Deadly Justice

7

THE CONFERENCE ROOM WAS perfect for a staff meeting; it must have been designed for just that purpose. The room was long and rectangular, as was the mahogany table that occupied its center.

Fielder steered Ben toward an empty seat a few chairs down from one end of the table. “Crichton sits at the head,” he explained.

“Who sits beside him?”

“Depends. It’s a battle of the ass-kissers. Chuck is generally considered Apollo’s king of suck-up, but Herb is a close second.” He glanced at the doorway. “There’s Herb now. Uh-oh—Chuck is right behind him. Let’s see what happens.”

Ben saw a thin man with a Bugs Bunny mouth enter the room, followed by a burly, somewhat older man with thinning hair and a waistline that lapped over his belt. Herb and Chuck, apparently.

They both saw the empty chair beside the head of the table at the same time. Herb darted around the north end; Chuck sprinted south. The race was on. Halfway through, Herb saw Chuck approaching and accelerated. Chuck matched his speed and they both ended up on opposite ends of the chair almost simultaneously.

“Back off,” Chuck growled. “This chair’s taken.”

“Is not,” Herb replied. “I was here first.”

“You sat here last time.”

“And I’m going to sit here again, chump.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Says who?”

“Says—”

“Children, children,” Rob interjected. “Let’s not bicker. You can both sit in the chair. Chuck, you first. And Herb, you can sit in his lap.”

Ben covered his smile as best he could.

Chuck grumbled something inaudibly, shoved the chair aside, and stomped to the other end of the table.

“Sore loser,” Ben commented.

“Very.” Rob glanced at the door again. “Now this is Candice, or, as we call her just to irritate her, Candy. Watch what happens now.”

Ben saw a slender woman in her early thirties enter the conference room. She wore her business suit well; she was extremely attractive, if a bit on the anorexic side. She scanned the available seats at the table, then made a beeline for the empty seat between Herb and Ben.

“Oh, God,” she moaned, loud enough to be heard throughout the room. “Looks like I’m stuck with Herb again.”

“Christ,” Herb said, wiping his forehead. “What happened to the bitch alert? Someone needs to get that thing fixed.”

“What’s with these, two?” Ben whispered to Rob.

“They’re lovers.”

“Lovers?”

“You heard me. Can’t you tell?”

Ben eavesdropped for another moment. “There must be some mistake.”

“No mistake. They’ve been boffing one another for at least six months. But the complication, you see, is that he’s married. To someone else. The affair is supposed to be a big secret. So they’ve been maintaining this hate-your-guts routine in public, trying to throw everyone off the track.”

“Unsuccessfully, I take it.”

“You take it right. The only ones being fooled are Herb and Candy.”

“Does the Consortium condone relations between employees?”

“Well, the general attitude is that boys will be boys. This isn’t Herb’s first interoffice dalliance by a long shot. Herbert the Pervert, we call him.”

A sharp increase in volume diverted Ben’s attention.

“Just fuck off, you bastard,” Candice said sharply.

“Don’t you wish?”

“Not even remotely.”

“That’s because you’re a frigid bitch.”

“No, that’s because you’re disgusting.”

“Probably a lesbian, too.”

“You’ll never know, you impotent toad.”

“Why don’t you shove a space heater between your legs and thaw yourself out?” Herb said.

“Why don’t you shove a cucumber in your pants and pretend you’re a man?” Candice sallied back.

Ben searched the room for a quieter haven, but alas, all the other seats except Crichton’s were taken.

“Hey,” Chuck said suddenly. “Where are the doughnuts?”

“Forget it.” The words came from a large man perched behind a small laptop computer. “In the words of Robert Frost, the doughnuts came down a road not traveled. Today was Shelly’s turn.” He took a drag on his cigarillo, then released a puff of smoke.

Ben saw Shelly, the woman who had been in Crichton’s office earlier, sitting three seats down the table, almost invisible. She didn’t reply.

“Aww,” Chuck said. “Don’t tell me she forgot again.”

“Worse,” the cigarillo man said. “She brought those bulgur wheat muffins.”

“Man! I hate those.”

A stricken look crossed Shelly’s face. She slumped down even lower, till her face was lost in the shadows.

“I think they look perfectly tasty,” Ben ventured. He picked up one of the offending pastries. “What’s wrong with wheat muffins? They’re much better for you.”

“I don’t want health food,” Chuck grunted. “I want doughnuts.” He released a rumbling sound that might have been a sigh. “I love doughnuts.”

Ben leaned into Rob’s ear. “Who’s the guy with the cigarillo?”

“Doug Gleason. Third-year employee. Fancies himself to be Ernest Hemingway. F. Scott Fitzgerald, at the least. Does nothing but write. Carries that damn computer everywhere. Doesn’t go to court, doesn’t negotiate, doesn’t do research. He just writes. Appeals, briefs, contracts, whatever.”

“Kind of a narrow specialty. He must be talented.”

“The jury’s still out. Personally, I’m not sure if he’s talented or if it’s all they trust him to do.”

