Climbing the Rock

Chapter 16B: Pauline

Frowley was still infuriated when Pauline called him two hours later. She was forced to endure a five-minute lecture about lack of decorum and uncouth behavior and proper legal procedures and judges who didn't know their ass from a hole in the ground.

"That's all very interesting, Frowley," she said when he finally wound down. "Now, if we could get to the point of my phone call?"

"What do you want?"

"I would like to arrange a meeting between you, myself, and at least one member of National Records management with decision-making capabilities. I would like for this meeting to take place today, preferably before the close of business hours."

"You're out of your mind," he replied. "We'll meet you in court. Round two might have gone to you but the fight will go to us and you know it."

"This meeting," Pauline said, ignoring his speculation about what she did or did not know, "will be to discuss a possible settlement to this matter, something that will get the band back to work and the next Intemperance album back in production."

There was a long pause. Finally, "If your settlement involves changing the band's contract in any way, you can forget it."

"I will discuss the terms of the settlement during the meeting and only during the meeting, and only if National management is present."

On his end of the phone line, Frowley opened his mouth to tell Pauline to take a flying fuck. He closed it before anything could come out. Something occurred to him. If they did meet and this so-called lawyer from Bum-fuck Egypt actually admitted that the band was producing sub-standard material — something it seemed quite likely she would be dumb enough to do — they would be able to go back to Judge Remington and get their court order. He smiled. "Let me see what I can do," he told her. "Is there a number I can call you back at?"

They met at the National Records Building at four o'clock. Hoping to impress and overwhelm Pauline — who they viewed as a small-town, small-time, hick lawyer similar to Gregory Peck's character in To Kill A Mockingbird — the meeting took place in the executive briefing room on the top floor. Both Casting and Doolittle were present, backed up by Frowley and his entire entourage. The lawyers and the executives were all decked out in their best power suits. They greeted Pauline warmly and sat her in a small chair that faced all of them in their raised chairs, forcing her to look upward just to talk to them.

"Is there anything we can get you before we begin?" asked Casting, ever the perfect host. "A drink perhaps?"

"No, thank you," Pauline replied.

"How about a line or two of our best cocaine? I've found that these things sometimes go smoother if everyone is a little relaxed."

"Again, no, thank you," Pauline said. "I have a nine o'clock flight back to Heritage so I'd just assume get this over with."

"As you wish," Casting said.

"Do you have any objection to the meeting being recorded?" asked Frowley.

"None at all," Pauline said. "In fact, I was going to ask you the same thing." With that, she opened her briefcase and removed a small micro-cassette recorder. She gave it a quick check, turned it on, and spoke softly into it, reciting the time, date, place, participants, and purpose of the meeting. She then sat it on the table before her, leaving it running.

Frowley gave her an isn't-that-cute look and then repeated the procedure with his own micro-cassette recorder.

"Now then," Frowley said. "It is my understanding that you have come here today with a settlement proposal. Is that correct?"

"Yes it is," Pauline said.

"Well, let's hear what you have to say and we'll consider it."

"Very well." She took a deep breath. Her wording here would have to be very cautious and very precise. To make an admission of any kind that the band was doing any of this purposefully would be an automatic disqualification from the game now afoot. Yet she still had to convey her demands to them and offer them reassurance that if they played ball things would return to normal. As such, she had carefully composed and rehearsed the manner in which she was about to present her case to them. "My clients seem to be suffering from a very bad case of creativity block, wouldn't you say?"

Frowley fielded her serve and neatly volleyed it back to her. "That is one way of putting it," he said.

"I can't think of any other way," Pauline told him. "That tape they submitted to you was awful. It was the worst thing they've ever done."

Frowley raised his eyebrows a tad. Was it really going to be this easy? "So you admit they are deliberately sabotaging their music?"

She smiled, letting him know that it wasn't really going to be that easy. "No, of course not," she said. "They are not deliberately sabotaging their music. Quite the contrary. They honestly tried their best to be creative in their latest endeavor. They are very upset that you do not consider it to be acceptable. I'm afraid they've lost confidence in their abilities to produce any more music."

"I see," Frowley said. "So this is a crisis of confidence, is it?"

"Partly," she said. "Although I think this current crisis is simply a symptom of a much larger problem."

"And what might this much larger problem be?"

"Stress," said Pauline. "Stress caused by the way they have been treated by National Records under their current contract."

