“We have,” I replied.
“Good. Good,” Vance said, a smile of solemn relief crossing his lips. He nodded to the two women, who promptly sprang into action. The older and obviously senior assistant carefully slid a blue folder across the table. The second woman stood to the left of my client and placed an ink pad and notarial seal on the table. Given the significance of the evidence they had gathered against Pamela, it was only natural for them to expect us to throw in the towel and be ready to sign. And certainly, for Pamela, what they were offering was better than nothing. But if she accepted this offer, she would leave behind the life of privilege she had enjoyed ever since marrying Pater Lord. The offer called for her to move out of the couple’s Palm Beach mansion, and while it allowed her sufficient funds to continue living in modest comfort, she must also give up primary custody of the children. She would have supervised visitation rights on alternating weekends.
However, Pamela was not interested in surrendering her children to anyone. She had raised the children almost entirely on her own. She had always been the primary caregiver. Above everything else, Pamela wanted to retain primary custody and, if at all possible, to continue raising the children in the home they had lived in since birth. Her original request fell well short of what she was entitled to under the prenuptial agreement. And yet, Peter Lord wouldn’t settle.
“So are we ready to proceed with signing the agreement?” Vance queried.
“I think we may be getting ahead of ourselves here,” I replied. “Talk of signing anything at this point is a bit premature.” All eyes fell on me.
“Oh?” Vance said, a frown of consternation suddenly replacing his look of confidence.
Behind him, the view was magnificent: a vast sweep of Spanish revival architecture under a canopy of gently waving palms stretching from Lake Worth to the glinting waters of the Atlantic. To the east, billowing towers of cumulus heralded a fast-approaching storm.
Sam Rubinstein leaned in and laid his elbows on the table before speaking. “And why do you feel that way, Mr. Justice?”
“My client wishes to submit an alternative offer.”
Vance’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed beneath his leathery skin. “Can you be more specific?”
“More than happy to oblige.” Reaching down to the briefcase beside me, I fished out three sets of stapled documents. “This is our new offer,” I said, sliding a set of documents to across the gleam of the table to each of the partners. “This is also Mrs. Lord’s best and final offer.” I allowed them a moment to study the offer and for its significance to settle in.
The partners dived noisily into the stapled pages.
“Did I mention that it’s also nonnegotiable?” I held the smile back to only my eyes. “As in take-it-or-leave-it
non
negotiable?”
In the silence, I heard a little gasp, and later a murmured “This is bullshit!” from Rubinstein. The men conferred in hushed tones, each of them flipping through the pages. I stole a glance at Pamela. She sat quietly beside me, a look of dread on her face, her perfectly manicured hands neatly folded on her lap. I gave her a smile and patted her hand. She must have understood, because she forced a wisp of a smile and managed to nod before looking away once more.
“Our position at this point can be summed up in the simplest of terms, gentlemen,” I said drily. “Either your client accepts these new terms, or the next time we see each other will be in court.”
The shocked silence lingered for longer than it should have. The men talked in hushed tones again, and after another moment they looked at me, then Ms. Lord. As the senior partner, Vance was the first to speak.
“Am I to understand that your client, even though fully aware that she is in breach of her prenuptial agreement, is now demanding a settlement that exceeds even what was specified in the
original
prenuptial?”
“That is correct,” I replied, flashing my best friendly smile. I wondered if dialing up the charm a notch would ease what was to come.
“Are you out of your mind, Justice?” Rubinstein said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “This will never fly, and you know it!”
Short, portly Rubinstein was a shrewd negotiator. He was also arrogant and cursed with an overbearing tendency to suspect the worst in all.
“Jason,” Vance said, “have you informed your client that if we go to court there is a high likelihood she may walk away with nothing at all?”
“Sure,” I replied matter-of-factly, toning down the fake charm. I still wanted to be friends. “As of a week or two ago, I would have advised my client against it. But things have changed. Mr. Lord’s offer is not only unacceptable, it’s a non-starter. The offer before you is the only way out of this. But I’m still shooting for an amicable settlement. I mean” I smiled, turning up the charm again and spreading my hands wide in a feigned conciliatory gesture “We’re all consenting adults here, right?”
