by Geneva Lee
“Sterling Ford, here for a meeting with Ms. Laird and Mr. Welles,” I tell the receptionist, a thirty-something woman wearing an oversized, hand-knit poncho with garish makeup, as if Betty Page got up one day and dressed like Martha Stewart.
She smiles brightly but says nothing, instead pushing a button on her phone and speaking into her headset. “Ms. Laird,” the woman says, “I have a Sterling Ford here.”
She listens a moment, then rises to her feet. “This way, Mr. Ford. Ms. Laird and Mr. Welles will join you in our conference room.”
I go over the conversation I want to have in my head. Cameron Laird is the attorney who helped me anonymously purchase—and then sell on—my shares in MacLaine Media. She’s young, ambitious, and very talented. And somehow, despite being a lawyer, she seems like a good person. We’d spoken on the phone earlier about Ellie, as well as another matter.
I requested one other lawyer be here as well, one I’ve met before, but who probably won’t remember me. I’d warned Cameron as to why. In the past five years I’ve had a lot of time to consider lawyers, especially Mr. Welles. Since he’s still practicing, I assume he’s on good terms with the State Bar Association, a feat that can only be explained by assuming Welles kept his fingers crossed when he vowed to uphold the law and avoid conflicts of interest.
The timing of my scholarship getting pulled five years ago simply can’t be a coincidence. Someone was paid to take a stack of thin evidence—provided by Angus MacLaine—and make it amount to something that would get me banished from Valmont. Who better than a lawyer who was supposed to be representing the interests of the University, maybe one who worked for and had sway over the Dean of Students? And after what I learned today, the crime I want Welles to answer for has gotten a lot bigger in scope. His actions contributed to my daughter living a nightmare—a nightmare Welles will be living soon.
“God, you’re unbelievable, Welles. Every time I think you’ve hit rock bottom, you dig a little deeper,” a woman says, upset enough that her voice leaks into the hallway.
“You’re just fucking jealous I’m going to make partner when they announce it next month, even though you came to work for your older brother,” a man replies, his thin, nervous voice at odds with the message he’s trying to convey. “Look at this fucking meeting, you know? You helped this Ford guy, who’s stupid fucking rich, with whatever-it-was, and when he comes back needing more help he asks for me. Says something, don’t you think? I know your brother will agree with me. ”
I guess my hunch that the professional Ms. Laird and the gutter-snake Mr. Welles wouldn’t see eye to eye was correct.
The receptionist shoots me an apologetic look, looking slightly confused to see me grinning like a kid at Christmas, and raps quickly on the door sending the two lawyers to rigid attention.
Cameron recovers first, springing up to offer me a handshake, “Mr. Ford, how wonderful to see you again.”
“Hello, Mr. Ford. I’m Peter Welles.” He doesn’t bother coming to shake my hand, instead sitting at one end of the conference table, his neck struggling to fill the small collar of his shirt and giving the unmistakable impression of a gopher popping its head out of its hole. My hands flex instinctively, as if even they are smart enough to know this guy’s neck needs wringing. It’s functionally no work to imagine Peter Welles looking into the mirror as a boy of 12, and, seeing the weasel-face staring back at him, determine his future profession: scummy lawyer.
He also doesn’t recognize me. At all.
It takes a lot of self control not to rip his head right off his bony shoulders.
Cameron closes the door, and I take stock of the room we’re in. Dark, with just a couple windows along the exterior wall. Contrary to television and movies, most law offices don’t actually have floor-to-ceiling glass walls and permanently open blinds. Legal stuff is nasty shit better kept to closely-guarded cloisters. The real rule of thumb for law offices seems to be: the thicker the walls are, the better your secrets keep. And these walls are thick. A brass band could march by outside, and I bet we’d hardly notice.
“Mr. Ford, we spoke briefly on the phone, so I have some idea why we’re here, but why don’t you fill my colleague in on your situation?” Cameron says, taking a seat at the other end of the table, opposite Welles, and leaving me between them, like a bone for two dogs to fight over.
