Wearing the Spider (A Suspense Novel) (Legal Thriller) (Thriller)

by Schaab, Susan

  She remembered her first impression of his card. It presented in small italic font: Joseph A. Barton, Parapier, followed by an email address and telephone numbers. It was as enticing as he was, she thought—minimal information mysteriously presented in a classic, welcoming format.

  “A French company?”

  He nodded and said, “I’m the executive vice president of the U.S. subsidiary.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Joe. Perhaps we’ll sit at a negotiation table sometime.”

  ~~

  Evie’s reverie was interrupted suddenly with a knock on her office door. Her secretary, Helen, bounced through the portal like a three-dimensional color wheel.

  “Good morning,” greeted Helen with a parade of waving fingers.

  “Hi Helen. You’re here early.” Evie smiled at the plump dark-haired woman with blue-framed glasses, fire-alarm red lips and a flower-print dress in an abundance of reds and yellows.

  “You have that meeting with Senator Arbeson, and I didn’t want you to forget.”

  “Forget about a meeting with the firm’s most powerful client? Have I been that distracted lately?”

  “Well, I know you were working sixteen-hour days last week. I was just worried that you’d—”

  “I appreciate it, Helen. I’m on top of it.”

  “Did you end up with the quiet room away from the elevator?” asked Helen.

  “Yes, but I didn’t spend much time at the hotel. For most of those sixteen hours I was at Percunico’s office or in a conference room with opposing counsel.”

  “I hope you got some sleep.”

  “I’m getting used to the absence of it. I’m okay. Just sitting in this morning. It’s Hanover’s meeting. And after that, I have to go over to Seth’s office. You got me a ticket to that Thursday night auction, right?”

  “Yes,” Helen said. “Yes, I did. Anything else?”

  “You know, you could really help me out by organizing the Roma Sori file. I had a message from Hanover that they’d like to meet sometime this week, and I’ve been sticking email printouts and correspondence in there randomly over the last few weeks. It’s a mess.”

  “That’s the perfume company, right?”

  Evie nodded.

  “Don’t they have a new fragrance?” Helen grinned.

  “Priori.” Evie extended her arms toward the ceiling and leaned her head back, stretching her neck muscles.

  “Oh yeah. Isn’t that the one they’re testing in that contract you have on your desk?”

  “Right.” Evie reached into a desk drawer and tossed a small plastic container of clear liquid to Helen. “Here. See what you think. I’m sure Adam would welcome your feedback.”

  Evie’s telephone display blinked with an internal call. Helen gestured toward her desk outside Evie’s office.

  “That’s okay, Helen. I’ll get it.” Evie picked up the telephone receiver, surprised to see her fellow associate’s name in the small digital window. Helen fingered the tiny perfume vial with the look of a mouse just given an enormous wedge of cheese, and made a quick exit.

  “Jen, what are you doing here this early?” Evie spoke into the receiver.

  “Never left,” Jenna said in a coffee-stained voice. “My third all-nighter in a week. If this deal doesn’t close soon I may resort to physical violence.”

  Jenna was an associate one year senior to Evie who had already been up for partner the previous year. Known to be smart and attentive to clients, Jenna had nonetheless been passed over. The rumor was that she tended to interject herself too directly into clients’ politics. Jenna believed she was overlooked because of her gender, an opinion she had shared only with Evie, and unofficially with a sex discrimination attorney who was a friend at another firm.

  “Client or partner?” asked Evie.

  “Both.”

  “I wish I could offer some great advice, but—”

  “I know. You’ve had your share.”

  “Reminds me of a dream I had a few nights ago,” said Evie. “I’m working under a tight deadline, researching case precedent for a client memo. In my dream, all the resources I need are located in this group of buildings … in one location … like the Smithsonian. I’m trying to walk from building to building gathering what I need. But there’s all this scaffolding in front of the buildings I have to crawl through and it’s all spider-webby and I get caught up in it. And my legs. It’s as if I’m crawling through thick mud. Something’s sucking my legs down. They get heavier and heavier and it’s taking all my energy just to lift them. So ironic. All I need to write my memo is right there, I just can’t seem to get to it.”

  “Hmmm. An allegory for this firm,” Jenna said as she smacked her lips. “Speaking of sucking …”

  Evie laughed.

  “… did you get rid of that new matter Alan was trying to stick you with?” asked Jenna.

  “Oh, you mean that patent licensing deal.”

  “You make it sound so dignified,” snorted Jenna. “How many partners have clients who want to license vibrator technology?”

  “Yeah, well, yeah.”

  “What was it again? Personal pleasure devices?”

  “They do make, well, adult toys and they had a tentative deal to license their technology to this children’s toy manufacturer.”

  “Can’t make this stuff up. I wonder if the parents buying those ‘playthings’ know that the toy’s mechanics can be found in bedside tables across America?”

  “I guess technology is technology.”

  “There’s just something about it being used for children’s toys …”

  “I agree, but just working with Alan is always enough of a demoralizer. Fortunately, the deal fell apart. I sometimes wish the others would, too.”

  “You know you have to be able to work with all the partners if you ever want to make partner yourself. Where does Alan get these clients?”

