Justice Hunter

by Harper Dimmerman

  Beetle-browed, Russo proceeded to disregard the evidence out of hand and eviscerate the artfully drafted non-compete, a product of Whitman’s transactional department. “To say that document is draconian would be an understatement.”

  And that is pretty much how the entire hearing went. Hunter and Zane battled, trading barbs and litigation blows during the other examinations. Hunter strategically pumped up the defendant’s ego, cleverly ingratiating himself. He wanted him to feel at ease, knowing that that might get him to talk. And ultimately the slickster broke when he began to act invincible. Hunter figured it was that same cavalier attitude that had gotten him into hot water in the first place. The defendant had actually managed to convince himself that he was smarter than the rest of the world. And Zane’s redirect was not nearly enough to rehabilitate her client. The damage was too significant, thanks in large part to Hunter’s getting under his skin.

  Overall, Hunter’s witness, in spite of his distracting nicotine leg twitch and gruff cadence, did a competent job. Their preparation had paid off, and he pretty much stuck to the script—except for the impromptu and off-color barbs he slung in Zane’s direction. He just couldn’t help himself.

  “Calm your jets, hon,” he said chauvinistically, knocking the wind out of her sails the instant he sensed her momentum building. “No need to get your panties in a twist,” he added, flashing a slimy smile, a gold cap glittering somewhere in a mouthful of stained, crooked teeth. Nice touch, thought Hunter.

  Zane’s feminist impulses nearly got the better of her, exactly what he was going for. Yet Zane maintained her composure, only channeling the rage into tougher lines of questioning.

  “But isn’t it true, Mr. Chablis, that my client originated these accounts in controversy?”

  The witness pretended not to hear. He continued to chuckle to himself as she approached the stand.

  “Is something funny, Mr. Chablis?”

  “No. Of course not. I’m taking your desperate questions quite seriously.”

  “Mr. Chablis,” she scolded. “I know this may be a big game to you, but I can assure you that we take these unfounded allegations quite seriously as well.”

  That last jab sobered him up a bit, the corners of his mouth wilting.

  “So I will ask you again.” Her tone was impatient, hostile. “Did my client or did my client not originate those accounts?”

  “Objection,” interjected Hunter, getting to his feet. “This is clearly badgering.”

  “Overruled!”

  “That means you can answer the question now, Mr. Chablis,” she said smugly. The witness looked dejected, his plan to evade it abruptly cut short.

  No response. An admission, thought Hunter. Shit!

  “A simple yes or no will suffice.”

  “Can I explain our policy at Mediacast?”

  “No, you may not!”

  By now the judge was leaning forward, awaiting the answer with bated breath.

  “I’m the only one who gets to ask the questions now!” She looked over at Hunter, the end of the whip catching him on the recoil. “Your attorney already had his opportunity to ask questions,” she added, implying that Hunter had erred during his case in chief.

  Russo got in on the action, apparently having the urge to feel needed. “Answer the question, Mr. Chablis,” he warned.

  “Not in my opinion, counselor,” he stated indignantly.

  “Then it’s a no?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “And you’re positively sure about that?”

  “Sure am.”

  “And you stand behind that testimony?”

  Chablis nodded.

  “And you were sworn in this morning?” she said. “And you vowed, under oath, to tell this court the truth?”

  “I did.”

  Hunter cringed as his adversary swooped in for the kill.

  “Have you ever seen this document?”

  Here comes the smoking gun, thought Hunter, bracing himself.

  FOUR

  Zane was in her element. Cross-examination of Hunter’s witness was in full-bore. The tension in the courtroom mounted like a medieval guillotine.

  “Do you recognize that document?” Zane demanded as she casually passed a copy to Hunter.

  “Objection.”

  “On what basis?”

  “Relevance.”

  “Not so fast, counselor.”

  “You can answer the question,” she said, snidely.

  “Oh, that was a question?”

  “Answer it,” ordered the judge.

  “It looks like court papers.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Chablis. Now we’re making some progress.”

