Improper Influence Page 2

  Of course, none of it would be theirs. Not unless and until the new recruits survived a solid decade or more of mind-numbing abuse.

  But, that day, on Noah Peterson’s yacht, Sasha and Garrett’s job was to act like they spent all their weekends sailing down the Allegheny River with multi-millionaire partners, and not chained to their desks from sunrise until the Downtown restaurants closed and Pittsburgh rolled up its sidewalks.

  Garrett, unfortunately, had gotten progressively greener the longer they’d bobbed along the river. And, then, as Noah regaled them with a story about challenging counsel to a fistfight during a deposition, and Sasha widened her eyes as if she hadn’t heard this embellished story at least two dozen times, Garrett turned to the summer associate nursing a Corona next to him and said, “You don’t want to mess with Noah!” in that same cheerful voice.

  Just then, the boat lurched and, apparently so did Garrett’s stomach, because he turned and vomited on Noah’s shoes.

  And, Sasha thought now, it was that poor aim that had landed Garrett in ‘of counsel’ purgatory—the holding pen for attorneys who had aged out of the associate ranks but either had chosen personal lives over partnership or, as in Garrett’s case, were delusively waiting to get called up.

  “I’m great. What can I do for you?” she said.

  “I’m calling to ask you to put up a Chinese wall on your VitaMight breach of contract case.”

  “Newsflash: I’m a sole practitioner. Whom exactly am I supposed to wall off?”

  “Your legal assistant.”

  Sasha glanced across the desk and met Naya’s surprised eyes.

  “And I would do that why?”

  The false cheer faded from his voice.

  “Because Prescott represents the supplement company that purchased your client’s herbal division, and Naya may be assigned to that file when she joins us in September.”

  Sasha was silent for a moment, allowing her flash of anger to fade before she responded.

  “First, VitaMight isn’t just my client. It’s your former client, remember? You can’t tell me the firm’s representing a client whose interests are adverse to VitaMight, especially when I know for a fact the business and finance guys represented VitaMight in the sale of the herbal division that’s at issue in my case.”

  “VitaMight understood when we represented them in that sale that we’d be representing Herbal Attitudes on a going forward basis with regard to the herbal business,” he said.

  She continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

  “Second, you’re asking me to bench Naya because you might assign her to do work for this client some day in the future when—excuse me, if—she comes to work there? That’s crazy. She could decide not to go to law school and turn down your scholarship and job offer. Herbal Attitudes could fire you before September. There are multiple contingencies that may or may not happen, Garrett. This case could settle—or more likely, I’ll win on summary judgment. Not to mention, Naya works here now. If she’s conflicted out from working on something when she gets there, it’ll be Prescott’s obligation to wall her off from the representation. I don’t have any duty to prevent that from happening.”

  “Look—”

  “Don’t interrupt me. I let you speak. Now, you show me the same courtesy.”

  He was immediately cowed.

  “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

  “Third, your client isn’t even in the case. Neither party has named Herbal Attitudes.”

  After a beat to make sure she was finished, he said, “That’s true. But you served it with a third-party subpoena duces tecum.”

  She closed her eyes. He was right, of course. She had sent a subpoena duces tecum—a request for things, in this case, documents—to the herbal company seeking any files it had related to the dispute over the distribution of the memory supplement at issue in the case.

  “That’s right. I did. You’re representing the company on that?”

  “I am.”

  “Your discovery responses were due today, Garrett. Let me guess, you called about this conflict issue, but while you have me, you just happen to want me to talk about an extension to respond to the subpoena.”

  It was a maneuver straight out of the Prescott & Talbott playbook: First make an overreaching demand, guaranteed to be denied out of hand; then, ask for what you really want. The idea was to back your opponent into a corner: an attorney who had denied not one, but two, requests for an accommodation from opposing counsel ran the risk of looking unreasonable if the issue ever came up in front of the judge.

  From the way Naya twisted her mouth into a knowing grin, Sasha knew she recognized the move for what it was, too.

  Their eyes met, and Naya twisted her lips into a sneer, leaving no doubt as to how she felt about the manipulation.

  Sasha was inclined to agree. She was gearing up to tell Garrett there would be no extension when he chuckled.

  “Oh, no, I don’t need an extension. Our production is being hand-delivered to your office as we speak. Have a good weekend, Sasha. And, think about what I said. You don’t want to be responsible for tanking Naya’s career before it even starts, do you?”

  Before she could answer, he disconnected the call, still laughing.

  The reason for Garrett’s amusement became clear about twenty minutes later when three sheepish-looking mailroom employees from Prescott & Talbott wheeled litigation carts holding a total of eighteen bankers’ boxes full of documents into her office.

  Garrett wasn’t relying on the overreaching demand. No, he’d chosen a different tried and true Prescott play: bury the sole practitioner in paper.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mackenzie Lane slowly removed the wireless headset and placed it on her desk next to her phone. Then she raked her fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp, as she processed the situation and sketched out her next move.

