by Susan Wolfe
More Praise for Escape Velocity
“Readers craving full-on immersion in the ethos of Silicon Valley will love every page of Escape Velocity. Susan Wolfe’s cast of colorful villains, con artists, and just plain folks caught up in high-stakes industry games is painstakingly drawn and always unpredictable. Good, clever fun with a thriller of an ending.”
—Laura Benedict, author of The Abandoned Heart
“Susan Wolfe has achieved something extraordinary with this book: a financial and legal thriller with rich character development that creates an absolutely compelling stay-up-all-night read.”
—Alice LaPlante, Award-winning author of Turn of Mind
“Instantly addictive and disconcertingly credible, Escape Velocity will send the unwary reader pell-mell through the mazy proceedings and gamesmanship of corporate Silicon Valley. If the adrenaline rush isn’t enough, then the endearing vigilantism will close the deal. I never knew how much I wanted to know about the legal and economic ins-and-outs of the tech industry until Susan Wolfe, uniquely positioned to illuminate both, decided to write this exhilarating novel.”
—Lynn Stegner, award-winning author of For All the Obvious Reasons & nominee for the National Book Award & the Pulitzer Prize
“Was there ever a more appealing character than this clever, hard-working Georgia Griffin of Piney, Arkansas, who has inherited her father’s genius for the con? Not only highly entertaining, but also insightful and informative about Silicon Valley’s high tech industry, whose principals are not always what they claim.”
—Barbara Babcock, Professor Emerita of Stanford Law School, and author of Fish Raincoats: A Woman Lawyer’s Life
“Wolfe made her debut in 1989 with The Last Billable Hour, which won an Edgar Award for Best First Novel. Her accomplished, amusing follow-up, a thriller set in California’s Silicon Valley, stars paralegal Georgia Griffin. . . . Wolfe, a lawyer who knows the high-tech world, makes a very welcome return.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
Praise for The Last Billable Hour
Edgar Award Winner
“A funny, chilling view of big-time law.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Absolutely first class. Susan Wolfe has succeeded in bringing the reader into the profit-obsessed world of big-time corporate law without once talking down. The Last Billable Hour is a brilliant debut by a first-class writer.”
—Collin Wilcox, author of The Pariah and Night Games
“The ultimate insider’s look at the intrigues and infighting by which California’s most hyperkinetic lawyers stay sharp in between multimillion-dollar deals.”
—Mystery News
“A swift, complex plot, an unlikely romance and an intriguing glimpse at power politics among yuppie attorneys.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“Fast-paced . . . humorous. These twists of plot and details of practice are drawn with accuracy and wit. The Last Billable Hour is also a moral tale, a thoughtful and colorful commentary on the legal profession.”
—California Lawyer
“The writing is sharp, and the dialogue leaps from the page.”
—Robert Barnard, author of Death in a Cold Climate and Death on the High C’s
“An absolutely authentic view of law firm politics, written by someone who’s obviously been there. If Samuel Butler had been a corporate lawyer, this is the kind of satire he’d have written. It will make readers laugh—and it will make lawyers blush.”
—Lia Matera, author of Where Lawyers Fear to Tread
This novel is a work of fiction. All of the events, characters, names and places depicted in this novel are entirely fictitious or are used fictitiously. No representation that any statement made in this novel is true or that any incident depicted in this novel actually occurred is intended or should be inferred by the reader.
ESCAPE VELOCITY. Copyright © 2016 by Susan Wolfe. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Printed in the United States of America.
Hardcover: 978-0-9972117-0-2
Softcover: 978-0-9972117-1-9
Ebook: 978-0-9972117-2-6
Interior Design: Vicky Vaughn Shea, Ponderosa Pine Design
Editorial: Mark Woodworth
Publishing Strategist: Holly Brady
Logo: David Ivester
For more information, contact:
Steelkilt Press
P.O. Box 1344
Palo Alto, CA 94302
[email protected]
To the rare and valuable Ken Madigans of this world.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Acknowledgments
I thank fellow members of The Finishing School (Margit Look-Henry and Leslie Ingham) for their excellent editing and advice throughout; Susan Termohlen and Trish Kubal for their generous encouragement and expertise; Susan Maunders for her valuable editing of my first draft; and Brian Stine, for patiently reading more drafts of this book than it ever should have taken.
I thank Peter Lee for believing in this project and kindly insisting that I carry it to completion.
And most of all I thank my husband, Ralph DeVoe, and my daughter, Catherine Wolfe DeVoe, whose love and encouragement make everything possible.
PROLOGUE
“Now, as I see it, Gaddy,” Drummer explained, setting his drink on the high gloss table and leaning his forearms onto his thighs, “we were partners in this deal, and then one of us kept quiet and went to jail so you could get away.”
The other man sipped his drink, watching Drummer over the rim of his glass.
“I did the right thing, Gaddy,” Drummer asserted. “Jail would’ve been tough on a punk like you. But it’s been hard to get back on my feet after time in the pen. People look at you different. You can’t get a good job.”
