Legally Tender

She jutted her chin. “Your point is?”

The right corner of his mouth twitched. “Tell me, why should I be upset about waiting another year for a partnership? I’ll be old and gray and this will still be my firm, my heritage. It will belong to my children, my sons and daughters. So don’t try to use your pseudo-psychology on me. I’m not angry about the partnership. You couldn’t be more wrong.”

He paused for a few seconds, and Christina knew the litigator inside him wasn’t finished. He’d only just begun.

And as much as she didn’t relish the conflict, she found it slightly invigorating. She could already tell that he had a razor-sharp mind. He was quick on his feet, a man in control. He was self-assured, even when dealt a blow. She had to admit this man intrigued and stirred something inside her.

“Hmm,” he finally said, “let’s see how clever you really are and if we can do what you suggested and clear the air enough so that we can work together. How about you start by telling me what I have to work with. Since I was in Indianapolis, I missed your interview with Reginald. You only interviewed with him, correct?”

“Yes, once past the initial screening.”

“That’s what I thought. Your hiring went quickly. How many cases have you won lately?”

“That’s on my résumé. I’m sure you could ask to see it. Or tomorrow I’ll provide you a copy. I was a junior partner fast-tracked for a senior role at my last firm.”

“So you feel you’re qualified to work here?”

“Of course. There were other finalists and Reginald Morris thought I was the best. I did graduate Harvard top of my class. I did not just go there for an MRS degree.” She paused only briefly. “I also have impeccable references.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ah, stop avoiding the question. That’s not what I asked. I asked how many cases you’d won lately. Do me a favor and be frank. I can at least respect honesty. Now you might understand why I’m truly upset. It’s been eight years since you’ve last practiced. This is my case. I brought it in. I’m going to win it. While you might have had an impressive record years ago, your major qualification is that you speak Spanish.”

“We—”

“Don’t interrupt unless you have good reason to object. It’s impolite and frowned on, especially in court. Let me simply sum up. You are here to be the female attorney the women can relate to, and to play interpreter. That’s not any type of sexual harassment, either, just role definition and job description. You haven’t had trial experience in years, and I’m not going to let you waltz in here and start over with a case as important and groundbreaking as this one. You’re an outsider here, and that can be as grating as nails on a chalkboard.”

“I’m—”

He ignored her interruption. “None of these women will know what Harvard is, much less know where it is. Most of them didn’t even finish grade school. They won’t wear designer shoes. They can’t even afford the clothes that they make, even though they slave over each and every stitch. This is rural Indiana, not some big city. It’s not an area that’s culturally assimilated, or that has resources that celebrate ethnic heritage. You may be the same ethnicity as they are, but you are so far above them socially and economically that you might as well be one hundred percent white.”

“Are you done?” Christina asked, her posture rigid.

“No, I’m not.” Bruce swallowed, drawing his cheeks tight. “This is not playtime. It’s not some genie costume, set off a smoke machine and everything will still be okay. Harassment is real for these women, and any misstep might cost us this case, and their futures, dearly. That I will not allow.”

Christina froze her face into neutral and resisted the urge to clench her hands into fists and beat Bruce Lancaster into a pulp as she once had her cousin during a visit to Mexico City. She’d beenten. He’d pulled her pigtails.

Bruce Lancaster had done much worse. He’d insulted her integrity. He’d judged her incompetent based on a series of events beyond her control. He’d also belittled her—almost, but not quite, as much as Kyle.

Bruce was a jerk, probably just as bad as the ones they would be fighting. Mr. Hunk might be attractive, but he was not nice.

She took a deep breath and gave herself a much-needed continuance. She and Bruce would finish this conversation later, after she’d proved herself. Then she would rub his nose into every word he’d said. He deserved nothing less.

“Well,” she managed calmly, her face a mask to hide her inner fury. “Now that you’ve finished venting in a misguided attempt to put me in my place, shall we actually begin to work on the case, or shall we continue to simply waste more valuable time?”

He stared at her, blue eyes wary, and she knew she’d caught him off guard.

