out.

  I did scream, that time in law school. And pushed that bully off me. He was coming back at me, hot and bothered, when a classmate showed up— the asshole had pushed me into a janitor’s closet— threw open the door and clocked him. Punched him in the face. I’ve never been more grateful to a man in my life.

  Does this story inform what is happening to me now? I don’t see it. I like men, I’ve dated them, married them, worked with them and for them. Without problems, except for the divorce which was amicable, more or less.

  Until now. A junior associate twenty years younger than me is filing a complaint. It may be the end of my career. I know how these things go. I’m competent as a lawyer but no rainmaker. My record isn’t spotless; I can’t talk judges into everything. And I accidentally lost one of my co-workers in France a couple years ago. My firm will cut me loose in the blink of the eye.

  I wonder where I can find a good lawyer.

  Eight

  Francie drove in the dark Monday morning, arriving at the law firm before seven. She hadn’t slept much the night before, especially after getting the email from Brenda McFall about the ten a.m. meeting to discuss the complaint. Brenda didn’t specify who would be in attendance but Francie assumed, from her knowledge of procedures, that this would be a sit-down between the accuser and the accused. There was usually one such awkward face-to-face to get the ball rolling, to see if there was hope for forgetting the whole thing. She’d put that into the guidelines herself, so that no one could get away with making accusations without facing the accused, and the accused had the chance to face his accuser. Or, in this case, her accuser.

  There were already a dozen cars in the firm’s parking spaces, including one she recognized as Joshua Ward’s, a massive burgundy Mercedes. Ward was one of the original partners with Seymour Bailee. Bailee had retired five years before but Ward carried on, a kindly gentleman of the old school, who still brought in his well-heeled friends and golf buddies for legal work. His license plate read WRDOFST8— Ward of the State. Kinda clever, Francie always thought, smiling as she rounded the car.

  The doors were still locked at this hour. As she got out her keys she heard a phone ringing inside. Then some voices. Who else was here so early? Obviously quite a few, from the number of cars. Her stomach clenched. Was it something to do with the complaint? Were they meeting about her? Would she run into Greg Leonard?

  She turned back to the parking lot, looking for Greg’s car. She wasn’t sure what it looked like, but it was a dark color, small and a little rusty. Most of the cars in the lot looked like late model Lexuses and BMWs, plus a Jeep that belonged to Alice.

  Francie turned the key and pushed open the heavy wood door. She stomped her boots on the mat and was surprised to see so many lights on. The reception area was deserted but every lamp and overhead light blazed. Maybe that was just the prerogative of whoever came in first. She slipped off her wool coat as she walked past the reception desk toward her office. The light was on and the door open a crack in Brenda’s office, three down from hers. She would be getting ready for the morning meeting.

  As Francie entered her office she heard a faint shout from somewhere in the back. She paused, waiting for more. Hearing none she dumped her briefcase on the side chair, hung her coat on a hanger on the back of the door, and took a deep breath. She would get through this. She would be professional and clear-eyed and unemotional. She would survive.

  She opened her blinds before sitting down. Dawn was creeping into the eastern sky, still gray and drowsy. Then the siren reached her, surprising her with its volume. She blinked and there was the ambulance, pulling into the parking lot, screeching to a stop by the front door. The red flasher cut the quiet morning scene. Two uniformed EMTs jumped from the ambulance and ran to the door.

  Pounding. She’d locked the entrance again on her way in. Rousing herself she ran out of her office, tow
ard reception, in time to collide with another lawyer. Joe Lyons skidded into her shoulder, apologized, and lunged at the front door. He flipped the deadbolt and yelled, “This way!” to the attendants.

  “What—“ she began but she was talking at their backs. She followed them, wondering what had happened. Had someone fainted, or hurt someone else, or—? Her mind was a blank.

  Three people stood outside Joshua Ward’s office, arms wrapped around their rib cages, grim looks on their faces. One was Ward’s longtime secretary, Marylou. She looked stricken. Through the open door to the expansive office she could see Mr. Ward lying on the red carpet, the two EMTs on either side of him, getting equipment out, checking his neck, wrist, chest.

