Milo nodded. He agreed. And thank God he was a “beloved personality,” as Lovegrove put it, because that was the only thing that had kept his ass from getting canned. There was some value after all to being WBS’s stud correspondent, beefcake disguised as a reporter, who brought in the female demographics Newsline needed to stay on top.
“Milo,” Lovegrove said, “I mean it when I say this is your last warning. If there is one more mistake, of any kind, you will be out of this network. Do we understand one another?”
“We do, sir. Thank you.” And with that Milo rose, shook Lovegrove’s hand, nodded at everyone else, and walked out of the office. He was saved, but only just.
Chapter 16
If ever there were a case where it made sense to do a plea bargain, Alicia thought, this is it.
The red numerals on her digital desk clock read 4:10 PM. It was Monday afternoon. Outside her office, January sun poked feebly through the overcast sky, a laughable antidote to the frigid air whistling down Alisal Street. Commuters tromped noisily past Alicia’s window, bundled against the chill. No doubt they hoped their buses for once would be on time and not leave them exposed on the corner, where their foot stomping would be a staccato counterpoint to Alicia’s thoughts.
Uppermost among those was Theodore Owens III, the likely plea bargain, and her immediate problem.
She squinted into the middle distance, her mind reviewing what she had learned in the twenty-five minutes she’d allotted his case so far. She was heavily reliant on the police report on this one, which she hated. Sure, most cops did a good job, but they were wildly overworked and tended to draw quick conclusions from sketchy evidence. Usually they got everything right but not always, which was why Alicia liked to do some of the footwork herself. But in this case what choice did she have? She was “balls-out,” as Penrose liked to say, on Treebeard, leaving her almost no time or energy for anything else. Let alone a case that screamed both misdemeanor and deal.
It was true, sad but true, and hugely undermining to the prosecution, that the woman Owens had gotten so angry at in the bar, the woman at whom he brandished his pistol, did not want to testify. She’d made that crystal-clear to Alicia over the phone.
How many times do I have to tell you? I dated the guy twice, I never want to see him again, and I sure as hell don’t want to waste my time coming to court!
Alicia had been as persuasive as her own limited interest had allowed. I understand that. But what he did was wrong. And dangerous. And illegal. Not to mention very threatening toward you.
I don’t care.
Don’t you want to teach him a lesson?
Long pause, then, You know what? I’m no teacher. He can learn his lessons from somebody else.
The CLETS criminal history came up clean. No priors on Owens’ record in California. His DMV record revealed numerous transgressions, including several speeding tickets, but nothing notable.
Fine. She’d be a good girl and do her due diligence and put in a call to the jail, a step harried prosecutors usually skipped in the interest of time-saving. It didn’t take long to get an Adult Detention Center clerk on the phone. Late in the afternoon she sounded incredibly ready to call it a day.
“I’m calling about Owens, Theodore the Third,” Alicia said. “Are there any holds on him?”
“Lemme check.” Alicia heard rapid computer key clicking, then the clerk spoke again. “Nothing.”
“You’re sure?’
“I’m sure.”
So Owens had no outstanding warrants in any other state. Alicia went round and round a few more times, trying to get witnesses on the phone. No success. What she was left with all pointed to the same conclusion: Owens, the son of a lawyer and himself an engineer, was a hotheaded jerk. It would be great if she could convict a guy for that—though California’s prisons couldn’t handle the load—but the bottom line was that the cops were right. The best she could get this guy for was misdemeanor brandishing. Minimum penalty ninety days in county jail; maximum one year. Chances were good that would make him think twice next time.
Fine. She’d make that her opening bid. She might have to come down from there, depending on what opposing counsel came back with.
Now the clock reported 4:24 PM. Better to call fast before Owens’ attorneys quit for happy hour. Alicia had a low opinion of defense lawyers, particularly the slick, high-priced specimens that Theodore Owens III had hired.