“You see, Bruce—may I call you Bruce? I might not have a win record as long or impressive as yours, or even have close to your extensive courtroom experience, but that doesn’t make me incompetent. I had an ex who spent years trying to prove that I was, and if he didn’t succeed in convincing me, you won’t, either. You’ve tried and convicted me based on circumstantial evidence and preconceived notions. Let me assure you, I won’t fail.”

“I don’t have time for you to,” he returned, his tone never losing its edge.

“And I won’t.” Christina leveled her brown eyes at him and held his gaze without blinking. Her body hummed with energy. “So why don’t we do what we’ve been hired to do for these women, hmm? Shall you and I declare a much-needed truce, at least until you find some real evidence against me?”

He crossed his arms and studied her. His gaze traveled from her tight chignon, over the designer blue suit and down to her matching heels. “The jury’s still out,” he said flatly.

“Fair enough,” she agreed. For now. Kyle had done enough damage over the years to her self-esteem. Bruce Lancaster had another thing coming if he thought she would simply roll over. She would never do that again, for anyone.

He gestured to a stack of brown expandable folders at one end of the table. “Those files contain the original interview notes. We’ve done no formal depositions at this time.”

Bruce rose, moved a few steps and tapped a different stack of folders. She noticed his tightly clipped and filed nails—guy’s nails that hadn’t been professionally manicured.

“These files contain the violation reports that we’ve filed with the EEOC,” Bruce continued. Christina knew the EEOC was the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, the government agency in charge of overseeing all Title VII violations.

“Over there are the books I’ve pulled that have case history and applicable laws. Precedent is on our side, but with the recent changes in affirmative action legislation, there may be some chiseling at the sexual harassment laws, as well. Some of the women’s cases are much stronger than others. We’ve already filed EEOC complaints on all of them, and submitted a demand letter to the company. If the company meets our demands, we’ll settle. But if not, once the EEOC allows us to, we’re filing in federal court for multiple violations of Title VII. Where do you want to start?”

“The beginning,” Christina said, regaining some calm now that he was being reasonable. “That’s usually the best place. Take me in chronological order.”

“Okay.” Bruce nodded and returned to his seat. She followed suit and sat herself opposite him.

They were still sitting there, engrossed in work, four hours later when Angela knocked on the door and opened it. So caught up in the case, Christina hadn’t even realized that the time had passed.

“I brought you both some lunch,” Angela said.

“Thanks,” Bruce replied easily, his demeanor relaxed, as if his working straight through the morning and lunch without a break was commonplace.

“I hope turkey sandwiches are okay,” Angela said as she handed Bruce the deli bag.

“Perfect,” Bruce said.

“They’re fine,” Christina agreed with a nod. Ever since she’d been pregnant with Bella, sliced turkey had held little appeal, mostly she ate vegan. But today she’d force herself to eat whatever sandwiches were in the bag. Her stomach growled. After all, it was after one.

Angela passed Christina the sack. “I bought two kinds of potato chips. Bruce likes sour cream and onion, but I got you plain, Ms. Jones.”

“Christina,” she corrected. “Plain chips are fine. Thank you for getting lunch.”

Angela smiled. “Oh, it’s no problem. I know how driven Bruce is. He wouldn’t eat at all if I didn’t force-feed him. Besides, I had an excuse to get a chicken salad sandwich from Kim’s Deli. Ever since I’ve been pregnant, I’ve craved her chicken salad.”

Angela paused. “So, do you require anything else? The small fridge on the floor over there is stocked with water and pop.”

Christina wished she’d known that earlier. Her throat was parched, and some soda would do her good. Having been raised in Houston, where everyone called the fizzy beverage “soda,” Christina still hadn’t gotten used to calling it “pop” the way these Indiana Midwesterners did.

“I think we’re fine,” Bruce said. His expression dared Christina to contradict him.

“I’m good,” she said. She pushed her chair back a little. “If you’d excuse me for a moment, though.”

“The women’s washroom is this way,” Angela offered, as if reading Christina’s mind. She held open the door, and Christina followed her out. Time to find more common ground and make some connection with Angela. If not, it would be long case.

“My feet are already tired. Is there a masseuse in there?”

“I wish,” Angela said, taking the bait and talking. “I’ve gained two shoe sizes. My husband has the nightly chore of rubbing my feet. He hates it, but it’s heaven for me.”

