CONVENIENT LIES
Chapter Two: The Discovery Phase
He calls on a Thursday.
Not his assistant. Him, which means either that he is testing something or that the directness I observed in the conference room extends to the way he works.
"Ms. Cole," he says.
"Mr. Ward," I say. "I was going to send the discovery outline this afternoon."
"I'd rather discuss it," he says. "Are you free at six?"
The specific quality of a question that isn't. I have a dinner at seven thirty, Cara's birthday, the kind of commitment I have been managing around work for three years. I look at the dinner in my calendar and think: I'll be late.
"Yes," I say. "Where?"
"There's a bar in the lobby of the Meridian building," he says. "Quiet enough."
"Six o'clock," I say.
* * *
He is there when I arrive, which means he arrived before six, which means he wanted to be there first.
I notice this. I notice things.
He is at a corner table, not a booth, not the bar, a table with two chairs angled toward each other, the specific positioning of someone who intends a conversation rather than a social encounter.
He stands when he sees me. His eyes move over me once, unhurried, the way they did in the conference room, and something in my chest answers before I can stop it.
"Ms. Cole," he says.
"Vivienne," I say. "If we're going to be working closely, the Ms. Cole gets laborious."
He looks at me for a moment.
"Sebastian," he says.
We sit.
"Wine?" he says.
"Mineral water," I say. "I have a dinner at seven thirty."
"I won't keep you long," he says.
"The discovery outline..." I say.
"That's not why I called," he says.
I look at him.
"All right," I say.
He folds his hands on the table. The steady quality, unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world and has simply chosen to be here, with me, instead of anywhere else.
"Marcus Reyes," he says.
"Yes," I say.
"He's been advising Meridian informally for six months," he says. "On the litigation risk from this claim."
"Yes," I say. "I'm aware."
"He positioned himself as primary contact before this matter was formally retained," he says. "Which means he had influence over how Meridian framed the initial brief to your firm."
"Yes," I say.
"The brief," he says, "recommended a settlement strategy that would minimise Meridian's exposure but not necessarily produce the best outcome for the fund."
I look at him.
"He told you that," I say.
"He implied it," Sebastian says. "Over six months of implication."
"And you let him," I say.
"I wanted to understand his position," he says. "And his motivations."
"And now you understand them," I say.
"I think so," he says. "He's positioned for a significant advisory fee if Meridian settles on his recommended terms. Settlement is not in Meridian's best interest."
"No," I say. "The gaps in the plaintiff's case are exploitable. A settlement concedes liability that hasn't been established. It would create a precedent for any future claims from other former portfolio companies."
"Exactly." He studies me for a beat too long, something assessing and something else underneath the assessing. "How long have you known him?"
"Six years," I say.
"And the Dunmore matter," he says.
I go very still.
"I don't know what Marcus told you about the Dunmore matter," I say.
"He told me it established his analytical capabilities," Sebastian says. "Which it did. In the sense that someone's analytical capabilities were established."
There is something in the way he says it.
"Sebastian," I say.
"Yes?" he says.
"What are you asking me?" I say.
"I'm not asking you anything," he says. "I'm telling you what I observe. I observed a meeting this Tuesday in which one person in the room had a detailed command of the litigation strategy and one person added three competent but derivative points."
I look at him.
"I'm the associate," I say. "He's the partner of record."
"Yes," he says. "And you could have deferred to him. You didn't."
"I ran the meeting," I say. "It was my matter to run."
"He would have argued otherwise," he says.
"He didn't," I say.
"No," he says. "Because I didn't give him the room." He picks up his water, turns the glass a quarter turn on the table, watching me over it. "I've seen this dynamic before. The person who does the work and the person who presents it. It's more common than it should be."
I look at him.
"Why are you telling me this?" I say.
"Because I want you to run this matter," he says. "Properly. Without interference."
"Marcus is partner of record," I say.
"I'm the client," he says. "I get to choose who I want in the room."
"You've already chosen," I say.
"I chose on Tuesday," he says. "I'm confirming it now."
I look at him, the dark careful eyes, the steady hands on the table, the quality of someone who decided something some time before this meeting and used the meeting to confirm it.
"Sebastian," I say.
"Yes," he says.