Frowley rolled his eyes. "Stress caused by the contract, huh? I knew it would come down to this. My clients will not renegotiate the Intemperance contract in any way, shape, or form. That is set in concrete, my dear. We will reject any settlement offer in which that is one of the terms."

Pauline simply shrugged. "Your contract is exploiting the band quite dreadfully. You are making millions of dollars in album sales, singles sales, concert revenue, and merchandising revenue while the band is going hundreds of thousands of dollars into debt to you. They are being treated in a manner that is frightfully unfair and they are resentful of this. I, for one, know that Jake, my brother, has a particular hatred of being treated unfairly."

"So he decided to sabotage his music in response to this perceived unfairness?" Casting asked.

"No," Pauline said. "I don't believe that to be the case at all. I believe the stress and humiliation of being little better than indentured servants to a greedy corporation has caused the band to lose their creative edge."

Frowley gave her another eye roll, a bigger one this time. "And whatever might we do, Ms. Kingsley, to give these poor boys their creative edge back?"

"It's quite simple," she said. "You need to start treating them fairly."

"And how, may I ask, might we do that?"

Pauline smiled sweetly. "Well, I think renegotiating their contract might just do the trick."

Casting and Doolittle groaned. Frowley shook his head in disgust.

"This meeting is now over," Casting said. "I should have known better than to agree to it in the first place."

"I quite agree," said Doolittle.

"Your clients have two choices, Miss," Frowley said. "They can submit acceptable material in the next two weeks and record it at National's direction or they can be sued for breach of contract. I'm sure even a small-timer like yourself knows they don't have a chance in hell of winning a breach of contract suit at trial."

"Yes," Pauline said. "I am aware of that. But if that happens they won't be the only losers now, will they?"

"We're not renegotiating," Frowley said.

Pauline looked over at Casting. "Mr. Casting, if you sue Intemperance for breach of contract and win you will get next to nothing out of them. They are musicians and musicians only. They do not know how to do anything else. If they can't play their music, they are not going to become stockbrokers and make millions buying and selling. They are not going to go to medical school or law school or engineering school. They'll end up working at gas stations and convenience stores making minimum wage. You can garnish their wages for the rest of their lives and you won't get enough to pay for a month's retainer on Mr. Frowley's firm. You understand that, don't you?"

"We understand," Casting said. "And we don't care."

"Really?" she asked. "You don't care that you'll be losing somewhere in the vicinity of eighty million dollars in revenue?"

"That argument won't work," Casting said. "We've already told your little brother this but he didn't seem to get it. So now, we'll tell you. You seem to be the smart one in the family so maybe you'll be able to grasp this. If push comes to shove we will eat that eighty million dollars and destroy Intemperance forever. We will do this without hesitation in order to avoid setting a precedent. Do you know what a precedent is, hon? Did they go over that term in whatever rural law school you attended? If we renegotiated the Intemperance contract because of this asinine and illegal stunt your clients pulled, we'd have twenty other bands in here before the ink was even dry trying to pull the same thing. That would end up costing us a hell of a lot more than eighty million in the long run. So the answer is no. No way, no how are we going to allow a band — no matter how successful or profitable they are — to blackmail us like this. It will not happen. Never!"

Pauline sat, expressionless, throughout this tirade. She had been hoping they would give in once they realized that Jake and Matt and Bill, the heart, soul, and creativity of the band, were truly prepared to go to the wall on this issue. After all, eighty million dollars was a lot of money for a corporation to throw away. But now it seemed that National was prepared to go to the wall as well. It was time to play her final card, a card that was — at least in part — bluff and bluster.

"You seem to be fond of the word 'precedent', Mr. Casting," she said. "Let's talk about that for a minute."

"I have nothing more to talk about," Casting said. "As I told you, this meeting is now over."

"Oh, I think you might want to listen to this last little bit I have to say. After that, I'll leave peacefully and quietly."

"Fine," Casting said. "But we're not changing our position."

"Understood," she said. "Now we were talking about precedent, weren't we? They did teach me about that word at that little old law school I attended and it's a very good word, a very good concept. In this particular matter it ties neatly into another little legal term I learned there, something called 'unenforceable provisions'. Have you ever heard of that one, Mr. Casting?"

Casting hadn't, but Frowley had. "Oh please," he said. "Your unsophistication at the study of law is really showing now. There is no way on God's green earth unenforceable provisions could possibly fly in this case. Not even with that drooling moron who sat in judgment this morning."