“You’re lucky to have a husband like that.” Kyle hadn’t done a thing except complain that when pregnant, she’d appeared as if she had a basketball wedged under her clothes.

“Oh, my Bryan is such a sweetheart,” Angela confirmed. “We got married two years ago and it still seems like a honeymoon.” Angela paused at the bathroom door. “You seem really nice, Christina. Don’t let Bruce get you down. He’s a slave driver, but that’s only because he’s so good at his job. He can’t do anything less than one hundred and ten percent. It’s not in his nature.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m fine,” Christina insisted.

Angela bought the white lie, for she said, “Perfect. He’s a great boss. He really knows his stuff. Scored the highest on the bar, as I’m sure you’ve heard. And whatever you do, don’t believe any of his so-called Casanova reputation. All made up by angry Morrisville women who can’t land him. He’s too married to his work. Anyway, call me if you have any more questions.”

“I will,” Christina said as she pushed the door open and stepped inside the women’s washroom. After finishing her business and washing her hands, she took a long moment to study herself in the mirror. Tendrils of wheat-colored hair had come loose, and she pinned them back up. Her brown eyes were puffy, the result of her thinking she’d get an extra hour of sleep during “fall back.” Thank goodness for Angela bringing food. When Christina had fled the house that morning, she hadn’t given a thought to lunch. Tomorrow she’d pack one.

She headed back to the small conference room. Bruce was on the phone, the remains of his sandwich lying on the restaurant wrapper. Next to it sat a twenty-ounce bottle of cola, half-full.

“Go research the dissenting opinion on Martin v. Blatt. The judges locked two-one on it, and the uproar was so strong that the legislature went and voted in a law claiming that justice wasn’t served. I think you’ll find what you’re wanting for your closing arguments there. The minute I hang up, I’ll put Jessica on it and have her fax you the documents.”

Bruce gestured toward Christina’s unopened food as he listened to the caller. Eat, he mouthed before speaking into the phone again. “No, I wouldn’t even open that can of worms. You don’t want the jury off track from the main case. Always hammer your point, and reiterate that justice should be served.” He paused. “Yeah. See you at five.”

He hung up the phone and stared for a moment at Christina. “Get some pop.”

He then pressed a button on the phone. “Jessica, Bruce. Dig up the dissenting opinion on Martin v. Blatt and get it over to Colin at Ripley, ASAP. Yeah. It’s that important. No, I’m not going over there myself today. Just put a move on it. As if the deadline was yesterday. Colin is counting on you.”

He ended the speakerphone call and raised his eyes to observe that Christina was still standing. “What? Do I have food on my face?”

“No.”

“I work through lunch,” Bruce offered as explanation. “Always have. It’s more efficient than taking five minutes to go outside and stare at the birds. Too cold for that, anyway, now that the front moved through last night.”

Christina walked over to the refrigerator and withdrew a 7-Up. Although she could use the caffeine, there was no Mountain Dew and she didn’t like colas.

“That was Colin Morris,” Bruce said, unexpectedly explaining the phone call. “You’ll meet him at some point, I’m sure. He’s a junior partner like me. He’s also Reginald’s son.”

“He needed help on a case?”

“Surprises are never desired in closing arguments, and the opposing counsel just landed a whopper. But Colin will rebound. He always does.”

“And you just popped the answer right off the top of your head.”

“Yeah.” Bruce let the words, “I’m that good a lawyer” remain unspoken, but Christina heard them and was begrudgingly impressed. “I have a photographic memory and I’m good at trivia. One of these days I’d like to go on Jeopardy”

“I don’t watch much television.” She didn’t. Bella had discovered the cartoon channels. When she was married, Kyle had had a VHS-DVD-CD player and a plasma TV in every room. Christina had little use for more than one TV and a DVD player.

“So, where were we?” Bruce asked as she unscrewed the cap and put the soda bottle to her lips.

“I’d like a few minutes to eat in peace,” Christina said. “Unlike you, I deliberately avoid working through lunch. That way I can have some time to clear my mind. I’d go find my office, but that would take too much time.”

“They really did just throw you into the job feet first, didn’t they? Fine. Eat.” Bruce tapped his fingers on the table.