She and I didn’t discuss this in much detail, but I approve of the choice.
“I’ve recently discovered I have a daughter—one I didn’t know about.” It takes me five minutes to discuss enough of the details to get the advice I need, but without going into so many details that Welles gets distracted by how batshit crazy this story actually is.
“I’m so glad you came to us,” Welles says, seizing the floor as soon as he can. Dollar signs shine in his eyes. Not only am I stupid fucking rich, according to his own words, the MacLaines are practically American royalty. He’s not just getting a payday but a scandal.
Good. Impress me, you little, little man.
“This is a life-altering event for you,” he continues, “and you’re clearly the wronged party here. What kind of resolution were you hoping for?”
“I want the restoration of my parental rights—as soon as possible.”
“That will take a court petition, getting on the docket, then the inevitable motions and the MacLaines will definitely file for continuances as long as they can,” Cameron says using her sorry-for-the-bad-news-voice. “It could take months just to get the petition heard.”
“Dammit,” I say, feigning disappointment. I knew that already thanks to the legal offices of Google, so I had time to get over it. Welles doesn’t need to know that, however. “Isn’t there some way to speed things up?”
“With what you’ve told us, I don’t see how—” she begins.
“Of course there’s a way. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, eh Mr. Ford?” Welles shoots me a sly wink.
She frowns at her colleague, shooting him a warning glance, which he completely ignores. “Short of a child welfare issue reported to the county by Family Services, there’s nothing in court procedure that will require a quick hearing.”
“Exactly,” says Welles smoothly.
“I’m confused,” I say slowly before sliding fresh bait onto my hook. “Is there a way or isn’t there?”
The two stare at each other across the conference table, locked in a battle of wills. She says “no” at the exact moment he says “yes.”
They both start to speak at the same time, and when it becomes clear neither will cede the floor to the other, they ratchet up in volume and intensity until they are both on their feet.
“You’re talking about fabricating information, Welles.”
“That’s your characterization, not mine.”
When I hold my hand up to silence them, they can’t stop before offering one final parting shot each.
“You do not fuck with family court!” she barks.
“You just have to be willing to go the extra mile for your clients,” he says, turning to look at me with a silent question.
Which one of them is going to do that?
“Ms. Laird?” I say, turning to look at her. “Would you excuse us?”
If being a lawyer doesn’t work out for her, Cameron should consider acting. None of this is news to her, but she played it all perfectly. It takes my words a second to settle in, then she gives Welles a look of such perfect malice I almost believe she’s mad to see me get sucked in by her colleague.
“That’ll be all, Cam,” Welles says, a nakedly smug look of victory on his weasel-face.
She storms out without even a glance in my direction, leaving me alone with Welles.
“There was a lot happening all at once,” I say conspiratorially to him. “I take it that someone needs to report an incident to Family Services?”
“Yes, it’s really just as simple as that. The law allows for semi-anonymous reporting in child welfare matters. Teachers and ot
her people who work with kids, they’re mandatory reporters. If they see kids being mistreated, they have to file a report. But what happens if a plumber or a subordinate employee sees their employer hitting their kids? The law protects them if they want to come forward. They can claim they are effectively ‘in a compromised situation,’ and their report will be investigated despite being anonymous. It’s hardly ever used.”
Welles looks proud of himself, and in spite of myself, I’m tempted to use what he just told me. I already discussed what direction I’d take with Cameron on the phone when I set this up, but it doesn’t hurt to know there’s a way to use the system if a real emergency with Ellie presented itself. I’m not in a position to draw unwanted scrutiny on my past or current business.
“But wouldn’t the MacLaines know someone who works at Windfall reported them? They could get...punitive...with staff,” I suggest. It’s important I give Welles an out. One last chance to prove he’s not scraping the bottom of the legal barrel for whatever scum he can use in his practice.
