She left it vague and hoped he didn’t ask more. She’d met her in the women’s room, she’d say, if he pressed. This old friend was attending some other function in the hotel, that’s what she’d say.
She undressed, placing her clothes neatly on the chaise longue.
“You didn’t get my texts?”
“I’m sorry — I heard my phone and ignored it. I didn’t want to be rude to this poor woman. I should have looked. I’m really sorry.”
A long silence. “A lot of people asked about you.”
“Oh?”
“Lynn Golding.”
“She was there? It was like I fell into a black hole. By the time we were done talking I checked my phone, and I saw you’d left. God, Dunc, I’m so sorry.”
She got into her nightgown, then went to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and washed her face. By the time she got into bed, Duncan was softly snoring.
When Juliana arrived at her lobby the following Monday, Kaitlyn was already there. “I didn’t think you’d want them on top of your desk,” Kaitlyn said.
Juliana saw what Kaitlyn was talking about: four bankers boxes of documents were piled next to her desk, taking up valuable (and scarce) floor space.
“From the defense?”
Kaitlyn nodded. “It’s printouts of all chats that mention Rachel Meyers’s name.”
“That’s a lot of mentions.”
“In these boxes are actually two sets of documents. One is redacted, one’s unredacted. With a privilege log.”
Somewhere in those four boxes was the answer to the question of why she was being blackmailed. “Where’s the log?”
“On your desk.”
Juliana saw the manila folder on her desk next to the keyboard.
“Have you looked through the documents yet?”
“No, I wanted to wait for your instructions.”
“Okay.” She took off her jacket and hung it on the coatrack next to her black robe.
Sitting down at her desk, she opened the folder and began skimming through the privilege log. It listed all the chats the defense wanted to withhold, identifying each chat by date and time, sender and recipient, subject, and, most important, the reason they wanted to withhold it. Assembling a privilege log was tedious grunt work, probably done by some poor young associate.
At least one of these chats contained something so important, so explosive, that someone was willing to go to great lengths to bury it. So the privilege log was a useful tool. It singled out the important chats, the ones she had to pay attention to. She could ignore the hundreds — thousands? — of other chats in those cardboard boxes.
All she cared about right now was finding what was being concealed — why she’d been targeted. She glanced at her watch. She had forty-five minutes before the morning malpractice trial began.
She started reading.
19
The first chat appeared to be between Devin Allerdyce, the CEO, and the chief operating officer, Andrew Westerfield, who was Rachel Meyers’s boss.
ALLERDYCE: how’s rachel meyers working out?
WESTERFIELD: She just started. But she’s smart. Harvard Law.
ALLERDYCE: dude, who cares about smart? she’s smokin hot. she involved with anyone?
WESTERFIELD: Not married, all I know.
ALLERDYCE: i’d tap that.
The next one was between the CEO and his CFO, Eugene Brod:
ALLERDYCE: you check out our new gen counsel?
BROD: The blonde?
ALLERDYCE: hands off dude
BROD: Yes sir!
There was a long series of chats between Rachel and her new colleagues in the company, mostly introducing herself. A few more between Allerdyce and other executives calling attention to the attractive new general counsel and warning the other execs away from her. How serious those warnings were was hard to tell. It was totally frat-like behavior, and Juliana was surprised at how unrestrained the CEO was. He clearly lusted after Rachel Meyers and wasn’t shy about letting people know it.
Then there were chats between a couple of engineers that were all marked CONFIDENTIAL on the privilege log. Their chat was mind-numbingly hard to follow, with phrases like “standard back propagation algorithm” and “adjusting the n values” and “high degree of feature extraction in high-dimensional spaces.” And here and there were sprinkled mentions of the new general counsel. What is it with men and blondes? she wondered.
ALLEN: u c the new general counsel?
OSTROVSKY: No, what abt her?
ALLEN: blond, hot as hell
OSTROVSKY: Didn’t see her.
ALLEN: Rachel... Meyers? Allerdyce, that hound dog, is prob already doing her
So clearly the CEO had a reputation for going after attractive women in his employ. No wonder the company wanted to suppress so many of these chats. It didn’t look good. She couldn’t help but think of all the crap she’d had to deal with. Her boss, the US Attorney, now the state attorney general, was a toad named Kent Yarnell who was always telling raunchy jokes or sizing her up physically, making comments about her bust size — sometimes it was just plain gross. “When are you going to ask me out, Juliana?” he’d say. Or he’d say things like “Weren’t those the clothes you were wearing yesterday? Walk of shame, Juli-girl...” That was stuff she preferred to forget.
She read on with fascination tinged with disgust. Until she came upon an exchange between Rachel and her boss, the chief operating officer, that was marked, in the privilege log, “confidential.” It made her sit up and reread.
MEYERS: How do I access the Mayfair Paragon files? They’re password protected.
WESTERFIELD: Why do you need them?
MEYERS: For the SEC. The new bond issue. I’m reviewing all the paperwork, etc., making sure all the forms are in good shape.
WESTERFIELD: What forms do you need?
MEYERS: accredited investor forms for Mayfair Paragon going back 10 yrs.
WESTERFIELD: I’ll see what I can do.
This was followed by an exchange between the CFO, Eugene Brod, and the COO.
WESTERFIELD: Gene — Meyers wants access to the Mayfair Paragon files.
BROD: Why?
WESTERFIELD: Document prep for SEC. What do I tell her?
BROD: What does she need?
WESTERFIELD: Accredited investor forms going back 10 yrs
BROD: Answer No, she can’t access those files.
The next day Rachel messaged her boss again.
MEYERS: Just following up re Mayfair Paragon files — any luck?
WESTERFIELD: I can’t get you access.
MEYERS: But the SEC specifically requested the accredited investor forms.
WESTERFIELD: I’ll handle.
MEYERS: This is a problem. I can’t certify without access to those forms.
WESTERFIELD: not to worry
Juliana made a note on a legal pad: Mayfair Paragon? Then: accredited investor forms? What was that? Was this the reason she was being blackmailed? Did it have something to do with this?
A knock at the door.
“Come on in,” Juliana said.
The door opened. Philip Hersh entered, holding a paper bag. He closed the door behind him, crossed the room, and set the bag down on her desk. “You like chicken Caesar salad, right?” he said. “Light on the dressing?”
“How’d you know?”
He shrugged. “I understand this is your lunch break. Mind if I take a couple minutes of it?”
“Please. And thanks for the salad.”
“I have a bit of information on Matías Sanchez.”
“So do I. I saw him after we spoke.”
“I know.” He looked annoyed. “I asked you not to. Urged you not to.”