Imminent Peril

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Then there was this intricate ice sculpture in the atrium,” she was saying, making big sweeping arcs with her arms as she described the piece, when Maisy came rushing over.

  “Oh thank goodness! I need you to save me,” Maisy breathed.

  “Save you from what?” Bertie wanted to know.

  “It’s a who, not a what.” Maisy jerked her head. “See the guy in the blue shirt looking this way?”

  Sasha stood on her tiptoes and scanned the room but all she could see was a wall of chests and shoulders. Daniel and Chris must have inordinately tall friends, she mused.

  Bertie squinted into the crowd. “The man with the light brown hair and the glasses? That’s Drew, he’s Chris's piano tuner. He's a sweetheart—and available.”

  “No offense, Mrs. Steinfeld, but I'm not in the market for sweet. I'm looking for tall, dark, and dangerous.”

  Bertie laughed. “It sounds like you're describing Leo.”

  Maisy rolled her blue eyes. “Make that tall, dark, dangerous and not saddled with toddler twins.”

  “Good thing. He’s taken. Depending on the day, the twins might be available, though,” Sasha snarked.

  Bertie laughed so hard she almost lost her cocktail. She tightened her grip and peered into her glass. “It looks like I need to freshen up my drink. Make sure you girls try the cookies. Daniel always hires a caterer, but I snuck some of my cinnamon drop cookies onto the trays.”

  “Nice talking to you, Bertie,” Sasha said to the woman’s back as she made her way to the bar.

  Maisy turned to her and said, “You know I was just joking, right? I love spending time with Finn and Fiona—just as long as I can give them back to you at the end of the day.”

  “I know.”

  Maisy studied Sasha’s face. “How you doing? I mean, really?”

  “I take it you heard I’m on leave.”

  “Leo mentioned it while I was trying to ambush the caterer who had the shrimp tray. He almost distracted me from my mission. Almost.”

  Sasha smiled. “I’m fine. I don’t love being sidelined, obviously, but it’s nice to spend time with Connelly and the kids.”

  “You work too hard, anyway. Treat it like a vacation—unwind, relax.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” A vacation spent skulking into a missing woman’s apartment and delving into the dirty past of a stuntman/con artist while trying to unravel a product safety issue. It was just like a spa weekend. Then a thought struck her. “Hey, wait, when's your product safety exposé going to air?”

  “Next week. I’m really jazzed about it. I think investigative journalism might be it for me—I liked learning something new. Especially something that could really help people.”

  She hadn’t seen Maisy this excited about her work in years—not since she got promoted from weekend weather girl to full-fledged reporter. “Awesome. Hey, let me ask you a question—did you learn anything about the testing of children’s products?”

  Maisy pursed her mouth and thought. “A little bit. Under the CPSIA, most children’s toys are tested by a certified testing company for heavy metals—they’re looking for a bunch of different metals, but lead’s the big one. Plastic products are tested for phthalates.”

  “Would something like bathtub crayons fall under the heavy metals testing requirement?” Sasha asked.

  “What the devil are bathtub crayons?” Maisy countered.

  Sasha sipped her gin and tonic then said, “They’re pretty much what it sounds like—crayons that little kids use in the bathtub.”

  Maisy shook her head. “You mean to scribble on the walls and the surface of the tub? That seems like a bad idea. Next thing you know they’re drawing on your living room walls with a marker and getting in trouble.”

  Sasha laughed. She’d always thought the same thing. “You won’t believe this, but they also make markers for drawing on your windows.”

  “Jeez. I must be missing something. Well, anyway, if these bathtub crayons are marketed as a children's toy, then, yes, they’d have to undergo the testing.”

  “And if they failed?”

  Maisy blew out a breath. “Companies do all sorts of gymnastics to avoid that. Re-testing gets expensive.”

  “How expensive can it be?”

