Doubt (Caroline Auden Book 1) (9 page)

“No, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t ask him about it,” Louis said. “One lesson every lawyer learns is that you never get the whole truth. There’s always something that someone hasn’t told you. Your client. Your key witness. The other side. Even your co-counsel. There’s always some fact of critical importance that you simply don’t know.”

Caroline considered his words. “Because they’re trying to hide something or because they don’t know it’s important?”

“Sometimes one. Sometimes the other. This is why a good lawyer must know everything he can possibly know about his case. Hard work wins cases far more often than courtroom eloquence . . . which is why I need you to work hard.”

“I’ll grill Dale,” Caroline vowed. “I’ll find out whether he has some lead for us on the Heller article.”

“Good. You’ll get your chance to talk to Dale at the luncheon when we arrive.”

During the airplane’s descent, Las Vegas had struck Caroline as an improbable metropolis that had sprung from the cracked earth fully grown, like an overfertilized version of Jack’s beanstalk. A speed freak’s dream, colored in neon and hopped up on drugs.

Now she stood at the threshold of a gaudy anomaly within a gaudy anomaly. Safe House. The restaurant had made the list of top ten restaurants not just for its food but for its dramatic decor. Across the vaulted ceiling, long chains of fabric were washed with gold light, creating the illusion that the dining room sat inside a woven sack of money. The carpet, too, played on the theme, with images of international currency scattered among diners’ feet.

But the pièce de résistance was the floor-to-ceiling wine cellar rising up from the center of the vaulted space. A pulley system lifted a scantily clad waitress up the glass chamber to retrieve a bottle every time someone ordered. A burly man dressed in a guard uniform made a great show of punching the combination into a lock on the front of the tower each time the wine wench needed to retrieve a bottle.

It was a silly gimmick. And yet Caroline couldn’t stop looking at it. The spectacle distracted her from her imminent meeting with the Steering Committee. If Louis’s description was accurate, these were the men who fashioned, manipulated, and profited from the largest litigation in the country, cultivating cash cows of monumental proportions, milking their herds so they could feast on the fruits of their labors in places like this. And they wanted to meet her.

Caroline steeled herself for the meeting. These were just people, she reminded herself. Just a bunch of stuffed suits. Richer, certainly, but no better than her.

And yet, after her anxiety attack at court, each sound and scent and sight risked tripping the tenuous balance she’d only recently regained. She hated that was so. She wanted to feel as badass as she once had. As capable. As competent.

The hostess gestured for Caroline to follow her into the restaurant.

Sound rose up like a wall. Voices and silverware. And in the gaps between those, the clangs and sirens of the hotel’s casino, all hitting Caroline’s ears in jangling waves.

Finally, they arrived at the epicenter of the sound: a big table filled with middle-aged men talking so loudly the rest of the restaurant had to raise its collective voice to be heard.

No one had to tell Caroline that this was the Plaintiffs’ Steering Committee.

At one end of the table, Louis sat ramrod straight, looking formal even without a tie under his sports jacket. Next to him sat a broad-shouldered man with dyed-blond hair and a mouth that seemed too large for his face.

On the other side of the table, Caroline spotted Deena. The New York associate wore what had to be a designer dress. Blood-red and cut to show plenty of cleavage, the dress clung to Deena like a wet bathing suit. Caroline’s little black cocktail dress, which had seemed like a safe bet, now just seemed timid.

As Caroline approached the table, the blond man beside Louis rose to his feet.

“I’m Dale,” he said, holding out a meaty hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Caroline.” He smiled a boyish smile, the dimple in his right cheek deepening. His manner reminded Caroline of the family friend who’s come to the door with a plate of cookies, apologizing for not being a better cook. The wolfish gleam in his eyes as he glanced at the low neckline of her dress, however, made her think perhaps he wasn’t so much the family friend as he was the mischievous postman who’d fathered kids all over the neighborhood.