"Don't think so?" Pauline asked.

"I know so," Frowley said.

"What exactly is this unenforceable provisions thing we're talking about here?" asked Casting.

"It's nothing, sir," Frowley said. "Absolutely nothing but this ambulance chaser grasping at straws. There is no way it could even remotely be applied here."

"Probably not on initial judgment," Pauline allowed. "But on appeal... well, that could get interesting now, couldn't it?"

"You would be laughed out of the courtroom," Frowley said.

"Excuse me," Casting said, "but what exactly are we talking about here?"

"It's a pipe dream," Frowley said. "An area of the law that has no relationship to a music contract."

"Since Mr. Frowley doesn't seem to want to explain 'unenforceable provisions' to you," Pauline said, "perhaps you would allow me?" She paused and when no one spoke up to tell her no, she explained it. "An unenforceable provision is a clause or clauses put into a written contract that is considered so contrary to acceptable behavior that even if the party to the contract voluntarily signed off on it and understood it the law will not allow the enforcement of it. In effect, by its very nature, the provision is considered unenforceable. The most obvious application of this concept is when someone inserts an illegal act into a contract. For instance, if you had put in that if Intemperance does not sell enough albums to cover your initial outlay of funds, they would have to smuggle two hundred pounds of cocaine across the border for you."

"We have no such clause in our contract," Casting said.

"That was just a simplified example of illegal provisions," Pauline said. "I made it so you would understand the concept. Another example would be outrageous acts. The example they like to give in law school — at least at the hick law school I went to — is a company puts in a clause that says if a supplier does not deliver on schedule he has to cut off his right arm. Just because the supplier signed and consented to such a clause does not make it enforceable."

"We have nothing like that in our contract either," Casting said.

"Of course you don't," said Frowley. "I told you she was grasping at straws."

"Again," said Pauline, "those were just simplified law school examples used to teach the basic concept of unenforceable provisions. Why don't we talk real world here for a minute? I personally have worked on three unenforceable provisions cases in my career and have taken two to litigation, one of which I won, the other I lost. In the first case, a fertilizer firm — I know, that hick thing again — put into its supply contract with one of our farming conglomerates that if they, the supplier, failed to deliver the promised amount of fertilizer on time and in the proper amount, they were still entitled to payment in full. The conglomerate signed this contract voluntarily — this was before my time or I would have advised against it — and then, one day, a train derailed and destroyed an entire shipment. The supplier demanded full payment under the contract. The conglomerate refused and I challenged the clause on the grounds it was an outrageous concept for a client to have to pay for a lack of delivery that was in no way their fault. The judge agreed and the clause was stricken from the contract."

Frowley clapped his hands contemptuously. "Bravo for you. You've wiped out injustice at the hands of those dreaded fertilizer cartels and made the state safe for good farming. But that has absolutely nothing to do with the Intemperance contract."

"It has more to do with it than you think, Mr. Frowley, but let me tell you about the other case I litigated — and lost. It will perhaps hit a little closer to home. You see, one of our clients is a large warehouse type of store — I'm sure you'd know the name if you heard it. Well, in northern California a few years ago there was this amateur inventor who designed and built these little brown gardening wagons."

"Gardening wagons?" Frowley cried. "How much more of this backwoods pseudo-law do we have to listen to?"

"Just this one more," Pauline said. "I promise."

"Sir," Frowley said to Casting, "she's trying to bluff you because that's all she has left."

"Maybe," Casting said thoughtfully. "But let's hear her out. Continue, Ms. Kingsley."

"Thank you. Anyway, this amateur inventor showed his little brown gardening wagon to some folks at the local warehouse store and they agreed to sell it for him. He delivered ten of them and apparently people really liked them. They snatched them up inside of a week. The store was intrigued and they asked him to make ten more. These too were snatched up. The store manager realized he was onto something here so he told his boss about the little brown gardening wagon. His boss told his boss and soon this warehouse store offered the inventor a contract to produce sixty of these wagons a week to be sold in eight stores throughout the region. The inventor's cost for materials for each wagon, at the time, was six dollars. The store promised to pay him twenty dollars for each wagon and they sold them for forty-five dollars.

