In Firm Pursuit

by Pamela Samuels Young

  Hamilton confined his words solely to moans and groans as Special slowly massaged him with a soft, almost featherlike touch that took him to the edge, lured him away, then snatched him back again.

  Her touch was so sensuous he had to concentrate hard on not coming. “Oooooh, baby! This is nice…real nice. You’re going to make me—” Hamilton felt a sharp wave of cold air hit his exposed groin.

  “Gotta go.” Special hurled the passenger door open.

  “We’ll have to pick this up some other time.”

  “Oh, hell nah!” Hamilton yelled, as he struggled to rise from his prone position. “Come back here!” He fumbled frantically for the button on the side of his seat. It took forever for the seat to return to the upright position. In his haste to zip up his pants, Hamilton pinched himself with the zipper. “Owww!”

  When the pain had subsided enough for him to breathe, he stumbled out of the car and charged across the street. Special was nowhere in sight. He peered through the double glass doors into the empty lobby of the three-story building. He dialed her apartment code, but Special did not pick up.

  “Oh, to hell with this!” he shouted, and stormed back across the street. He snatched open the car door, grabbed his cell phone from the center console and dialed Special’s number.

  She answered on the fourth ring. “Good evening. I’m Special,” she cooed.

  “Special, I’m too old for these kind of games!” Hamilton said angrily.

  She laughed. “C’mon, sweetie, can’t you take a joke?”

  “I’m not laughing, Special.”

  “C’mon, sweetie, don’t be mad at me,” she said with the seductiveness of a phone sex operator. “I really, really dig you, Hamilton. And by the way, you’re absolutely huge.”

  “Don’t play me,” he seethed.

  “I’m serious. I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of being with a man as well endowed as you are. We’re going to have a really great time.”

  “And exactly when is that going to happen?”

  “Soon, baby. Soon. And I promise you it’ll be worth the wait. There’re still some things I need to know about you before we can go there.”

  Hamilton laughed bitterly. “Just what in the hell do you need to know about me?”

  “Lots of things. Like your favorite position, for example. Do you like it from the front? The back? Do you prefer whipped cream or honey? All that stuff is important, you know.”

  Damn her! Hamilton slammed his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. He could feel himself getting hard again. He turned his key, starting up the engine. “You’re something else, you know that?” he said, some of his anger dissipating.

  “Yep, I know,” Special said smugly. “Hey, hold on a second. I need to slip off my panties and put on my red silk teddy.”

  Hamilton dropped his chin to his chest. The image of Special’s long, smooth legs in a teddy was enough to make him lose it right there. He turned the steering wheel to the left and made a hasty U-turn.

  Hamilton laughed. The girl was definitely working him. He could not remember the last time he had been so turned on. But he was a busy man and he did not have time for high-maintenance babes. When she finally gave it up, he would hit it a couple of times and then move on.

  As the car turned off Buckingham and onto Slauson, he did a quick mental check of his little black book, trying to figure out who he could call to alleviate his throbbing hard-on. Both Priscilla, a paralegal at his office, and Katie, a cute redhead who had come onto him in the grocery store last week, were probably at home and neither would give him any flack about showing up on their doorstep after ten o’clock on a Saturday night. In fact, they would both be thrilled to see him. Maybe he could talk them into a threesome.

  “Are you still there, sweetie?” Special asked.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” Hamilton replied. “So…you wanna know what I like?” he said, growing excited again at the thought. “When I walk into the room, I want you butt naked, bent over in front of me, touching your toes. I’ll take over from there.”

  “Umm,” Special purred. “That’s a new one. But I think I can handle that. Now go on. What else? Tell Special everything you like and exactly how you like it.”

  CHAPTER 24

  At eight o’clock on Monday morning, Porter picked up the telephone but did not immediately dial a number. He hated having to report to Jim O’Reilly like he was some lowly associate. But as the Managing Partner of the firm, O’Reilly had to be updated on the Micronics situation.

  Having a client as important as Micronics unhappy with the firm’s services was not just Porter’s problem, it was the firm’s problem. O’Reilly & Finney handled Micronics’s employment litigation, as well as their corporate deals, intellectual property matters and business litigation. If Micronics fired the firm, it would mean the loss of millions of dollars in legal fees.

  Porter grudgingly dialed O’Reilly’s number.

  “Good morning, Mr. Porter,” O’Reilly’s secretary chirped.

  The woman’s excessively cheerful voice had always irked him. Porter asked to speak with O’Reilly.

  “I’ll see if he’s available.” The secretary returned to the phone within seconds. “I’m sorry, but Mr. O’Reilly is preparing for an important telephone conference with the Governor right now. Can he return your call later?”

  Porter groaned. “No. Tell him my call is important, too.”

  After a lengthy wait, O’Reilly came on the line. “Yeah?” There was a definite air of impatience in his voice.

  Porter could tell he was on the speakerphone. Porter hated speakerphones. “I’m calling about Vernetta Henderson. There seems to be a problem with a case she’s been handling. The folks at Micronics thinks she—”

  “I know all about it,” O’Reilly said, cutting him off. “I played golf with the General Counsel Sunday morning. I just wish you’d had the foresight to fill me in before that awards dinner Saturday night. You had that meeting on Friday afternoon. You should’ve called me right away.”