  “Well, if the product passes, sure, it’s no big deal. The price of the testing is a cost of doing business—it’s baked into the COGS—er, cost of goods sold. But if testing results show that there’s too much of even one of those heavy metals, then you’re up the creek without a paddle, as my granddaddy would say.”

  “But we’re talking about kids,” Sasha protested.

  “I know, but these guys are all about the bottom line. And once a product has failed a test, I think they’re supposed to enter the information online into this publicly available, searchable complaint database. So, say you’re selling wooden blocks and they test positive for unsafe levels of arsenic.”

  An image of Finn chewing his way through a set of antiqued, vintage alphabet blocks as if he were a beaver flashed in Sasha’s mind. “Okay.”

  “All the other levels are good, but arsenic is slightly out of whack. You have to enter that into the database, re-run the tests, and hope the results come back clean. Otherwise, you have to announce a recall. But either way, the information is out there. And the first time little Devon or Ryan has a seizure, his frantic parents are going to scour the internet and see that bad result. Now, you’re being sued.”

  “If the parents can’t prove a connection, they won’t prevail.”

  “Sure. But, newsflash, Sasha, lawyers aren’t cheap. It’ll cost money, lots of it, to defend. The cheaper route is to bury the bad test result and re-route the shipment of blocks to Mexico or Thailand.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Happens all the time. Of course, the wrinkle is the world is global now. When I was working on my piece, I came across a company that had a huge shipment of baby chairs that failed the choking hazard test. Some little clip that looked like a round cracker would come off in the baby’s mouth, slide down the windpipe, get stuck, and boom. The company diverted them to some country overseas, but the buyer was a reseller, who turned around and sold them to thrift shops and consignment shops throughout the western United States. There’s was no active recall, so thousands of them were sold. There are babies all throughout Oregon, California, and Washington state choking on these baby chair clips that should never have been sold in the first place.”

  “That’s reprehensible,” Sasha breathed.

  Maisy was about to answer, but the piano tuner spotted her and darted toward them. Maisy melted into the crowd.

  29

  Crocheting wasn’t helping and knitting wasn't helping. Nothing was distracting him from the lawyer and her link to Prachi Agarwal. Sasha McCandless-Connelly was like a grain of sand in his eye or a splinter in his finger. He dropped the needles and yarn and picked up his cell phone.

  “Yes?” the CEO answered cautiously, alert despite the late hour.

  “You mentioned that the scientist was going to an anger management program,” the consultant said, skipping the pleasantries.

  “Yes. For female offenders. Human resources found a program near her home. Why?”

  “No reason.” He ended the call and stroked his chin.

  Prachi Agarwal’s apartment was less than a mile from McCandless & Volmer’s office. Could they possibly have been in the same anger management program? Was that the connection? Perhaps. He would have to try to find out in the morning. Now, though, he should sleep.

  He lay in bed, restless and irritated. He alternated between staring at the ceiling and clicking on the bedside lamp and staring at the business card he’d taken from Prachi Agarwal’s pocket. He had to determine how the two women were connected or he’d never have peace.

  He slipped back out of bed and stood at the window, looking down at the city lights and the handful of cars zipping across the bridge in the middle of the night. He wondered idly
where the drivers were going to or coming from at this hour.

  If he were one of his own clients—beset by anxiety and helplessness—he would tell himself to take control of the situation. So that’s what he would have to do. He would find out if they were in the same anger management program and either satisfy himself that any relationship between Sasha McCandless-Connelly and Prachi Agarwal was incidental, harmless, and not a danger to him or he would simply remove the lawyer from the equation. Problem solved.

  His blood pressure dropped. His pulse slowed. And his mind stopped racing in a circle. He yawned, stretched, drew the curtains, and returned to his bed. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  It was nearly midnight, and the party was still in full swing when Sasha and Connelly made their escape.

  From within a flurry of goodbye hugs and kisses, Daniel pulled Sasha aside and searched her face. “You and I didn't really get to talk tonight. Are you hanging in there?”

