Authors: Robert Dugoni
During Sloane’s streak of twenty-two straight jury verdicts, all had been unanimous.
“Nine of us agree, Judge. Three don’t.”
“Three?”
Pendergrass uttered under his breath.
“All right, Mr. Giacoletti, would you please hand the verdict to the bailiff.”
The foreman did as instructed, and the bailiff passed the folded sheet of paper to Rudolph. Rudolph took a moment to consider it before handing it to his clerk. “Dr. Douvalidis, will you please stand.”
When Douvalidis did not immediately respond, his attorney touched his arm to gain the doctor’s attention. Pendergrass and Sloane also stood, but the McFarlands remained seated, squeezing each other’s hand.
The clerk started. “In the matter of McFarland versus Douvalidis, we the jury find for the plaintiffs.”
Eva McFarland sobbed in relief and immediately covered her mouth. Her husband wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and she buried her head in his chest, her body shuddering.
The clerk continued. “And award the plaintiffs three point two million dollars in damages.”
Rudolph asked Douvalidis’s attorney if he wished to poll the jury. He declined. With that, the judge thanked the members for their service, made a brief speech about the important function juries play in the judicial system, and dismissed them. Rudolph then addressed counsel, thanking them for their professionalism in his courtroom, rapped his gavel, and left the bench.
Pendergrass tended to the McFarlands while Sloane shook hands with his opposing counsel. Douvalidis’s wife had leaned over the railing, rubbing her husband’s back and whispering in his ear, but the doctor gave no indication he heard what she was saying.
Pendergrass slapped Sloane on the back, drawing his attention. “God, don’t do that again. You had me worried.”
The McFarlands hugged Sloane and thanked him, then stepped into the arms of tearful family members and friends.
Sloane looked back to the door, watching as Douvalidis departed the room between the shelter of his wife and his attorney.
As he did, Sloane thought of Kyle Horgan.
CHAPTER TWO
KENDALL TOYYS’ CORPORATE HEADQUARTERS
RENTON, WASHINGTON
Kendall’s board of directors filed into the conference room looking perplexed and anxious. They filled the blue leather chairs around the table and at the back of the room beneath portraits of Constantine and Aristotle Kendall, the two founding brothers, as well as Constantine’s son, Sebastian Senior, and his son, Sebastian Junior. Fitzgerald’s portrait did not yet hang among the hallowed, and he knew some in the room, congregating at the far end of the table around Arian Santoro, believed it never would.
Earlier that morning, Fitzgerald had received another e-mail from Maxine Bolelli and her tone had become increasingly less cordial as Fitzgerald rejected her advances. She had increased Galaxy’s stock offer, which she referred to as a “gift” in light of Kendall’s “horrific” third-quarter losses, and demanded that Fitzgerald and Kendall’s board of directors respond by the end of the business day.
As the hastily called meeting got under way, Santoro quickly steered the discussion to Kendall’s third-quarter losses and the rumors that Galaxy Toys sought to acquire the company.
Fitzgerald had not shared Maxine Bolelli’s overtures with any member of the board except Irwin Dean, his president of operations, and, of course, Sebastian Kendall. Santoro’s knowledge of the confidential discussions, despite those precautions, and the timing of Bolelli’s most recent e-mail—just before an unannounced board meeting—further confirmed Fitzgerald’s suspicion that he had a mole trenching through his company.
“Galaxy has made an offer,” Fitzgerald confirmed, “point seven shares of stock in Galaxy for every share of Kendall.”
The revelation, or perhaps Fitzgerald’s candor, brought silence—no doubt because every person in the room was at that moment mentally calculating how much money they stood to make if the board accepted the offer.
Santoro wasted little time. “In light of the most recent profit statement, I think we have to seriously consider such an offer.” Santoro’s strategic decision to sit at the far end of the table was intended to symbolize the chasm between his and Fitzgerald’s positions. “It’s our fiduciary duty to advise the stockholders of any reasonable offer.”