  “Why knows? I’m just tired of being at the top of his assignment list.”

  “No mystery there. Simple attraction.”

  “Okay, stop. Why did you call me?”

  “I’ve forgotten. Oh! You never worked on that Gooseneck-dot-com agreement with Reyser, did you?”

  “No, but I assume by the question that someone in the firm did.”

  “I knew you couldn’t have negotiated such a crappy deal. Have you ever seen it?”

  “No.”

  “Unbelievable. I hope whoever worked on it kept good documentation.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s terribly one-sided and it puts all kinds of nightmarish restrictions on Gooseneck that software developers never agree to. The code they wrote for Reyser can’t be used for any other client. You know the typical language we’re always fighting against. And, of course, the code they delivered to Reyser includes their core stuff. The stuff they routinely license to clients all over the world.”

  “Standard sink hole. Most associates I’ve worked with know to negotiate their way out of traps like that.”

  “Alan was the supervising partner. I don’t know who took the laboring oar. Probably somebody who doesn’t work on software deals too often.”

  “That could be sticky for the firm if there’s ever a dispute. Not to mention the political minefield because Alan’s involved. What brought your attention to it?”

  “Litigation. Brad told me that Reyser’s making noises like they might sue if Gooseneck designs a system for their competitor.”

  “And the firm hasn’t provided a very good foundation for their defense.”

  “I know. Their goose is cooked!”

  “Not funny.”

  “Definitely not the best legal advice we’ve ever dispensed. Unless someone has some thorough documentation showing that Gooseneck overruled the lawyers during the negotiations, the firm could be facing a malpractice claim.”

  “Better alert Hanover, but choose your words carefully. Partners do stick together.”

  “Yeah, the brotherh
ood. As soon as he gets in. He’s been out a lot lately.”

  “See ya.”

  Evie hung up and sifted through an assortment of folios and pulled out her notes for the meeting with Senator Arbeson. A consulting agreement between the Senator and an actuarial firm. It was a bit odd that the Senator hadn’t delegated this transaction, or at least the mundane details of it, to an aide, but she surmised that the meeting was part business and part camaraderie. The Senator counted several of the firm’s partners among his close personal friends.

  With the planned luxury of an hour before the Senator’s arrival, Evie allowed herself to resume the mental playback of yesterday’s conversation on the flight home. Evie recalled losing any desire to sleep on the plane.

  “I’m intrigued,” Joe had said. “Tell me about this sculpture negotiation.”

  “Are you sure?” she’d asked. “You really want to hear about my meeting?”

  “I welcome any chance to learn your secrets before I sit across from you at that negotiating table.”

  “Okay. My client told the story in an interview he gave to an art magazine, so I can tell you.” She shifted in her seat to face him. “One of the more unusual clauses in the license agreement given to us by the building owner was the right to destroy or alter the sculpture. Sculpture is unique in that sense. After a work is designed and installed, it stands, representing its creator, in the negotiated location. In this case, the lobby of an office building. Anyway, over time, it sort of becomes a part of the personality of the building. If the owner of the building at some point decides he wants to renovate the property, he often mistakenly believes that he can freely destroy or alter the sculpture, sort of the same way he can move walls around.”

  “You mean take an ax to the Solitary Lady?”

  She remembered smiling at his flippancy. “Well, as it happens, the rights of a visual artist are unique. His works are protected under a legal principle called moral rights.”

  “Extraordinary … the law recognizes morality?”

  Okay, she thought. He hates lawyers.

  “Because my client is a sculptor of some note, his reputation is considered to be part of the work he creates and the moral rights laws prevent deliberate destruction of his work without his knowledge. But the building owner was represented by savvy counsel. He negotiated for the right to destroy or alter the sculpture if he wanted to, without notifying my client. It then became a matter of money.”

  “Isn’t it interesting in a negotiation how one ultimately attaches price tags to rights requested by the other guy that neither knew existed at the beginning of their meeting?”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true. But, when an artist has made a name for himself against the odds, that’s worthy of protection.”

  “Is there a frustrated artist behind the advocate?”

  “Oh, no. I wish I was, but no. I’m not a creator, only an admirer.”

  “I’m an enthusiastic admirer myself.” His gaze distracted her for a moment.

  “Have you ever noticed the insight you can gain about an artist by careful examination of his art?”

  “And what did you learn about your client from the Solitary Lady?”

  “As you probably imagined, it’s his conception of an ethereal, naked, beautiful woman with an introspective sort of look on her face.”

  She remembered the intensity of Joe’s eyes as he’d listened to her words.

  “I think he admires women who are independent and beautiful and not afraid to be alone,” she’d continued. “Maybe he is afraid to be alone, and by creating a being who is not, he conquers his own fear.”

  “With all due respect, he may have just seen a beautiful girl on Madison Avenue, fantasized about her and decided to create a replica so he could pretend to touch her.”

  “Well, even if that’s true, isn’t that a stirring thought? To be so moved by another human being that he invests the time and energy to capture his memory of her in a work of art?”

  “You’ve got me there.”

