In Firm Pursuit
Page 1
IN FIRM PURSUIT
PAMELA SAMUELS-YOUNG
IN FIRM PURSUIT
To my husband, Rick.
Thanks for loving me and for constantly cracking me up.
Don’t be afraid of the space between your dreams and reality. If you can dream it, you can make it so.
—Belva Davis, journalist
Acknowledgments
After many years of working toward this goal, it is indeed nothing short of a blessing from above that I am a twice-published author. In addition to thanking God, I also owe a debt of gratitude to a boatload of family and friends.
My first thank you goes out to five very special men. To Jerome Norris, thanks for delving into my manuscript and helping me keep it real. When this brother from the hood gave In Firm Pursuit a big thumbs-up, I knew it was ready to roll. To Rafael Medina, the biggest movie buff I know, thanks for your astute critiques and ever-present enthusiasm. To my cousin Donny Wilson and his fellow Raytheon buddy, Frank Harris, thanks for that last-minute critique and your manly insights. To Karey Keenan, the coolest white guy I know (you must have been a brother in another life), thanks for your constant praise and top-notch editing skills.
To my loving parents, John and Pearl Samuels, no daughter could have had two better book promoters. To my wonderful stepchildren, Tonicha Haythorn, Tanya Knight, Goldman (“Ricky”) Young, III, and Shelby Young, thanks for all the pub!
Many thanks to my cheerleader friends who publicized my first novel, Every Reasonable Doubt, by telling all their friends, buying several copies, setting up and attending multiple book signings and hawking the novel as if it were their own: Olivia Smith, Rachell Jackson, Jackie Hilson, Lisa Gooden Campbell, Tina Fisher, Sharlene Moore, Linda Teems, Geneva O’Keith, Roosevelt Womble, Syna Dennis, Alicia Tilque, Russana Rowles, Carla Burhanan, Bettie Lewis, Sara Finney-Johnson, Felicia Henderson, Monique Brandon, Linda Rosborough, President of Black Women Lawyers Association of Los Angeles, my Coro buddy Jennifer Davis, my uncle, Eddie Stephens, my college roommate Donna Lowry (you really hooked me up in Atlanta!), my homey, Edna Browder (thanks for the great home cooking in Gary, Indiana), my Compton homey Dewitt Tolbert (thanks for being my chauffeur in Boston), Al and Alice Coombs (thanks for the hospitality in Boston) and my Compton High School government teacher, Walter Bodle (thanks for the room and board in Seattle as well as setting up all those appearances). And an extra-special thank-you to Naomi Young, Johnine Barnes and Betty Southard Murphy, three partners with the law firm of Baker Hostetler. That elegant book-signing party you hosted in my honor in Washington, D.C., has yet to be matched.
To my amazing Toyota supporters, Alva Mason, Lynda Martin, Gay France, Kathy Fairbrother, Michelle Ramos, Lisa Williams, Nichelle Norris, Diane Mackin, Sophy Woodhouse, Judy Simmons, Alicia McAndrews, Molly Byock, Charles Zacharie, Michael Gutierrez, Midge Waters, Karin Accomando, Marsha Silady, Pat Trytten, Shirley Price, Linda Coleman and Jackie Boss, your passionate support, pats on the back and encouraging e-mails warmed my heart. To the Nubian Queens Literary Club of Los Angeles, especially Gwen Jones (who made the time for a second read on very short notice), thanks for sending me back to the drawing board, which resulted in a much better product.
To the members of my writing group, Adrienne Byers, Jane Howard-Martin and Nefertiti Austin, every author needs to be surrounded by other truly supportive writers. Thanks for all those gentle critiques. And to my agent Sha-Shana Crichton and my Kimani Press editor, Glenda Howard, thanks for getting me to this point.
Finally, I am especially blessed to be surrounded by a circle of extraordinary people whose giving spirit has helped me grow in so many ways. I consider these individuals my personal board of directors: Cheryl Mason, who provides me with both spiritual guidance and remarkable literary insight; Ellen Farrell, my motivational coach and literary sounding board; Brian Dunn, my self-appointed promoter, who came out of nowhere and made so many things happen that I’m still scratching my head; Debbie Diffendal, Jewelle Johnson, Sauti Baraka, Ginger Heyman, Cynthia Hebron, Halima Horton and De’Borah Letbetter, the best critics/champions an author could have; Virginia Gonzales, my new friend and editor extraordinare; Carolyn Holt, my superb publicist; Laurie Robinson of Corporate Counsel Women of Color, a smart, dynamic young lawyer who constantly pushes me to dream big; Shunda Leigh, my energetic Atlanta publicist, from Booking Matters magazine, who always makes things happen; and last, but most certainly not least, public speaking/marketing guru Mike Rounds, who generously shared both his time and talent and who is constantly making me feel as if I’m something special. You have all aided me on this journey in immeasurable ways.