“I suppose not,” Gaddy said, raising his eyebrows. “You tried?”
Drummer stiffened and sat straight up. “Yeah I tried. And looked around for you. I thought sure we’d team up again. Figured you’d be in touch.”
“How could I have gotten in touch?” Gaddy asked reasonably, lifting his palms for emphasis. “I was a fugitive.”
“Yeah. Still are, I guess. Anyway, I see now you had bigger plans. These years have been good to my rookie partner, you could almost seem legit.” Drummer shook his head in wonder and swept his arm in an expansive arc, taking in the rich wood paneling and the marble bar. “I bet your main house is in some fancy neighborhood full of movie stars and big-time athletes. Isn’t it? I’m happy for you, kid.”
Gaddy smiled slightly. “I appreciate that. But you didn’t come all this way to congratulate me.”
“No,” Drummer acknowledged. He tried to conceal a sly smile that deepened the cracks in his weathered face by til
ting his head back to drain his glass. “It’s a little more complicated. After all, we’re still partners, and partners share.”
“Of course. And we will. Let’s start with sharing a little more of this fine scotch.” Gaddy held the half empty bottle aloft. “More ice? Okay, tell me about the sharing. What do you have in mind?”
The drone of a motor through the open window was hypnotic. Drummer shook his head slightly to clear it. “So. You’ve got this whole enterprise because of me keeping my mouth shut.”
Gaddy considered a moment and nodded. “Okay, let’s say that’s true. And now you want to be part of it. You want a job?”
Drummer’s eyes darkened. “Working for you, you mean? That wouldn’t seem right, now, would it? No, Gaddy, we’ll settle this thing with cash. That way I get out of your hair, nobody the wiser. You go right on doing whatever you’re doing so . . . prosprossy.” He frowned and repeated carefully, “Prosper-ous-ly.” He closed his eyes and dragged the back of his hand slowly across his forehead. “Seems a little close in here, even with that window open.”
“Could be that flannel shirt you’re wearing. And maybe go easy on the liquor,” Gaddy advised. “It’s pretty strong stuff.”
“You didn’t put something special in it, did you?” Drummer winked and set the drink down hard, splashing a little onto the tabletop. “Oh, sorry . . . ”
“No worries. Here, let me wipe it up so you won’t get it on your sleeve. By the way,” he mentioned, lifting Drummer’s glass and using a white towel to carefully dry the rosewood underneath, “nobody’s called me Gaddy for many years now.”
Drummer slowly stood up. “That right? Whatever you say, Gaddy. I just need . . . move a little.” He walked carefully over to the stairs. On the first step he wobbled and grabbed the banister.
“Hey there, take it easy,” Gaddy warned, gripping Drummer’s arm. “Maybe you better rest a minute, get your bearings.” He guided the man to a sofa in the far corner. “We’ve got all evening if we need it.”
“Well, I don’t . . .”
“Here you go.”
Drummer reacted to the shove by sitting down hard on the sofa.
“Tell you what,” Gaddy continued conversationally, “you stay right here and let that scotch settle. I’ve got some stuff to do upstairs, and then I’ll be back.”
No response. Gaddy pushed Drummer so that he slumped over on the sofa. He closed the window and crossed over to the stairs. He paused on the bottom step, his hand on the light switch, and turned to look back at the man lying inert on the sofa. “Dammit Drummer,” he muttered, “couldn’t you have been just a little bit smarter? You’ve turned me into a killer.” He shook his head ruefully, flicked off the light and ascended the stairs.
CHAPTER 1
Georgia followed the bouncing ponytail into a silent conference room with an immense black table. She perched on the edge of a fancy leather chair, quietly sniffed the air, and followed the scent to a tray of food on a side table: rows of colorful ripe fruit, cheerful little pots of yogurt, a tray of meat and cheese alongside glistening rolls. They hadn’t mentioned it would be a lunch interview. She’d have to pace herself and not look greedy. Her empty stomach contracted in anticipation as she politely declined the offer of coffee.
“He’ll be with you in a moment,” the woman said. “Oh, sorry, let me get this out of here.” She scooped up the food and carried it from the room, leaving only a scent of pineapple hovering in the air.
Well. Good riddance. The last thing Georgia needed was to get all gorged and sleepy right before an interview.
And this could be the interview. This could be the interview that landed the job that allowed her to bring Katie-Ann to California until her father got out of prison. Too bad her resume was sort of bare, but the economy was finally picking up and she only needed one solid foothold. It didn’t matter how many jobs she hadn’t gotten. What mattered was the one she did get, and this could be that one. So what if it had been more than three weeks since her last interview? That just meant she should make this one count.
As she moved her forearm slowly across the mahogany, she could see her pale skin reflected off the glistening finish. Sure was quiet in here. You couldn’t hear anything of the big company that was supposedly operating at breakneck speed just outside the walls. Fast-paced was what they called themselves. Self-starter is what she was supposed to be. Well, she was a self-starter. How else had she gotten here? All the way from Piney, Arkansas, to Silicon Valley on bald tires, a million miles from the sound of Mama’s sniffling, the acrid smell of her bright pink nail polish.
