Michael Crichton - Disclosure

There was a short silence.

Blackburn's assistant came into the room and handed him a note. Blackburn read the note and passed it to Heller.

Murphy said, "Ms. Fernandez? Are you ready to explain what's going on to me now?"

"Yes, Your Honor. It turns out there is an audio tape of the meeting."

"Really? Have you heard it?"

"I have, Your Honor. It confirms Mr. Sanders's story."

"Are you aware of this tape, Ms. Johnson?"

"No, I am not."

"Perhaps Ms. Johnson and her attorney would like to hear it, too. Perhaps we should all hear it," Murphy said, looking directly at Blackburn.

Heller put the note in his pocket and said, "Your Honor, I'd like to request a ten-minute recess."

"Very well, Mr. Heller. I'd say this development warrants it."

Outside in the courtyard, black clouds hung low. It was threatening to rain again. Over by the fountains, Johnson huddled with Heller and Blackburn. Fernandez watched them. "I just don't understand this," she said. "There they all are, talking again. What is there to talk about? Their client lied, and then changed her story. There's no question that Johnson's guilty of sexual harassment. We have it recorded on tape. So what are they talking about?"

Fernandez stared for a moment, frowning. "You know, I have to admit it. Johnson's a hell of a smart woman," she said.

"Yes," Sanders said.

"She's quick and she's cool."

"Uh-huh."

"Moved up the corporate ladder fast."

"Yes."

"So… how'd she let herself get into this situation?"

"What do you mean?" Sanders said.

"I mean, what's she doing coming on to you the very first day at work? And coming on so strongly? Leaving herself open to all these problems? She's too smart for that."

Sanders shrugged.

"You think it's just because you're irresistible?" Fernandez said. "With all due respect, I doubt it."

He found himself thinking of the time he first knew Meredith, when she was doing demos, and the way she used to cross her legs whenever she was asked a question she couldn't answer. "She could always use sex to distract people. She's good at that."

"I believe it," Fernandez said. "So what is she distracting us from now?"

Sanders had no answer. But his instinct was that something else was going on. "Who knows how people really are in private?" he said. "I once knew this woman, she looked like an angel, but she liked bikers to beat her up."

"Uh-huh," Fernandez said. "That's fine. I'm not buying it for Johnson. Because Johnson strikes me as very controlled, and her behavior with you was not controlled."

"You said it yourself, there's a pattern."

"Yeah. Maybe. But why the first day? Why right away? I think she had another reason."

Sanders said, "And what about me? Do you think I had another reason?"

"I assume you did," she said, looking at him seriously. "But we'll talk about that later."

Alan came up from the parking lot, shaking his head.

"What've you got?" Fernandez said.

"Nothing good. We're striking out everywhere," he said. He flipped open his notepad. "Okay. Now, we've checked out that Internet address. The message originated in the `U District.' And `Afriend' turns out to be Dr. Arthur A. Friend. He's a professor of inorganic chemistry at the University of Washington. That name mean anything to you?"

"No," Sanders said.

"I'm not surprised. At the moment, Professor Friend is in northern Nepal on a consulting job for the Nepalese government. He's been there for three weeks. He's not expected back until late July. So it probably isn't him sending the messages anyway."

"Somebody's using his Internet address?"

"His assistant says that's impossible. His office is locked while he's away, and nobody goes in there except her. So nobody has access to his computer terminal. The assistant says she goes in once a day and answers Dr. Friend's e-mail, but otherwise the computer is off. And nobody knows the password but her. So I don't know."

"It's a message coming out of a locked office?" Sanders said, frowning.

"I don't know. We're still working on it. But for the moment, it's a mystery."

"All right, fine," Fernandez said. "What about Conrad Computer?"

"Conrad has taken a very hard position. They will only release information to the hiring company, meaning DigiCom. Nothing to us. And they say that the hiring company has not requested it. When we pushed, Conrad called DigiCom themselves, and DigiCom told them they weren't interested in any information Conrad might have."

"Hmmm."

"Next, the husband," Alan said. "I talked to someone who worked in his company, CoStar. Says the husband hates her, has lots of bad things to say about her. But he's in Mexico on vacation with his new girlfriend until next week."

"Too bad."

"Novell," Alan said. "They keep only the last five years current. Prior to that, records are in cold storage at headquarters in Utah. They have no idea what they'll show, but they're willing to get them out if we'll pay for it. It'll take two weeks."

Fernandez shook her head. "Not good."

“No.”

"I have a strong feeling that Conrad Computer is sitting on something," Fernandez said.

"Maybe, but we'll have to sue to get it. And there's no time." Alan looked across the courtyard at the others. "What's happening now?"

"Nothing. They're hanging tough."

"Still?"

"Yeah."

`Jesus," Alan said. "Who's she got behind her?"

"I'd love to know," Fernandez said.

Sanders flipped open his cellular phone and checked in with his office. "Cindy, any messages?"

`Just two, Tom. Stephanie Kaplan asked if she could meet with you today."

"She say why?"

"No. But she said it wasn't important. And Mary Anne has come by twice, looking for you."

"Probably wants to skin me," Sanders said.

"I don't think so, Tom. She's about the only one who-she's very concerned about you, I think."

"Okay. I'll call her."

He started to dial Mary Anne's number when Fernandez nudged him in the ribs. He looked over and saw a slender, middle-aged woman walking up from the parking lot toward them. "Buckle up," Fernandez said. "Why? Who's that?" "That," Fernandez said, "is Connie Walsh."

Connie Walsh was about forty-five years old, with gray hair and a sour expression. "Are you Tom Sanders?"

"That's right."

She pulled out a tape recorder. "Connie Walsh, from the Post Intelligencer. Can we talk for a moment?"

"Absolutely not," Fernandez said.

Walsh looked over at her.

"I'm Mr. Sanders's attorney."

"I know who you are," Walsh said, and turned back to Sanders. "Mr. Sanders, our paper's going with a story on this discrimination suit at DigiCom. My sources tell me that you are accusing Meredith Johnson of sex discrimination, is that correct?"

"He has no comment," Fernandez said, stepping between Walsh and Sanders.

Walsh looked past her shoulder and said, "Mr. Sanders, is it also true that you and she are old lovers, and that your accusation is a way to even the score?"

"He has no comment," Fernandez said.

"It looks to me like he does," Walsh said. "Mr. Sanders, you don't have to listen to her. You can say something if you want to. And I really think you should take this opportunity to defend yourself. Because my sources are also saying that you physically abused Ms. Johnson in the course of your meeting. These are very serious charges people are making against you, and I imagine you'll want to respond. What do you have to say to her allegations? Did you physically abuse her?"

Sanders started to speak, but Fernandez shot him a warning glance, and put her hand on his chest. She said to Walsh, "Has Ms. Johnson made these allegations to you? Because she was the only other one besides Mr. Sanders who was there."