  “I'm okay,” she assured her Krav Maga instructor.

  “You should come back to the studio.”

  “Maybe next week,” she hedged.

  “When you're ready. You’ll get there.”

  She smiled at his confidence, wishing she shared it.

  As she and Connelly walked home, she swung her hand in his. She was sleepy from gin and the long week. She plucked her phone from her handbag to text Jordana and let her know that they were on their way. That’s when she noticed a blizzard of missed calls and texts from Will and Naya. The most recent text had come in only a half an hour earlier from Naya, copying Will:

  I know it's late but the three of us have to talk. Are you around this weekend?

  Sasha texted back and suggested meeting in the office in the morning. She wondered idly what had them worked up. It couldn’t be too important because neither of them had left a message.

  She imagined they wanted to tell her that Kevin had responded to their deadline. If she met with them in person, maybe she could convince them to look at the bathtub crayons. She pushed the texts from her mind and turned her attention to Connelly. They traded stories about their friends for the rest of the short walk home.

  They tiptoed inside, and Sasha went upstairs to check on the sleeping twins while Connelly drove Jordana home. As Sasha turned to leave the nursery, her eyes fell on the linen bin that held the blocks Finn had cut his teeth on. Her conversation with Maisy came rushing back. She grabbed the bin and the unicorn play set next to it and snuck out of the nursery with them. Next she headed to the playroom.

  She was sitting on the floor, with the skirt of her black and white dress spread out around her, surrounded by boxes and bags of toys, puzzles, and games when Connelly returned.

  “What’s going on in here?” he asked in a loud whisper.

  “Sorting some toys.”

  “I thought you already took out all the Playtime Toys stuff.”

  “I did.”

  “So what’s this?”

  She looked up at him. “None of this can stay out until we confirm it’s safe.”

  “Sasha, you're tired. It's been a long week—”

  “No. Connelly, this is important. I have to go into the office tomorrow and meet with Will and Naya. You have to promise me you won’t let the kids play with any of these toys until I’m sure it’s okay.”

  He gave her a long, searching look.

  She preempted him before he could say anything. “Listen, I know what you’re thinking.” He gave her an ‘oh, yeah?’ look.

  She went on, “You’re thinking I’m being a control freak. I don't have work to keep me busy, and I'm worried about Prachi, so I’m channeling all my anxiety toward the kids. You think I'm overreacting to a minor risk. How’d I do?”

  “Pretty dead on,” he admitted.

  “And you might be right about all of it. But why don't you just humor me for a couple days?”

  “Easy enough for you to say. You're not the one who’s going to be trapped in the house with two kids who weren't allowed to play with any of their toys.”

  “You can be inventive. I'm sure you'll think of something.”

  “Oh, I can definitely be inventive,” he countered.

  She smiled and held out her hand. He helped her up from the floor to her feet.

  30

  Will and Naya were waiting in the conference room when Sasha walked into the office on Saturday morning. It was always a little bit strange to be in the offices when the firm wasn't officially open for business—the empty workstations; the quiet computers; the dim light. It all made the firm feel alien and wrong, not like her second home. Today the sensation was especially disconcerting because she felt unwelcome, like an outsider.

  She tried to shake the feeling as she pushed open the door to the conference room. Naya and Will beamed at her with twin smiles.

  “Look,” Naya said, pointing at the table. “Will stopped at Presto George’s and got espresso and biscotti.”

  She looked down at the treats and back to their faces. “What's the occasion?”

  “Good news,” Will answered.

  She walked across the room and helped herself to a cup of espresso and a crunchy slice of biscotti. “I'm all ears.”

  “Yesterday, Steve Harold agreed to drop his case. I have a written statement from Kevin Marcus affirming that they are not going to file the draft complaint and that the firm is ending its representation of Mr. Harold. In the letter, Kevin also extends a personal apology.”