“Why would I worry about them? You are my client. The only thing is, the report needs details and plausibility. I’ll write it myself. I’ve been to Windfall a few times,” he says, puffing out his skinny chest. It’s the detail he thinks will close the deal but he’s opened a door he can’t close.
“Wait, do you represent the MacLaines in other matters?” I stand up from the table and button my suit jacket. “How can I trust you to represent my interests? This meeting is ov—”
“No, no, Mr. Ford. Nothing like that.” He shows me his palms, held at shoulder height. He’s beginning to realize his mistake, which makes him desperate to prevent my walking out the door. “I’ve never officially represented the MacLaines. They had a problem with their daughter a few years back. Gold-digging boyfriend. I had just started work as counsel for Dean Cheswyk at Valmont U. We did a deal. Furnish evidence that would make their problem go away.”
“And you found that evidence?” I repeat like I’m turning this over in my head. The truth is I want to hear him say it. I want him to admit what he did.
“Yeah. You know, get the kid kicked out of school for stuff he actually did without dragging the daughter into it too much.” His eyes search my face without a trace of recognition, but his apprehension has already made his palms sweaty, because he rubs them absentmindedly on his trousers, leaving a dark blot. “Look, you need me. The MacLaines? They’re going to fight, and they’re going to fight dirty. This is going to be huge. We’ll get the media on our side. You do a few interviews. We get that report made. Their own company will do the rest. I mean, have you seen the stories about them covering up MacLaine’s wife’s death? They can’t handle more bad press, and we’ll pile it on. They probably even have some old staff who’d be happy to burn them. You know what they say about revenge.”
“Yeah, I do,” I say quietly. “I know a lot about revenge.”
He pauses, momentarily confused. “We can get started right away.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Welles. You misunderstand why I can’t work with you,” I say, watching his face melt into a sort of sad mess. This man doesn’t hear ‘no’ enough. “I’m not the type of man who gets off when the shit circus comes to town. I just want my kid back. Preferably without traumatizing her for life. Nothing else matters. Good day.”
He splutters a final, feeble attempt to salvage his new client. “I’m sorry to hear that. If you want to pursue the matter we discussed, give me a call. You’ll have a couple months to consider it. Family court moves slowly!”
I stomp out of the office in a huff, and Welles, reluctant to be seen as the cause of this, or to apologize in front of his colleagues, disappears into a restroom.
I’m not surprised when Cameron slides into the elevator just as the doors are starting to close.
“How badly did he fuck himself?” she asks, unable to keep a smile off her face.
“Pretty badly.” I pull the tape recorder out of the breast pocket of my suit. And click it off. “He explicitly advised me to fabricate evidence. Then he offered to do it for me. And then he admitted to taking money under the table in a scheme involving Angus MacLaine and one of the deans at the University.”
“He’ll end up disbarred,” she says, her eyes closing as a deep, warm smile spreads on her face. “Serves him right.”
“I’m just glad I was able to do it right,” I say, and when I see the quizzical look on her face I elaborate. “I didn’t make him do any of that. He was just...dying to show me he could. How much did you tell him I was worth?”
“Billions,” she laughs, and it rings with the bright melodious sound of a person who just shed a heavy weight.
“You have a good day, Sterling. And don’t think I’ve forgotten what really matters. Your daughter. Despite what I said up there, there is more we can do, and I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Cameron,” I say, getting off the elevator as she stays on. “We’ll speak soon.”
Cameron’s laughter is still ringing in my ears when I step into the lobby, and, despite the pressure of my current situation, I feel lighter, too. I’ve been focused on revenge for five long years. I wanted pain. I wanted fear. But now I’m starting to understand that revenge doesn’t just hurt the victim. Revenge is poison. It warps you. It changes you. It makes you into the monsters you think you’re fighting. I never wanted revenge. I wanted to see bad people pay. I wanted to believe being a good person mattered. I wasn’t out for revenge. I was looking for justice.
