Legally Tender. Michele Dunaway
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we’ve been hired to do for these women, hmm? Shall you and I declare a much-needed truce, at least until you find some real evidence against me?”
He crossed his arms and studied her. His gaze traveled from her tight chignon, over the designer blue suit and down to her matching heels. “The jury’s still out,” he said flatly.
“Fair enough,” she agreed. For now. Kyle had done enough damage over the years to her self-esteem. Bruce Lancaster had another thing coming if he thought she would simply roll over. She would never do that again, for anyone.
He gestured to a stack of brown expandable folders at one end of the table. “Those files contain the original interview notes. We’ve done no formal depositions at this time.”
Bruce rose, moved a few steps and tapped a different stack of folders. She noticed his tightly clipped and filed nails—guy’s nails that hadn’t been professionally manicured.
“These files contain the violation reports that we’ve filed with the EEOC,” Bruce continued. Christina knew the EEOC was the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, the government agency in charge of overseeing all Title VII violations.
“Over there are the books I’ve pulled that have case history and applicable laws. Precedent is on our side, but with the recent changes in affirmative action legislation, there may be some chiseling at the sexual harassment laws, as well. Some of the women’s cases are much stronger than others. We’ve already filed EEOC complaints on all of them, and submitted a demand letter to the company. If the company meets our demands, we’ll settle. But if not, once the EEOC allows us to, we’re filing in federal court for multiple violations of Title VII. Where do you want to start?”
“The beginning,” Christina said, regaining some calm now that he was being reasonable. “That’s usually the best place. Take me in chronological order.”
“Okay.” Bruce nodded and returned to his seat. She followed suit and sat herself opposite him.
They were still sitting there, engrossed in work, four hours later when Angela knocked on the door and opened it. So caught up in the case, Christina hadn’t even realized that the time had passed.
“I brought you both some lunch,” Angela said.
“Thanks,” Bruce replied easily, his demeanor relaxed, as if his working straight through the morning and lunch without a break was commonplace.
“I hope turkey sandwiches are okay,” Angela said as she handed Bruce the deli bag.
“Perfect,” Bruce said.
“They’re fine,” Christina agreed with a nod. Ever since she’d been pregnant with Bella, sliced turkey had held little appeal, mostly she ate vegan. But today she’d force herself to eat whatever sandwiches were in the bag. Her stomach growled. After all, it was after one.
Angela passed Christina the sack. “I bought two kinds of potato chips. Bruce likes sour cream and onion, but I got you plain, Ms. Jones.”
“Christina,” she corrected. “Plain chips are fine. Thank you for getting lunch.”
Angela smiled. “Oh, it’s no problem. I know how driven Bruce is. He wouldn’t eat at all if I didn’t force-feed him. Besides, I had an excuse to get a chicken salad sandwich from Kim’s Deli. Ever since I’ve been pregnant, I’ve craved her chicken salad.”
Angela paused. “So, do you require anything else? The small fridge on the floor over there is stocked with water and pop.”
Christina wished she’d known that earlier. Her throat was parched, and some soda would do her good. Having been raised in Houston, where everyone called the fizzy beverage “soda,” Christina still hadn’t gotten used to calling it “pop” the way these Indiana Midwesterners did.
“I think we’re fine,” Bruce said. His expression dared Christina to contradict him.
“I’m good,” she said. She pushed her chair back a little. “If you’d excuse me for a moment, though.”
“The women’s washroom is this way,” Angela offered, as if reading Christina’s mind. She held open the door, and Christina followed her out. Time to find more common ground and make some connection with Angela. If not, it would be long case.
“My feet are already tired. Is there a masseuse in there?”
“I wish,” Angela said, taking the bait and talking. “I’ve gained two shoe sizes. My husband has the nightly chore of rubbing my feet. He hates it, but it’s heaven for me.”
“You’re lucky to have a husband like that.” Kyle hadn’t done a thing except complain that when pregnant, she’d appeared as if she had a basketball wedged under her clothes.
“Oh, my Bryan is such a sweetheart,” Angela confirmed. “We got married two years ago and it still seems like a honeymoon.” Angela paused at the bathroom door. “You seem really nice, Christina. Don’t let Bruce get you down. He’s a slave driver, but that’s only because he’s so good at his job. He can’t do anything less than one hundred and ten percent. It’s not in his nature.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m fine,” Christina insisted.
Angela bought the white lie, for she said, “Perfect. He’s a great boss. He really knows his stuff. Scored the highest on the bar, as I’m sure you’ve heard. And whatever you do, don’t believe any of his so-called Casanova reputation. All made up by angry Morrisville women who can’t land him. He’s too married to his work. Anyway, call me if you have any more questions.”
“I will,” Christina said as she pushed the door open and stepped inside the women’s washroom. After finishing her business and washing her hands, she took a long moment to study herself in the mirror. Tendrils of wheat-colored hair had come loose, and she pinned them back up. Her brown eyes were puffy, the result of her thinking she’d get an extra hour of sleep during “fall back.” Thank goodness for Angela bringing food. When Christina had fled the house that morning, she hadn’t given a thought to lunch. Tomorrow she’d pack one.
She headed back to the small conference room. Bruce was on the phone, the remains of his sandwich lying on the restaurant wrapper. Next to it sat a twenty-ounce bottle of cola, half-full.
“Go research the dissenting opinion on Martin v. Blatt. The judges locked two-one on it, and the uproar was so strong that the legislature went and voted in a law claiming that justice wasn’t served. I think you’ll find what you’re wanting for your closing arguments there. The minute I hang up, I’ll put Jessica on it and have her fax you the documents.”
Bruce gestured toward Christina’s unopened food as he listened to the caller. Eat, he mouthed before speaking into the phone again. “No, I wouldn’t even open that can of worms. You don’t want the jury off track from the main case. Always hammer your point, and reiterate that justice should be served.” He paused. “Yeah. See you at five.”
He hung up the phone and stared for a moment at Christina. “Get some pop.”
He then pressed a button on the phone. “Jessica, Bruce. Dig up the dissenting opinion on Martin v. Blatt and get it over to Colin at Ripley, ASAP. Yeah. It’s that important. No, I’m not going over there myself today. Just put a move on it. As if the deadline was yesterday. Colin is counting on you.”
He ended the speakerphone call and raised his eyes to observe that Christina was still standing. “What? Do I have food on my face?”
“No.”
“I work through lunch,” Bruce offered as explanation. “Always have. It’s more efficient than taking five minutes to go outside and stare at the birds. Too cold for that, anyway, now that the front moved through last night.”
Christina walked over to the refrigerator and withdrew a 7-Up. Although she could use the caffeine, there was no Mountain Dew and she didn’t like colas.
“That