  “Objection.”

  “All right, Ms. Zane. You’ve made your point.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “It’s actually an answer to a lawsuit filed against your company. Isn’t that right?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Now turn to the last page, what is entitled, ‘˜Verification.’”

  Chablis flipped through rebelliously.

  “Now do you recognize that signature?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s you, Mr. Chablis, right?”

  Chablis nodded.

  “We’ll need a verbal response, sir. We’re making a record here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you recall what this litigation concerned?”

  “You’ll have to excuse me. I don’t. There are dozens of frivolous suits filed against our company every year.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Must be the deep pockets, huh?”

  “You got it.”

  “And they’re all frivolous? To use your words.”

  Hunter knew where she was going with this, and he sure hoped his witness wasn’t taking the bait. “I mean that’s my perception,” he added, reassuring Hunter with a fleeting glance. “You’d have to ask legal, though.” Good boy, thought Hunter.

  “But I’m asking you, right?”

  “Obviously. But I’m just saying if you want to be a hundred percent sure.” He paused, making sure the judge was with him. “That is important to you, isn’t it, Ms. Zane?”

  Offended, she rifled back, “I’m the one who gets to ask the questions, Mr. Chablis, not you.”

  “Apologies,” he said insincerely after he made his point.

  “Now let me ask you again. Take a look at those papers and tell me what that case was about. Take your time.”

  Chablis subtly shook his head no as he appeased her.

  “You did read them before you swore to the factual averments under penalty of perjury, didn’t you, sir?”

  “I must have,” he replied, playing dumb.

  “Well, let me refresh your memory. This was a suit filed by another former manager at your company. Someone who coincidentally was employed at the same level as my client,” she said, gesturing to hers.

  “And?”

  “He sued for bonuses after he was terminated.”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” said Hunter, getting to his feet. “Clearly, this is unrelated litigation, which has no bearing on this case.”

  “Ms. Zane?”

  “I’m getting there.”

  “I’ll allow it. But you’re on a very short leash.”

  “Of course. Now when you responded to the suit, you counterclaimed on the theory that that plaintiff had been engaged in funneling clients away from Mediacast,” she continued.

  “I still don’t…”

  “Let me make it crystal clear for you sir,” she interrupted. “Your allegations were virtually identical to those before the court today. Isn’t that true?”

  “This is prejudicial,” objected Hunter.

  “Ms. Zane. Please. Your client isn’t anything special. The sales world is replete with characters just like your client. If I had a dollar for…”

  “That wasn’t my question, thoug
h, Mr. Chablis!” she exclaimed. “And I’ll remind you again that you’re under oath.” Slowly, she asked, “Are the allegations, or are the allegations not, virtually the same?”

  Hunter considered objecting but decided she was hanging herself. No need. Russo’s bound to slap her for badgering at this rate. She’s making this too personal, beating up on the witness. She’ll wind up undermining her own argument by garnering sympathy for the guy.

  “You heard my answer, counselor,” the witness remarked calmly, which only further incited Zane.

  “Sir! This is your last warning. Answer the question,” she demanded.

  “Come on,” Hunter interjected. “She’s clearly badgering the witness. He already answered to the best of his ability. And frankly, Ms. Zane should have subpoenaed someone with more knowledge of that particular case.”

  “This is cross, Your Honor. And with all due respect, his client is the one who swore off in the other case.”

  “And we all know he signed off in his capacity as an authorized representative, which certainly doesn’t mean he has the facts memorized or that he deserves to be interrogated about an entirely different and unrelated matter.” Frankly, Hunter was desperate to make this line of questioning go away. God only knows how many other similar cases she’s unearthed.

  “I’m sustaining the objection,” said Russo, after weighing the argument.

  “But…”

  “Move on, Ms. Zane.”

  “Your Honor, I believe this is indicative of a pattern.”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained,” he said, now glaring at Zane.

  “We have evidence that the plaintiff levels these sort of allegations against employees so it doesn’t have to pay out sizeable bonuses.”