“The losses have to be put in perspective,” Fitzgerald replied. “Nearly sixty percent can be attributed to the overprojection of the sales figures for Lupo.” He referred to an action figure Kendall had created in conjunction with the summer opening of a major motion picture. The Lupo team, of which Santoro had ultimate oversight, had estimated revenues to top $26 million, but the movie bombed, and they had fallen short by nearly $24 million. “If those losses are backed out, we actually made a slight profit. In light of the continued transition, that is something we can build on.”
Santoro scoffed. “Unfortunately, that type of accounting would land us all in jail, along with our accountants.” His minions laughed. “If we’re looking to back anything out, why not back out
our manufacturing plant in Mossylog. Our manufacturing costs remain three to four times higher than our competitors’.”
Sebastian Kendall had resisted shipping Kendall’s manufacturing needs to China and South America; his father and grandfather had served in the army, and the Kendalls considered themselves true patriots. Sebastian called it blasphemous to suggest that Sergeant Smash be manufactured by anyone other than American workers. That company policy, however, had recently changed, at least on a limited basis, though no one in the room but Fitzgerald knew it.
Fitzgerald calmly lifted a wrapped package from beneath the table, placed it on the wood surface, and deliberately opened the box, drawing the board members’ attention. He stood the ruby red, eighteen-inch figure on the mahogany surface, which he had ordered polished that morning so the overhead recessed lights would dramatically spot the toy.
While protocol would have been to seek director approval prior to creating a new prototype, protocol had been sacrificed with a mole loose in the building. The toy had been developed under a cloak of secrecy at an off-site, non-Kendall facility to prevent a leak that could allow another company to steal the design and beat Kendall to the market with a knockoff. Initial focus groups had also been limited, and their opinions, which had been off the charts, had been provided only to Fitzgerald.
Fitzgerald placed the remote control on the table, and flipped a switch. The action figure came to life, marching forward, turning and marching back, its red eyes flashing. Nobody looked particularly impressed.
Then Fitzgerald said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Metamorphis.”
With another flip of the switch a robotic voice said
“Metamorphis,” and the pieces of the figure began to swivel and turn as if bewitched, folding under and over one another until the robot had vanished and what remained on the glistening tabletop was a ruby red tank, complete with turret and long gun. Sebastian Kendall had taught Fitzgerald that the toy business was as much about entertainment as it was about toys, and entertainment was about surprising one’s audience.
Fitzgerald directed the tank to roll the length of the table, then adjusted the turret until the gun pointed directly between Santoro’s eyes. Santoro looked to his minions but their gaze remained transfixed on the toy. The turret emitted a loud
pop!
causing Santoro and several others to flinch. Moments of utter silence ensued, Fitzgerald watching and waiting. Then shouts of jubilation and applause filled the room and directors bolted from their chairs, rushing forward to ask questions. Others, smiling as bright as children awakening to find toys beneath the Christmas tree, surged for the toy box and began arguing over who got the control next.
THE TIN ROOM
BURIEN, WASHINGTON
THE FAVORABLE VERDICT had not eased Sloane’s doubts about the case, and not even a phone call from Tina telling him to meet her at the Tin Room, their favorite hangout in Burien, brought him any comfort.
The proprietor, Dan House, stood behind the bar beneath the sign that had formerly hung on the front of the building when it had been a tin shop, one of the oldest establishments in Burien. Patrons filled the barstools, some watching a Mariners game on the flatscreen hanging from the ceiling.
“Don’t want to ring the bell tonight,” Sloane said, surveying
the large crowd and referring to the fireman’s bell near the entry to the kitchen. Ring it, and you bought everyone in the restaurant a drink.
House, a former European soccer star with an easy smile, gray curls to his collar, and an infectious laugh pointed to the bouquet of roses in Sloane’s hand. “David, you shouldn’t have.”
Sloane laughed. “Good, because I didn’t.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion. Just finished another trial.” He bought Tina roses after each of his trials, his way of acknowledging that work had interfered with their life, and he had not been the easiest person to live with.
House pointed toward the back of the restaurant, speaking over the music. “Well, she looks like a million bucks tonight. She’s waiting on the patio. What can I get you?”
“Beer would be great,” Sloane said.
