The guard pointed outside his booth. “Visitor parking is over there, by the flagpoles. Check in at the front desk, and someone will escort you to where you’re headed.”
“Thanks,” I replied, clipping the badge to my sport coat. I slid the transmission into first gear and drove slowly toward the large black building.
At the front desk, a pretty receptionist with tightly pinned-back hair, burgundy lipstick, and a teal blouse asked, “Mr. Seagraves?”
“Yes.”
“They’re on their way.” She gestured with a petite hand toward some lounge chairs and a coffee table covered with glossy magazines that looked untouched. Before I could sit down, the elevator doors opened silently. A man and a woman approached me.
“You must be Mr. Seagraves,” the woman said as she extended her hand. “I’m Charlayne O’Malley, an associate at Whitley Roth. I spoke with your paralegal yesterday.”
I shook her hand. Ms. O’Malley was in her late twenties. Her brown curly hair was shaved on the sides and styled chaotically on the top. She seemed fresh out of law school, but had learned how to carry herself with the confidence and suppressed aggression of a trial lawyer. I could tell she had a warm and pleasant smile that she must have left at home this morning.
Ms. O’Malley continued the introductions. “This is Steve Gunther, the new chief computer security officer here at Benton Dynamics.”
I made a mental note that he was new. Mr. Gunther seemed annoyed at my presence in his headquarters. His wide, frowning face appeared disinterested and sour. His business suit was tight at the shoulders and as gray as leftover tuna salad. He did not extend his hand to shake mine.
The young lawyer said, “Mr. Nielsen is upstairs. He’s ready for you.”
No one spoke as I followed them to the elevator, rode to the third floor, and walked behind them to the end of a long hallway. The conference room we entered had a huge mahogany table, padded chairs, and recessed ceiling lights. Affixed to the wood-paneled walls were detailed glass sculptures of warships and submarines backlit with a greenish glow.
In the corner of the conference room stood a tall man in his fifties with slicked-back gray hair and a smile of porcelain veneers. His striped shirt and navy-blue tie made him look like a former lacrosse player at an elite prep school, the kind of middle-aged man who still dressed as in the glory days of his youth. His handshake was firm and almost hurt, so I returned the pressure.
“E.J. Nielsen. Call me E.J.”
“Bryce Seagraves. Nice to meet you.”
He released his grip and dismissed his associate and the computer security chief with only a glance.
E.J. said, “I’m glad you reached out to us. Generally a good idea for the attorneys to speak before trial.”
“Yeah, maybe we can narrow the issues and even discuss ways to resolve the case.”
“Well, okay … that last part has me interested. What do you got in mind?”
“Nothing definite, really,” I replied. “But if there’s a chance we can settle the lawsuit before trial, the time to speak is now, and not after ten hours of trial prep.”
E.J. smirked. “We’ll have way more than ten hours of prep on this case.”
“True,” I said, “but you represent the plaintiff, and that’s more work. You have to build the case, step by step, brick by brick. I got the defendant. All I’ve got to do is tear the case down.”
He flashed a toothy, predatory smile, the kind that he might use to emphasize a point to a jury or to drop the hammer on an opponent during closing arguments. E.J. simply directed me to a chair on the other side of the conference table. We sat across from each other.
“You’re right,” E.J. said. “We each prepare for cases in different ways. So tell me something, Mr. Seagraves …”
“Bryce.”
“All right, Bryce. What did you want to talk about today?”
“My paralegal emailed over my client’s discovery requests. So I wanted to see what we can do about those before the hearing.”
“Nothing,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug. “You are aware that under the Rules of Civil Procedure I have thirty days to answer. Those interrogatories and requests for documents won’t help you before next Wednesday.”
“We can both fall back on civil procedure, but I want to get to substance. To win a preliminary injunction, you’ll have to prove irreparable harm. Whatever is on the missing files is relevant. For example, if the computer files turn out to be personal, like family photos and the like, then Benton Dynamics can’t suffer irreparable harm.”
“Your client knows what those files are. The late Richard Kostas did, as well. Those computer files weren’t personal data.”
I leaned back into my padded chair and exhaled. “I’ll give it to you straight, E.J. My client denies taking files.”
“I’m sure she does,” he said without a trace of surprise. “Your client’s in a lot of trouble, but we won’t be disclosing what’s in those files at trial. Won’t have to. Press the issue, and we’ll move for a protective order … and get it.”
“And you can meet your burden of proof without producing the files themselves?”
He nodded. “That would kind of defeat the whole purpose. A vice president of this company will testify that all of my client’s research and development is proprietary. Benton Dynamics has a confidentiality contract with all employees, especially senior employees like Kostas and Dupree. We won’t have to disclose what’s in those stolen files at trial … just prove that they’re confidential.”
My shirt felt tight and scratchy at my neck, so I ran my index finger inside the collar to loosen it. Some days I hated wearing a tie.
E.J. said, “They can bring us something to drink, if you like. Coffee? A water?”
“No. I’m good, but thanks.”
“This company is very hospitable to us when we’re here. The legal department
