Michael Crichton - Disclosure

His mind was spinning, confused. When he thought back to the events of that first day-the rumors, the announcement by Blackburn, the first meeting with her-he did not remember feeling anger. His feelings had been so complicated on that day, but he had not felt anger, he was sure of it…

"Thomas, Thomas. Stop dreaming. There is no time for it."

Sanders was shaking his head. He couldn't think clearly.

"Thomas, you arranged all this. Whether you admit it or not, whether you are aware of it or not. On some level, what has happened is exactly what you intended. And you made sure it would happen."

He found himself remembering Susan. What had she said at the restaurant?

Why didn't you tell me? I could have belped you.

And she was right, of course. She was an attorney; she could have advised him if he had told her what happened the first night. She would have told him what to do. She could have gotten him out of it. But he hadn't told her.

There's not mucb we can do now.

"You wanted this confrontation, Thomas."

And then Garvin: She was your girlfriend, and you didn't like it when she dropped you. So now you want to pay her back.

"You worked all week to ensure this confrontation."

"Max-"

"So don't tell me you are a victim here. You're not a victim. You call yourself a victim because you don't want to take responsibility for your life. Because you are sentimental and lazy and naive. You think other people should take care of you."

"Jesus, Max," Sanders said.

"You deny your part in this. You pretend to forget. You pretend to be unaware. And now you pretend to be confused."

"Max-"

"Oh! I don't know why I bother with you. How many hours do you have until this meeting? Twelve hours? Ten? Yet you waste your time talking to a crazy old man." He spun in his wheelchair. "If I were you, I would get to work."

"Meaning what?"

"Well, we know what your intentions are, Thomas. But what are her intentions, hmmm? She is solving a problem, too. She has a purpose here. So: what is the problem she is solving?"

"I don't know," Sanders said.

"Clearly. But how will you find out?"

Lost in thought, he walked the five blocks to 11 Terrazzo. Fernandez was waiting for him outside. They went in together.

"Oh Christ," Sanders said, as he looked around.

"All the usual suspects," Fernandez said.

In the far section straight ahead, Meredith Johnson was having dinner with Bob Garvin. Two tables away, Phil Blackburn was eating with his wife, Doris, a thin bespectacled woman who looked like an accountant. Near them, Stephanie Kaplan was having dinner with a young man in his twenties-probably her son at the university, Sanders thought. And over to the right, by the window, the Conley-White people were in the midst of a working dinner, their briefcases open at their feet, papers scattered all over the table. Ed Nichols sat with John Conley to his right, and Jim Daly to his left. Daly was speaking into a tiny dictating machine.

"Maybe we should go somewhere else," Sanders said.

"No," Fernandez said. "They've already seen us. We can sit in the corner over there."

Carmine came over. "Mr. Sanders," he said with a formal nod.

"We'd like a table in the corner, Carmine."

"Yes of course, Mr. Sanders."

They sat to one side. Fernandez was staring at Meredith and Garvin. "She could be his daughter," she said.

"Everybody says so."

"It's quite striking."

The waiter brought menus. Nothing on it appealed to Sanders, but they ordered anyway. Fernandez was looking steadily at Garvin. "He's a fighter, isn't he."

"Bob? Famous fighter. Famous tough guy."

"She knows how to play him." Fernandez turned away and pulled papers out of her briefcase. "This is the contract that Blackburn sent back. It is all in order, except for two clauses. First, they claim the right to terminate you if you are shown to have committed a felony on the job.

"Uh-huh." He wondered what they might mean.

"And this second clause claims the right to terminate you if you have `failed to demonstrate satisfactory performance in the job as measured by industry standards.' What does that mean?"

He shook his head. "They must have something in mind." He told her about the conversation he had overheard in the conference room.

As usual, Fernandez showed no reaction. "Possible," she said.

"Possible? They're going to do it."

"I meant legally. It's possible that they intend something of this sort. And it would work."

"Why?"

"A harassment claim brings up the entire performance of an employee. If there is dereliction, even a very old or minor dereliction, it may be used to dismiss the claim. I had one client who worked for a company for ten years. But the company was able to demonstrate that the employee had lied on the original application form, and the case was dismissed. The employee was fired."

"So this comes down to my performance."

"It may. Yes."

He frowned. What did they have on him?

She is solving a problem, too. So: wbat is the problem she is solving?

Beside him, Fernandez pulled the tape recorder out of her pocket. "There's a couple of other things I want to go over," she said. "There's something that happens early on in the tape."

"Okay."

"I want you to listen."

She gave the player to him. He held it close to his ear.

He heard his own voice saying clearly, "… we'll face that later. I've given her your thoughts, and she's talking to Bob now, so presumably we'll go into the meeting tomorrow taking that position. Well, anyway, Mark, if there is a significant change in all this, I'll contact you before the meeting tomorrow, and"

"Forget that phone," Meredith's voice said loudly, and then there was the sound of rustling, like fabric, and a sort of hissing sound, and a dull thunk as the phone was dropped. The momentary sharp crackle of static.

More rustling. Then silence.

A grunt. Rustling.

As he listened, he tried to imagine the action in the room. They must have moved over to the couch, because now the voices were lower, less distinct. He heard himself say, "Meredith, wait-"

"Oh God," she said, "I've wanted you all day."

More rustling. Heavy breathing. It was hard to be certain what was happening. A little moan from her. More rustling.

She said, "Oh God, you feel so good, I can't stand the bastard touching me. Those stupid glasses. Oh! I'm so hot, I haven't had a decent fuck-"

More rustling. Static crackle. Rustling. More rustling. Sanders listened with a sense of disappointment. He could not really create images for what was going on-and he had been there. This tape would not be persuasive to someone else. Most of it sounded like obscure noise. With long periods of silence.

"Meredith-"

"Oooh. Don't talk. No! No…" He heard her gasping, in little breaths. Then more silence.

Fernandez said, "That's enough."

Sanders put the player down and shut it off. He shook his head.

"You can't tell anything from this. About what was really going on." "You can tell enough," Fernandez said. "And don't you start worrying about the evidence. That's my job. But you heard her first statements?" She consulted her notepad. "Where she says, `I've wanted you all day'? And then she says, `Oh God you feel so good, I can't stand the bastard touching me. Those stupid glasses, oh I'm so hot, I haven't had a decent fuck.' You heard that part?"

"Yes. I heard it."

"Okay. Who is she talking about?"

"Talking about?"

"Yes. Who is the bastard she can't stand touching her?"

"I assume her husband," Sanders said. "We were talking about him earlier. Before the tape."

"Tell me what was said earlier."

"Well, Meredith was complaining about having to pay alimony to her husband, and then she said her husband was terrible in bed. She said, `I hate a man who doesn't know what he's doing.' "