Justice restores. I can’t change what Welles did to me. Maybe he deserves worse than losing his job, but he won’t abuse his power as a lawyer again, and, damn, knowing that feels pretty good.
Before I can settle into this brighter outlook on life, my phone rings. I check the caller ID and brace myself for a lecture. Sutton and I need to have a long talk, so I can explain how and why things have changed. “Hey, kid. Sorry, I kicked you out last night.”
“You should be more careful with your family, Ford,” Nikolai’s voice says evenly, and realization grips me in a cold panic.
“What have you done?”
“Nothing. I’m just having a friendly chat with Sutton. She’s very entertaining. I see stubbornness runs in the family.”
“If you touch her,” I begin my warning.
“I won’t. You have my word. Unless, of course, we can’t find a way to deal with our mutual problem,” he says. “My brothers are getting impatient, shall we say? I would hate to have to send a stronger message.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do about this. If I knew who the witness was, he’d be a dead man.” Maybe I haven’t changed as much as I thought, but a man has a right to protect his family, doesn’t he?
“But you have a friend who does know,” he points out. “I have to say it doesn’t look good to be seen talking to the FBI, Ford. People might make assumptions. I told my brothers you would never crack, but now we find out about Agent Porter, and well, I don’t like being proven wrong.”
“I’ll deal with it,” I snap. I don’t know how, but it’s not like I have a choice.
“It’s always a pleasure doing business with you.” I can hear the feline smile in his voice. “And, Ford? The clock has started. Tick. Tock.”
He hangs up, but his threat lingers in the air. Nikolai Koltsov has a short fuse, and it's been lit.
Tick-tock.
17
Adair
I am the worst boss in history. Not that I’m the boss, exactly, and I never will be if I can’t get my head on straight. My thoughts keep wandering between flashes of last night and the wicked skills Sterling demonstrated in bed and worry over what’s to come.
Because he knows. He finally knows.
I swore I would never tell him—never tell anyone. But burying my head in the sand isn’t going to work any more. It feels as though every moment between the day he left and the day he walked back into my life has been leading to this. And there’s so much more to wrap my head a
round: the FBI, the Bratva, the man he’s become, the man he wants to be. I can’t stop asking myself if he wants to be that man for me or for himself. I can’t decide if it’s an important differentiation. It feels like it is.
My phone rings. Sterling’s ear must be burning. Of course, I’m always thinking of him, so maybe not. I answer it expecting news from his meeting with Cameron Laird. “How did it go?”
“Exactly what I expected,” he says in a clipped tone that tells me his mind is elsewhere. “Look, something’s come up. You’re at your office, right?”
“Yes,” I say slowly.
“Thank God.” His relief is palpable. “Stay there.”
The demand moves my emotional barometer from introspective to paranoid in an instant. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve got everything under control,” he says.
That’s a pretty clear indication that things are out of his control.
“Sterling, tell me now.”
“Nikolai decided to make a little statement,” he says, continuing in a rush when I gasp. “He’s got Sutton, but I have a plan. If you can’t reach me this afternoon, don’t worry.”
“Oh, sure,” I hiss into the phone, hoping none of my colleagues can hear me. “I’ll just hang out here while you play cat and mouse with the Russian mafia. Are you ever not in trouble?”
“I guess not,” he says dryly. “I promise everything is fine. I know exactly who to talk to, and I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Don’t—”
“Worry,” I finish for him, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I know. I’ll just read a book.”
“Good idea,” he says, missing my sarcasm. “Love you.”
He hangs up before I can respond, and I’m left staring at my desk. I shove my phone back into my bag, feeling a little numb. There’s no way I can concentrate on edits for my first acquisition. I need to lose myself in a book, the way I only can on a first read. I rifle through a stack of possibilities someone’s plopped on my desk looking for one that will sweep me away from this mess, even for a few hours.