"This went on for almost a year and then along came that whole spotted owl issue. I'm sure you've heard about that. The spotted owl is an endangered species and it just happens to live in some of the most productive timberland in the United States. Vast tracts of this timberland were placed off-limits to logging, thus ensuring that there was not as much timber available on the market. This, according to the law of supply and demand, drove up the price of timber, particularly the prime cuts our inventor needed, and it was now costing him almost twelve dollars to produce each wagon instead of six. This brought the inventor's profit margin down from $840 per week to $420. This was not enough for the inventor to live on. He asked the warehouse store to please increase his per-unit fee so he could offset the cost of timber but they refused, stating it was not in his contract to do so.

"So, since he could not live on $420 per week, he stopped making little brown gardening wagons for the warehouse store and went back to his old job. The warehouse store then claimed he was in breach of contract and activated another clause their shifty lawyers — of which I was one — had put into his contract. It was a clause that said if the inventor failed, for whatever reason, to live up to his end of the contract and give them sixty wagons per week, the warehouse store would then assume all patent and marketing rights to the little brown gardening wagon. With our blessing the warehouse store shipped the design for this wagon to Taiwan, where they were able to make cheap copies of it for three dollars a unit, including overseas shipping, and sell them in every warehouse store in the nation at the same forty-five dollars, which amounted to forty-two dollars of profit per unit nationwide. A pretty good coup for the warehouse store, isn't it?"

Nobody said anything. They just continued to stare at her.

"Sometimes," she said, "I'm not real proud of what I do for a living. This was one of those times. There is a reason why we lawyers are vilified in our society. There is a reason why my own brother wrote a song called Living By The Law — a song you folks put on the first Intemperance album — bashing everything lawyers stand for. You see, when we wrote that contract with that small-time inventor — someone who just wanted to sell one of his inventions, to get something he'd produced with his own hands and brain on the market — we put those clauses in there with the express hope and intention that something like rising timber costs or sickness or getting tired of working for 'The Man' would make him breach. We wanted him to breach so we could obtain the rights to his invention and market it to Taiwan and make millions from it instead of hundreds. That was why we wouldn't let him raise the price. We deliberately skewed this contract so it was outrageously in our favor and so the small-time inventor, not knowing better and with no other choice anyway, would sign off on it no matter what we put in there. Is any of this starting to sound familiar, gentlemen?"

"No," Frowley said. "You screwed a backwoods small-timer. Bravo for you. You are indeed a credit to the profession. Your brother and his band, however, signed a standard industry recording contract no different than that signed by first time acts for more than thirty years."

"Exactly," Pauline said. "You're making my point for me."

"Excuse me?" Frowley said, not getting her.

"We'll come back to that," Pauline said. "Let me finish my little story first. You see, this small-time inventor soon found out that the warehouse store in question had marketed his invention and was selling it nationwide. He protested. We told him that he was shit out of luck and pointed to the contract he had signed. So this inventor went and got himself one of those lawyers who advertise in the yellow pages of the Heritage phone book. Now you can joke all you want, Mr. Frowley, about my city, my firm, my education, but the fact is I went to a first rate law school, graduated at the top of my class, and I work for the most prestigious law firm in the northern Central Valley of California. We accept only the best of the best from our little neck of the woods and we bill hundreds of millions each year from some of the biggest corporations on the planet. We are the epitome of the corporate law firm and we are damn good at what we do. And do you know what happened? This shyster lawyer who graduated one hundred and twelfth in his class, a true ambulance chaser who had collected less than ten thousand in sleazy settlements the year before this case, he took us to court on the basis of unenforceable provisions claiming that it was outrageous for the warehouse store to not allow the inventor to increase price in response to increased materials cost and that it was especially outrageous for us to demand he sign over the rights to his invention if he failed to deliver."

"And what happened?" Casting asked.

"He lost like a motherfucker when it went to trial," Pauline said.

"Jesus Christ," Frowley said. "She's rambling."

"No I'm not," she said. "Because he then appealed the case and the appellate court ruled in his favor. That warehouse store was forced pay that inventor and his sleazy lawyer two hundred and twenty thousand dollars and to give him a rather large cut of any future sales."

"And you think that same thing will work here?" Frowley asked. "I think not. As I told you before, your brother and his band of degenerates signed a standard industry contract. We didn't just whip that thing out of thin air just for them."

"That is true," Pauline said. "But no one has ever challenged one of your standard industry contracts on grounds of unenforceable provisions before, have they?"