  Porter’s two brows knitted into one. “Well, I’m calling you now. I just wanted to let you know that I plan to meet with Vernetta this morning to—”

  “I’d like to be there. Let’s have the meeting in my office. How about nine-thirty?”

  Porter was speechless. This was his case and his problem. The meeting should be held in his office. O’Reilly was always throwing his weight around.

  “Well, does that time work for you or not?” O’Reilly asked impatiently.

  “Fine.”

  “Good. I’ll see you then.”

  Porter squeezed the telephone receiver so hard his hand began to ache. He had planned to resolve this matter quickly and quietly. Now O’Reilly was stepping in and would probably end up taking credit for cleaning up the mess. Nothing had changed since the first time O’Reilly had screwed him more than twenty-five years earlier. Porter’s anger over that incident had only intensified over time.

  During their first year at the firm, a jury handed one of O’Reilly & Finney’s most respected senior partners the kind of notoriety no attorney welcomed—a multimillion-dollar jury award that was not in his favor. O’Reilly and Porter became the two junior members of a post-verdict team charged with coming up with a basis for overturning the embarrassing award.

  Porter and O’Reilly were assigned the same legal issue to research. Although instructed to work as a team, both young associates were confident that their own superior intellect and excellent research skills would uncover a multitude of cases on point. So it made no sense to share the glory. The first day’s research, which lasted late into the night, produced nothing helpful. By five the next morning, Porter was stationed in his cubicle in the library, well along in his research. O’Reilly didn’t stroll in until after seven. While they had verbally agreed that O’Reilly would review treatises on procedural law and Porter would begin with law review articles, both had secretly encroached on the other’s assigned turf.
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  After seven straight hours of research, Porter left the library hoping that some fresh air would energize his brain cells. He was gone just long enough to pick up a turkey on rye at the deli across the street.

  As Porter headed back to the library, he was greeted in the hallway by a beaming senior partner. “Did you hear the news?” the partner asked.

  “What news?” Porter was too sleep-deprived to worry about the impropriety of appearing uninformed.

  “O’Reilly found the case we needed. U.S. v. Lewis. We’re drafting a motion for a new trial as we speak.”

  When Porter returned to the library, his appetite gone, he noticed that the papers in his cubicle had been disturbed. The volume of the Harvard Law Review that he had just reviewed was no longer perfectly centered on his yellow legal pad where he had left it. It was now sitting slightly askew.

  Porter stared at his legal pad and felt sick to his stomach. U.S. v. Lewis was the eighth case on his list. He had already crossed off the first six. If he had taken the time to read just two more cases before going out for his sandwich, he—not O’Reilly—would have made the big discovery.

  For months, Porter stood quietly on the sidelines as the entire firm sang the praises of the young Columbia law grad who had saved the day. When the verdict was subsequently overturned, everyone began saying that O’Reilly would be twice the lawyer his grandfather had been. One of the partners even joked that he could pull a rabbit out of a hat.

  Porter never told anyone that O’Reilly’s rabbit had been stolen from his hat. Porter kept his suspicions to himself because doing otherwise would have made it sound like he was not a team player. And everybody knew that O’Reilly & Finney attorneys were expected to be superb team players.

  Even if they hated each other’s guts.

  CHAPTER 25

  When I got to the office Monday morning, I did not give it a second thought when my secretary told me O’Reilly wanted to see me in his office in an hour. I was still on Cloud Nine after the plug he had given me at the banquet Saturday night. I figured he just wanted to lay it on even thicker.

  But when I hit the doorway of his office and saw Porter sitting rigidly on O’Reilly’s brown suede couch, my body’s internal defense mechanism set off a silent alarm.

  O’Reilly stood up when I entered the room. “Why don’t you have a seat?” He motioned toward one of the chairs in front of his desk.

  Good, I thought. I did not want to sit on the couch next to Porter.

  Instead of returning to the chair behind his desk, O’Reilly walked over and closed the door, then took a seat in the other guest chair next to mine. I noticed that neither O’Reilly nor Porter made eye contact. With me or each other.

  A dreadful thought sucked the air from my lungs. Associates who would not be considered for partnership were typically told a few weeks before the vote that their names would not be submitted. They’re about to tell me I’m not making partner!

  “Well, I won’t beat around the bush,” O’Reilly began. His voice was uncharacteristically formal, his body as stiff as a cardboard box. “We wanted to speak with you about the Randle case.” He stopped and rubbed his chin.

  “The folks at Micronics have reason to believe that you may have a conflict of interest.”

  “What?” I felt my body relax, relieved that partnership was not the subject of this meeting, but still totally confused. I glanced over at Porter and then at O’Reilly.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  O’Reilly coughed. “We need to know whether you’re involved in a personal relationship with Hamilton Ellis.”

  I laughed nervously. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Take a look at these,” Porter said gruffly. He leaned forward and extended a manila envelope to me.