Alicia was thankful to find Veronica Hodges still in her office, and still, apparently, in the mood for work. She delivered almost nothing by way of greeting or preamble before diving headlong into argument.
“I sincerely hope you’re not making more of this than there is. I’ll grant you that Teddy probably had a little too much to drink, but it was late on a Friday night, he was just coming off a long and difficult week, and the last thing he should have had to tolerate was such callous behavior from a woman he’d cared for deeply.”
Alicia rolled her eyes. She didn’t give a hoot about Owens’ stress level or supposed self-esteem problems. But you had to hand it to defense lawyers. They were even better at spin than politicians.
“Be that as it may,” she told Veronica Hodges, “your client behaved in a hotheaded, reckless manner that endangered the lives of everyone around him.”
“I must dispute that characterization. He was upset, yes, but understandably so, and I would hardly call his behavior reckless. As a matter of fact—”
Veronica Hodges launched into the sort of spirited defense “Teddy” was paying her so well for. Alicia half listened while poking her nose into the top folder on her caseload pile, a mini Tower of Pisa on the right front corner of her desk. After a minute or so of Veronica Hodges’s spiel, Alicia cut in. “I’m prepared to make an offer. For misdemeanor brandishing.”
Silence. Then, “Misdemeanor brandishing?”
“Right.”
“Let me get my client on the phone. I’ll call you right back.”
“Fine.” Alicia disconnected and pulled the next folder off her caseload pile. This one too looked like a prime candidate for settlement. That or she was getting lazy in her old age.
She’d just begun reading the next case’s police report when Veronica Hodges called her back. “We’ll take it,” she said. “But we want the minimum ninety-day sentence.”
The next case stared up at Alicia. The digital clock clicked to 4:31 PM. Her New Year workload would keep her in the office till nine that night, at least. And in by seven the next morning, at the latest.
“Fine,” she said. “We’ve got a deal.”
*
Joan sat in the San Francisco conference room of the investment banking firm Whipple Canaday and reviewed all the many reasons why she didn’t care for investment bankers. Never had. It was one reason why her own tenure as an I-banker—immediately after her truncated stint at Stanford Business School—had been so short. The other, of course, was Daniel’s marriage proposal, which had offered a socially acceptable path out of long-houred, high-pressured high finance into the much more salubrious arenas of home and family.
And lunch, and tennis, and massages, and shopping.
Now investment bankers were making her wait, which irritated her Hudson sensibilities no end. Joan nursed a mug of double cappuccino and tapped the toe of her pump on the Tabriz rug, the rhythm quickening with each passing minute.
She hoped these damn bankers were more efficient at selling companies than they were at keeping appointments. Whipple Canaday was the same firm Daniel and her father had hired when they purchased Headwaters two and a half years before. Her deepest desire now was to extract as much money out of the company as possible and thereby solve her cash-flow problem. She had an idea how best to achieve that goal. And once she had, she would plan her next step, whatever that might be.
The looming question of her future made the mopes yet again descend on Joan’s spirits. She rose from her chair and slunk toward the conference room’s bank of floor-to-ceil
ing windows. The north-facing view from the forty-eighth floor of the Bank of America building gave on to a panorama of the Bay Area: from the East Bay and Berkeley hills to the prison island of Alcatraz to the Golden Gate Bridge and lush green contours of the Marin headlands. Directly in front of her, poking into the overcast winter sky, was the pyramidal apex of the Transamerica Building. Far below, the financial district huddled in checkerboard squares of white and brown and gray.
The problem with Joan’s future was that she was discovering she had little enthusiasm for either of the paths she had initially imagined for herself. Becoming CEO of Headwaters was a nonstarter for so many reasons. And the more she thought about going into politics, the more depressed she became. All that campaigning! Long days of listening to other people’s troubles, followed by long evenings of listening to other people’s troubles, which culminated after victory in long days trying actually to solve other people’s troubles. Really, what was the point? To be famous and looked up to? She was already famous and looked up to!