“Stop that,” Christina said automatically, and unwrapped her sandwich. Bruce’s fingers stilled.

“Thank you,” Christina said. “That’s better.” She took off the top slice of sourdough bread. Sliced turkey, some white cheese that might be Swiss, tomatoes, lettuce, mayonnaise and black olives were underneath. Christina pulled some plastic tableware from the bag, removed the knife from the protective wrapper and began scraping the olives off the six-inch sandwich.

“That seems like a waste,” Bruce observed, his lips puckering.

“I don’t eat olives,” she informed him simply. “Of any kind.”

He shrugged. “Just make sure Angela knows what you like and she’ll get it for you.”

“I’ll bring my lunch from now on,” she said as she finished scraping.

“You have a food account,” Bruce replied with a backward roll of his shoulders. “All the partners have an allowance, including the junior ones. It’s there for times like today, or for when you entertain clients. Did they forget to tell you that, too?”

“It probably slipped my mind since I’m not entertaining at this moment,” Christina said. Lovely. Now she probably appeared even more incompetent, making Bruce Lancaster feel even more superior. “I just prefer to bring my own food. I’ll only be able to eat half of this.”

She should remove the cheese, as well, but the cheese would drown out the flavor of the turkey. Pregnancy sure had changed her taste buds as well as her figure. She’d needed a nutritionist, a personal trainer and ten months of hard work to get back to her prepregnancy shape. By that time Kyle had had two road affairs, both with cocktail waitresses he’d picked up.

Christina had managed her weight with diet and exercise ever since, although now maintaining her weight was more of a healthy choice, and not anything that had to do with pleasing Kyle.

She returned the bread to the top of the sandwich and cut the sandwich into halves. She pushed one half aside. Then she saw Bruce’s expression. “Are you still hungry? You can have the rest. Seriously.”

“If you don’t want it,” he said. His arm snaked forward and he retrieved the sandwich. “Angela usually gets me a foot-long, but maybe today she was trying to keep everything the same.”

Christina opened the bag of chips. It had been forever since she’d indulged and they were like forbidden fruit—too tempting. She’d only have a few. “She remembered your flavor of potato chips.”

“To forget that is sacrilege,” Bruce informed her as the conference room phone began to ring. He lifted the receiver. “Bruce Lancaster.” His face darkened as he listened. “No, it’s good you interrupted me. Tell her I’ll be right there. She has to go in to work today. She cannot stay off the job. That will allow them to legitimately fire her. Tell her that she’ll be safer today than ever before.”

He put the phone down and stood, his portion of her sandwich remaining untouched. “We’ve got a crisis. Can you eat that on the way? Or I can buy you a hamburger on the way back? That is, if you’re coming with me.”

Her decision was instantaneous, even though she had no clue what he was talking about. “Of course I am.” She rose to her feet. “What’s happening?”

“One of our plaintiffs is refusing to go to work today. She missed two days last week, and if she misses today without a doctor’s excuse, the company will have legitimate reason to fire her.”

“We’re taking her to the doctor?” Christina asked.

Bruce was already halfway down the hall. “No. We’re taking her to work.”

Chapter Four

Fifteen minutes later Christina understood what Bruce meant by her being an outsider. Not that it made his earlier comments about her competence less offensive or any less grating. He’d been right about one thing, though: this was a world she’d seen on TV, never in person. Even in Mexico City, her extended family lived behind walls in an affluent part of town, in luxury, with hired help. She had heard about those who lived in poverty and competed for handouts, but had never seen it for herself.

Here in Indiana, the words ghetto or slum didn’t come close to describing the three single-story rundown motel buildings that sat crumbling next to a barren parking lot. Two rusted-out cars languished next to overflowing garbage Dumpsters. The parking lot was a crisscross of cracks filled with brown weeds. A rusted swing set moved slightly in the breeze, and the chain-link fence surrounding what had once been an in-ground pool had fallen in places. This place was a land that time forgot.

“Oh, my God,” Christina whispered as Bruce’s Ford 350 diesel pickup truck pulled up next to one of the buildings. Yellowed curtains that had decades ago probably been crisp white moved in several of the windows as the curious tenants peeked out, then scurried away.