  She glanced at Marylou. The secretary was staring at the floor. The woman next to her was a young associate. Francie couldn’t remember her name— Deborah or Denise or something. Odd, she always knew everyone’s name. She caught the lawyer’s eye and mouthed “what,” nodding toward Mr. Ward’s office.

  The lawyer touched her chest, over her heart, and grimaced. Then she shrugged. Maybe, or not, a heart attack.

  Suddenly two more EMTs appeared, carrying an orange gurney with its wheels retracted. They ordered the crowd to step aside and entered the office. Within minutes the EMTs had Mr. Ward strapped onto the gurney, wheels on the ground, on oxygen and all sorts of tubes and wires attached to him. Francie flattened herself to the wall as they whisked the old lawyer out of the office, down the hall, and into the ambulance. He looked gray. Marylou quick-stepped behind the EMTs but balked just outside the door. Did someone need to go with him, she called to the EMTs. They ignored her, hitting the siren as they peeled out.

  Francie felt for Marylou. She had worked for Joshua Ward so long she was like his second wife. Short and trim with a helmet of platinum hair, she was considered a force to be reckoned with around the firm. She turned back to the door and stepped inside the reception area. She picked up the phone and punched in a number.

  Her voice was flat, professional, with a touch of sympathy. “Mrs. Ward, this is Marylou. Sorry to wake you. Joshua, Mr. Ward, has had a—“ She glanced at Francie who shrugged. “A spell of some sort. The ambulance took him to the hospital. Stamford Hospital. I don’t know why, that’s just where they took him, ma’am. Minutes ago, yes, ma’am.”

  Marylou set the phone back on its cradle and burst into tears. Francie put an arm around the older woman’s shoulders. What did you say at a time like this? She let Marylou cry. In a minute she gathered herself, grabbed a tissue, and wiped her face.

  “Well,” Marylou said with a sniff. “We still have work to do, Ms. Bennett.”

  Francie watched her proud back as she marched to her office, just outside the scene of Mr. Ward’s collapse. If only Marylou had been a lawyer. She had what it took.

  Ten o’clock came and went with no mention of the harassment conference. The morning was crazy and loud and full of whispers and gasps as associates and partners came in and were informed of Mr. Ward’s “event.” Francie kept her head down and worked. She saw Greg Leonard across the secretarial pool, talking to some other associates. He didn’t look her way. Her assistant Alice was scarce. Just before noon Francie went looking for her. She was in the break room, in a chair behind the door, apparently hiding out. Her pink streak was bedraggled and she looked like she’d been crying. That was going on a lot today.

  “Alice. Are you okay?” Francie sat down at the table. Alice bent her head low, refusing to make eye contact.

  “Yes. Just, you know, upset about Mr. Ward.”

  Francie frowned. Had they worked together, he and Alice? “Were you here? I thought I saw your Jeep.”

  Alice nodded. Her voice was so low. “I came in early. He asked me to help put together a document.”

  “With Marylou?”

  “No, she was busy.”

  “Did you see him collapse? Were you— there?”

  “I was outside his office.” Alice looked up, something fierce in her eyes. “I was collating that document.”

  “Was anyone with him?”

  Alice curled back into herself, shaking her head. “I heard him fall.”

  “That must have been hard. Mr. Ward is a good man, a good boss.” Alice said nothing. “Did you call 9-1-1?”

  “Joe Lyons did. I was, you know, paralyzed.”

  Francie stood up. “Did you hear about the Greg Leonard thing, Alice?”

  She looked up, eyebrows twitching. “What thing?”

  “Never mind. Take an early lunch, Alice. Take as long as you want. But do come back. I have some work for you.”

  Brenda McFall was standing outside her office when Francie returned.

  “There you are. We have an executive meeting at 12:30 in the conference room. We have to figure out what to do with Joshua’s clients.”

  “I’m still on the committee?”

  Brenda stopped in her tracks and turned back. “What do you mean? Of course you’re on the committee. You’re the secretary.” Francie waited, folding her hands. It came to Brenda. “Oh. We’ll do that later. It’s all hands on deck. See you in a few minutes.”