"No," Frowley said, "they haven't, and that's because the very idea is absurd."

"Is it?" she asked. "I would think that a contract which virtually guarantees that the band signing it goes into debt while the corporation sponsoring them makes outrageous profit, that a contract that makes the band pay for all of the costs of producing the album and marketing it, that a contract that allows the band's name to be exploited for merchandising purposes but shares none of the profit from such an endeavor, that such a contract would be prime fodder for an unenforceable provisions ruling if it were challenged."

"It would never fly," Frowley said. "Never. You would lose so badly you would never show your face in a courtroom again."

"I have no doubt that we would lose quite handily at the trial level," Pauline admitted. "I'm reasonably sure we would lose on first appeal as well. I've already researched the judges on the Court of Appeals for this district and they are a tight-assed, ultra-conservative bunch for sure. But what about the next appeal? That one goes straight to the California Supreme Court itself."

Frowley scoffed quite audibly at this suggestion. "They would never hear something like this."

"Are you sure about that?" Pauline asked him. "Remember who we're talking about here. The Supreme Court of this great state is headed by Rose Bird, perhaps the most liberal, anti-corporate judge to ever don a robe. Her cohorts are Cruz Reynoso and Joseph Grodin, both of whom have been accused of being so far to the left they may be members of the communist party. I think a broad-reaching case dealing with gross exploitation of popular entertainers might be just up their alley, especially since we will be doing everything within our power to draw attention to this issue while we're waiting for it to make its way through the system."

Casting looked alarmed for the first time. "Attention?" he asked. "What do you mean by that?"

"Media attention of course," Pauline said. "There doesn't seem to be any sort of non-disclosure clause in your standard industry contract, does there? We'll talk to every reporter we can find and tell them all about how much money you're making and how much the band is making. We'll give them copies of the band's quarterly reports. We'll tell them about the drug pushing and the whoremongering and the assigned housing and the spies. We'll tell them every dirty little secret the band has been witness to from the time they signed to the present."

"We'll get a gag order," Frowley said. "They won't be able to say anything."

"That might work," Pauline replied with a shrug. "I'd give you about a fifty-fifty chance of Remington granting such a request in order to avoid contaminating the jury pool. Remington is kind of a wild card in this whole thing, wouldn't you say? But even if he did grant a gag order, it will only be in effect until the jury returns a verdict in the initial trial. We're fully prepared to lose the initial trial anyway. Once the appeal process begins there is no more jury pool to worry about and the gag order would no longer be in effect. We'll be free to start spouting our mouths off to anyone about anything we want. The public will be outraged at the way you people operate. They'll demand reform. And by the time the case gets dropped on our good friend Rose Bird's desk, she'll probably be quite inclined to hear it."

Casting was now visibly worried by what he was hearing. "Frowley," he said. "What would happen if the Supreme Court ruled in favor of Intemperance? What exactly would that mean for us?"

"Nothing," Frowley said. "She's trying to blow smoke up our asses. There is no way any of that will happen."

"He may be right, Mr. Casting," Pauline said. "I'll be the first to admit that lots of things could go wrong with my little plan. The Supreme Court might refuse to hear it. Their composition might change to something a little more conservative before the case makes it to them. Rose Bird and her cohorts are all up for confirmation by the voters in 1986 and the people of California are a bit peeved with them regarding their death penalty rulings. In fact, my own law firm is contributing a fair amount of money to a campaign to remove those three from the bench. Their business related rulings are as infuriating to the state's large corporations as their death penalty rulings are to the average law and order type. So yes, there are many things that could derail us before the case reaches this level. But if the court does hear the case and it does rule in favor of Intemperance..." She smiled. "Well, what would happen then is that the entire Intemperance contract would be rendered null and void and you would quite possibly be subjected to a heavy monetary penalty. The band itself would then be free to renegotiate a new contract with whomever they wished. You would no longer own the rights to any Intemperance song."

"Is that true, Frowley?" Casting asked.

"Well... theoretically," he said. "But nothing like that is going to happen. She's just trying to scare you."

"Indeed I am," Pauline said. "And I haven't even told you the really scary part yet. Do you want to hear the really scary part, Mr. Casting?"

"No, he doesn't," Frowley said. "This has gone on long enough."

"Shut up, Frowley," Casting said. He turned back to Pauline. "Go ahead."

