Chapter 10
Chapter ten
It might have cost Baz years of his life and increased his yearning for a secretary tenfold, but he had managed to get thirty-eight of his clients to RSVP ‘yes’ to the meeting today to hear the new settlement offer.
Reading through the ludicrous terms that a paralegal had written up—Gerry Webster, who had shamelessly credited himself in the footnotes of every page—qualified as cruel and unusual torture in his book. The things he had to do to fulfill his duty of effective counsel…
The loud chatter defied the glass walls of the conference room as he and Aya approached.
Some of the plaintiffs sat on the desks arranged in a horseshoe formation rather than the chairs.
A group of five took turns throwing crumpled-up paper into the trash can.
The parents of the younger plaintiffs were huddled into a corner, loudly talking among themselves and paying equally little attention.
The energy resembled an eighth-grade classroom more than a business meeting.
Baz cleared his throat. Someone’s mother was cackling, back turned to them. The ones who did pay attention made evil eyes at the disruptors, sighing loudly or elbowing them to be quiet. It made precious little difference to the noise.
“Thank you all for coming.” His words drowned in the sea of conversation flooding the room. He twirled his wrists, tapped his fingertips against each other. “If we can all settle down—”
“She said what?” a girl in the back screeched. A numbing fog crept into the corners of Baz’s mind, eating away at his focus.
Aya put two fingers between her lips and unleashed a skull-splitting whistle. Baz flinched, fighting the urge to clutch his hands over his ears. She couldn’t have given him a warning?
Heads snapped toward them. Silence fell over the room. People moved off the tables, finally remembering where they were, and parents found their children, quietly standing behind them with their game faces on. About time.
“Thank you,” Baz said, to Aya more than the room. “I appreciate you all coming. As you know by now, your old counsel, Travis Grash, has retired, and we are honored to be your new representation. My name is Baz Hadley, this is Aya Hadi.”
Aya gave them a curt nod.
“Why’d they give the gig to you, Mr. H?” a young guy in baggy pants sitting in the front asked and got smacked on the arm, presumably by his dad.
“Because they wanted you to be well-taken care of. I assure you I have your best interest at heart, and I will fight with you to get you justice.”
Young Guy patted his chest, then pointed at Baz. “My man.”
Some people hummed their agreement. So far so good. On to the less fun part.
Having to bring up Ian’s offer at all, frankly, sucked. He didn’t care to get disbarred, however, so here went nothing.
“Unfortunately, Captain Green also has new representation, and they have withdrawn the previous settlement offer you’ve heard.”
“What the hell?” a kid in the back exclaimed. Baz shared the sentiment.
They would hate what came next.
He broke down what the new offer realistically meant, how little would be left for each of them. The more he went on, the more emotions he saw on people’s faces: confusion, disbelief, sadness, anger.
Especially anger.
“How did it get so much worse?” a middle-aged woman asked. A wave of muttered agreements swept through the room.
“Because they want to scare you into settling for less than you deserve. This is a slap in the face, and we advise each of you not to sign the agreement.”
“Oh, so you can up your bill?” someone shouted. Someone who evidently hadn’t read their contract. The firm got a fixed percentage of the settlement, regardless of how many hours went into achieving it, so by prolonging this, Baz gained nothing. Quite the opposite.
“I appreciate how frustrating this may be, but giving up now won’t do you any favors. You will forfeit your right to pursue another civil lawsuit for effectively peanuts. If we keep fighting this, the offer will go up again, or we get justice at court.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have fucking cancer,” someone in the front said. Hard to argue with that, but—
“This is bullshit, man. Can we get the other guy back?” a woman to his right said. Okay—
“Hey!” A girl with raven black hair fastened in a tight ponytail slammed her hands on the table so hard, the golden hoops in her ears rattled. Baz recognized her from her picture—Vanessa Martinez. Their lead plaintiff. Nice to match a face to the voice on the phone. “Any of y’all a lawyer?”
Silence.
“Then let them cook. I know I need more than fifty K to cover my bills.”
Some nods, one mumbled apology. Impressive. And further proof that Baz was never wrong about people.
Well, with one potential exception, though the jury was still out on whether Sami’s silence vis-à-vis their night together stemmed from the kindness in his heart or a sense of self-preservation and a dislike for Ian.
“Thank you, Ms. Martinez. I guarantee we will do all we can to get you the best deal possible.”
Some people nodded, others asked what would happen next.
Baz took his time explaining the next steps—arranging a new meeting or, failing that, getting them certified as a class and heading to trial.
No one reinstated their wish for Grash’s return.
That was progress. For a group of kids who had every right to be furious, they handled this setback well.
