Chapter Twenty-Six
The following Tuesday, I was drowning in documents for the Lincoln Center matter when I got an email from Damian Entwhistle’s secretary saying he wanted to schedule a call.
“Holy shit. What if it worked?” I asked, my voice too loud for our small office.
“What if what worked?” Charlie asked.
“The film fund’s lawyer wants to set a call.”
“Rock and roll,” he said, reaching over the desk to give me a high five.
I forwarded the email to Leo. He responded within minutes that he was slammed with a deal closing but to take the call and report back.
Damian’s office sent a dial-in for 6 p.m. I went back to tagging documents.
At 5:45, Charlie started blasting “The Final Countdown” by Europe.
“You’re such a nerd,” I laughed.
“Are you gearing up for victory?”
“I’m debating if I want to take this call with you in the room.”
“I’ll put my headphones on. I won’t make a peep.”
I went over my talking points from last week’s meeting, then dialed in promptly at six o’clock.
“Leo is tied up, but I’ll fill him in after,” I said as everyone announced themselves.
Damian postured for the next ten minutes, aggressively pointing out all the weaknesses in our claims and calling Sterling an unsympathetic plaintiff.
“Despite all of that, I’m authorized to make the following offer of settlement. Mila will follow up with the full written proposal.”
The fund was offering $10 million cash and an assignment of future revenue from the four films until Sterling received the other $10 million. According to Damian, the fund planned to file for bankruptcy once it repaid the first $10 million.
It was a real, tangible offer. And the fact that it came in so fast meant the fraud argument had teeth.
“Thanks, Damian. We will discuss and come back to you. Of course, I must reserve rights on behalf of Leo and our client.”
Charlie threw a paper clip over as I drafted an email to Leo summarizing the settlement offer.
“So?” he asked.
“They made an offer. I need to see what Leo says. It’s half of what we were asking for, but it’s not small potatoes. We really want him to settle.”
Five minutes later, Leo’s assistant’s number came up on my phone. “I have Leo for you.”
She patched him through.
“Hey, rockstar. Did you just settle your first case?”
I laughed nervously. “I mean—we knew asking for the full $20 million up front was a long shot, right? But depending on how those films are released, he could maybe recover more than the initial $10 million.”
“Yes. That’s an excellent point, actually. We need approval over distribution of the films. They need to actually try to monetize them.”
I wrote down Distribution Approval in big letters.
“Should we call Sterling? Let’s close this up, baby!”
I gave Charlie a thumbs-up.
The next day, I dove into the back seat of a black SUV, escaping a mob of paparazzi waiting outside of the federal courthouse.
“How do people do that?” I gasped, fully out of breath.
Andie was laughing hysterically. “It’s official. We’re buying matching outfits for the sentencing hearing and crossing every finger this happens again. I really hope those pictures end up online.”
Eddie had channeled his past life as a high-profile prosecutor and curated a plan for Andie to evade the inevitable media circus waiting outside after the plea hearing.
We were both petite brunettes in black pantsuits and oversized sunglasses.
I’d leave the courthouse through the front as a decoy while a car waited for Eddie and Andie at the back entrance.
The plan worked perfectly. As I walked casually down the front steps of the federal courthouse toward the black SUV, I was blinded by flashing lights and requests to make a statement.
I went from defense attorney to indicted celebrity.
It was one of those out-of-body experiences that felt worlds away from my past life.
I had never felt more part of a team. We’d really been in the trenches together.
I texted Charlie from the car, half jokingly asking him to keep refreshing the internet for my picture. It was nearly five o’clock by the time the driver dropped us in front of the MetLife Building. Andie walked toward her hotel, and Eddie and I rode the elevator up to the fiftieth floor.
“I can’t believe it’s almost Thanksgiving,” I mused, wondering what it was about elevators that deadened my ability to make small talk.
“It’s unfortunate that her sentencing will be right before the holidays, but if we do our job right, she can at least celebrate dodging prison,” he said humorlessly.
Worst-case scenario, Andie was facing up to five years. Best case, she’d get one year of probation. She was choosing to plead guilty and accept responsibility for her actions, something some judges took into account when weighing a harsher or more lenient sentence.
Charlie texted to say he had to leave unexpectedly and asked if I could log onto his laptop and reset his password when I got back.
The firm made us do it manually from the office once a month for security reasons, and if you missed the deadline, you were locked out until IT came to physically unlock it.