"Thank you, I think I will," she said. "Do you remember a few minutes ago when we were talking about precedent? I seem to recall you asking me in a sarcastic tone if I knew what that meant and I explained to you that I did, in fact, know what it meant. The question is, do you really know what it means? You see, when the California Supreme Court rules in a case, a precedent is what is set by that ruling. That means if they do end up ruling that Intemperance's contract is invalid under unenforceable provisions and should therefore be rendered null and void, every similar contract that was signed with every other band in the State of California will also be rendered null and void. How many of your contracts were signed in the State of California, Mr. Casting? Could it be that all of them were? How many of your money making bands are still operating under those contracts? Would forty percent be a realistic estimate?"

"That's none of your business," Frowley said.

Pauline shrugged. "I can think of ten or so just off the top of my head. Intemperance, Earthstone, Birmingham, Rob Stinson, Puerto Vallarta, Lucy Loving, The Buttmen, Rhiannon George, Ground Zero — need I go on? I'm sure there are dozens more, some of the most profitable rock, pop, and country acts in the world. If they signed a contract with you in the last five years, that contract will be in jeopardy, all the rights to all of those songs will be in jeopardy, the entire music industry of California will be in jeopardy. Now we're starting to talk about something a little more significant than a mere eighty million dollars, aren't we?"

"Yes," Casting said slowly, his face pale, his mind undoubtedly performing lightening bursts of arithmetic — all of it negative.

"In fact," Pauline said, giving the knife a little extra twist, "wouldn't the mere possibility of a good portion of your profits going into the proverbial shitter have an effect on the price of National Records stock? Wouldn't it really take a nosedive if the Supreme Court actually agreed to hear the case? Would it spin down and crash if they actually ruled in our favor?"

"Yes," Casting said. He was now looking physically ill, like someone had kicked him in the groin. "It would."

"None of that will happen, Mr. Casting," Frowley said, although even he didn't look all that confident any more.

"As I said," Pauline told them, "that is entirely possible, likely even. I'll be honest with you — a rarity for a lawyer, I know — and admit that we probably have no more than a thirty percent chance of success with all this. That gives you odds that are a little better than two out of three. For a gambling man, that's not too bad. In fact, it's damn good. You won't get odds like that at a casino. But we're not playing for mere casino chips here, are we? You have an awful lot to lose by playing those odds and not a whole hell of a lot to win. Are you sure you want to take the chance?"

"The odds are not that high," Frowley said. "She's trying to bluff you."

"What would you say the odds are?" Casting asked him.

"One in a hundred," he said. "Probably less."

"One in a hundred," Casting asked. "What happened to impossible?"

"You can't completely rule anything out," Frowley said. "It would be disingenuous of me to say that. But my advice as lead counsel for this corporation is to reject her offer and call her bluff. She knows the odds are stacked grossly in our favor and I believe the band will stop this ridiculous work action and go back to work once they realize we are not going to budge on this."

"The band is suffering from creativity block," Pauline reminded. "I'm quite certain that nothing will break this block until they're treated a little more fairly. Quite certain."

"And what exactly does 'a little more fairly' mean, Ms. Kingsley?" Casting asked.

"It means just that," she replied. "They're not asking for the world here, just the illusion of fairness, just to lose the overwhelming sensation that you people are screwing them raw with an unlubed sandpaper dildo — if I might quote Mr. Tisdale."

"The illusion of fairness, huh?" Casting said, pondering that.

"Such an illusion can foster great creativity, I'm told."

Casting grunted. "We need to discuss this in private," he said. "Where can we reach you?"

"I'll be at Jake's house until its time for me to go to the airport. Will you need to discuss it longer than that?"

"Probably not," Casting told her. "Probably not."

"Awesome," Jake declared. "Absolutely awesome, sis." He, Bill, and Matt had just listened to the tape recording of the meeting held on their behalf. He was once again respectfully awed by the notion that his sister really was a lawyer, and a damn good one.

"Fuck yeah," Matt agreed, holding up his beer in a toast to her. "You know, I always thought you were a tight-assed prude, Pauline."

"Oh yeah?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "And I still think that, but at least I now know you're our tight-assed prude. And you fuckin' rock."

"Uh... thanks, Matt," she said. "From you, I'm sure that is the deepest, most heartfelt compliment you are capable of."

"That's the way I mean it, hon," he assured her.

"I too must agree with my bandmates' assessment of your legal maneuvering," said Bill. "It was both effective and erotic."