  “Objection!” said Hunter, impressed nevertheless by Zane’s tenacity.

  “And we believe that’s what’s going on here.”

  “Then why didn’t they put that on the record with the court before today’s hearing? They had more than ample notice.”

  “And we fully intend to.”

  “Sustained! Sustained! What part of sustained don’t you understand, Ms. Zane?” he asked, rhetorically.

  A few murmurs were audible among the restless reporters toward the back of the courtroom.

  “Now move on!”

  Hunter tried to make eye contact with his witness, who’d been sitting there smugly, witnessing the carnage. As relieved as he was to have averted disaster, he knew that wouldn’t be the end of it. And his client had some explaining to do if Zane’s theory was even remotely credible.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” she replied, defeated. Yet Hunter suspected Zane’s antics were more deliberate than she was letting on. She could’ve been pushing Russo just to see how far she could go. Or was she trying to force his client’s hand at settlement? With the media following the company’s every move, rumblings of extortion had the potential to become an absolute public relations nightmare. A class action wouldn’t be altogether inconceivable. Hunter never underestimated his opponent, especially someone as talented as Melissa Zane. There were more tricks up her sleeve. And his unsuspecting client didn’t have a clue. “Now, Mr. Chablis, let me redirect your attention to this case. You do know about this case, don’t you?”

  FIVE

  The cold water hit Hunter like a smack in the face. He stood over the copper vessel sink in the men’s room of Marathon Grill, desperate to compose himself. His alluring hazel eyes stared out at his own reflection in self-disgust for getting sanctioned by Russo. His odds of making partner had officially tanked, even if he pulled off a minor miracle in the Mediacast case, which he knew was never going to happen.

  Hunter’s wavy brown locks flowed naturally. He’d inherited his patrician nose from his mother’s Episcopalian side of the family, not from the Jews on his father’s side. His complexion was olive, prone to an easy tan. On balance, his looks would have been the envy of most men.

  Hunter, humble to a fault, barely seemed to notice, though. He was seductive as hell and capable of persuading juries like an experienced snake charmer. His physique, chiseled at six feet, conjuring up images of Michelangelo’s David, was mostly genetics and less exercise than he preferred.

  “I’m so glad that you beat that bitch.”

  “I told you he didn’t rule yet,” replied Hunter, reluctant to admit just how poorly the hearing had gone. Not to mention the ridiculous sanctions order hanging over his head, like a blown statute of limitation. Just a matter of time before the dirty little secret’s revealed.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t take him up on The Palm. Dude, what were you thinking?”

  Hunter and his two closest friends from Whitman Packer sat outside. Since that morning, when he was stuck inside Russo’s courtroom on the Mediacast injunction, the temperature had continued to climb. The outdoor seating area was packed with throngs of businesspeople sporting sunglasses and rolled-up sleeves, overrunning the restaurant. Spring fever filled the air, and Marathon had been transformed from a corporate eatery to an Ivy League frat party.

  “That guy sounds shady as shit. Fuck The Palm. I wish I could’ve seen that freak break down in the courtroom,” said Dillon Wright, a charismatic and stylish associate at the firm. He had a large and interesting nose, dark complexion, and medium-length black hair, gelled crudely.

  “I’m actually not feeling too good about it,” conceded Hunter, squinting from the sun in his eyes.

  “Stop being so self-deprecating,” insisted the geeky one of the crew, Andy Smith. “Melissa Zane is known to be a nut job and the biggest bitch at Kruger.” Andy had short, light brown hair that showed a premature onset of male pattern baldness. His skin was ashen white, his features average. Overall, he looked like your run-of-the-mill, slightly nerdy, nice guy. There was not a bad bone in his body.

  Dillon let out a cool laugh, slightly at Andy and slightly with Andy. “If Andy thinks she’s a bitch, you know the chick’s wacky.”

