Джозеф Файндер - Judgment

“Okay, put ’em on,” she said.

She imagined for a second the CEO of Wheelz, Devin Allerdyce, and saw his rodent face. She had no doubt that guy had harassed other women who worked for him, that there’d been other claims against him that the company had settled quietly, the terms of the settlement kept confidential. But of course she couldn’t say that aloud. She had to maintain a pose of fair-mindedness.

Kaitlyn put Juliana’s phone on speaker. Juliana said, “This is Judge Brody. Is everybody here?”

A female and a male voice said yes at the same time. She said, “Can you please identify yourselves?”

“Harlan Madden for the defense, Your Honor.”

“Glenda Craft for the plaintiff, Your Honor.”

“Stenographer?” she asked.

“Terri Rhodes, stenographer.”

“Anyone else?”

“No,” said Madden.

No Matías.

“Okay, let me see if I can help you. Ms. Craft, can you give us some background as to what the issues are here?”

“Sure. I asked Mr. Allerdyce about any prior claims made against him and Wheelz regarding sexual harassment. This information is highly relevant to establish a pattern and practice of discriminatory behavior at Wheelz. It’s also relevant to whether or not the company’s practices and policies provided effective remedial measures to prevent harassment—”

“Judge.” Harlan Madden.

“Let her finish, please.”

“Effective remedial measures to prevent harassment,” Glenda Craft went on. “The plaintiff’s claim in this case is that they did not, and evidence of other claims will help establish this.”

“Mr. Madden, what’s your position?”

“Not only is this information irrelevant, Judge, but to the extent that there are prior claims that have been resolved, those claims were resolved subject to confidentiality agreements, and the company is bound by these agreements not to divulge the nature of the claims or the terms of the settlement. To require them to produce this information would be forcing them to breach confidentiality agreements that they may have entered into with other employees. The company is not at liberty to disclose those terms. That information is privileged and not discoverable.”

Juliana wasn’t surprised, of course, that Harlan Madden didn’t want his client talking about any sexual harassment claims that might have been made against him in the past. That made sense. And he had a point: if Wheelz had settled claims made by other women, it had surely required the terms of the settlements be kept confidential. That was fairly standard. Wheelz didn’t want those details made public.

On the other hand, it was perfectly legit for Rachel Meyers to know if the CEO had harassed other women before. That strengthened her case.

What made the dispute interesting was that Rachel had refused to sign any confidentiality agreement with the defense. Probably for the same reason she had persistently refused to settle: above all, she wanted her story told. She wanted everyone to know everything that happened in the courtroom. She wanted a public trial.

Juliana thought for a moment about requiring both parties to submit briefs and then make oral arguments. But she realized she didn’t need to make them go through all that. She had a pretty good idea of what the right solution was. A compromise of sorts.

“All right,” she said, “here’s what I’m going to do. Courts in our jurisdiction have found that this information is relevant and discoverable. At a minimum it speaks to the policies and practices of the company and whether they were effective in remediating these disputes. So I’m going to compel the defendant to produce this information, but I’m going to impose some confidentiality restrictions. Access to any settlement agreements is restricted to Ms. Meyers, her attorney, and her experts, and these individuals cannot make any further disclosure.”

“Judge,” protested Madden.

“We’re done here,” she said.

When she finished for the day, she locked her lobby, left the courthouse, and walked over to the parking garage. Normally, she tried to make it home by six, but tonight she was going to be a little late. She texted Duncan to let him know.

She was going to make a detour. She was going to try to find Matías Sanchez.

Maybe Matías had left town, gone back to Chicago, his work done. But she had no other way of reaching him than to try his hotel. If he was gone, he was gone. All she could do was try.

Was it foolhardy? Was she sticking her head back in the jaw trap? Maybe so. But she needed to find out what he knew, if anything, about Mayfair Paragon. He’d called himself a chess piece in a game whose players he claimed not to know. But her instincts told her that he knew more than he was letting on. Maybe a lot more.

Not that he would readily cooperate with her. She’d have to force a deal. There was a way out of this nightmare, and she was determined to find it.

As she drove, she checked her rearview mirror from time to time, looking for a following vehicle, feeling sheepish about it, ruefully recalling how she’d nearly torn into Chae-won Kim. The fact was, several cars had been behind her since Kenmore Square, three or four of them. None, as far as she could tell, since leaving the courthouse.

Legally, of course, she was putting herself in a compromising position just meeting with a member of the defense team. For her to do so without the other side there was considered ex parte communication. If she was photographed meeting with Matías, she could face all sorts of questions. And if the truth ever came out, that would be sure grounds for impeachment. Her career could be over in a flash.

She found a parking space easily, on the curb a block beyond the Home Stay Inn. Just as before, she entered the hotel lobby with purpose and turned left to the elevator bank and took it to the third floor. As before, no one tried to stop her or ask where she was going. Look like you belong and most people won’t bother you. But just in case she was recognized, she wore sunglasses and a hat.

She passed an open door and a housekeeper’s cart in the hallway. When she came to room 322, she could hear noise inside, what sounded like the television on, fairly loud. For a moment she hesitated, listened for other voices, then finally rang the doorbell. Right away she sidled away from the door, along the wall, out of view of the peephole. If he looked out and saw her, he might not open the door. She waited. The TV blared, muffled-sounding. The door remained closed. She waited some more.

Was it possible he hadn’t heard the doorbell over the noise of the television? She slid back over to the doorway, her face hidden behind the brim of the hat, in case he was looking out the peephole — and rang again. Then she knocked. The TV remained on. She waited another minute; then she pounded hard on the door.

Coming down the corridor was the housekeeper, diminutive and Latin-looking, pushing her cart. She avoided Juliana’s eyes. It wasn’t her business.

But then Juliana had an idea.

“Excuse me,” she said to the housekeeper.

The maid looked up reluctantly.

“My husband forgot to give me a key. Could you let me in?”

She was wearing her blue suit and looked respectable. She lowered her sunglasses, her back to the camera. Sure enough, the housekeeper looked her over, her eyes moving up and down Juliana, sizing her up. She said, “Is three-two-two?”

“That’s right. I’m positive.”

The woman approached, gave her a questioning look, pulled out a keycard, and beeped the door open. She didn’t seem happy about it. It was probably against the rules: hotel guests who’d misplaced their keys probably had to go to the front desk and present ID. But she pushed the door open for Juliana, and a split-second later she made a strange yipping sound, a high-pitched scream. “ Ay Dios mío! ”