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Authors: Gini Hartzmark
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Kate in her role as outside counsel and member of the company’s board of directors. She has graciously agreed to help us through this negotiation, filling in for the unfortunate vacancy left by Danny Wohl.” While Stephen’s voice had faltered as he’d uttered his dead friend’s name, the other scientists in the room seemed curiously unmoved.
I nodded to the room at large to acknowledge Stephen’s introduction, but no one took any notice. Attorneys, I was forced to conclude, were definitely not part of the tribe. From the scientist’s perspective, lawyers as a category were a necessary evil—and as such, interchangeable.
“That’s all very well,” piped a heavily accented German voice from the back, “but while we’re busy showing off to our Oriental friends, aren’t we in danger of giving ourselves away? I mean, what’s to stop Takisawa from taking a peek at what we have so far and going back home and deciding to try their hand on making a new drag themselves?”
“They won’t do it because the only people who can make this drag are sitting in this room,” pronounced Stephen with more certainty than I knew he felt. From the beginning the negotiation with Takisawa had been one long calculated risk, an elaborate dance of veils with each side seeking to gain the upper hand while revealing tantalizing glimpses of what it wanted and what it was willing to give up to get it.
“Not meaning to sound like a nervous virgin embarking on a date with a drunken sailor,” ventured Borland, from beneath his walruslike mustache, “but how far do you think it’s safe to go with these guys? I mean, up until now we’ve been signing lab books every day and having our bags searched every time we leave the building. Are you telling us that now you expect us to just lie back and let them lift up our skirts?”
“Let’s put it this way,” replied Stephen. “We have to do whatever it takes to make them want us. That means clean white lab coats will be required for all personnel.” He stuck his hands deep into his pockets and grinned. “Fishnet stockings will be optional.”
I had hoped to catch a word with Stephen after the meeting, but the minute it was over he was immediately surrounded by scientists all jockeying for his attention. I decided to try to catch him later and headed back to Danny’s office. It was still so disgustingly early that I figured I’d spend an hour or two getting my bearings. That way by the time I headed back into the city I would have missed the worst of the morning rush hour. My first day Working in Oak Brook and already I was developing a commuter’s obsession with traffic.
While Danny was in Japan and in the days following his death, a small tide of work had washed up on his desk. Besides the scores of phone messages from people I’d never heard of concerning matters that were completely unknown to me, there were dozens of faxes from Takisawa, some received as recently as that morning, all requesting information in preparation for their upcoming visit. Scanning them, I could see there was nothing Takisawa didn’t want to know about the ZK-501 project in particular and Azor Pharmaceuticals in general. Even taking into account the well-known appetite of the Japanese for detail, their inquiries struck me as excessive. Budgets, both actual and projected, personnel records, and depreciated equipment costs were all respectfully requested as a prelude to further discussions.
Putting the faxes in my briefcase to take back to Callahan Ross with me, I turned my attention to the mail, which was stacked a foot high. Flipping through the junk mail and the routine correspondence I came upon a certified letter that had been received and signed for in Danny’s absence. I scrabbled in the top drawer of the desk looking for a letter opener and, with a growing sense of dread, slit it open. One look at the contents confirmed my worst fears.
It was another lawsuit.
Azor Pharmaceuticals was
I nodded to the room at large to acknowledge Stephen’s introduction, but no one took any notice. Attorneys, I was forced to conclude, were definitely not part of the tribe. From the scientist’s perspective, lawyers as a category were a necessary evil—and as such, interchangeable.
“That’s all very well,” piped a heavily accented German voice from the back, “but while we’re busy showing off to our Oriental friends, aren’t we in danger of giving ourselves away? I mean, what’s to stop Takisawa from taking a peek at what we have so far and going back home and deciding to try their hand on making a new drag themselves?”
“They won’t do it because the only people who can make this drag are sitting in this room,” pronounced Stephen with more certainty than I knew he felt. From the beginning the negotiation with Takisawa had been one long calculated risk, an elaborate dance of veils with each side seeking to gain the upper hand while revealing tantalizing glimpses of what it wanted and what it was willing to give up to get it.
“Not meaning to sound like a nervous virgin embarking on a date with a drunken sailor,” ventured Borland, from beneath his walruslike mustache, “but how far do you think it’s safe to go with these guys? I mean, up until now we’ve been signing lab books every day and having our bags searched every time we leave the building. Are you telling us that now you expect us to just lie back and let them lift up our skirts?”
“Let’s put it this way,” replied Stephen. “We have to do whatever it takes to make them want us. That means clean white lab coats will be required for all personnel.” He stuck his hands deep into his pockets and grinned. “Fishnet stockings will be optional.”
I had hoped to catch a word with Stephen after the meeting, but the minute it was over he was immediately surrounded by scientists all jockeying for his attention. I decided to try to catch him later and headed back to Danny’s office. It was still so disgustingly early that I figured I’d spend an hour or two getting my bearings. That way by the time I headed back into the city I would have missed the worst of the morning rush hour. My first day Working in Oak Brook and already I was developing a commuter’s obsession with traffic.
While Danny was in Japan and in the days following his death, a small tide of work had washed up on his desk. Besides the scores of phone messages from people I’d never heard of concerning matters that were completely unknown to me, there were dozens of faxes from Takisawa, some received as recently as that morning, all requesting information in preparation for their upcoming visit. Scanning them, I could see there was nothing Takisawa didn’t want to know about the ZK-501 project in particular and Azor Pharmaceuticals in general. Even taking into account the well-known appetite of the Japanese for detail, their inquiries struck me as excessive. Budgets, both actual and projected, personnel records, and depreciated equipment costs were all respectfully requested as a prelude to further discussions.
Putting the faxes in my briefcase to take back to Callahan Ross with me, I turned my attention to the mail, which was stacked a foot high. Flipping through the junk mail and the routine correspondence I came upon a certified letter that had been received and signed for in Danny’s absence. I scrabbled in the top drawer of the desk looking for a letter opener and, with a growing sense of dread, slit it open. One look at the contents confirmed my worst fears.
It was another lawsuit.
Azor Pharmaceuticals was
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