  First, she knew her source—correction, sources—had reliable information. She had learned early on to always have at least two independent sources in place in every possible piece of any hierarchy.

  Sometimes when she thought about all the people she relied on, a mounting panic rose in her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Each person she cajoled, bribed, or threatened was a potential point of weakness. Any one of them could turn from ally to enemy at any moment. But it was the way the political machine worked.

  She comforted herself by reciting a list of powerful men—and they were almost all men—who’d risen to national prominence on the strength of networks like hers. Her goals were equally lofty. A deputy director position in a mid-sized city was a career ambition for lots of people, but for her it was a mere stepping stone. She had her eye on a senatorship. At a minimum.

  So she forged ahead, cultivating sources in the various departments of city government. Despite the fact that it carried almost no political juice of its own, the Medical Examiner’s Office was no exception. Mackenzie adhered to the belief that one never knew which relationships would pay off, so it made sense to nurture as many as possible.

  And in the case of the Medical Examiner’s Office, it looked like her friendships were becoming very valuable. One of her sources was well-placed and well-paid; the other had no idea she was harvesting information every time they spoke. The news she received from both was the same. So, there was no denying she had a problem.

  Second, she knew she had to share the latest development with Barry, but the trick would be to do it in a way that wouldn’t spook him. Spooking him would undo all the good she’d accomplished in the past six months. And, she reminded herself, she’d done a lot of good.

  She turned and walked over to the window. She pressed her forehead against the glass and stared down at Grant Street. It was after five, and the worker bees were flowing along the sidewalk in a swarm that led to parking lots, cars, and suburban homes. A significant number of them would stop off at taverns or bars to celebrate the end of another workweek. They’d pick up pizzas to take home to their
families. Run into the grocery store for a few essentials and a lottery ticket. Maybe fill their cars’ gas tanks for the weekend ahead. Their thousands of small transactions would pile up in the coffers, adding to Pittsburgh’s recovering economy.

  And the economy was recovering—thanks in no small part to her efforts.

  Sure, Barry was the mayor, and he took the credit, held the press conferences, and posed for the publicity shots. But he knew as well as she did that he couldn’t have done it without his Deputy Director of Economic Development for the City of Pittsburgh.

  She was the one who wooed the corporations to relocate, to expand, to hire workers and pump money into the city. She was the one who pushed the tax breaks through City Council, wore down the unions on their demands, and strong-armed the zoning boards. She was the one who singlehandedly created the South Side waterfront revitalization district.

  And she was the one who was going to have to tell Barry that they had a problem. A serious problem. In fact, she was hard pressed to think of a worse problem than a spate of dead women who all traced back to a single, very high-profile source of the city’s newfound riches, which, in turn, had her fingerprints all over it. A public relations disaster would end her career—not to mention Barry’s.

  She felt her heartbeat begin to slow as her initial panic faded, and her natural determination rose to the foreground.

  It wasn’t as if she’d never delivered bad news before. In her previous life, as a corporate management consultant, she often found herself in the delicate position of explaining to the very person who had hired her that, in her expert opinion, it would be in the company’s best interest to eliminate his position—or maybe his entire department. She’d comforted more than one sobbing vice president in her day.

  But, in the end, business people were easy to persuade. Numbers, preferably preceded by dollar signs and followed by zeroes, always worked. Politicians were also swayed by numbers—voting percentages, usually. But sometimes donation amounts. Either way, she always managed to get everyone to fall into line and adhere to her script.

  She’d turned down a shot at partnership in the management consultant world—and the million-dollar incomes it could provide—because she’d discovered power and influence mattered more to her than money. She got a jolt of pure adrenaline every time she convinced someone to yield to her will, vote the way she wanted, or pull out a checkbook to fund a project. And, as convincing as she could be when she wanted something, she could be downright ruthless when it came to protecting that something once she got it.

  Mackenzie rolled her shoulders then reached into her desk drawer. She removed a pocket mirror and a lipstick and carefully lined her lips, applying the deep red stain with the care and precision of a soldier oiling his rifle.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sasha pushed open the door to her condo and hoisted the six-pack of assorted craft beers in greeting to her fiancé.

  “I stopped at The Sharp Edge.”

  She rested the cardboard carrier on the kitchen island and shed her suit jacket then slid her feet out of her pumps.

  Connelly looked up from a mound of dough that he was stretching into a disc and smiled his slow, crooked smile. “Great, I’m thirsty.”

  To Sasha, pizza and beer at the end of the workweek meant picking up a six pack and a large pie from Village Pizza on her way home from work. She should have known when Connelly said he’d take care of the pizza that it would involve something more complex than placing a takeout order.

  She leaned against the counter and watched him work the dough. A sweep of black hair fell over his eye.

  Since leaving his last position as the chief security officer for a pharmaceutical company, he’d let his hair grow out from the regulation cut he’d sported ever since she’d met him while he was still working for the Department of Homeland Security. The slightly shaggy style made him seem relaxed and approachable.

