Either way you looked at it, someone was going to end up dead.
Like any good associate, Mark Austin came when he was summoned. He hoped he was dressed appropriately. It was such a tough decision, dressing to work in a large law firm. The blue suit, or the gray? The gray suit, or the blue? With the white shirt, of course.
The current summons had him scurrying out of the library with particular haste. For the entire two years he’d been at Raven, Tucker & Tubb, he’d been hoping for a chance to work with Charlton Colby. Colby was generally considered the top litigator in the city, if not the state. Certainly he was the richest. He had all the top blue-chip clients in his back pocket. He was the man holding the brass ring Mark hoped to grab.
He made a last-minute duck into the men’s room to straighten his tie and adjust his hair, then sped toward Colby’s office. He’d been waiting two years for this chance; he didn’t want to screw it up now. This could be his ticket to the upper echelon of the litigation world. It all flashed past him in a heartbeat. Dining at the Tulsa Club, a vaguely bored expression on his face. Hobnobbing with CEOs and society debs. Weaving his spell in the courtroom, the eyes of the world upon him via the magic of television. Retiring to his majestic estate near Philbrook, neighbored by some of the oldest money in the city. That was what he aspired to. That was what he dreamed of. He knew it could all be his. He knew it.
He stopped just outside Colby’s office and knocked on the open door. “You wanted to see me?”
Colby peered through his tortoise-tinted wire-rimmed glasses. “Yes. Come in, Mark.”
Mark stepped into the office. He saw Colby was wearing his blue today, generally considered the warmer of the two acceptable lawyer fashion choices. He was glad he had done the same.
There were two high-backed plush chairs opposite Colby’s desk—but one was occupied. “Mark, I’d like you to meet Myron Blaylock. Myron, Mark Austin.”
Mark took the other man’s hand, which was like ice. He had a weak, unenthusiastic grip.
“Mark, as you probably know, Mr. Blaylock is the CEO and president of the H. P. Blaylock Industrial Machinery Corporation. His grandfather founded the business.”
Mark hadn’t known, but now that he did, he would never forget it. “Of course.”
“I’ve helped Myron with a number of cases over the years. Business litigation, mostly. Never anything like this.” He lifted a stapled document off his desk and passed it to Mark. “Mr. Blaylock received an unwelcome bit of news this morning. A lawsuit.”
Mark took the proffered paper. It looked like a standard civil-suit Complaint. He saw on the last page that the opposing attorney was someone named Benjamin Kincaid. Never heard of him.
“I’m going to need some help on this lawsuit,” Colby continued. “A lot of it, in fact. I heard you had some time available.”
“Of course,” Mark said, straightening. “I’m ready to start immediately.”
“Good. For starters, I’d like you to draft an Answer to this Complaint.”
“Sure.” The Answer was one of the simplest and most pro forma of all the pleadings in a suit. The defendant’s approach was easy: Deny everything. “I assume we have the standard twenty days. Forty if we ask for the automatic extension.”
Colby shook his head. “We want to file our Answer tomorrow.”
Mark blinked. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“No. Of course not.” He concentrated on controlling his facial expressions. Had he already blown it? “I’m just … surprised. Normally, defendants—”
“Aren’t in a big hurry?” Colby glanced at Blaylock, almost smiling. “I don’t anticipate we’ll stray from that standard strategic approach much throughout the course of this action. But we contemplate the press being interested in this. They’ll run a story as soon as they learn of the Complaint. We want to be ready with our Answer. We can’t let these charges go unrefuted. Not for a day. Not for ten seconds.”
“I see.” Mark scanned quickly through the Complaint. Leukemia, TCE, perc. Wrongful death, negligence, punitive damages. He didn’t have time to soak in all the details. But it was apparent this was not your standard-issue business litigation. “May I ask what our … position is with respect to these charges?”
“We deny everything,” Blaylock said. His voice had a raspy quality reminiscent of the creaking of a door in a haunted house. He was an old man, in his sixties at least, possibly older. His frame was long and gaunt, almost skeletal. “These charges are outrageous.”
“No doubt,” Mark murmured.
“I’m appalled that anyone would even suggest that H. P. Blaylock engaged in improper waste disposal. H. P. Blaylock has been an exemplary corporate citizen, from my grandfather’s day to the present. We would no sooner poison the water wells than we’d poison our own watercooler. We employ over six thousand people in this state, and we take good care of them. To suggest that we are responsible for the deaths of children—it’s unconscionable!” His indignation was so intense Mark worried that he might froth at the mouth. “It’s outrageous. Libelous! Truly, Charlton, I feel the standard litigation responses are not enough. These people should be made to pay the consequences of these unjust and outrageous accusations. I think criminal charges should be considered.”
“Rest assured that we will consider every realistic option, Myron,” Colby said calmly. “And I can guarantee you that Mark’s Answer will include a counterclaim for libel. Right, Mark?”
Mark hedged for a moment, torn between his desire to flaunt a morsel of knowledge and his hesitance to oppose anything Colby suggested. “Actually, sir, you can’t bring a claim of libel against litigants based upon accusations made in a legal Complaint. They have qualified immunity.”
Colby waved his hand absently. “If these plaintiffs are prepared to make these claims in court, I’m sure they’ve already made them somewhere else.”
“But if we don’t know—”
“We’ll find out in discovery.”
“Then perhaps we should wait and amend our Answer when we know—”
“Put the counterclaim in now.” Colby still remained calm; only the slightest alteration in his intonation cued Mark that this discussion was over.
“Do you know anything about this pissant attorney who signed the Complaint?” Blaylock asked, keenly agitated. “This Kincaid?”
“In fact, I do,” Colby said. His voice, his entire manner, was supremely dismissive. “Believe it or not, Kincaid actually worked here at Raven, for about ten minutes. Till we ran him out on a rail for gross incompetence. He’s small potatoes. Solo practitioner. Probably hoping for a quick and dirty nuisance settlement. We have greater resources, more talent, and more money.” He shrugged dismissively. “We’ll bury him.”
“I expect nothing less. I want you to spare nothing, Charlton. I want this case prosecuted to the fullest extent. Do whatever it takes. Everything you can think of. Don’t let these bastards come up for air. I want them to be sorry they ever heard of H. P. Blaylock.”
“I understand.”
Mark imagined that he could hear those old bones creaking as the scarecrow pushed himself out of his chair. “Keep me informed, Charlton. I want to know everything that happens in this suit, from now till the day we drive a stake through its heart. And everyone associated with it.”
“Of course.” Colby rose, removing his glasses. He walked to the door, exchanged a few more remarks with Blaylock sotto voce, shook his head, and bid him good-bye.
Colby returned to the office. Mark was still in the chair, waiting to hear what the man had to say next.