“Put an interstate through and it’s amazing what happens to places off the beaten path. This whole place ought to be condemned. But that’s another lawsuit for another time. Earning just minimum wage, these people can only afford this lovely oasis.”

“And they’re all legal immigrants with work visas?” Christina asked, still not quite believing what she saw. The day was cloudy and overcast, giving the whole area a cheap, B-horror-movie feel.

“All the women in the lawsuit are legal immigrants. That was one law that the Morrisville Garment Company didn’t violate. The migrant farm workers, who are mostly illegal, have already vanished for the season. This motel flourishes in the summer, with up to ten people in a room. No one but the churches pay much attention.”

“It’s a hellhole,” Christina said, stepping her Italian shoes around a crusty pile of dog feces. A gust of dry wind sent dirt particles flying. Any grass had long browned.

“You’ll learn to dress down except for court appearances. Professional, yet not flashy. The Average Joe does most of his clothes shopping at Wal-Mart in Greensburg.”

“You’re in a suit,” she pointed out, seeking clarification. Her last employer, then Kyle, had always insisted she dress to the nines. Even her maternity wear had been expensive designer creations.

“Yeah, but only because I had that meeting with the partners. These people immediately think of the immigration service when they see people in suits.”

Bruce walked up to one of the doors and knocked on the peeling paint. The number seven hung upside down by one nail and bounced erratically.

“María,” he called. “María Gonzales. Me llamo Bruce Lancaster. Open the door. I must talk to you. Clara sent me.”

The woman inside answered with rapid Spanish, but she still didn’t open the door. Bruce knocked again. “¡María, por favor!”

“Let me try,” Christina said. Already several doors had opened and heads had popped out, only to quickly disappear like in a Whack-a-Mole carnival game. “¡María! Soy Christina Jones, la social de Bruce. Por favor abra la puerta. Le necesitamos hablar. Es muy importante.”

“What did you say?” Bruce asked.

“I told her I’m your partner and I asked her to open the door. It’s important.”

“Oh.” He appeared impressed, maybe stunned. But Christina had little time for satisfaction in her small victory as the worn door opened a crack and landed against the crash bar.

A woman peered out and launched a tirade in Spanish. Christina translated. “She says that the boss still tries to keep her on the line too long and that the ladies’ toilets are broken and she cannot use the men’s room in her area. He also leers at her and grabs his crotch.”

“McAllister,” Bruce said, knowing instantly whom María meant. “He’s the worst. He’s Donald Gray’s nephew, which is probably the only reason no one’s fired him yet. I’m going to phone OSHA about the broken fixtures.”

“One more federal agency being involved can’t hurt our case,” Christina said. It was probably wise to call the Occupational Safety and Health Administration at this point.

“Rumor has it that they’ve been waiting for any excuse to get into the factory and snoop around for violations,” Bruce said. “Maybe clogged toilets will do it. While I call, you must convince her that she has to go to work. She cannot give them a reason to fire her. Tell her that will let the bad guys get away with what they did. Say something. She must go to work today. She’s already late.”

“She said that she doesn’t have time on her break to use the facilities in the other areas,” Christina said. “She says she’s getting a bladder infection.”

“Oh, wonderful. Tell her the law provides even nonunion factory employees with a bathroom break. If the toilets don’t function in her area, she can use other ones without docked pay. We’ll work out the correct federal agency for filing this new complaint later, but for today she must go in. You have to convince her. She doesn’t even understand me.”

Christina watched as Bruce pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and punched a number. “Angela, get me the name and number of someone at OSHA,” he said when she answered. “I want to know if it’s legal to have nonfunctioning bathrooms on a factory floor. After that, report this to the EEOC, as well.”

Christina stared through the small sliver of opened door. María Gonzales was a tiny woman, at most five-one. A roach crawled out from under a fallen leaf and scurried on the chipped concrete. Bruce crushed the bug with his foot.

Christina shuddered. She had a case to win and a job to do. No way would she ever be incompetent in front of Bruce Lancaster again, and it was time to prove herself. Besides, these women deserved much better than this hovel. They’d gotten through much already by being declared legal aliens. Just a little more time and their lives would be so much better.