  I opened the flap and pulled out five eight-by-ten photographs. Seemingly from nowhere a burst of heat exploded in my chest. I struggled to keep my hands steady as I examined the pictures. They were taken a week earlier, when Hamilton escorted me to the parking lot across the street from Little J’s.

  The first two pictures captured me and Hamilton walking toward my Land Cruiser. In another photograph, Hamilton had me by the elbow, helping me climb inside my SUV. In the fourth, Hamilton’s head was leaning into the window and he appeared to be kissing me. The angle of the picture, however, made it impossible to determine whether Hamilton’s kiss had landed on my lips or my left cheek. The final photograph showed Hamilton and Special. Both of them sported huge smiles as they walked out of Little J’s.

  I returned for a second look at the picture that showed Hamilton kissing me. I tried to swallow before speaking, but my throat felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton balls. “This is crazy.” I tried to keep my voice level so I didn’t sound defensive. “If these pictures are the basis for your accusation that I have some kind of conflict of interest, then you’re wrong.”

  “Nobody’s accused you of anything yet,” Porter said.

  I flung a hateful look his way. “Of course you’re accusing me. You’re obviously implying that I’m involved in a romantic relationship with an opposing counsel. Well, I’m not. And in case you’ve forgotten, I’m married.”

  “Well, can you explain that picture of you and Hamilton Ellis?” Porter snorted.

  “There’s nothing to explain.” I turned away from Porter and intentionally addressed my comments to O’Reilly. “I met my best friend at a nightclub after work last week. Hamilton Ellis just happened to be there, too. Almost as soon as he came in, I left. He offered to escort me to my car and since it was dark out, I let him. This picture is misleading.” I shoved the photographs back inside the envelope and tossed it onto O’Reilly’s desk before continuing.

  “He took me completely by surprise and leaned into the window and kissed me on the cheek—not the lips—which is not evident from the angle of that photograph. He said something about remembering his kiss when the Randle litigation got rough. That was it.”

  “Okay then, what about that picture of your friend, Ms. Moore? What’s her relationship with Mr. Ellis?” Porter demanded.

  “If you’re asking me if she’s dating him, yes she is. I can’t control who my friends go out with.”

  O’Reilly sighed. “Can you understand why Micronics might have a problem with this whole situation?”

  “What whole situation? There is no situation.” My vocal cords cracked, but I hurled the emotion from my voice. There was no way I would allow myself to break down and cry in front of them. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Porter refused to let up. “I understand your husband’s living in San Diego. Are you having trouble in your marriage?”

  That little bitch! I couldn’t believe I had been stupid enough to talk to Haley about Jefferson. So that was why she had asked me those questions about Hamilton.

  I was poised to tell Porter that the state of my marriage was none of his damn business when O’Reilly raised his hand. “Vernetta, forget that question.” He gave Porter a cautionary look. “But I have to ask this next one. Just for the record. Reggie Jenkins appeared on some cable TV show a few days ago. It appears he knows about those sexual harassment cases summarized in that fax you got from HR. Micronics wants to make sure he didn’t get that information from you.”

  “You’re right,” I snarled back at him. “You already know the answer. If you’re asking me if I gave Reggie Jenkins, Hamilton Ellis or anybody else a copy of a confidential client memo and in the process committed malpractice by violating the attorney-client privilege and the Rules of Professional Conduct, the answer is no. No, I did not.”

  “Is there any chance your friend Ms. Moore might’ve seen a copy of the document?” Porter asked. He was sitting on the edge of the couch now, acting like an aggressive trial lawyer trying to catch his witness in a lie.

  I was on the verge of tears. Tears of anger. I clutched the arms of the chair for support. “If you’re asking me if I’m in the habit of showing confidential clie
nt documents to my friends, the answer is the same. No.”

  The office fell as quiet as a library after closing hours.

  “Well, Vernetta, how do you think we should handle this?” O’Reilly asked.

  I knew he was only humoring me. “I assume I’m here because Micronics wants me off the case. Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

  O’Reilly reached over and patted my forearm. “Look, kiddo, you just told us you didn’t do anything inappropriate, and we believe you. But I’m sure you understand the position this puts the firm in. The best thing for us to do is abide by the client’s wishes. We’re just fortunate that Porter was able to convince the General Counsel not to pull the case from the firm altogether.”

  “Fine,” I said, standing up, even though they had yet to dismiss me. “Should I assume I’m still being followed?”

  “You weren’t being followed,” Porter groused at me.

  “Micronics hired a private investigator to trail Randle and his attorneys. The company believes they’ve been trying to obtain some confidential company records.”

  I didn’t buy that story. “I only found out that Hamilton Ellis had joined the case a few hours before those pictures were taken. Micronics must’ve known earlier since they had time to assign someone to follow him. Why didn’t they tell us?”

  Neither Porter nor O’Reilly had an answer to that question.

  “And if Micronics thought Randle or one of his attorneys was stealing documents,” I said, “why accuse me of giving them the information about those other cases?”

  O’Reilly raised his hand for the second time. “We just had to ask the question, Vernetta.”

  I started to ask about my cell phone records, but I couldn’t risk getting Shelia into hot water. Porter had probably wanted them to see if I had been making regular calls to Hamilton.