No, perhaps the better route was to get married again. She hated, absolutely hated to admit it, but maybe her mother had been right on that score after all. Marriage, at least to the right man, would immediately solve her problems. People wouldn’t wonder what she was doing. She was being married! Then she would have children, and people would wonder even less what she was doing. She was raising children! With one live-in nanny per child, which she considered the absolute minimum, most of the burden would be off her shoulders but still she would be beyond reproach. She wouldn’t even have to do charity work while the children were young. They provided a built-in excuse. Really, it was quite an ingenious solution, which was probably why so many women she knew picked it.
Joan stared at the city splayed out before her. All she needed was the right man. He had to be successful and he had to be wealthy. Best if he was famous, too. She did enjoy a touch of celebrity in a man: it enhanced her own.
Milo fit the bill in so many ways, and in addition he was quite solicitous of her. At least usually, though his performance in the five days since New Year’s had been abysmal. He had made zero attempt to contact her. Had he phoned? No. Had he sent roses? Not a stem. A piece of jewelry, perhaps? Nary a stone. He hadn’t even sent an e-mail. And this after she had given herself to him in the only way a woman could truly give herself to a man.
Of course, she knew his behavior was a direct result of that Maldonado woman showing up at the suite to lob accusations. Nor could Joan forget how truly pissed off he had been to discover that she’d turned off his cell phone. But he’d heard her perfectly plausible explanation of why she’d gone back to Carmel. And as she had predicted, the cell phone snafu hadn’t cost him his job. She’d seen him on the air.
As far as she was concerned, he was out of line to keep holding a grudge. And he was seriously misinformed if he thought he could sleep with her and then go radio-silent. She would clarify that misconception but quick. And in the meantime, she would show him she had a life of her own by spending a few nights at the Ritz while conducting her Headwaters business.
Though it was a difficult trick playing hard-to-get with a man who hadn’t even noticed she was missing ...
Joan heard a bustle behind her at the half-open door of the conference room. She turned to see it push open and a phalanx of bankers troop inside, dressed in all the colors of the rainbow from blue to gray. At their head was senior partner Frederick Whipple, a close friend of her father’s and a onetime assistant secretary of the Treasury Department.
“Joan.” Frederick grasped both her hands while his minions fanned out around the conference table, positioning themselves behind seats as if Musical Chairs were about to begin. “I am so very sorry about Daniel. Such a needless tragedy.”
“Thank you, Frederick.” She bowed her head, as had become her habit when the condolences rolled in.
“Please allow me to make the introductions.” Frederick proceeded to give names to the half dozen suits who would aid him in the proceedings. Joan made no attempt to keep track of who was who. She would deal only with Frederick, as her father had done.
Everyone sat down. Frederick assumed his position at the head of the conference table, as befitted his five-star-general role, and Joan sat at his right hand. Fresh coffee was served, and after some chitchat Joan was asked the reason for her appointment. She addressed herself to Frederick.
“As you know, Daniel loved Headwaters Resources,” she told him. “He loved the day-to-day running of the company, he loved building its team, he loved facing its challenges. But Daniel is gone now.” She paused and looked down at her lap, as though she needed to collect herself. No one said a word. No one rushed a new widow, not even the most impatient bankers on the planet. “I want to carry on my husband’s vision for Headwaters,” she raised her head to say. “And I believe the best way to ensure his legacy is to sell the company.”
Frederick Whipple nodded sagely. “I understand what you’re saying, Joan, but I caution you against making such a decision hastily. You have undergone an enormous trauma very recently.”
“I appreciate your concern, Frederick, but you can rest assured that I have considered this from every angle. With the advice of my family counsel,” she added, guessing that Frederick Whipple deeply approved of Henry Gossett. Of course, she hadn’t actually said word one to Henry. “And upon prudent reflection, I wish to proceed.”