Georgia wasn’t wearing any makeup at all. The woman with the bobbing ponytail had on perfect makeup that made her skin look like a baby’s butt. Which was great if you also knew how to avoid making yourself a magnet for perverts, but Georgia hoped she could hold her own around here without makeup. Tall and lanky and fast-moving, like a colt, her father said. (He should know, he’d boarded enough of them.) She wasn’t an athlete, exactly, but definitely a runner. Dark pinstripe pantsuit from the Now and Again shop up in Palo Alto, scratchy at the back of her neck. Blueberry-colored eyes against pale, freckled skin, shiny black hair in a blunt bob as even as her dull scissors could chew through it. A smile so wide it sometimes startled people, seemed to give the fleeting impression she was unhinged. Careful with the smile. Enthusiastic, but not alarming.
The guy coming to interview her was late. She could have peed after all. This big San Jose industrial park was confusing, with boxy cement buildings that all looked exactly alike. Set back from the street behind gigantic parking lots full of glinting cars so it was impossible to see any street numbers, making it clear they couldn’t care less whether a newcomer found her way. She’d ended up having to run in her heels just to get to the lobby on time.
Could she get to the john now? She squeezed her shoulder blades tightly and stretched the back of her neck away from the scratchy suit coat. The silence was making her jumpy. She left her resume on the polished table and opened the door just enough to look out.
The woman with the ponytail was nowhere to be seen. In fact, Georgia couldn’t see a living soul. She took a couple of tentative steps into the hall. What if the interviewer showed up before she got back? Screw it. With a last look around the vacant executive area, she darted down the hallway.
The hall opened abruptly into an area crammed with battle-gray, fabric cubicles that created a maze the size of a football field. Had she wandered into a different company? The only thing the two areas had in common was that here, too, it was quiet. People must really be concentrating. Either that, or they’d had a bomb scare and nobody had bothered to tell her.
She was relieved to see a bald head appear above the fabric wall a few cubes down like a Jurassic Park dinosaur. (Now, that was quite an image. Did she feel that out of place around here?) She heard a printer spitting out copies somewhere in the distance as she headed toward the dinosaur, rounded a corner and stopped cold.
An unattended donut was resting on the work surface just inside one of the cubes. Barely even inside the cube, less than a foot away, almost as if it had been set down and forgotten by some passerby. The plate slapped down in a hurry, its edge sticking out precariously beyond the edge of the work surface. Yesterday’s donut, perhaps, abandoned, stale.
But no, the donut was still puffy and golden, with minuscule cracks in that shiny sugar glaze. A donut still wafting the faintest scent of the fat it had been fried in. She could almost feel her lips touching the tender surface as her teeth . . .
Had she whimpered out loud? She glanced both ways along the still-deserted hall and then returned her gaze to the donut resting on its lightly grease-stained white paper plate. Pretending to wonder if the cube was occupied, she leaned her head in and called a faint “hello?” resting her hand lightly on the work surface, a finger touching the paper plate. Staring straight ahead, she floated her fingers across the surface and up, until her palm was hovering just above the
donut’s sticky surface. One quick grab . . .
“May I help you?” intoned a male voice.
Georgia snatched her hand back like the donut was a rattlesnake.
She turned and found herself face to face with the Jurassic Park dinosaur, who was looking distinctly human and downright suspicious. He looked past her and surveyed the vacant cube before resting his skeptical gaze on her most winsome smile.
“Oh, hi!” she said brightly. “I’m here for an interview, and I was hoping you could point me toward the restroom?”
“And you thought it might be in here?”
“Well no, but I thought a person . . .”
“Follow me, please.”
She heard her Arkansas twang vibrating the air between them as he led her down the hall a few yards, pointed a stern finger and said, “In there.” He crossed his arms, and she felt the heat of his disapproving gaze on her back as she pushed through the heavy door into the privacy on the other side.
Now, that was just downright mortifying. Caught in the act of stealing a donut? A donut?? If he told somebody . . . She cupped her palm over her closed eyes and dragged it slowly down until it covered her mouth.
Of course, she hadn’t actually taken the donut, so what precisely had the guy seen? A woman standing at the edge of an empty cube, leaning her head in politely to look for someone. He probably hadn’t noticed the donut, and even if he had he’d never imagine how desperately she wanted it. He’d probably had steak and gravy for breakfast, and thought a hungry person in Silicon Valley was as rare as a Jurassic Park dinosaur. If anything, he probably thought she was casing the empty cube for something valuable. Which was ridiculous, because what could a cube contain that was as valuable as a job?
But if he thought it was true, he might be waiting for her just outside the door with a security guard, planning to march her out of the building and away from this rare and essential person who could actually give her a job. Busted because of a donut.