The Tin Room was hopping, as usual, filled with Burien locals looking for a good meal or a chance to have a drink and unwind after work. Sloane pushed through the glass doors and stepped onto the newly added outdoor deck and patio. Getting a table when the summer weather was perfect was not easy, but Tina sat sipping a glass of water. She wore her white summer dress that, but for two spaghetti straps, showed off her tanned and toned shoulders and arms. She stood when she saw him, smiling brightly, wrapped her arms around his waist, and lifted onto her toes to kiss him.
Pulling back, she asked, “Hey, why the long face?” Her eyes widened. “You didn’t lose, did you?”
“No. We won.”
She sighed. “Thank God. I’m so happy for those poor people.”
“Me too.” Sloane knew that nothing would bring back the McFarlands’ six-year-old boy, but for the family, the jury’s verdict at least validated their decision to sue, erasing the silent stigma that
they were nothing more than money-grubbing plaintiffs looking to capitalize on a tragedy.
Parting with another kiss, Sloane produced the bouquet of roses from behind his back.
Tina grinned. “For me?”
“Thanks for putting up with me,” he said.
Though Tina never complained about the late nights and long weekends, her accepting the roses made Sloane feel as though he was forgiven.
She kissed him again. “They’re beautiful.”
When they sat she handed him a postcard of the Roman Coliseum. Alex and Charles Jenkins had taken their delayed honeymoon, leaving Charles Junior with his grandmother in New Jersey. Alex had written a thoughtful synopsis of their visit to Rome. Under it, Charlie had scribbled a note.
Send blue cheese dressing. Sick of oil and vinegar.
“Sounds like they’re having a good time.”
“They’re in Venice. I called Alex today.”
“Wait a minute. Charlie pays for a fifty-cent postcard and I get a fifty-dollar phone bill. How does that happen?”
House appeared at their table with two menus and Sloane’s beer, but Sloane ordered from memory. “Meat loaf,” he said.
Tina ordered the crab cakes.
“You want a glass of chardonnay?” House asked.
“Just water,” Tina said.
“No wine?” Sloane asked. “I thought we must be celebrating something.”
“I have an early appointment tomorrow,” she said.
“Hey, that’s great. Big job?”
“Just a remodel here in town.” Tina’s architecture business
had been slow with the economy in the toilet, and Sloane was happy she was bidding on a job again.
“How are things at home?” he asked.
She grimaced. “You want the good news or the bad news?”
“I was hoping the phone call was the bad news.”
She threw her napkin at him. “Boy, we are grumpy aren’t we, Ebenezer?”
“Sorry,” he said. “All right, I’ll take the good news.”
She handed him a manila packet. “Jake’s adoption papers came in the mail, and I talked to Frank. He says he’ll sign them. Jake’s all yours if you really want to do this. He will officially become Jake Andrew Sloane.”
They had discussed Sloane’s adopting Jake to avoid the constant and predictable confusion each time Sloane tried to sign forms on Jake’s behalf, be it for the doctor, dentist, or school administration. Legally, Sloane was not Jake’s father or even his guardian. But the desire to adopt was more than just to solve procedural inconveniences. Sloane wanted them to be a family and to remove every boundary, even artificial ones, to that goal. He wanted to be Jake’s father as much as he wanted to be Tina’s husband. Doing it legally would be the best way to convince Jake that Sloane loved him and would always be there for him. At the same time, Sloane had been emphatic that the decision to change his last name was Jake’s alone to make.
“Have you told him?”
“No. I wanted to wait for you.”
“Let’s tell him tonight.”
“Good. We can also discuss the bad news.” Tina pulled out another packet of papers from her purse and handed them to Sloane. On the top page, in bright red ink, was a D-.
“Damn,” Sloane said, looking over Jake’s algebra exam. “I was supposed to help him study last week and I got delayed at the
office to do that piece on Channel Five. I let him down.” He sighed. “This is not a good start to becoming his father, is it?”
To her credit, Tina did not rub it in. “What can we do to change it?”
“I can begin by keeping my word and better prioritizing my life.”
With his busy schedule Sloane and Jake’s time together had suffered. They had not been out on the boat to fish since June, and they had put off a summer vacation when Sloane got called to be the keynote speaker at a national trial lawyers meeting. It was about then when Jake had gone back to calling him “David,” instead of “Dad.”