I opened the laptop, typed his current password, “Brady_12,” and was suddenly staring at a blown-up screenshot of my face in sunglasses, looking down demurely toward the ground, with the giant headline:
Poker Princess Folds, Pleads Guilty In Manhattan Federal Court.
The door swung open, and Charlie walked in with a bottle of prosecco and two Solo cups.
“I got a Google Alert that you finally pleaded guilty today.”
I grinned. “Hilarious.”
“How does it feel?” he asked as he poured prosecco into both cups.
“That literally just happened thirty minutes ago,” I said, pointing to the screenshot of my indicted alter ego.
“An attractive woman walking proudly out of court after pleading guilty for running poker games? With those sunglasses? On your behalf, I’m offended it took them half an hour.”
“Eddie planned that to a T. I didn’t think it would work until I almost couldn’t see from all the flashes.”
“Celebratory basement sushi?”
“Can I ask all the dumb questions I want to about my date tomorrow?”
“What date?”
I shot him a look. “With the waiter?”
“That’s tomorrow? I thought it already happened.”
I put my hands on my hips. “And you never thought to ask how it went?”
He laughed. “Sorry. Now I remember.”
“And you’re taking Margaret to the concert in Brooklyn tomorrow. I remembered.”
“Uh-huh. I’m going to need a few sips of Sapporo before I can answer your date questions, though.”
“Deal.”
Charlie’s number-one piece of dating advice was don’t overthink it.
On Thursday, determined to project a casual attitude, I went straight from the office to the Union Square wine bar where Alex had suggested we meet.
He’d arrived early and already selected our first wine-tasting flight, which included a Pinotage from South Africa, a Shiraz from New Zealand, and a Tuscan Chianti.
“The sommelier here is off his rocker. He puts together these tastings that make absolutely no sense, but somehow you learn the craziest things, and by the end of the flight, it starts to come together.”
I looked down skeptically at the pairing sheet. “Sounds like that’s the wine doing its job, but I’ll take your word for it. Which one do I start with?”
Alex knew a lot more about wine than me.
He was a career waiter who had worked at some of Manhattan’s finest restaurants.
He’d trained at Le Bernardin, spent four years at Gramercy Tavern, and then did a brief stint at Momofuku.
He was an effortless conversationalist who did most of the talking, but not in a way that I found displeasing.
His day-to-day was filled with high-end foodies, angry chefs, and constant drama.
As soon as he finished a story, I hoped he would start another.
“You should pitch a TV show about the gritty world of New York fine dining,” I said, making a note that I liked the last wine best.
“If it sells, can you be my entertainment lawyer?”
“Good question. Do I get a credit on the show for convincing you to pitch the idea?”
He laughed good-naturedly.
We each ordered a glass of Primitivo from the flight and agreed to share a few appetizers. I was starving and feeling the wine.
Even though he knew nothing about working in a law firm, he seemed fascinated by my job. He wished restaurant gigs were a little more stable. He wanted to know what drew me to entertainment law. I told him about my love for independent film. Memento was his favorite movie.
At a certain point midway through a story about a Michelin-starred French restaurant on the Upper East Side, I realized it didn’t even feel like we were on a date.
It felt easy. He asked good questions and had good stories.
I found myself wondering if Charlie would think he was pretentious about food and wine.
He excused himself to use the restroom, and I reached instinctively for my phone to skim emails. The top one was from Charlie, sent ten minutes earlier, forwarding me an invite to a Fordham Law recruiting event next week.
Hoping you can get on board with recruiting some of the more hardworking / less snobby kids.
I hit reply. Sure. But why are you emailing me right now?? Enjoy the concert!!
When Alex got back to the table, he accepted my offer to split the bill, and we walked out onto Broadway.
“I had a lot of fun,” he said kindly. I suddenly felt shy and had the urge to just shake his hand and jump in a cab. I was grateful that he wasn’t leaning in or standing too close. I figured I’d know when I wanted to be kissed on a first date.
I had no idea if I’d see him again but was relieved that the whole thing had been totally pleasant and even enjoyable. And I could tell Connor and Caroline that I actually went on a proper date.
A minute after I got in the cab, my phone lit up with a text from Charlie.
So?
I smiled at the screen.
Nice guy! Knows lots about wine.
Ouch.
What??
Do you tell people I’m a nice guy?
All the time, why?
Exactly.
So? Your turn . . .
Nice girl.