  Francie wasn’t sure what to think. This new crisis with Joshua Ward had pushed everything else off the table, but the complaint wasn’t going away. Would it hang like an axe over her neck for weeks, waiting to drop? For months? Would Greg make a stink about proper procedure? Should she take it to HR herself?

  The head of Human Resources, a personable woman in her thirties, would attend the executive committee meeting. Francie could talk to her there, feel her out. They had a good relationship when they interviewed and hired junior associates. She was fair and practical.

  Maybe Greg had already filed his complaint directly with HR. Unlikely since Brenda was involved but anything was possible.

  The executive meeting turned into anything but conducive to a quiet side chat. Joshua Ward had been in the process of taking depositions and getting discovery on a huge investment fraud case involving one of his oldest friends, a banker accused of defrauding his trust department customers. As a friend of the client he’d taken the case personally, doing many of the depositions himself even though he was nearly eighty. Seventy-eight was the age waved around at the meeting, an age most partners would have stepped down, or at least slowed down. Joshua was a hard-charger, everyone agreed, and seemed to like working. At any rate it was his law firm and nobody was going to tell him how to practice law.

  He had a few side projects going as well, not as complicated, contracts, prenups, a divorce between an old friend and his wife. Too much work, really. He couldn’t have been giving all these clients his best, Francie thought, but kept it to herself. The meeting went on for three hours while they re-assigned, argued, split up work, took cases, gave out cases.

  Most of the partners in the room had little knowledge of what Joshua’s caseload was, so they had to rely on Marylou’s notes. Marylou herself wasn’t invited to the meeting. That was probably a mistake but Francie wasn’t in a position to do more than suggest it. She was shot down by Bill Turkett, the oldest-serving partner after Joshua. His enthusiasm in the meeting, and as the week went on, made it appear he was angling for control of the firm.

  The week roiled, day by day, with long hours learning new cases, figuring out what had been done, what hadn’t been done, what deadlines approached. In-fighting and power-grabs. The health of Joshua Ward was always at the back of the minds of all the lawyers and employees. The rumor was that he had a heart attack, or maybe a stroke. Whatever emergency procedures they’d done were only marginally successful and he remained in Intensive Care.

  Marylou sent around a card for everyone to sign and many, including Francie, sent him flowers to the hospital. Although she didn’t have a close working relationship with Joshua Ward, Francie felt gratitude that she’d been able to work in the firm for almost twenty years. It had been a good working relationship between her and all the firm’s employees, except, lately, Greg Leonard. And
she was able to put him out of her mind for at least this week.

  As the days ticked by Francie felt less and less certain about discussing the complaint with the HR chief. And Brenda never mentioned it all week, busy wrangling associates to do tasks for the new cases they were assigned, giving pep talks, and listening to fears. HR would confer with Brenda and get some kind of ball rolling, a ball Francie would like to puncture with an icepick. Better to let it all slide a bit. Wasn’t it? She wasn’t sure.

  At any rate Greg Leonard kept a low profile. Brenda assigned him to help take depositions in the investment fraud case, so that kept him out of the office. Everyone was exhausted by Friday, dragging into the office, eating at their desks, wearing their less than flattering office clothes. Even Alice had switched to drab attire for once in her life.

  Francie was rubbing her eyes, bone tired, at three on Friday afternoon when the call came in. “Who is it, Alice?” she asked over the intercom.

  “He won’t say. Older man.”

  “Okay, put him through.” She picked up the receiver. “Good afternoon, this is Francine Bennett. How can I help you?”

  There was a pause. “Ah, I’m sorry to be so long getting back to you. This is Harlan Pugh.”

  Francie frowned. “I’m sorry—?“

  “Harlan Pugh. You called me last weekend. I’ve been out of town.”

  “Oh, yes. Excuse me, this has been a busy week.”

  “No problem. I’m familiar with your firm. Is Joshua Ward still there?”

  Then she remembered that the firm represented Harlan in the divorce. “Ah, yes. He is.”

  “Really. He must be as old as the hills.” He chuckled. “Not that I’m getting any younger. What is it you need from me, Miss Bennett?”