“Not so fast,” says the theater-major. “What they’re claiming - and I’m not vouching personally for their ability to prove this, but you must consider that it’s possible they will convince a judge of this - is that the documents that were put on that thumb drive by Mr. Cross were attorney work product and not subject to discovery.”
“Bullshit!” says the youngest lawyer in the room. “That is complete and utter bullshit and you know it and they know it!”
The main lawyer holds his hand up at the other rowdy one and addresses the mediator calmly. “Is there anything they said that gives you reason to believe they might be able to make this work?”
The mediator looks at the floor, drawing out the silence on purpose, I’m sure of it. He clasps his hands behind his back and rocks up on his heels as he looks at the ceiling next.
Teagan and I are squeezing the crap out of each other’s fingers as we wait for him to deliver the goods.
“Well?” asks the young lawyer. Apparently he doesn’t have the patience for theater. Thank God for that guy. I give him a smile that he nods acknowledgment of.
“I don’t want to mince words,” the mediator says, casting a glance over at Teagan.
She and I share a WTF look.
“By all means, don’t. We need to know,” says the older lawyer. “What did they say?”
The mediator sighs. “They are saying that Mrs. Cross, the acting CEO, had been in the process of having her husband declared incompetent before his death, and that the financials that were being drafted up and the memos that went back and forth were for the legal team she hired to manage that process.”
“Incompetent?” Teagan says, sounding lost. “What does that even mean?”
Her question probably sounds stupid to these lawyers, but I know exactly what she’s getting at. Her father was the smartest guy I’ve never met.
The lawyers around the table share stunned and confused looks.
Only the main guy seems non-plussed. “Is there any medical evidence to support this claim?” he asks.
“It appears as if there might be.” The mediator looks at Teagan. “I’m sorry, Miss. I know this probably comes as a shock to you.”
Teagan stands. “Are you trying to tell me that my father was somehow looney tunes, and that he wasn’t capable of running his business anymore or something?”
I stand next to her, my legs too jumpy to manage sitting anymore. I feel like running until I drop. Fight or flight? Why, yes, thank you. I’ll take flight, please.
“Yes, it appears as if that’s the case,” says the main lawyer. He sounds tired. “Do they have medical records?”
“Yes,” says the mediator. He’s lost most of his pizzaz. “Fully documented incidents of confusion, mistakes made, and other behaviors very out-of-character for him.”
“I talked to my dad once a month. There was never anything wrong with him,” says Teagan. Her vehemence trails out near the end, and it makes me grab her wrist and fumble around until I can get her fingers to weave in with mine.
“Come on, Teagan. Let’s go,” I say. I’m afraid we’re both going to start bawling if we don’t get the hell out of here.
“We need to give them a response,” the older lawyer says, standing up. Everyone around the table follows his lead. I feel like I’m at a funeral with all these suits around us.
Teagan opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. When her chin starts to tremble, I start talking.
“You can tell them that we know better and that we are not going to put up with their bullshit any longer. We have the evidence and we know Mr. Cross was more than competent, and if he wasn’t, it was something they did to him.” I look at Teagan. “Right, Teagan? They can take that lie and shove it, right?”
Her bottom jaw juts out as her eyes fill with tears. “Yes,” she finally croaks out.
“Right.” I look around the room as I tug her towards the door. “You can tell that Mrs. Cross that we’re coming for her. Are you guys prepared to do that?” I address my question to the head guy. “Do you think Teagan has a chance?”
“I cannot say for certain, but their explanation needs looking into before we make any big decisions.”
“Fine. You look into it and call Teagan when you’re ready. I’m going to do my own stuff on the side.”
He tilts his head at me. “Your own stuff? What, pray tell, might that be?”