“You may be seated,” he intoned solemnly. Schmidt appeared to be in his early fifties. He had an orange-brown mustache the same color that his hair probably was back when he had hair.
“Stone Face is right,” Ben whispered to Christina as the bailiff began calling the docket. “What a humorless character.”
At that instant, Ben saw Derek sliding into the chair next to his at the plaintiff’s table. The hair on the right side of his head was sticking straight out and he wore a day’s growth of stubble. His clothes reeked of smoke. “So where’s the script?” he growled quietly.
“Right here.” Ben patted the papers on the table.
Derek glanced down. “Lots of highbrow literary allusions?”
“You bet.”
Derek quietly grunted his approval. He set his briefcase atop the table and raised the lid so as to cut off the judge’s view of his face.
Ben watched as Derek removed a plastic disposable razor from his briefcase and scraped it across his chin. That must sting, Ben thought, but Derek didn’t seem to notice. Derek licked his fingers, ran them through his hair twice and, after checking that no one was watching, discreetly positioned his toupee. As if by magic, every thing seemed to settle more or less into place. He removed two tablets from a smoked plastic pill bottle and popped them into his mouth. “Hangover remedy,” he murmured.
The bailiff finished calling the docket and formally announcing the appearances of the attorneys. He returned to the first case on the docket.
“Sanguine Enterprises vs. Martin Food Corp., doing business as Eggs ‘N’ Such, case number CJ-92-49235-S, is now called before this court. Are the parties present and ready?”
Attorneys on both sides announced that they were.
“Very well,” Judge Schmidt said in a heavy voice, as if he’d rather be anywhere else. “Opening statements, please. And be brief,” he added wearily.
“Thank you, Your Honor!” Derek rose, buttoned the top button of his jacket, and strode to the podium. He seemed calm and self-assured, not remotely as if he had been up all night, had a hangover, and was about to deliver a speech he’d never seen before.
“Your Honor, the motion for injunctive relief before the court today presents only a single issue, but it is an issue of great importance both to Sanguine Enterprises and to the business world in general. The question presented to this court, simply stated, is this: has Martin Foods, through the Tulsa restaurant known as Eggs ‘N’ Such, so appropriated and infringed upon the trade dress of the national chain of restaurants known as Eggs ‘N’ Stuff as to demand immediate injunctive relief to prevent inevitable irreparable harm?”
The judge stared stonily at Derek, not as if he were an oral advocate, but as if he were an unusual kind of bug.
“In this case, Your Honor, the only possible answer to that question is: yes.”
Ben had to admire Derek. His delivery was very smooth. Although he had never laid eyes on the script before, he did not seem dependent on it or tied to it. He managed to both read and establish eye contact with the judge.
“In every respect, be it color, design, or decor, interior or exterior, Eggs ‘N’ Such has intentionally mimicked Eggs ‘N’ Stuff for the express purpose of creating confusion amongst the Eggs ‘N’ Stuff clientele and unfairly diverting Eggs ‘N’ Stuff business. In the words of the great French existentialist—” He paused.
Ben realized there was a problem.
“—Albert Camus—” Derek got it entirely wrong. He pronounced the t in Albert and read Camus as if it were came us.
And then a miracle happened. The great Stone Face cracked. Schmidt tossed his head against the back of his chair and began to laugh, a loud, staccato clucking sound that reverberated throughout the keenly acoustic courtroom.
The judge rubbed his hand against his forehead. “Came us,” he murmured quietly, and then he began to laugh again.
Derek tried to continue, but stopped, realizing the futility of proceeding until the court had had its little joke. He turned and stared frigidly at Ben.
Ben received the chilling glance. He noticed Tidwell writing furiously in his notepad. Ben returned his attention to the table, shuffled some papers, and began formulating his future response. Inevitably, this was going to turn out to be all his fault.
20
“OKAY, LET’S SEE WHAT we’ve got here.”
Sally Zacharias removed the documents from their envelope, extracted a pocket calculator from her purse, and began to scrutinize the five columns of letters and numbers.
Ben, Christina, and Sally, Christina’s friend from the bookkeeping department, sat around a table at Angelo’s. Christina had suggested that since Sally wasn’t going to get paid for her services, she was at least entitled to a decent meal. Ben had given Sally the papers they found in Adams’s office without telling her the name of the corporation to which he believed they referred. She stared at the mysterious documents for about ten minutes while Ben and Christina chitchatted over wine and garlic bread.
Eventually Sally announced her conclusions. “These appear to be summarizations of the annual financial reports of your unnamed, but apparently very rich, corporation over a number of years.” She continued to scribble on her napkin and punch the buttons on her calculator. “I say appear because all the identifying labels in the left-hand column are either coded or abbreviated so that only an insider can read them. I can tell what the numbers are, but I can’t tell what categories they represent.”
“Why would anyone code their financial report?” Ben asked.
“It’s not that unusual, especially with major corporations. They’re always afraid of a hostile takeover or a shareholders’ derivative suit or the fall of civilization as we know it. They’re required to disclose some things to some people, but not all things to all people. Not unless the IRS or the SEC or the Justice Department forces them.” She flipped through the papers. “This compilation was clearly not intended for public perusal.”
“Is there anything in the report that anyone would want to hide?” Christina asked.
Sally reached for a slice of garlic bread and dipped it in marinara sauce. “Hard to say. There is something unusual about the way this is formatted. See for yourself.”
Ben leaned forward in an attempt to feign understanding. He hadn’t the slightest idea what she was talking about.
“There seem to be three separate sources of income, or perhaps types of income, calculated independently. Then, on the final pages, the totals from each of the three sections are combined. And down here is the grand total. Over thirty-two million bucks.”
Ben whistled. “Not bad.”
Sally continued. “Now I can’t be certain, but I’d be willing to bet that the figures in the middle right column represent the year’s expenditures, and that this lower number reflects what’s left over. In other words, how much money your mystery company made. Logically, this final page should indicate how those profits were distributed, but the numbers don’t jibe. I haven’t added it up but, oh, twenty thou and forty, fiftyish thou is about seventy, carry the five … let’s call it twenty. Twenty million in expenses.”
“That’s a lot of expenses,” Ben said.
Sally nodded. “We’ll make a typical deduction for the inevitable tax losses, although this company probably has shelters built into the corporate structure to take care of a lot of that. We’ll assume the impossible and suppose that no capital gains or depreciation skullduggery is going on. Subtract what appear to be line-item distributions and, oh, I’d say the difference is at least three million bucks. Just to give a ball-park figure.”