“Well, at least he’s got a job he enjoys.”

“Maybe. I don’t know if he really likes writing or he just likes fancying himself a writer.”

At that moment, Crichton walked briskly into the conference room. Ben checked his watch; Crichton was a fashionable fourteen minutes late. He took the chair at the head of the table and rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s get to work, people. No more screwing around. I want to hear that projects are being completed, and that everyone is busting their butts to help the Apollo Consortium find the perfect proactive solutions.”

Ben winced. Proactive?

Chuck withdrew a stack of stapled papers from his briefcase and handed Crichton the top document. “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing an agenda, Mr. Crichton. Just to help you keep us in line.”

Crichton glanced at the top sheet for a millisecond, then turned it face down. “Any emergencies?”

No one volunteered any.

“First item, then: I want to formally introduce you to the newest member of the team, Benjamin Kincaid. Let me tell you—I have nothing but admiration for this guy. Ben is a hell of a litigator, and we’re damn lucky to have him. I want all of you to spend as much time with Ben as possible, whenever you have a chance. You could learn a lot from a lawyer of his mettle. I want you to watch him closely.”

Ben felt the rest of the room scrutinizing him, but sensed that their feelings were something other than admiration.

“You’ll have the opportunity to see Ben in action right off the bat,” Crichton added. “He’s taking over the Nelson case.”

“The Nelson case!” Candice said, far louder than necessary. “I thought Rob…” Her voice trailed off. “Oh, gosh. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll just bet,” Rob mumbled.

“Where’s the coffee?” Crichton barked suddenly, staring at the empty mug on the coaster before him. “Damn that Janice.” He whirled around in his chair, lifted the phone receiver on the credenza behind him, and dialed the four-digit number that connected him to his secretary.

Ben noticed a full coffeepot on a burner on the credenza. “Doesn’t he see—”

“Shhh,” Rob replied. “Just wait.”

A few seconds after Crichton hung up the phone, Janice hurried into the conference room, a fretful expression on her face. For the first time, Ben saw her standing up, and noticed the low-cut, high-hemmed dress that was not so much worn as affixed to her hips.

“Hurry it up,” Crichton grumbled. “You’re delaying the staff meeting.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Crichton.” She walked to the credenza, picked up the same coffeepot that had been inches from Crichton’s hand, and filled his mug.

Ben watched, marveling. “What, he doesn’t know how to pour his own coffee?” he whispered.

“Men at Crichton’s level don’t pour their own coffee,” Rob whispered back. “And he enjoys any excuse to drag Janice in here.”

“Why?”

“Just watch.”

Janice circumnavigated the table with the coffeepot, swinging her ample hips from side to side. She had a bounce like a well-tuned metronome, full and rhythmic. Ben noticed that Crichton’s eyes followed her back and forth, back and forth.

“Anyone else want coffee?” Janice asked, practically pleading for customers. Unfortunately, everyone else appeared to be capable of pouring for themselves.

“Thanks, Janice,” Crichton said dismissively. “I’ll call if I need a refill.”

Janice sashayed out of the office.

Crichton blew the steam off the top, then inhaled a steep swig of Java. “All right, Chuck, give me a status report on your contract negotiations.”

Chuck jumped to attention. “Yes, sir.” He removed a thick notebook from his briefcase. “The contracts for the license agreement with Amoco have been drafted and approved. I’ve brought copies—”

“I don’t want to hear about Amoco,” Crichton said abruptly. He downed another load of caffeine. “Tell me how the Ameritech joint venture negotiations are proceeding.”

“Ameritech? Joint venture?” Chuck appeared to be stalling.

“That’s right. I gave you that assignment over a month ago. Surely you haven’t forgotten.”

“Oh…uh, no. No, of course not, sir.” He scanned the room, desperately seeking salvation. “Shelly!”

She practically jumped out of her seat. “What?”

“I asked Shelly to research the possible antitrust ramifications of a joint venture, Mr. Crichton.” Chuck swiveled his chair toward hers. “What about it, Shelly? Where’s my memo?”

Shelly’s face slowly emerged from the chair. Red blotches were creeping up her neck. “But you just gave me the assignment Friday afternoon—”

“Don’t make excuses,” Chuck snapped. “You knew we had staff meeting today.”

“But it was already four-thirty.”

“Then you should’ve stayed late.”

“But I had to pick up Angie—”

“No one else expects special treatment just because they have children, Shelly.”

“No one else—” She paused, then let it die, apparently realizing it was useless.

“Typical,” Rob whispered to Ben. “Chuck screws up, dumps the project on someone else at the last moment, and lets them take all the blame.”

Chuck swiveled back to Crichton. “I’m sorry about this, sir. I’ll take care of it immediately.” He glared again at Shelly, then tossed his notebook angrily into his briefcase.

Ben could feel himself perspiring—and he wasn’t even the one in the hot seat. At least, not yet.

Crichton drained the last of his coffee. “Damn,” he said. “Herb, call Janice. I need more coffee.” He peered across the table as if he were selecting candidates for a firing squad. “All right. Who’s next?”