  He extended a sheet of paper. She juggled her cookie and coffee in her left hand and took the one-page letter in her right. She scanned it. As Will noted, the letter set out Steve Harold’s agreement not to file the draft complaint; the fact that Prescott & Talbott would not be representing him going forward, and a carefully worded lawyer apology. Marcus’s letter also stated that there would be no point in her suing Steve Harold because he was judgment-proof.

  Something about the short letter wasn’t sitting right with her, but she couldn’t pinpoint the problem. Besides, Will and Naya were watching her expectantly, with barely controlled excitement. So she placed the letter from Marcus on the table in front of her and looked back at them.

  “Great. But couldn’t you have just emailed me a copy of the letter?”

  “There's more,” Naya said, giving Will a ‘get on with it, already’ look.

  Will cleared his throat. “Naya and I discussed it, and despite the malpractice carrier’s reticence, we think you should come back to work.”

  “Wait. Why is the carrier hesitant? I thought the issue was the Harold lawsuit?”

  Will bobbed his head from side to side. “Well, yes and no. They did suggest that you might want to wait until you complete the Accelerated Rehabilitative Diversion program. But we need you here.”

  “I see,” Sasha said slowly, not sure how she was feeling.

  “We let the folks at Recreation Group know that you'll be returning. They’re beyond thrilled, even though they know you won't have an active role in the arbitration until you finish your anger management course.”

  His words triggered a wave of conflicting emotions within her. First, she felt relief that her exile was over, followed by excitement at the thought of returning to her legal practice, and then, finally, the smallest hesitation whispered in her ear.

  “Mac, what’s going through your head right now?” Naya asked in a quiet voice.

  Sasha sat silent for a long time. Her heart thumped. When she spoke, she said the only thing she could. “I'm not ready to come back.”

  Will knitted his eyebrows together. “Pardon?”

  Naya shook her head vigorously, and her gold hoop earrings swung wildly from side to side. “What do you mean, you're not coming back? This is your firm.”

  “I know, but I can't. I have a moral obligation to stop Playtime Toys. You’d never guess how I spent my night last night—I boxed up all the twins’ toys and took them out of the playroom. I’m afraid to let them play.”

&
nbsp; “Sasha—” Will began.

  But she was on a roll. “I’ve always thought that if I did my research and bought from companies I trusted, my kids would be safe. There are thousands and thousands of pages of regulations designed to protect families like mine, but if a company like Playtime Toys is motivated to circumvent them, they’re not worth the paper they’re printed on. The kids are in danger, and their parents don’t even know it. I just can’t let that go, but if I come back I can't try to stop it.”

  “Nobody’s asking you to look the other way, Mac,” Naya broke in.

  “But if I come back, I’ll have to look the other way. Because even if Recreation Group waived the positional conflict, after the sale goes through, there’d be a direct and actual conflict of interest. So, I’m not coming back—at least not now.” She took a shaky breath.

  Naya rubbed her temples. Will worked his jaw.

  “Do you have any actual information?” Will finally asked. “Or is this all still your gut.”

  “I’m pretty sure the Artie the Aardvark bathtub crayon set failed its heavy metal testing. But I don’t know how to confirm it.”

  Naya walked over to the long, low credenza that ran along the entire front wall of the conference room. It was lined with four-inch thick, black binders. Each binder was stuffed with due diligence documents from the Playtime Toys review. She flipped wordlessly through several binders until she found what she was looking for. She carried the open binder to the gleaming walnut table and dropped it with a thud.

  “Look,” she said, pointing to a line in a chart of products. “This is the most recent product chart they’ve provided—you know, in lieu of an actual searchable database.”

  Sasha and Will leaned over the document, their heads nearly touching.

  Sasha followed Naya’s brightly polished fingernail along the row labeled ‘AR462.’ She read aloud: “Artie the Aardvark crayon set; MSRP, $4.99; category, art supplies; test results, N/A.”