Caroline sat down in the empty chair between Dale and Louis.

“When Louis called to see if I needed any help on this here case, I was happier than a tornado in a trailer park. There’s no one better than this guy right here at putting a case together.” As he sat back down, he moved to slap Louis’s shoulder but stopped. Louis wasn’t the backslapping type.

“To tell you the truth,” Dale continued, “I’d have reached out to Louis myself if I’d thought he’d be interested in taking a contingency-fee case. He doesn’t put up those pretty pictures in his office by taking cases on the come. So when he offered his services at a cut rate—I sure as heck counted my blessings that day.”

“Some cases are worthy of a special arrangement,” Louis said simply.

“How do you two know each other?” Caroline asked, looking back and forth between the two men, trying to imagine where the austere northeasterner and the avuncular Texan could have crossed paths.

Dale flashed another one of his winning smiles. “I went to school with this guy. He was a senior at the fraternity when I was just a lowlife freshman pledge. He’s been looking out for me ever since.”

Caroline’s brow knit. Harvard had both fraternities and final clubs. The Porcellian Club was a final club, not a fraternity. Maybe Dale had used the more common term for her benefit? With his Texas accent and cowboy boots, Dale didn’t convey the old-money credentials the Porc usually required of its membership. Perhaps he had a New England steel magnate or robber baron somewhere in his family tree? It wouldn’t be the first time a privileged New Englander had passed himself off as a down-home southerner.

Glancing at Dale’s hand, Caroline looked to see if he wore the same ring that Louis usually wore. He didn’t. But he did wear a wedding ring.

“Louis got me into Columbia Law School,” Dale said. “I know he’ll deny it, but he made it happen. I had far too much fun in college to get the grades I needed to get into Columbia. But when you’ve got Louis on your side, all things are possible.”

Louis smiled an enigmatic smile but said nothing.

Dale turned back to Caroline and put his thick hand on the back of Caroline’s chair.

“So what’s your story, Miss Caroline? Tell me all about yourself.” As he held her eyes, the thumb of the hand behind her touched the bare skin on her back exposed by her dress.

“I’m working on the science for our
Daubert
brief,” Caroline said, being deliberately obtuse.

She leaned forward to take a sip of water, breaking contact with Dale’s thumb, which she knew remained perched on the chair behind her, just waiting for another chance to pounce.

Dale deflated slightly. It wasn’t the response he’d sought.

“Oh. Right,” Dale said. “I hear you’ve been reading all those articles we sent y’all.”

“Yes. I also found something interesting on a chat board—”

“You know what’s interesting?” Dale asked. “That wine tower over there.” He gestured with his chin toward the spectacle, inviting Caroline to join him in his admiration.

“Yeah, I saw it. It’s amazing,” Caroline said. “But I wanted to ask if you knew something about this scientist who—”

“You know what else is amazing?” Dale leaned toward Caroline so that his shoulder grazed hers, touching tentatively in another silent overture.

Caroline pulled away, drinking yet more water. Dale would either think she was superthirsty or he’d get a clue.

After a moment, she tried again. “There’s a missing article, and I was hoping . . .”

She trailed off as Dale took his hand off her chair and turned to watch a waitress walking across the dining room. With breasts the size of small grapefruits and legs that went on for yards, the reason for Dale’s distraction was obvious.

He pivoted his body until he faced away from Caroline.

The blatant nature of his disregard struck Caroline like a slap. His interest in her had lasted exactly as long as he’d thought there might be a chance of seducing her. He wasn’t interested in her views. He didn’t care about her efforts to win.

A wave of annoyance rose in her chest.

She’d encountered guys like Dale in tech, where bro culture reigned supreme. She’d rebuffed the approaches of overgrown teenage boys who had enthusiastically suggested launching an app to share pictures of women’s breasts and asked to see hers . . . for research.

Louis leaned toward Caroline’s ear. “Dale can be a bit of a boor when he’s had too much to drink. Par for the course, I’m afraid.”

