James Grippando - Blood Money

“What are the odds we walk out of here with a check?” she asked.

“Somewhere between Sydney Bennett getting nominated to the Supreme Court and Faith Corso giving up on calling me Sly-teck.” It had been Corso’s name for him ever since learning that his surname rhymed with “Sky-tech.”

The lobby wasn’t as cool as Jack had expected, and he dabbed away the sweat on his forehead as they signed the visitors’ register. A security guard led them past the bank of common elevators that served floors two through forty-nine. The ride to the penthouse was an express. The chrome doors parted, and a receptionist who could have made the cover of Vogue greeted them by name.

“This way, please,” she said.

They followed her across the two-story lobby, the receptionist’s five-inch heels clicking on the parquet floor of maple and mahogany. The view of Central Park was one of the most impressive Jack had ever seen, and he imagined that Hannah was doing her level best not to act like a bumpkin and snap a photo with her iPhone. The view quickly got worse, as they were led down a hallway lined with photographs of BNN’s top news personalities. Faith Corso was the most prominent, staring straight at them from the focal point of the “T” in the intersection of hallways.

“Here we are,” the receptionist said, but she tripped as she reached for the door handle, nearly falling off her five-inch heels.

Subtly, so only Jack could see, Hannah rolled her eyes. Hannah was four feet eleven, always wore flats, and loved the look on people’s faces when they discovered that the shortest person in the room was also the most tenacious.

“My bad,” said the receptionist. She gathered herself and opened the heavy door to the main conference room.

A team of lawyers-three men and three women-was already seated at a long, polished table made of burled walnut. As if on cue, all six checked their watches as Jack and Hannah entered the room. Jack was familiar with the big-firm power play of making the plaintiff’s lawyer wait around for half an hour or more before defense counsel deigned to show up. This was the flip side: making the opposition feel as though they’ve kept everyone waiting, forcing them to start the meeting with an apology for being late-a position of weakness-even though they were right on time.

“Sorry y’all were early,” said Jack, refusing to play into their strategy.

The lawyer with the most gray in his hair rose and shook Jack’s hand. Stanley Mills was BNN’s general counsel and vice president of legal affairs. A round of introductions revealed that the most junior lawyer at the table was one of nineteen attorneys who worked in-house under Mills. The remaining lawyers on BNN’s side of the table were outside counsel from the Wall Street law firm of Marston amp; Qualls. Jack recognized one of them: Ted Gaines, routinely rated as one of the top trial lawyers in the country by American Lawyer magazine, famous for closing arguments that resonated with the rhythm of a Baptist revival. Mills thanked Jack and Hannah for coming and showed his guests a seat on the opposite side of the long, rectangular table. But it quickly became clear that Gaines was running the show.

“Got your love letter,” said Gaines as he tossed a copy of the ten-page complaint on the table. It didn’t land flat, and it lay there exactly the way Gaines had intended: like a dirty napkin.

Jack looked at it, then at Gaines. “It’s not a love letter,” he said dryly.

“Right, right. Even love letters are more grounded in reality than this piece of work.” Gaines glanced at the junior lawyer at the end of the table. “Shannon, lights, please.”

The room darkened. A projection screen lowered from a slot in the ceiling, and a beam of light from a projector shot from the opposite wall. Gaines pulled a remote control from his pocket and brought up the first slide of his presentation: Laramore v. Breaking News Network.

Gaines paused. “Pardon me if this comes across as condescending, Mr. Swyteck. But I think it’s important that we put this in terms you can understand.”

The lawyers in his peanut gallery smirked. Gaines continued.

“Let’s start with the allegations of your complaint that we can agree on,” he said as slide number two flashed on the screen. It summarized several paragraphs from the complaint.

“‘On July eleven at approximately two A.M., a nine-one-one operator dispatched an ambulance to Miami-Dade County Women’s Detention Center in response to a report that a young woman had been injured in the parking lot. At approximately two thirteen A.M., paramedics from Jackson Memorial Hospital arrived on the scene and immediately began treatment of the young woman, later identified as Celeste Laramore. At approximately two twenty A.M., the patient was placed in an ambulance and taken to Jackson Memorial Hospital.’” Gaines paused and said, “So far, so good. Unfortunately, that’s about all we agree on.”

Gaines moved to the next slide. “In the interest of brevity I’m going to move quickly through my main points of contention, so try to follow along.

“Paragraph twelve: ‘At approximately two twenty-two A.M.-just two minutes after Celeste Laramore was placed in the ambulance-BNN reported that the patient was unconscious and in V-fib.’ Slight disagreement there,” said Gaines. “It was actually two twenty-one A.M. One minute after loading her in the ambulance. Nobody denies that BNN gets it fast.”

The peanut gallery smirked again. Gaines moved to the next slide. “Our remaining points of disagreement are not so benign. Paragraph thirteen: ‘Upon information and belief, plaintiff alleges that BNN co-opted information about Ms. Laramore’s medical condition through surreptitious and illegal means. Specifically, BNN (or someone acting on BNN’s behalf) intercepted critical and confidential patient data as it was transmitted by paramedics from the moving ambulance to doctors at Jackson Memorial Hospital.’ Hogwash. Next.

“Paragraph fourteen: ‘BNN’s illegal interception of Ms. Laramore’s patient data interfered with the paramedics’ transmission of real-time information to emergency room physicians. As a result, the ER physicians never received the intercepted transmission, and they were unable to prescribe real-time measures to the paramedics that would have addressed the patient’s life-threatening condition.’ More hogwash. Next.

“Paragraph fifteen: ‘Plaintiff further alleges. .’” Gaines stopped. “You know what? I’m already tired of this. Lights, please.”

The junior attorney jumped from her chair and switched on the lights. Gaines returned to his seat and cast his most intimidating glare across the table, directly at Jack.

“In plain English, this is a bullshit lawsuit, Mr. Swyteck. I don’t know where you came up with your ‘ information and belief ,’ but pulling allegations out of your ass won’t cut it in a court of law. The only kernel of truth here is that ninety seconds after the ambulance pulled away from the scene, BNN was the first news organization to report that Celeste Laramore was unconscious and in cardiac arrest. BNN gathered those details the way it always gets its information: nose-to-the-grindstone, feet-on-the-ground, tireless reporting.

“Now, I fully understand that Faith Corso said some harsh things about you during the trial of Sydney Bennett, and I’m sure you’d love to nail Faith and her network. But-”

“This isn’t personal,” said Jack.

“Noooo,” Gaines said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “of course it isn’t.”

Jack leaned into the table, returning the stare. “This meeting wasn’t my idea. My clients asked me to arrange it. They’re reasonable people. Their hope was that you would be reasonable, too. It’s clear they were wrong.”