  “I think Russo’s got it in for me,” said Hunter, still on edge. “Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Got it.” Dillon didn’t take it personally. He and Hunter had been buddies since they started at Whitman. They’d been through a lot together—primarily abuse from the senior associates and partners. Dillon didn’t know when to let it go. Not to mention, he had seemed a bit off ever since the race for partner started heating up.

  “What’d he say to you? I think I’ve heard every one of that old coot’s insults. Which one was it?”

  Hunter was still reluctant to let the cat out of the bag. If he couldn’t tell them, though, whom could he tell? “The fucker sanctioned me.”

  “Sanctioned?” said Andy, shocked. “Meaning what?”

  “He fined me for being late.”

  “You’re shitting me,” chimed in Dillon.

  “I couldn’t make this shit up.”

  “How much?”

  “Five fucking grand.”

  “That’s deep.” Dillon was obviously scheming as he empathized. “What are you gonna do?”

  “Haven’t really thought about it yet.” Hunter paused. “Wait. It gets even better. The sanctions were entered against the firm, just so the fucker would force me to have to tell a partner.”

  “Maybe there’s a way around that,” added Dillon with a sinister grin.

  “Oh, God,” cringed Andy, like a prudish monogamist not wanting to hear the details of a friend’s kinky sexual exploits. “I can only imagine.”

  Dillon ignored Andy. “Not to worry, Hunter. I’ll help you figure this out,” he assured with an evil glint in his eye. “If I have to kill the son-of-a-bitch myself.”

  Clearly wanting to block it out for now, Hunter thanked Dillon for the unwavering support, and the conversation regained at least some semblance of normalcy after another few minutes.

  “I will speak for myself, though,” said Dillon proudly. “I had a pro bono case with Melissa Zane last year, a landlord-tenant case.” He paused. �
��Mauled her.”

  Andy jumped in. “I think I remember that one,” he acknowledged. “Didn’t that case settle out?”

  Hunter and Andy laughed. Dillon kept a poker face. “Whatever, Andy. It only settled because of me. My guy had no case.” Dillon’s lawyerly explanation only made it funnier. Eventually Dillon gave in and cracked up too. Busted.

  A sexy blonde waitress delivered their food. “Burgers?” Dillon and Andy raised their hands. “Jay’s turkey?” Hunter nodded, politely.

  “Watching your girlish figure?” joked Dillon. Andy already had a mouth full of food. He shrugged his shoulders inquisitively.

  “Yeah.” Hunter smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Trying to turn over a new leaf. Been eating too much crap lately.”

  “I should probably do the same thing.” Dillon grabbed a fry as he said it.

  “Me too,” added Andy, barely able to get the words out, his cheeks looking like Dizzy Gillespie’s. Hunter and Dillon looked over at Andy and laughed.

  Dillon leaned back, rolling up his sleeves and soaking up the sun. “I can’t believe this weather. It’s incredible.” It was picture perfect. The clear blue sky seemed oddly tropical, with the latest additions to the Philadelphia skyline—Mediacast Tower and Cira Centre—soaring proudly in homage to capitalism.

  Andy stopped chewing long enough to notice the weather. “First day of spring,” he observed.

  “No shit,” fired back Dillon and shook his head in disbelief.

  “I’m just saying.” Andy pouted like a little boy and took out a Terminator-style pair of sunglasses. He put them on with precision. “That’s better.”

  “Good idea,” said Hunter. “I’m struggling here.” He continued to squint.

  Dillon checked them out. “Dude, you look like a frickin’ serial killer in those things.” Andy looked around and up, moving his head mechanically as if he’d just landed on planet Earth for the very first time. Dillon glanced at Hunter, fighting back more laughter at Andy. “Here’s the deal.” Dillon slipped into a deviant tone. “Why don’t the three of us skip out and shoot down to AC for the rest of the day.” AC was short for Atlantic City, New Jersey. “Get our weekend started off on the right foot. We can hit the poker tables and grab a few cocktails at Bally’s new beach bar. It’s probably going off today, and supposedly the bikini-clad waitresses are smoking hot.”