  After pulling out a photograph of the sculpture from her suit pocket, she passed it to Joe and watched him study it carefully for a few moments.

  “Not a bad attempt. I’ve seen worse. Even on Madison Avenue.”

  “His work has been displayed in galleries all over the world and brought top dollar at auctions. Are you creative?”

  “I’m not sure if anything I’ve ever produced could be described as a creation, but I’ve been a weekend photographer. I actually still have a darkroom covered in cobwebs in the attic. Digital photography just doesn’t do it for me. So, what was the outcome of that discussion?” he asked. “Did you manage to thwart the efforts of the presumptuous landlord?”

  “The client was pleased.”

  She remembered feeling him watch her as she sipped the wine. Neither of them seemed to notice the absence of conversation for a minute or two.

  “Did you meet any interesting people in L.A. besides Mr. Real Estate and his attorney?” he asked.

  “Not this time. I have to say, I’ve rarely enjoyed trips to L.A. The geography is beautiful, but the beaches are overrun or overly commercial, and I never seem to stay around too long.”

  “How often do you fly to the west coast?”

  “Two or three times a year. On a trip last year, I did meet someone I thought was interesting. A woman playing a beat-up guitar on Venice Beach. She was singing the most incredible blues with one of the most amazing voices I’ve ever heard. Sort of Aretha Franklin, but with an injection of sadness.”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “Well, that’s the interesting part. I’d just finished eating at one of my favorite restaurants in Santa Monica, The Ivy, and I was carrying a doggie bag full of leftover grilled shrimp salad. A man standing nearby told me the woman was homeless so I offered it to her, but she politely declined saying that she didn’t need any food. Can you believe it? I mean, think about it. This was someone living off emotion, spirit. It was as if the song was the only nourishment she needed. The man said he’d never seen her eat anything, but she was known to sing for hours on the beach never taking a break.”

  “Some people seem to live in a parallel universe,” said Joe. “No schedule. No need for social contact. No concept of what it’s like to chase any sort of career goal. Sort of a wake-up call for the rest of us. To leave time for feeding the spirit, whatever that may consist of.”

  At that moment in the conversation, Evie recalled that the Fasten Seat belt sign had illuminated, and the captain’s voice had announced the approach to New York’s LaGuardia Airport. When Joe returned from the lavatory, the airplane abruptly jolted downward, shaking the fuselage and vibrating the passengers.

  “I told him not to take his hands off the throttle,” Joe smiled at her, noticing her white-knuckled grip on the armrest.

  The captain announced his apologies over the airplane audio system and assured the passengers that the unexpected wind gust was an isolated one and the airplane was well under control.

  “Are you free for dinner tonight?” he asked. “It’s Monday, so even with no reservation, we’ve got a decent chance for a table.”

  She declined, saying she had to prepare for a client meeting, but to keep the conversation going, she told him about the auction she was supposed to attend Thursday night to gather “intelligence” for an artist client.

  “Need an escort?” he asked.

  “An escort?”

  “To the auction. Would you like some company? To complete your disguise, of course.”

  Evie smiled to herself as she recalled that exchange. In those final moments, she’d handed him her business card. Thinking back on it now, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d offered her card to a man without the stale repartee of concluded business in the air. Before they had deplaned, her last words to him were: “If you’re planning to be in New York on Thursday, give me a call.”

  She shook off the daydream and checked her email, not really
expecting to see a message from him, but there were a few new ones. A subject line, Trademark Search, caught her eye. She glanced at the clock. A few minutes after nine o’clock a.m. Over twenty minutes until the Senator’s scheduled arrival. She clicked open the message, thinking it might be related to that morning’s conference call, but it wasn’t. It was from a username she didn’t recognize and had been sent around six o’clock a.m. It was short and direct:

  Evie—Please do prelim search RE: Neolactin,

  Class: pharmaceuticals plus other standard classes.

  Beth Hoffman, paralegal, Your Client Number 1270, charge to general matters

  The number 1270 she recognized as Finley Regent, the company that had been granted front-page coverage in the current Law Journal, but it was unusual for a client employee to refer to an internal firm tracking number. Now that she saw the full name, Beth Hoffman, she thought she remembered seeing it before.

  Evie forwarded the Finley Regent message to Helen with a request to create a new file to initiate the matter. Its content reminded Evie that she needed to inform Alan about the trademark discussion she had concluded that morning.

  She began typing an email message addressed to him:

  Discussed prospective product names with Neully this morning as planned. Can’t recommend any of their current choices as trademark-worthy. They said they plan to go back to their Marketing Department to come up with something more unique that won’t be too similar to any Pharsalus mark. They said they already have their FDA approval and that the name issue was the only thing holding up product launch. Are we handling anything else for them that I need to coordinate?

  After hitting SEND, she gathered a notepad and correspondence relating to the Senator’s matters, and stopped briefly in the restroom to make sure there were no remnants of breakfast on her mouth. Frowning at her long, straight hair, she swept it back into a loose French twist.

  As she was walking out the door, Helen caught up with her.

  “Evie, the Senator’s here, but he’s making the rounds to say hello to a few of the partners. Hanover said to meet them in Conference Room B in about fifteen minutes.”