that people who do business in Mexico get crap on their boots.”
“If Montana tries to bribe his way out of this, Arthur may get crap on more than his boots. I mean fines, being shut down, even prison.”
“We’ll keep that from happening.”
“But if they’re doing serious harm, we have a duty to advise them to stop.”
“Arthur’s not paying us to lecture him on morality.”
“The stuff Palmer Industries processes is deadly. We’re obligated to—”
“We’re obligated only to advise the client when asked.”
Jack sucked in a breath. Dead end. Time to change the subject.
“Edward distrusted Montana even before these citations. Do you know why?”
“That bonus deal rankles him so he watches the financial statements like a hawk. Profits are so much higher than projected that he believes Montana must be cutting expenses way below budget.”
“If that’s what the government citations are about, then we—”
“That’s enough. You’re not this firm’s chaplain.” He moved behind his desk, ending the meeting.
JACK WALKED SLOWLY down the corridor from Sinclair’s office. This time, the politicians’ Wall of Fame barely registered on him.
When he reached his office, he dropped into his chair. He was in a field full of land mines and needed some kind of edge—and fast. He’d talk with one of the other lawyers who had dealt with Palmer. The lawyer whose name showed up most often in the files had left the firm, but there were others. One was Debra Vanderberg. He’d seen her name in the Palmer files, handling some zoning matter. She’d been a student in two of his classes, riparian rights and, his toughest one, advanced international economics. He’d found her insightful and accurate. And very attractive, but hadn’t been willing to cross the barrier between professor and student. When he’d seen her in the S & S hall a few days earlier, he’d wanted to stop, but was so pressed by preparing for Mexico he only waved. Thinking about her made him smile.
The career reversal between them now was dramatic. His career had the upward momentum of a soggy sparkler, while she was referred to as the firm’s wonder child. Still, she was the perfect person to talk with about Palmer.
He tapped Debra’s number into the interoffice phone.
The line was busy.
Another bad omen.
Chapter 13
June 16
7:00 p.m.
“I’M SORRY SIR, we’re fully booked tonight,” said the woman who answered the phone at Boulevard restaurant. “Would you like to make a dinner reservation for next Thursday?”
Not wanting to look for someplace else, Jack tested the firm’s clout. “I’m a partner at Sinclair & Simms. Would you mind checking again?”
Without missing a beat, she replied, “Actually, if seven o’clock is okay we have a very nice corner table. And your name, sir?”
“Jack Strider. Dinner for two. Thanks.”
He’d finally gotten through to Debra and, on the spur of the moment, decided to invite her to dinner. He needed to get out of the office.
When he and Debra entered the restaurant, the hostess called him by name twice as she led them to the big money table. The sommelier arrived and handed him the wine list in a black Moroccan leather folder, as if entrusting an heirloom. Jack made his selection without a glance at the right hand column.
Debra had seemed a little distant in the car, responding rather than initiating conversation. Still, as he looked at her across the table he was glad he’d kept calling until he reached her. Not only was she a brilliant lawyer, but she was familiar with the Palmer files, a good sounding board for his predicament. With her fine features, dark eyes, long silky black hair and tall, athletic figure, she was also the most beautiful woman in the room.
As soon as the ritual of sampling the white Bordeaux was finished, Jack raised his glass.
“Thanks for joining me on such short notice.”
“My pleasure, but I’m puzzled. Except for a fly-by the other afternoon,
“If Montana tries to bribe his way out of this, Arthur may get crap on more than his boots. I mean fines, being shut down, even prison.”
“We’ll keep that from happening.”
“But if they’re doing serious harm, we have a duty to advise them to stop.”
“Arthur’s not paying us to lecture him on morality.”
“The stuff Palmer Industries processes is deadly. We’re obligated to—”
“We’re obligated only to advise the client when asked.”
Jack sucked in a breath. Dead end. Time to change the subject.
“Edward distrusted Montana even before these citations. Do you know why?”
“That bonus deal rankles him so he watches the financial statements like a hawk. Profits are so much higher than projected that he believes Montana must be cutting expenses way below budget.”
“If that’s what the government citations are about, then we—”
“That’s enough. You’re not this firm’s chaplain.” He moved behind his desk, ending the meeting.
JACK WALKED SLOWLY down the corridor from Sinclair’s office. This time, the politicians’ Wall of Fame barely registered on him.
When he reached his office, he dropped into his chair. He was in a field full of land mines and needed some kind of edge—and fast. He’d talk with one of the other lawyers who had dealt with Palmer. The lawyer whose name showed up most often in the files had left the firm, but there were others. One was Debra Vanderberg. He’d seen her name in the Palmer files, handling some zoning matter. She’d been a student in two of his classes, riparian rights and, his toughest one, advanced international economics. He’d found her insightful and accurate. And very attractive, but hadn’t been willing to cross the barrier between professor and student. When he’d seen her in the S & S hall a few days earlier, he’d wanted to stop, but was so pressed by preparing for Mexico he only waved. Thinking about her made him smile.
The career reversal between them now was dramatic. His career had the upward momentum of a soggy sparkler, while she was referred to as the firm’s wonder child. Still, she was the perfect person to talk with about Palmer.
He tapped Debra’s number into the interoffice phone.
The line was busy.
Another bad omen.
Chapter 13
June 16
7:00 p.m.
“I’M SORRY SIR, we’re fully booked tonight,” said the woman who answered the phone at Boulevard restaurant. “Would you like to make a dinner reservation for next Thursday?”
Not wanting to look for someplace else, Jack tested the firm’s clout. “I’m a partner at Sinclair & Simms. Would you mind checking again?”
Without missing a beat, she replied, “Actually, if seven o’clock is okay we have a very nice corner table. And your name, sir?”
“Jack Strider. Dinner for two. Thanks.”
He’d finally gotten through to Debra and, on the spur of the moment, decided to invite her to dinner. He needed to get out of the office.
When he and Debra entered the restaurant, the hostess called him by name twice as she led them to the big money table. The sommelier arrived and handed him the wine list in a black Moroccan leather folder, as if entrusting an heirloom. Jack made his selection without a glance at the right hand column.
Debra had seemed a little distant in the car, responding rather than initiating conversation. Still, as he looked at her across the table he was glad he’d kept calling until he reached her. Not only was she a brilliant lawyer, but she was familiar with the Palmer files, a good sounding board for his predicament. With her fine features, dark eyes, long silky black hair and tall, athletic figure, she was also the most beautiful woman in the room.
As soon as the ritual of sampling the white Bordeaux was finished, Jack raised his glass.
“Thanks for joining me on such short notice.”
“My pleasure, but I’m puzzled. Except for a fly-by the other afternoon,
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