Please stay tuned. I’m just warming up!
Contents
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
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
EPILOGUE
BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS FOR IN FIRM PURSUIT
PROLOGUE
Karen Carruthers had never thought much of women who filed sexual harassment claims. A woman who couldn’t hold her own with a man—any man—simply didn’t have balls. But now, Karen was one of them.
Gripping the gearshift of her convertible Mustang Cobra, Karen pressed down hard on the gas and didn’t let up until the speedometer hovered near eighty-five. At this time of the day—only minutes before sunrise—L.A.’s 405 Freeway resembled the flatlands of some Midwestern highway. The road was all hers, so she took it.
Whenever trouble loomed, Karen did the one thing that soothed her. She drove. For the past few weeks, anxiety had crept into her every thought and buried itself there. But during her freedom drives,
as she liked to call them, she felt fearless. Invigorated. Fulfilled. All those empowering words her therapist insisted that she embrace.
As the Mustang glided past ninety, the crisp air fanned Karen’s face and she inhaled a healthy gulp that a New Yorker would have considered warm for a February. Despite the cool temperature, she felt a hot exhilarating rush. Not all that different from what she experienced during sex. Really great sex.
Zooming past the Santa Monica interchange in a nearly drunken state of euphoria now, Karen almost missed the Mulholland exit. Imitating a stunt she’d seen in a Bruce Willis movie, she laterally zipped across three lanes, just in time to make it to the off-ramp. As Karen ascended the short incline to the traffic light ahead, she combed her fingers through her thick mass of strawberry-blond hair, then rubbed her emerald-green eyes.
When Karen first reported her allegations of sexual harassment against Henry Randle, she had expected that the man would be fired. But she had not anticipated that Randle would turn around and sue Micronics Corporation. Now Karen was her company’s star witness in his wrongful termination case. A case she wanted nothing to do with.
Leaning forward, Karen pressed the CD button and began singing along with Faith Hill. Not until she had made a left onto Skirball Center Drive and a right onto Mulholland, did she notice the black sedan a couple of car lengths behind. A longer glimpse in her rearview mirror told her that the car was a BMW with a lone occupant inside. Karen punched off Faith mid-chorus and picked up speed. Her pulse did the same. She passed the University of Judaism at close to seventy. The sedan sped up as well.
And then it hit her. The documents! Karen snatched her purse from the passenger’s seat, fished out an envelope and stuffed it down her sweater and into her bra. She had known all along that they would eventually come looking for the documents. Feeling them against her skin sent an icy chill through her body.
Karen inhaled and tried to think clearly as trepidation gradually sucked the air from her lungs. The two-mile stretch of Mulholland that lay ahead was interspersed on both sides with outrageously expensive homes and cliffs with made-for-Hollywood views. A sharp turn down one of the long driveways would leave her trapped, making her an easy target for her pursuer. A wrong turn in the opposite direction could send her into a nosedive off one of the cliffs, finishing the job for them.
Though fear now coursed through every vein in Karen’s body, an odd smile graced her lips. There was no way the BMW would be able to keep up. Her breathing slowed ever so slightly after another glance in the mirror confirmed that her pursuer was losing ground. Karen had cruised Mulholland so many times she could almost drive it blindfolded. She only had to make it down the hill to Beverly Glen. Somebody was bound to be walking a dog or taking an early morning jog. They would not want witnesses.
Karen patted her breast, confirming that the envelope was still there. Still safe. Just then another car shot out of a driveway several hundred yards ahead and Karen’s heart slammed against her chest. Instinct told her the BMW to her rear was not working alone. She anxiously felt for the envelope again and concentrated on her next move.
She took another quick glance in the rearview mirror. The BMW wasn’t there. When she looked to her left, her eyes bore across the empty passenger seat of the BMW and directly into the barrel of a gun.
Time froze for a second, then a piercing scream left Karen’s lips, reverberating into the early morning air. Karen stomped on the brakes and the BMW, unprepared for her sudden stop, darted ahead, just as she had anticipated.
What happened next, however, had not been part of Karen’s plan.
She jerked the steering wheel sharply to the left and hit the gas. But instead of making a full U-turn, the Mustang headed off the road, straight toward a thin patch of bushes where a guardrail should have been.
