"Subpoenas out by this Friday, full profit-and-loss on each victim by next Friday, and an accounting of all investment activities on the Friday after that."
Vinnie clutched at his heart in a mock coronary. "Shit. Carla's going to kill me. We were supposed to have a date night this weekend."
I had forgotten his wife was pregnant with their first child. Vinnie did a precarious balancing act of work and home that I couldn't imagine. We worked hard enough to be exhausted at the end of every day. Thank God I didn't have a family dragging me down. Breeders. I shook my head. Poor Vinnie.
"Tell you what. You'll make it up to her with the bonus I'll cut you off the top of Castille's fee, if he pays in full." I kicked my feet back up.
"Really?" he asked.
Poor dope. I bet that wife and almost-kid were bleeding him dry. A little extra cash was no real skin off my back. I would use it as a tax write-off anyway.
"Really." I nodded. Wasn't I magnanimous? "But don't tell Drew or she'll be in here with her fucking hand out."
"Yes, ma'am. I won't. I'm getting right to work." He hurried out of my office, as if afraid I would change my mind and take back the bonus.
I wouldn't go back on it. Even if Castille didn't pay in full. Vinnie deserved it. I paid well, really well when compared to other firms. But rewarding loyalty like Vinnie's was important. Talented associates that stayed and chased the carrot were good for business. And, though I'd never admit it to Vinnie, I liked him. He was a good man, and I knew he was going to be a good father. That in and of itself was worthy of reward in my book. Still, I leaned back and studied the tops of the neighboring high-rises as I mentally kicked myself. Thirty-three and already going soft.
I brought my gaze back down.
"Jena!" I screamed for my secretary, not even bothering to use the intercom.
She burst through my double doors, her nervous walk pleasing me. "Yes, Ms. Pallida."
"Get me some goddamn coffee. Why do I have to ask? Isn't it your job to know what I want before I want it?"
"Y-yes, Ms. Pallida."
"That's what I overpay you for, isn't it?"
"Yes, Ms. Pallida." Her chin was almost trembling. Almost. I was working on toughening her up for her own good, though not enough, apparently.
"Jesus fucking Christ. What are you just standing there for? Go get it. And I swear to God, if you don't have enough cream in it, I'm going to wedge my fucking heel up your fucking ass."
She took off like a rabbit with a dog nipping at its heels.
I listened as she fumbled around with the coffeemaker, nerves no doubt ruining her ability to even get a filter in correctly.
I smiled. Still got it.
I spent the rest of the week clearing the decks so I could work on Castille's case. Most of it entailed pressuring plaintiffs into settlements via giving them a little taste of the dirt I'd uncovered about them.
It was rare to have a real-deal plaintiff who actually deserved a recovery. More often, I dealt with sleazy plaintiff's lawyers hoping to make a quick buck by soliciting clients, running them through an information mill, figuring out which ones had promise, and then shaking down whoever they picked to be on the other side of the "versus" on the docket listing. The good thing about such a lazy setup was that I could usually find criminal records, delinquent child-support payments, an ex-spouse with a hand out, or any number of misdeeds to use against the bozos.
I always had a handful of those cases going at any one time. They kept me busy and kept my associates employed. We did our homework on each plaintiff, and did it well. I always enjoyed the reveal. For example, showing a "poor, unsophisticated" plaintiff photos of himself with his secret second family was probably my favorite part of the week.
"How, exactly, is your client going to tell a jury that he was too slow to understand the details of his account statements, but at the same time he was clever enough to keep two completely separate lives going?"
Silence from opposing counsel on the line.
"Also, please run it past your client that I will be more than happy to send a copy of the dick pics and also a copy of the racy sexts he sent to his mistress-and this is in addition to the two wives-to each address where he claims a marital residence."
A strangled cough shot through the intercom. "Evan, I'm going to have to call you back."
"Do it by end of day. We'll pay half your attorneys' fee as a courtesy, but we won't give him a dime. That's our best and final. Otherwise, the pics will be in the mail. Got it?"