Vance glared at me for a moment before shifting his attention to Pamela. “Let me get this straight, Mrs. Lord,” he said. “I know you to be an intelligent and capable individual, but his is simply ill advised. Have you thought this through?”
“Please don’t answer that,” I instructed Paula. “Vance, you know me well. You must know we didn’t come empty handed today. Mr. Lord is determined to deprive Mrs. Lord of everything she is entitled to. He is playing a very dangerous game. That sword cuts both ways. I think Mr. Lord should consider very seriously the fact that Mrs. Lord is here today to stand up to him and say ‘no’ to Peter Lord, the self-anointed king of fine women’s garments and even finer leather goods a man who can dress any woman far better than anyone else, regardless of gender or persuasion, I might add. As a matter of fact, I am told Peter Lord can screw a man as well or better than any woman out there.” I was reaching now, pushing buttons, dropping the gauntlet. The gloves were indeed off now.
There were exasperated gasps from the partners. The assistants wore frowns of disbelief. Vance scowled at me. Rubinstein shook his head in revulsion. Fountain just glowered down at the tabletop. Pamela, not the combative sort, just lowered her head and averted her eyes.
“Is this really necessary, Jason?” said Vance, always the voice of reason.
Rubinstein huffed, “This is not only insulting but a colossal waste of time!”
I let the outburst pass. Rubinstein appeared a tad more wound up than his usual uptight self. I had known that the remark would cause a stir. I did not want to be the cause of his appendix busting or an aneurysm. I was being facetious, even obnoxious, but it was a calculated gamble. My intention was to get under their skin, and if (as I expected) Mr. Lord was physically closer than his lawyers were letting on, I wanted to force his hand. I wanted him to lose his cool. Most of all, I wanted him to come out and confront his wife. I wanted him embarrassed in front of these men. I wanted his carefully crafted all-American-male facade demolished in front of the very woman he now sought to destroy. I wanted to leave him but one option: to do the right thing.
“I agree,” I said to Vance as I directed my gaze at him. I knew him to be a smart player, a shrewd lawyer and a negotiator who loved getting to the crux of difficult matters sooner rather than later. “Sam’s right: I
am
wasting valuable time. My apologies, gentlemen.”
It was time.
Vance seemed to like my apology. He nodded at me and went on. “In any event, I believe you are a smart woman, Mrs. Lord. But this course of action is not a smart move. Turning down Mr. Lord’s offer and choosing instead to go to court is simply not in your best interests. You could end up with nothing and lose your children, too. Is that a risk you’re willing to take?”
“I don’t think it will come to that, Vance,” I said as I again reached into my briefcase and pulled out some files. All red folders this time, to indicate the nature of their content: hot, inflammatory. “As individuals, we are all defined by the choices we make.” I contemplated the stack of folders in my hands for a moment, as if pondering what I was about to do. It was all theatrics. “Most of the time,” I continued, “the choices we make are mundane events, like what to have for breakfast or what color tie to wear. But every now and then, we are faced with a significant choice, one imbued with lifelong consequences. Big decisions. Bold choices that can ruin someone or propel him or her into the realm of greatness. Think Oprah.”
“Oprah!” Rubinstein threw his arms up in disbelief. “Is this for real?”
“What are you getting at, Justice?” Fountain finally chimed in. “Unlike you,
we
don’t have all day. We have more than one client to tend to, you know?”
I regarded Fountain. The man was a tool. His barb was not unexpected. He didn’t care much for me, had even declared himself my “enemy.” It was a shared sentiment. He had his hands carefully folded on the table, an exasperated look on his hawklike features. I wondered how anyone could ever work with someone with manicured nails. I wondered if he shaved his body hair, too.
“Walter!” I gushed. “So glad you decided to join us.”
Although he looks to be in his early fifties, Walter Fountain is probably just a few years older than I. The youngest of the senior partners, he eyes everyone with great mistrust and therefore uses language and facial expressions sparingly. He is a ruddy, thin guy with fastidiously trimmed graying blond hair and a matching goatee that looks fake but isn’t. In his sober, perfectly tailored suits, matching loafers, and gold cufflinks, the man says little and gives away even less. His only downside as a litigator is his short fuse.