Karen’s hands flew to her face, barely muffling her futile screams.
For what seemed like minutes rather than seconds, the Mustang floated across the reddish-orange sky like a wonderfully woven magic carpet. After a moment of calm, Karen felt the sharp pull of gravity, then braced herself for a landing that turned daybreak into darkness.
CHAPTER 1
“This case should be settled,” barked the Honorable Frederick H. Sloan. The judge’s demanding baritone required a response even though no question had been posed.
I looked over at Reggie Jenkins, my spineless opposing counsel, seated to my left in the judge’s private chambers. The petrified expression on his face told me I would have to speak for the both of us.
“Your Honor,” I began, knowing how much judges loved to hear that salutation, “we’re just too far apart. My client is ready and willing to try this case.”
Judge Sloan rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing more of his flawless tan. Most of the federal judges who sat on the bench in California’s Central District did not fit the typical stereotype of a jurist. Sloan was both tall and handsome and had probably hit the gym during the lunch hour. If it weren’t for his lush gray hair, it would have been hard to tell that he had bypassed sixty a few years back.
“How about you, counselor?” The judge swiveled his chair away from me and zeroed in on my opponent. “Are you prepared to try this case, too?”
Jenkins inhaled and scratched the back of his neck. A chubby, middle-aged black man, he had chronically chapped lips and wore a short Afro that always looked uncombed. His beige linen suit needed a good pressing and his tie was as crooked as he was.
“Oh, no, Your Honor.” Jenkins cracked the knuckles of his right hand against the palm of his left. “I don’t like wasting the taxpayers’ time and money.”
I wanted to bop Reggie on the head with my purse. He settled all of his cases because he was too incompetent to go to trial.
Judge Sloan swung back to me and smiled heartily. “I’ve seen very few cases that were slam dunks. You sure you want to try this case, little lady?”
Little lady? I hated it when judges talked to me like I was some bimbo. After only eight years of practice, I had some pretty impressive stats on my Bar card. I was a senior associate at O’Reilly & Finney, one of the most respected trial firms in L.A. I had also won a five-million-dollar verdict in a race discrimination case and defended a high-profile murder case. But taking crap from judges was par for the course.
Before I could respond, the judge returned his focus to my rival.
“Mr. Jenkins, what’s your client looking for?”
“Your Honor,” I interrupted, “my client really wants to try this—”
Sloan held up a hand the size of a dinner plate, but did not look my way. “I’m talking to Mr. Jenkins right now.” He grabbed a handful of roasted almonds from a crystal dish on the corner of his desk and tossed a couple into his mouth.
“W-well, Your Honor,” Jenkins stuttered, “my client, Henry Randle, was fired based on trumped-up charges of sexual harassment. He was really terminated because he’s a black man and because he refused to turn a blind eye to the company’s fraudulent billing practices. He—”
I couldn’t contain myself. “That’s not true. Your client was fired for grabbing Karen Carruthers in an elevator and trying to kiss her. And there’s absolutely no evidence that—”
This time the judge cut me off with a raised hand and a stone-hard glare. “Ms…. uh…”
“Henderson,” I said, annoyed that he couldn’t even remember my name. “Vernetta Henderson.”
“Ms. Henderson, you will speak only when I ask you to.”
I locked my arms across my chest and slumped a little in my chair. When a federal judge called for order, he usually got it.
“Mr. Jenkins,” the judge continued brusquely, “I know the facts. Let’s cut to the chase. Make Ms. Henderson an offer.”
Jenkins looked timidly in my direction and took a long moment before speaking. “I believe I could get my client to accept five hundred thousand,” he nearly squeaked.
“Out of the question,” I said, ig
noring the judge’s gag order.
Judge Sloan leaned forward and stroked his chin. “I’m afraid I would have to agree. Give us a more realistic number, Mr. Jenkins. What’s your bottom line?”
Reggie looked down at his hands. “I…uh…I guess if my client received something in the neighborhood of thirty thousand, he might accept it.”
Thirty thousand. I mindlessly doodled on the legal pad on my lap. That was a good offer. My client, Micronics Corporation, would easily spend ten times that in attorneys’ fees by the time the trial was over. But Micronics’s litigation philosophy mandated trying winnable cases, even when they could be settled for nuisance value. They firmly believed that if a plaintiff’s attorney litigated a case for months or years and netted nothing for his efforts, he would think twice before suing the company a second time, knowing the battle that awaited him.