"Erotic?" asked Pauline.

"Yes indeed," Bill said. "I, for one, fully intend to masturbate to your image at the first available opportunity."

"Uh... thank you too, Bill," she said. "Let me know how I do."

"I'll write out a summary of activities for you if you wish," he offered.

"Thanks, but that really won't be necessary."

"You sure?" Jake asked. "He's probably got a few pre-printed."

"Some other time perhaps," she said. "How about another drink though?"

"Fuckin' A," said Matt. "Mine's been empty almost two minutes now."

"I'm on it," said Jake. He turned toward the kitchen. "Yo, Manny! Get your ass out here! My guests are thirsty!"

Manny appeared a moment later, his face drawn and hiding considerable unhappiness. Living up to the court order issued by Remington, all services and supplies had been reinstated that afternoon, including the alcohol and drugs — which they easily could have gotten away with not reinstating — and the use of Manny as a servant. He had spent the day grocery shopping and cleaning, pausing only long enough to bring fresh drinks or work on the chicken cacciatore he had served for dinner. Jake had long since dropped any pretense of politeness toward him.

"Another round," Jake told him. "And be quick about it. Our buzzes are trying to fade on us as we speak."

"Yes, sir," Manny replied. "The same for everyone?"

"Naw, too easy," Matt said. "Fire me up a double martini this time. With two olives and an onion slice."

"I'll have some of Jake's chardonnay," Bill said. "Pour it on ice with 7-up and a cherry."

"Nerdly," said Matt, "that might be the faggiest thing I've heard you order yet."

Bill simply shrugged and picked up the marijuana pipe on the table. He took a large hit.

Jake and Pauline cut Manny a small break and simply requested more beer. Manny headed over to the bar and started mixing. About halfway through the process the phone rang. Manny looked at Jake.

"Don't just stand there," Jake told him. "Get the fuckin' phone!"

Manny stiffened but did what he was told. He trudged over and picked up the handset, which was located less than four feet from the couch where Jake was sitting. "Kingsley residence," he said. "May I help you?"

"It's so hard to get good help these days," Jake commented, taking the pipe from Bill and sparking up a hit of his own.

"Yes, Mr. Casting," Manny said into the phone. "She is here. Would you like to speak to her?" He paused, made a sour face, and then looked at Pauline. "It's Mr. Casting, Ms. Kingsley. He would like to speak with you."

Pauline smiled and took the phone from him. She was full of tension and trying not to show it. Would he agree to the terms? Would he tell her to fuck off? Had Frowley been able to convince him that the odds of her scheme succeeding were actually a lot longer than she was letting on? "Mr. Casting," she said, her voice calm and professional.

"Ms. Kingsley," he said, his voice the same. "I'm glad I was able to catch you before you left."

"So what's the verdict?" she asked, cutting to the chase.

"The advice of my counsel is to reject your offer and fight this out with you," he said.

"That's what I gathered. Will you be following the advice of your counsel?"

"I'm a man in charge of a large, profitable corporation, Ms. Kingsley," he said. "My job is to make money for this corporation, not to lose it. As you so eloquently pointed out, it would behoove me not to put the assets of my corporation — namely the recording contracts that produce a good portion of our income — at undue risk. If there is even a miniscule chance of the scenario you outlined coming to pass, I must take the option that protects those contracts."

"So you're agreeing to renegotiate the Intemperance contract?" she asked, daring to hope a little.

"If I did agree to such a thing," he said, "I could potentially be putting those very same recording contracts at even greater risk if word got out that we gave into you and allowed a first time contract to terminate. I would be swamped by other bands attempting the same thing. I cannot allow that to happen either."

"So what are you saying?" she asked.

"If we do this, it has to be completely secret. Completely. If a single word, a single rumor gets out we will deny it emphatically, cease all negotiations immediately, and go forth with the breach of contract suit for better or for worse. Do you think you and your clients can keep this a secret?"

"I guarantee it," she said, giving a thumbs-up to Jake, Bill, and Matt, all of whom were listening intently.

"All right then," Casting told her. "The lawsuit remains active until we come to a mutual agreement — if such a thing is possible. I'm warning you, however, we're not going to give much ground."

"I understand," Pauline said. "When would you like to start negotiations?"

"As soon as possible," he told her. "We want to get this done and over with and get those boys back in the studio where they belong."