“Screw you,” Fountain muttered.
“Do something for me, will you, Walter?” I replied. I knew which buttons to push. “Promise you’ll never change not even one single perfect hair.” I heard a muffled giggle from Pamela.
“Fuck you, asshole!” Fountain hissed.
“Mr. Fountain! That will be enough!” Vance placed a meaty paw on his partner’s narrow shoulder. “I will not tolerate this kind of behavior from anyone!”
“You forget to take your medicines again, Walter?” I remarked with feign concern, unable to stop myself.
“I don’t have to put up with his shit, do I?” Walter whined.
“Okay, that’s quite enough,” Vance interrupted. “Control yourself or I’ll be forced to ask you to leave this meeting. Am I making myself clear?”
An uneasy silence fell over the already chilly conference room. Vance knew me well. He knew of my dislike for his partner, and he also knew I could rattle Fountain at will. “Jason,” he said, “please get on with it.”
I slid a red file folder to each of the partners. I wanted them to see the contents of the files at the same time, because I wanted their collective reaction to carry beyond the confines of the room. I wanted Peter Lord to hear them, too.
“Gentlemen,” I said as the men took in the images before them, “what you have before you is, shall we say, something of a game changer.”
“What is this?” Rubinstein exclaimed, a look of disbelief creasing his swarthy features. He rushed thorough the large glossies quickly and noisily as if his brain refused to acknowledge what the eyes captured: images of Peter Lord in intimate attitudes with several younger men.
The first image depicted a casually dressed Peter and a young, attractive male. They sat next to each other in a dark booth at a restaurant, Peter’s hand resting on the younger man’s leg, too close to the crotch to be accidental. The next image revealed Peter and another young man, this one in his twenties, leaving a quaint hotel along a dark lake. Affixed with a brass holder to the opposite side of the file were a second group of images close-ups. These, taken from some distance through a large window, featured men scantily dressed in black leather and plenty of chrome, one holding a whip and another a leash men engaged in an S-and-M bondage fantasy. The faces were clear as day, with no possibility of a mistake. Not conclusive proof that Peter Lord was other than the man he portrayed himself to be, but suggestive enough to warrant attention. If these were made public, they would do untold harm to his meticulously fashioned public image. Still, the images alone did not prove that Peter Lord was in violation of the cheating provision in the prenuptial agreement, and I certainly didn’t expect the men before me to be suddenly swayed and rush off to advise Peter Lord to settle.
It would be challenging, but the situations captured in those images could be explained as innocent encounters taken out of context innocuous happenstances of time and place, which, while suggestive and embarrassing, at the end of the day proved nothing and did not further our case. Fine. True enough. While the potential damage to the man’s brand and business reputation was not a trivial matter, I was more concerned with Peter Lord’s reaction to these potentially explainable images. I wanted him to know that the implied threat within was far greater than the pictures suggested. I wanted him to know that I knew his secret, that there was more. I had images that I was certain would convince Peter Lord to reconsider his position. The images revealed thus far were the tip of the iceberg, a warning shot over the prow. I prayed he wouldn’t force my hand. I did not wish to disseminate the contents of my file beyond the confines of the conference room. I did not want to harm him, his company, or the thousands of good people employed by the Lord America Group, Inc.
I stared at Rubinstein and said, “Please tell me I don’t need to explain the pictures to you.”
“This is nothing but garbage,” Rubinstein scoffed, and he spun the file back across the table. “You’ve got nothing, counselor. You hear me? This gets you nothing!”
“What did I tell you?” Walter was looking at Vance. He closed the folder noisily and shoved it back at me. “Expect a stunt like this. I mean, we all know how he operates, don’t we? Underhanded dealings, intimidation, blackmail. Coerce opposing party with some dirty trick that is Mr. Justice’s brand of justice, isn’t it?”
“Jason,” Vance said, motioning for Fountain to back down, “I’m afraid Mr. Rubinstein is correct. The pictures may be considered suggestive by some, I’ll grant you, but they don’t change the facts in this case, so I fail to see the point. What is it that you hoped to accomplish? Please tell me this is not an attempt to blackmail my client into a deal.”