Caroline turned to her boss with surprise. He’d apparently noticed Dale’s behavior. Even worse, he’d expected it.

“I apologize for not warning you about him,” Louis added. His tone held remorse.

“I’m fine,” Caroline said quickly. “I can take care of myself.” As in the tech world, she would show no sign of weakness. Weakness was like catnip for assholes.

“Good,” Louis said. “In law, just as in life, one must be able to handle oneself.”

“I agree,” Caroline said. She’d heard Louis’s sermons on self-reliance. She knew his philosophy. Still, some advance warning about Dale would’ve been nice.

She eyed the rest of the people on the Plaintiffs’ Steering Committee. People who hadn’t greeted her or even acknowledged her when she’d arrived at the table.

A familiar gloom settled over her.

In leaving tech for the law, she’d assumed she’d find a world where gender wasn’t so much of a . . . thing. She hadn’t left tech because she’d been fleeing the puerile brogrammers who were as much a part of the industry as late-night pizza. She’d been good at her job, and the other engineers had shown her respect. Enough of them, anyway. Never one to shrink, she’d spoken up during code reviews, pointing out problems she’d seen in other engineers’ code. But sometimes it seemed as if she spoke into an abyss . . .

“Once you get to know Dale, you’ll find he isn’t so bad,” Louis said. “When he’s away from home, he drinks too much, but he’s a good lawyer and a good man. His ability to connect with juries is unparalleled. He’s done some real good. Many of these fellows have.”

Louis turned to regard the other faces around the table.

“Those guys over there are the lawyers from Chicago, Philadelphia, and New York.” Louis gestured with his chin toward a cadre of men in subdued suits. Dark blue, black, and gray. Apparently the only three colors suitable for lawyers from east of the Mississippi.

Deena, in her red dress and long gold earrings, was a splash of color against the drab background. She listened attentively to something the thick man beside her said. Anton Callisto, Caroline guessed. Built like a linebacker, Anton exuded a sense of coiled menace. His bulbous nose gave him a vaguely pugilistic affect. His crew cut aligned with the ex-marine Louis had described, and he didn’t look like he smiled very often.

“And that’s Paul Tiller,” Louis said, nodding his chin toward a short, bald man with a cherubic smile sitting across the table. “He’s the self-proclaimed hottest plaintiff’s lawyer in Atlanta, and I have to admit he’s quite good. He’s got the biggest piece of the
SuperSoy
litigation in the South. He narrowly lost out to Dale to be president of the Steering Committee. And you already know Eddie.”

The Atlanta associate sat directly across the table. He wore black trousers and a white Oxford shirt tailored to accentuate his broad shoulders.

He caught Caroline’s eye and smiled his crooked grin.

Caroline smiled back, finding sanctuary in Eddie’s warmth. Reminding herself to be grateful that Dale wasn’t her boss, she refocused on her mission: discovering whether Dale had any leads that might lead her to Heller’s missing article.

When the waitress disappeared from view, Caroline cleared her throat.

Dale turned his attention back to her.

“Pardon my manners, darling,” he said. “Now, what were you saying to me?” He replaced his hand on the back of her chair and leaned in but avoided making contact with her shoulder. They had reached some kind of unspoken détente.

“I’m piecing together the science for our
Daubert
brief, but there’s one article that we don’t have that might help us show a direct link,” Caroline said.

“Louis mentioned your work. I appreciate it, but I think we’ll win regardless. This judge is going to see that when these people ate SuperSoy, they got sick real soon afterward.”

“But what about the
Scziewizcs
decision this morning?” Caroline asked, wincing at her massacre of the case’s name.

“It isn’t binding on our court. I know
Daubert
requires us to put on some science, but we’ve got some science. We’ve got differential diagnoses. If a person went to a doctor with kidney failure, that doctor would put SuperSoy on his differential diagnosis. That’s science.”