Pamela Samuels-Young

Chapter 3

A

fter being released from detention in Judge Sloan’s chambers, I headed back to my office where I checked my voicemail messages and quickly browsed through twenty-three new emails. Finding nothing that couldn’t wait, I made my way to Haley Prescott’s office on the other side of the twelfth floor.

Haley was a second-year associate assigned to assist me with the Randle case. She had only been with the firm for six months, having clerked for a federal judge in D.C. after graduating from Yale Law School.

The sweet smell of lavender prickled my nose the minute I stepped inside Haley’s office. The place smelled like a florist’s shop. The oversized bouquet sitting on the corner of her desk looked like it had just been picked from somebody’s garden. Haley’s fingers were gliding across her computer keyboard, her eyes glued to the monitor in front of her.

“Hey,” she said flatly, not bothering to look my way. Haley saved her more enthusiastic greetings for male attorneys. The partners in particular.

“I just got back from court,” I said, as I walked up to her desk. “I hate to deliver bad news, but Judge Sloan wants all the pre-trial documents in the Randle case filed by Monday.”

Haley’s fingers froze in place. “That’s not possible. I’m spending the weekend at my condo in Mammoth.”

As hard as I tried to like the girl, she never failed to get on my last nerve. What bothered me most was her air of superiority, something that was no doubt bolstered by having a mother on the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeal, a politically connected father, and the looks of a runway model. Almost every attorney in the firm – partners and associates alike – treated her like she was rainmaking royalty. Considering the potential clients she would likely attract to the firm because of her parents’ connections, she probably was.

But ruined travel plans came with the territory. So I ignored her grousing. “Which documents have you drafted so far?” I asked.

Haley rudely went back to typing. “None of them.”

“I thought you told me you had already started drafting the trial brief and jury instructions.”

She paused to tuck one of her curly, blond locks behind her left ear. The girl had long, feathery, Pamela Anderson hair. And from what I could tell, it was the real thing, not that dull, pasty shade that came from a peroxide bottle or years of overexposure to the sun. It was no doubt the only genuine thing about her.

“This isn’t the only case I have,” Haley snapped. Her voice took on a Bostonian pitch that hadn’t been there a second ago.

“I don’t know what other cases you have,” I snapped back, “but I’m sure they aren’t going to trial in a matter of weeks.”

All I could do was stare at the girl. It was times like this that I really missed my friend, Neddy McClain. She’d been the only other African-American attorney at O’Reilly & Finney besides me. Neddy and I had started out on rocky ground, but ended up getting pretty tight after defending a big murder case together. She had recently moved to Atlanta, where her new fiancée, a former police detective, had opened his own private investigations firm. I would’ve loved to see Haley give Neddy the kind of attitude she was throwing my way. Neddy would’ve had Haley running from her own office in tears.

Haley’s lips remained pursed into a tight pout. “Like I said, I really can’t work this weekend.”

My right hand unconsciously went to my hip. “And, like I said, the documents have to be filed by Monday.”

As far as I was concerned, the fact that Haley’s mama was one step below a Supreme Court Justice, did not mean she didn’t have to work just as hard as everybody else. I was actually glad to be throwing a wrench in her plans.

Haley allowed several beats to pass, then fixed me with an infuriated look that didn’t need translation. “Fine,” she said tightly.

I turned to leave, but Haley stopped me. “I forgot to give you this.” She shoved a document at me. “One of the secretaries from Micronics’ HR Department faxed it over this morning.”

I quickly scanned the four-page fax and felt a heavy pall come over me. It was a memo to file written by Bill Stevens, Micronics’ former in-house attorney. When Stevens left the company, the Randle case was transferred to O’Reilly & Finney. The memo briefly summarized allegations of sexual harassment made against six Micronics employees, not including Henry Randle, during the past five years. Most of them had been accused of misconduct far more egregious than what Henry Randle was accused of doing. One of the men allegedly grabbed a woman’s breast. All six were white. To my dismay, even though an HR investigation confirmed the charges against each of them, none had been fired.

I looked at the date in the upper left hand corner of the page and thought I was seeing things. “This document was written months ago,” I said, more to myself than to Haley.

“The secretary said the memo was misfiled with another case,” Haley explained, her full attention still on her computer screen.

“Why didn’t you call me the minute you got this?” I paused and tried to collect myself, not wanting Haley to pick up on my rising stress level. “You knew I had a court appearance in the Randle case today.”

Haley huffed out a breath of air. “Actually, I tried,” she said. “But you apparently didn’t have your cell phone on. I didn’t leave a message because I figured you were already in court.”

I felt a light pounding in my chest. I walked over to close the door, then turned around to face my subordinate. “I just passed up a chance to settle this case,” I said. “Something I probably wouldn’t have done if I’d known about this fax.”

Haley shrugged. “I was out when it came in and I didn’t think you’d be discussing settlement at a pre-trial conference. It wasn’t scheduled until two o’clock. If you’d come into the office this morning, you would’ve known about that fax.”

“I had a dental appointment,” I said testily. Why was I explaining myself to this child? It took most junior associates until their third or fourth year before they stopped being intimidated by the partners and senior associates. But my senior status apparently meant nothing to Haley.

She tucked another loose curl behind her ear. “How much did Jenkins want?”

I exhaled. “Thirty thousand. And I should have taken it.”

“I thought you were so eager to try the case.”

“I was.” I waved the fax in the air. “But this changes everything. This memo basically proves Randle’s discrimination case. Every one of these guys – who all just happen to be white – got off with a mere slap on the wrist. We can’t take a chance of going to trial with these facts.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing, Porter’s not going to be happy when he finds out you passed up that settlement offer.”

Tell me something I don’t know .

Porter was the partner in charge of the Randle lawsuit. He’d been riding me ever since we got the case, something he seemed to enjoy doing to most associates.

“Well, look at the bright side,” Haley said. “That document is attorney-client privileged so we don’t have to produce it. And the odds are pretty good that Jenkins won’t find out about those cases on his own. He didn’t even ask for information about prior sexual harassment claims during discovery. The man is totally incompetent.”

I suddenly felt protective of my fellow black brother. I could call him incompetent, but I didn’t like hearing him criticized by this pompous little sorority girl.

I reread the fax and my rage slowly shifted from Haley to Micronics. Why hadn’t somebody at Micronics told me about these other cases? I was certain that I had asked HR about prior sexual harassment claims. Hadn’t I?

“If you ever get another fax or letter or telephone call or anything else with important information about a case I’m working on,” I said, “I want to know about it. Right away.”

“No problem.” Haley gave me a Cover Girl smile.

I headed for the door and did not bother to look back. “I’ll expect to see a draft of the trial brief and jury instructions by noon on Saturday.”