Joan knew that Frederick Whipple would not object again. He had no desire to rile up a valuable client who was clearly committed to a course of action. She knew from her own I-banking experience that Whipple didn’t really care whether her decision was ill-advised or not. If she was so bullheaded she was going ahead anyway, he simply wanted his firm to be the one to collect the fees from the transaction.
A throat-clearing sounded from the man directly at Joan’s right. She turned her head to look into the bespectacled eyes of a gray-suited thirty-something male. “Are you certain you want to sell the whole company?” he asked.
She frowned and tried to appear slightly confused. “I think so,” she managed, then fell silent.
As she had hoped, a sort of charge ran through the assembled troops. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the suit direct his earnest gaze at Frederick Whipple. A wordless communication passed between them.
“Joan,” Whipple then said, “have you considered bringing the company to the market?”
She widened her eyes, pretending to appear all innocence. “What are you suggesting, Frederick?”
“An IPO, Joan. An initial public offering.”
“Selling shares in Headwaters for the first time,” the suit added.
Joan had to stop herself from screaming out what popped into her head: I know what it means, you idiots! Who around this table thought of it first? But she tried to appear as if the idea had never crossed her mind. She let her hand fly to her throat in that classic feminine gesture of surprise. “Oh, my.”
The suit spoke again. “Bringing the company to the market may well maximize its value.”
Whipple took up where the suit left off. “An IPO of, let’s say, twenty percent of the company would provide a steady stream of cash flow even as it offers you a slow exit from the company. We may be able to generate considerable enthusiasm for shares of Headwaters Resources.” He paused. “Particularly with circumstances as they are.”
Joan’s heart leaped at that magic phrase cash flow. And though Frederick Whipple left much unsaid, Joan knew exactly what he meant. “Considerable enthusiasm” meant top dollar. “Circumstances as they are” referred to Daniel’s gruesome murder, the tie-in to her famous family, her own role as the lovely young widow eager to continue her husband’s legacy. It all added up to one dramatic possibility: If Whipple Canaday took Headwaters public, Joan Gaines might make a killing.
So to speak.
The suit started talking again. “Of course, the IPO market is the weakest it’s been in years. And we’ll need to asse
ss Headwaters closely to see if an IPO is even feasible. Check into the books, analyze the assets, and find out if any of our institutional clients would be interested in participating.”
Yes, Joan was worried about that, too. She could only hope these bankers would find enough to like when they probed Headwaters’ books, which were not exactly a cheery read these days. But surely they would try to put the best possible spin on things, as they, too, would enjoy big fees from an IPO.
Which she had known all along.
The widow Joan produced a brave smile for all the parties assembled around Whipple Canaday’s vast conference table. “Let us proceed swiftly,” she urged them, “so that I can best do justice to the company that was so dear to my husband’s heart.”
Chapter 17
Kip Penrose couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so good. Nervous, too, but that was to be expected. He raised his chin and nudged the knot on his best yellow paisley tie just a tad higher, using as a mirror the glass panes of his office armoire, which housed his TV, VCR, and personal videotape collection. No doubt he would have fresh material to add to the stash later that day. Behind the glass the VCR read out the time in little blue numerals: 12:54 PM. Six minutes to his next newscon, and boy, would this one be a doozy.
He chuckled and moved away from the armoire. He was far too excited to sit, so he loped agitatedly around his office, rotating his shoulders and trying to keep loose as though he were a quarterback waiting on the sidelines to go for the fourth-quarter game-winning drive. Was the one-o’clock hour for the newscon not perfect? Also the fact that this was a Friday afternoon? Kip believed most people got the ax Friday afternoon so they’d have the weekend to lick their wounds and their first jobless workday wouldn’t roll around till Monday.
Kip marched to his desk to make sure his prop for the newscon was in order. Sure enough, inside a folder lay the FBI report on Theodore Owens III. Kip had requested the report days earlier, knowing what it would contain. It had arrived just that morning, ready to be displayed to the media at the appropriate dramatic moment.
To Catch the Moon Page 24