"What do you actually want from this meeting?" I say.
He looks at me for a moment, and the look has weight to it, more weight than the question should carry.
"I want to know if you're running this matter because it's the right thing for the client," he says. "Or because Marcus Reyes is the partner of record and you have something to prove."
The air in the room changes.
I could give him the convenient answer. I am excellent at convenient answers.
I look at him and think: he will know if I lie. He is exactly the kind of person who knows.
"Both," I say.
He is quiet.
"That's honest," he says.
"It's the true version," I say. "I can give you the convenient version if you'd prefer."
"No," he says. "The true version is what I need."
"Then here it is," I say. "The Dunmore matter is three years ago. It is not why I'm running this case well. I'm running it well because it's a good case and I'm good at my job and those two things are true regardless of anything else. But I would be lying if I told you that having Marcus Reyes as partner of record on a matter I am actually running is not, additional motivation."
"Additional motivation," he says.
"Yes," I say.
"What does that mean in practice?" he says.
"It means," I say, "that I will not let you down. Whatever else happens."
He looks at me for a long moment, long enough that I become aware of my own pulse, low and insistent, nothing to do with the water glass between us.
"All right," he says.
"All right?" I say.
"I believe you," he says. "The both things. And I think the combination is workable."
"You trust both?" I say.
"I trust the first," he says. "The professional thing. And I trust that the second gives you a precision. A particularity. You're not going to miss anything on this matter."
"No," I say. "I'm not."
"Good," he says.
He refills the water. The quiet bar around us, other conversations at a distance that feels engineered.
"The discovery outline," he says. "Tell me."
I tell him.
We talk for an hour. He is good, better than I expected, which is already high, the questions precise, the follow ups indicating that he is thinking ahead of the conversation, gaming out implications before I have finished stating them.
At seven twenty I say: "I need to go. The dinner."
"Of course," he says.
We stand. He is taller than he seemed sitting, the particular height of someone who takes up space without performing it.
"Vivienne," he says.
"Yes," I say.
"Thank you," he says. "For the true version."
I look at him.
"Thank you for asking for it," I say.
He holds the door. His hand brushes the small of my back for half a second as I pass him, not quite a touch, not quite nothing, and the place where it was stays warm for a full block afterward.
* * *
Outside, in the October evening, I walk two blocks before I let myself think about what has just happened.
He knew about Dunmore, I think. Or he inferred it. Either way, he knew.
And he asked me whether I was there for the client or for Marcus.
And I told him.
The true version.
When was the last time, I think, I told someone the true version without calculating whether it was useful?
I cannot remember.
Careful, says the inconvenient voice. You know what this is.
I do know. It is inconvenient, and therefore exactly what I would normally manage.
Yes, I think. I know.
I am late to Cara's dinner, as promised, and she is generous about it, as promised, and I order wine I do not finish and laugh at the right places and do not mention Sebastian Ward once, which Cara, who has known me nine years, notices immediately.
"You're somewhere else," she says, over the last of the dessert.
"I'm here," I say.
"You're not," she says. "Who is he?"
"A client," I say.
"That's not an answer," she says.
"It's the convenient one," I say, before I can stop myself, and Cara, who does not know what that phrase means to me but knows exactly what it means about me, laughs and lets it go.
* * *
At home, later, I cannot settle. I run a bath too hot and sit in it until my skin is pink, thinking about a bar table angled for conversation, a hand on the small of my back lasting half a second longer than courtesy required, a voice that drops when it says my name.
I get out before the water cools. I do not dry off properly. I lie on top of the sheets, still damp, and let my hand go where it went the night before, except tonight I do not fight the thought of him, I let it in deliberately: the unhurried eyes, the folded hands, the way he said the true version is what I need as if the truth itself were something he could want the way he wanted other things.
It is not gentle, this time. It is faster, more urgent, my back arching off the sheets before I am even fully aware of having started, his name finally breaking loose from wherever I have been keeping it, barely a whisper into the dark of my own bedroom.
Afterward I lie very still, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling fan turning slowly overhead.
Careful, says the voice again, quieter now, almost gentle.
You know what this is.
Yes, I think.
I know.
And I am going to run the best litigation of my career.
And the rest of it.
The rest of it I will think about later.
* * *