She shook her head. "You would be violating the agreement we have just by consulting another lawyer. I'm in for the long haul, Jake. Nothing has changed except the time I'll have to devote to you guys."
"But..."
"No buts," she said. "I made my decision and I don't regret it a bit. This will work out and I'll get my reward when it does. Besides, they didn't just kick me out on the street. I got a severance package. Six thousand dollars and benefits paid until June 1. You can't beat that, can you?"
"Employment beats that," he said.
"Not in my eyes, little brother. Now can I stay with you, or what?"
"Yeah," he said. "You can sleep in the office. The couch folds out into a bed."
It was not surprising to find out that National already knew Pauline had moved in with Jake by the time they made it to the negotiation session that morning at nine o'clock. After all, Manny had seen her carry two suitcases into the condo and set them up in the office and Manny was still a pipeline of information. What was surprising, and a little disconcerting as well, was the fact that they also knew why Pauline had moved her stuff in. They scoffed at the explanation that she had taken a leave of absence until the negotiations were complete and told her point-blank that they knew she'd been fired.
"You have very good sources," Pauline replied, keeping her poker face firmly affixed. "But none of that has any bearing on our negotiations. So how about we get down to it?"
They didn't get down to it. Instead, they spent the first four hours arguing back and forth about whether the current contract allowed Pauline to stay in Jake's condo. National claimed that she couldn't, that Jake allowing her to stay overnight in the past had been a technical violation of the rules they'd been graciously willing to overlook but that moving in was absolutely out of the question. Pauline countered by telling them there was nothing in the contract about guests in Jake's condo and therefore, under the law, what was not forbidden was implicitly allowed.
Back and forth they went, sometimes politely, sometimes rudely, never coming close to anything like an agreement on the issue. It was obvious that Frowley and his sharks smelled blood in the water and were hoping to bankrupt the band's lawyer by forcing her to stay in a hotel and burn up her savings. It was Jake who finally managed to break this particular impasse.
"Look," he told Frowley and Casting, "we have already established that my condo is my home. We established that back when your spy tried to take all the shit out, remember? Now since that condo is my home I have the right to invite anyone I want into my home. I have invited my sister there and she will be staying there whether you like it or not."
"She will not!" Frowley said. "If she establishes residence there you'll be in violation of..."
"If you don't like her staying there," Jake interrupted, "then call the cops and try to have her thrown out. When that fails you can try to evict her through the normal legal process. That'll take what? About six months? Assuming that you're even successful? So why don't we take it as a given that she'll be staying there for the next six months and get on with the negotiations in the meantime?"
After only twenty more minutes of discussion they finally decided that what Jake said made sense. They took a short break and then resumed negotiations. As had been the case at every meeting before, they went nowhere.
For the next two weeks they continued to go nowhere even though they increased the meeting days to three times a week instead of two. Ridiculous demands were thrown down on the table by both sides, rejected, and then countered with equally ridiculous demands.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" Jake yelled as they entered the National Records building on the last Monday in March. "We are getting nowhere! Eight fucking weeks of this shit and we're still at square one!"
"It takes time," Pauline said for perhaps the thousandth time. "Trust me. We'll get there."
"When?" Jake asked. "Not a goddamn thing has been done yet. You keep putting the same figures on the table and they keep putting the same figures on the table. Why don't you just cut the bullshit and give them a legitimate offer on something? On anything?"
"We can't," she said. "Not until they do it first. That's what all of this is about."
"What?" Jake asked.
"Whoever throws down the first legitimate compromise in the negotiations will be surrendering the initiative."
"What the fuck does that mean?" Matt asked. If Jake's patience was being tried, Matt's was being burned and skinned alive.
"Yes," said Bill. Even he was starting to get a bid edgy about the lack of progress despite the fact that each session kept him in close contact with the woman whose image he most frequently masturbated to. "I fail to see the benefit of sitting in here day after day without advancing our agenda in any way."
"Look, guys," Pauline said. "It's like a staring contest here, okay? National and us are both looking at each other, eyes open, trying to stare each other down. Whoever blinks first is ceding the advantage in the rest of the negotiations. We cannot be the ones to blink first or they'll know we're more desperate than they are."
"And aren't they in there saying the same goddamn thing?" Jake asked.
"Yes they are," she said. "That's what makes the game so interesting. It's corporate law at its finest."
"Blink?" Matt said. "Is that what you want them to do? I'll make 'em fucking blink! I'll throw a goddamn fist in their faces! That oughtta do it!"
"Patience," Pauline said. "Keep playing the game with me and we'll get through this in no time."
"Fucking lawyers," Matt muttered. "All of you should've been outlawed by the constitution back in the beginning."
They went upstairs and spend another day accomplishing nothing. The next session was pretty much the same. But finally, on Friday, April 1, 1985 — April Fools Day — National blinked.
It wasn't much of a blink. Jake, Bill, and Matt didn't even notice it when it happened. It was late in the session, just before they called an end to the day. They returned from a break and Frowley asked for and received the floor.
"On the subject of royalty rate," he said, "National Records is prepared to offer Intemperance the rate of twelve percent."
"Twelve percent?" Pauline said, rolling her eyes upward. "You've offered this before, Frowley, but always in conjunction with wholesale album rate for calculation. As I've told you, this is unacceptable. It's less than they're making now."
"We'll give them twelve percent royalties and keep the calculation rate where it's at, at an assumed retail rate of five dollars per album."
Pauline gave no facial expression. "We'll take that under consideration," she said. "Now about the tour costs. Let's go over that again. We want National to pay one hundred percent of the costs, including band and crew entertainment expenses, and give eighty percent of tour profits to the band."
"That is not a good faith offer," Frowley said. "How many times do we have to go over this?"
They spent the remainder of the day arguing about tour expenses and achieving nothing. When they called an end to the session Pauline kept her game face on until they were in the elevator. At that point she cheered in triumph.
"Yes!" she said. "We did it. We fucking did it!"
"We did what?" Jake asked. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"They ceded the advantage to us," she said.
"They did?" asked Matt. "When did that happen?"
"When they offered us twelve percent royalties at five dollars an album," she said. "They changed their offer! They blinked!"
"Twelve percent royalties ain't shit," Matt said. "Not on a five dollar an album wholesale rate."
"That's not nearly enough to reverse the debt cycle we're in," said Bill.
"Of course it's not," Pauline said, "but that's not the point. They changed the offer! It's still not a good faith offer, of course, but it's more than they were offering before. It's the first chink in their armor. Now we can start prying at it."