  But he was still the same Connelly. Serious. Disciplined. And surprisingly busy for someone who officially had taken very early retirement. Unofficially, though, he was quietly doing something for one or more of the federal law enforcement agencies. He fielded the occasional cell phone call that prompted him to walk outside to talk and was careful to always password-protect his laptop when he left it open.

  She didn’t ask, and he didn’t tell. Between her clients’ confidential information and his national security secrets, there was plenty they couldn’t talk about. As long as they both understood the reason for their shared silence, she figured it wouldn’t have to drive a wedge between them.

  He wiped his hands on a striped kitchen towel and handed her a bottle opener. She pried the caps off two lagers and passed one across the island to him.

  “Thanks.”

  He leaned toward her and brushed his lips against her ear. A shiver ran along her spine, and, as usual, the strength of her reaction surprised her. She pressed her head against his warm chest for a moment.

  She nodded toward the pizza dough. “Does that have to rest or anything?”

  “Five minutes. How was your day?”

  Something soft and furry wrapped itself around her ankle. She bent and scooped up Java one handed. He began to purr instantly and rubbed his face against her hand.

  “Fine—until I got a call from Prescott.”

  Connelly narrowed his gray eyes and peered at her through a lock of hair. “Another attempt by Will to lure you back?”

  “Not this time.” She released the wriggling cat and sipped her beer. “They hit me with a document dump.”

  “Document dump?”

  “Prescott represents a third party who has to provide discovery in one of my cases for VitaMight. In typical Prescott fashion, they waited until the end of the day today—the deadline for the close of discovery—to deliver a stack of boxes full of documents. It’s a classic move. The big firm overwhelms the sole practitioner with paper. Anything relevant is buried within hundreds of thousands of pages of paper.”

  “Why? What’s the point of that?” Connelly asked.

  She smiled at his naivety. “The point is to work me to death and hope I miss the important stuff hidden in all the dross they just dumped on me. And, they’re taking the position that Naya can’t work on the case because she’s going to be joining them at the end of the summer.

  He turned his attention to a small glass bowl and began to whisk together olive oil and tomato paste.

  “Do you want some help with dinner?”

  “Nope. Can they do that?”

  “Do what? Bury me in paper or make me bench Naya?”

  “Both. Either.”

  She considered her answer. Could they? Sure, they just had. The document production was standard operating procedure. It wasn’t particularly courteous, but it wasn’t improper. The attempt to strong-arm her into removing Naya from the case was ... weird. It made no sense that she could see, and she was fairly certain the state ethics committee would agree with her that there was no live conflict. But, the reality was she wasn’t going to put Naya’s position with Prescott at risk to test her belief.

  “I guess so,” she finally answered in a defeated voice.

  “What does that mean for your workload?”

  He kept his eyes on the sauce that he was spreading across the dough in neat, concentric circles. His tone was casual, too casual.

  “I’m going to have to work. Probably all weekend. If there is anything hidden in those boxes that’s going to require me to notice a deposition or take more discovery, I’ll have to file papers with the court on Monday. I mean, discovery officially closed today.”

  As she said the words, her stomach dropped. There were two possibilities: one, Garrett hadn’t focused on the subpoena and the eleventh-hour production was simply a function of his lack of attention; two, there was something in the production that he wanted her to miss. Knowing Garrett, her money was on door number two.

  “Oh.”

  The note of disappointment that crept
into his voice puzzled her. She searched her memory for plans they’d made and drew a blank.

  “Am I forgetting something?”

  “No. I just hoped we could tackle some wedding planning this weekend.” He flashed a small smile. “It’s okay, though.”

  But she knew it was very much not okay. He’d proposed back in February, and, since then, they hadn’t so much as set a wedding date.

  A wedding date. The phrase weighed on her, like a brief she needed to draft or an impending deadline. She couldn’t wait to marry Connelly; in fact, she’d suggested they elope right away. But, he’d dug in his heels and insisted on a proper wedding, with all the work that entailed.

  Not only that, he’d enlisted his future mother-in-law as backup. Just thinking about it, Sasha groaned inwardly. Valentina McCandless had very definite ideas about what qualified as a proper wedding, and, as far as Sasha could tell, meeting her mother’s standards would involve at least as much work as opposing class certification. Maybe more. Which would have been fine if Connelly and her mother had taken on the planning, but Valentina was too busy cooing over not one, but two, new grandchildren to help.

  Sasha placed her beer on the counter and slipped her arms around Connelly’s midsection.

  “It’s not okay. I want to make an honest man of you. I want to call myself your wife. I just ... I can’t spare the time this weekend. I’m sorry, Connelly.”

  He finished covering the pizza with fresh mozzarella and carefully sprinkled chopped basil over the top, then he turned around and took her hands in his.

  “I know. But at some point we need to start making decisions—officiant, venue, music, flowers, menu, all that stuff. You know that right?”

  We could go to Ohio tomorrow and come back married, she thought. She’d done a quick Internet search of all the jurisdictions that didn’t impose a waiting period before issuing a marriage license and committed them to memory—just in case he changed his mind about eloping.