Losing had never been an option for Baz, but being face-to-face with his clients now… Between spiting Ian and climbing the corporate ladder, he had almost forgotten what, who, this was all about. He’d be damned to let these kids’ suffering go uncompensated.
Only when the spark of hope gleamed on their faces again did Baz end the meeting, thanked them for coming, and beelined for the groundskeeper: Eddie Scott, a bald, White man in his late fifties. His face was round; his pitted cheeks looked thick and swollen.
“Mr. Scott, isn’t it?”
“Call me Eddie, son.”
“Eddie. Quick question. Do you have any leftovers from the herbicide you used six years ago?” It was a long shot, but one he had to take.
Although Ian’s accusation that they couldn’t prove what caused the cancer epidemic at the club was nothing but a weak scare tactic, Baz supposed a malicious judge might agree that the high levels of TCDD in the ground were circumstantial unless he could prove correlation.
A sample of the contaminated batch would be irrefutable proof he could ram down Ian’s throat.
Plus, it might earn him another impressed smile from Sami.
“Matter of fact, I do,” Eddie said.
Finally, luck was on their side. How had Grash not come up with this?
“Still got a whole stash of them,” Eddie continued.
“But once I developed this nasty rash, I didn’t touch it anymore.
” He pulled his sleeve up and revealed a patch of red, cystic bumps.
Baz fought against the grimace his face tried to pull—he was on mission to gain trust, not spread judgment. “Didn’t know what to do with it then.”
How did that old saying go? One man’s carcinogenic poison was another man’s treasure?
“You think I can get my hands on a bottle?”
“Better you than me, pal. Wear gloves.”
Perfect. If the lab confirmed the presence of TCDD in the batch, Captain Green would have no choice but to give in to their demands or else Baz would milk the media circus so hard, every cow in the state would get performance anxiety.
He saw every single plaintiff out, shook hands when needed, smiled and nodded at people’s stories he had already read in their files. Only when the last three disappeared into the elevator could Baz breathe freely again, the stuffy air fogging up his lungs.
He sank onto the desk, circled his shoulders, hoped loosening them would ease the pounding headache the silence allowed him to notice.
Sixty people in one room were just too many.
“Well done, partner.” Aya smiled. “I think you earned their trust.”
“Hope so.”
Baz lingered even as she left; his limbs were too heavy to move. They felt glued to the table.
The sudden absence of talking was deafening. He closed his eyes, waited for his fried brain to recover, for the buzzing in his ears to recede. Breathe. No one had walked out on him, no one had said they’d take the shit deal. Everything was fine.
When his headache eased up, he pulled out his phone to check what was next on his calendar.
Two new messages from Annoying Stalker. What the…
my turn at being Mr Darcy
Right underneath was a picture of a completely soaked-through white shirt clinging to the soft, slightly hairy curve of Sami’s stomach.
Hints of that bronze skin shone through.
The photo cut off just above his perky, stubble-rich chin and that shimmering lower lip Sami must have wetted seconds before.
Baz would take him over Colin Firth any day, that was for sure…
God, maintenance needed to calm down with the heating, it was boiling in here. Baz loosened his collar to let some air in.
Did you execute revenge on yourself? What is wrong with you?
my friend thinks she’s hilarious
Funnier than you.
just like that??
you wound me
Good.
wow
and here i was working so hard to make you laugh
He did? Why? Baz wouldn’t ask, but that was… something. Something he had no name for.
guess i have to keep trying…
Baz’s tongue traced the inside of his lip. Was that another promise? They were stacking up with no follow-throughs.
Which was for the better, of course. Except Baz could do with a chance to unwind after dealing with that many people.
If Sami showed up at his door later, there was nothing Baz could do to stop him.
As long as he wasn’t the one initiating the meetups, no one could reasonably blame him, right? Right.
With that prospect in mind, the day flew by. More than once, he caught himself bouncing in his seat or checking his phone after completing a task on his to-do list; it remained notification-free. That didn’t mean much. Sami hadn’t announced himself last time either.
Baz glanced at the time: 8:30 pm. What if Sami was already waiting for him? What if he got bored and left? Now that would just be poor hosting. Last thing he wanted was to be accused of bad manners.
Baz packed up his stuff and floored the gas pedal on his way home.
But no one was waiting for him in the hall. His apartment was empty too. No Sami knocked on his door, no matter how late the hour grew. Baz even checked with the doorman if someone had come to see him earlier. The answer was no. His shoulders suddenly weighed a ton, drooping forward.
Must have been a line rather than a promise. And that was fine. Truly. They shouldn’t have hooked up in the first place.
The memories would serve Baz for a while still on his solo adventures, and in the meantime, he could move on to safer encounters with perfect strangers whose intentions he didn’t have to question. Straightforward. Easy. Just how Baz liked it.
He and Sami? That would never happen again.