The elevator glides to a stop at the forty-ninth floor, and the doors whoosh open onto the plush reception area of the Law Offices of Butterworth Cole LLC. I recognize the receptionist from my single visit here last September, back when collegiate sports groupie Herbert Cumming fawned over me amid fond memories of my leading our shared alma matter to a national volleyball championship. Things between us had soured quickly, in equal parts because of my affiliation with Sphinx Financial and his subsequent recognition that I wasn’t the deep-pocketed potential client he’d hoped I might be. The good news? I was demoted to the status of a client worthy of nothing more than representation by an associate counsel, which turned out to be Penelope. She did a great job then, and look at us now. She beats the hell out of Herbert C. Cumming Jr. in every possible way.
The receptionist’s eyes widen when she recognizes Penelope exiting the elevator. She might even recognize me, too, though I doubt it.
Penelope’s eyes light up and her smile dazzles as she walks straight to the reception counter and reaches across to squeeze the hand of her former colleague. “Hello, Jennifer! It’s so nice to see you.”
Jennifer’s initial grudging half smile widens into something near a genuine smile. “Hello, Miss Brooks. Nice to see you, as well,” she whispers. I imagine being seen exchanging pleasantries with turncoat associates who have spurned the hallowed halls of Butterworth Cole is frowned upon.
“We’re here to see Mr. Cumming,” Penelope says.
Jennifer nods and glances at her computer screen.
“Conference Room B?” Penelope asks.
Jennifer nods again. “I’ll have someone escort you.”
“I know the way,” Penelope replies, tugging at my sleeve before she marches past reception and down a hallway while Jennifer calls after us to wait. My partner smiles over her shoulder and disingenuously waves the offer of assistance away as an unnecessary courtesy. Then she shoots me a sideways smirk. “Let’s surprise the old bastard.”
She’s developing quite a potty mouth.
We spot Cumming through the glass wall of Conference Room B as we approach. He’s standing over a group of seated Butterworth Cole youngsters with his thumbs hooked in the straps of a pair of suspenders that is one of his courtroom props. He seems to be holding court—perhaps regaling them with tales of lawyerly derring-do, perhaps spinning a scintillating preview of how he plans to carve up and humiliate Penelope and me. He’s not a big man, maybe five foot eight or thereabouts, with thinning black hair teased into something of a comb-over and a little paunch bubbling over his belt buckle. Aging detracts somewhat from his assured self-image as an imposing legal giant, but he still has something of a presence about him. Cumming looks pretty much as he did a year ago. He’s probably just as much of an asshole as he was last year, too. He confirms that as soon as we stride into the room unannounced and interrupt his monologue.
Cumming’s eyes widen when he recognizes us. His gaze quickly morphs into annoyance as he looks beyond us, probably wondering how a disreputable pair of ambulance chasers such as us have waltzed into the inner sanctum unannounced and unescorted. The flash of anger passes quickly, replaced by a transparently false welcoming smile as he advances on us with a hand extended and exclaims, “Tony! Good to see you.”
I nod and shake hands with the phony bastard, making sure to crush his pudgy little hand in my big paw as I do so. He can pretend last year didn’t happen all he wants. We Italians have long memories.
“Penelope,” he says while wrapping her hand in both of his in what’s probably an even less authentic welcome.
It’s a paternalistic, condescending display, delivered as if she were still a flunky of his. Is he attempting to put her on her back foot by treating her shabbily, or is this simply a display of unconscious misogyny? I bristle on her behalf but am well aware that Penelope doesn’t need anyone’s protection. Her game face is set firmly in place.
“Herbert,” she replies curtly with a disdainful expression that says, “Fuck you.”
I step back and lock eyes with Cumming. “What can we do for you?”
He casts his eyes toward his acolytes with a bemused smile. “I believe the correct question is ‘What can we do for you?’” His flunkies smile and chuckle in sycophantic admiration of their leader’s rapier wit.
And so the dance begins. The table is laid out with several pads of paper and glasses of water ranged along one side. This is where the assembled Butterworth Cole host will sit. A lonely pair of water glasses awaits us on the opposite side of the table.
“You asked us here,” I remind him as I bypass our assigned seats, snag a water carafe and two glasses, and pull out a chair at the head of the table. I drop into it while I await his answer. Penelope slides into the seat beside mine and works it around until we’re sharing the end of the table.
Cumming’s minions scramble to rearrange themselves around the far end of the room while I pour myself a glass of ice water from the sweating carafe. He remains standing. Some sort of power move, I suppose—the Big Man lecturing the Lesser Beings.
“Let’s recap where things stand,” he begins. Then he starts to pace while he explains the state of the case from his exalted perspective. “My client will win this case, of course. We all know that. So the question becomes who will pay and how much.” He slows to a stop and looks at me. Then his eyes shift to Penelope. “Agreed?”
Penelope doesn’t agree or disagree. She simply stares back at her
