11
IAN
Week 2: Wednesday Afternoon
Vanessa Lewis is the spitting image of Beyoncé, has the confidence to match, and thus is the hottest woman I know.
And one I’ll never hit on.
Why? One doesn’t hit on his lawyer. Even I know that.
Also, she’s not the one I want.
“Ian. Are you listening?”
I stop strumming my fingers against the mahogany wood of my desk as I realize I’ve been staring blankly at her the entire time she’s been speaking. It’s our second meeting. The one on Monday had been to take care of logistics—discussing her fee, signing her retainer, etc. This meeting is about my case, and I’m . . . not paying attention.
“Sorry.” I sit up straighter. “What?”
Her brown eyes narrow just slightly, full lips pursing as she sits back in the chair across the desk and studies me.
“Ian,” she says finally. “What do you know about me?”
“Uh . . .” My brain scrambles. Is this a trick question? It feels like a trick question.
“Why do you think I took your case?” she amends, apparently reading my panic.
I relax. I got this. “Because you believe I’m innocent.”
It’s the other reason I’m damn impressed by the woman. In addition to having a near-flawless record, she’s got something rarer than her legal brass: integrity.
It’s an interesting quirk that’s earned her as much disdain as it has admiration.
I’m in the latter category.
Being cleared of all allegations is my top priority, obviously, but I don’t want it to be at the hands of some snake who doesn’t care one way or the other whether I’m a criminal douchebag.
“I do believe you’re innocent,” Vanessa says, bringing my attention back to her. “And I’m glad I was able to take on your case. But just as I expect my clients to be honest with me, I believe in being honest with them.”
“And?”
“Your case isn’t looking good, Ian.”
I tense, my fingers resuming their tapping on the desk. “You know this already?”
She lifts a shoulder. “I have more research to do, obviously. But here’s what’s bothering me . . . typically, when the SEC gets some sort of tip about insider trading, they’ll launch an informal investigation to vet their source and determine the potential legitimacy of the accusation. Which they have. But so far, I’ve seen what they’ve seen from the files, and there’s not much there. There’s zero connection between you and J-Conn that I’ve found, which means they haven’t found it, either.”
I try to follow. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
She shakes her head. “Not even a little bit. With the lack of concrete evidence I’m seeing, Lara McKenzie should have packed her bags by now. Instead, she’s still camped out in that conference room pushing papers around.”
“Meaning?”
“Whatever tip they received, whatever evidence they think they can find, they’re damn sure they can win with it,” she says matter-of-factly.
Shit.
“Nor do I love that it’s Lara McKenzie working your case,” Vanessa continues. “She looks like a lamb but thinks like a fox. What are your impressions of her?”
Well, hell. I can’t tell her the truth—that Lara and her hot glasses are playing on repeat in my dirtiest fantasies. Beneath me, above me, in front of me bent over my desk . . .
But I can’t lie to her, either. Or rather, I could, but Vanessa made it clear in our first meeting that if she ever found out I was lying, she’d drop my case faster than a bad oyster. Her words.
“She seems by the book,” I evade. “Follows the rules.”
Vanessa nods. “That’s precisely why she’s so good and, I fear, is exactly why they put her on your case. McKenzie’s reputation is nearly as good as mine. She doesn’t power play, doesn’t grandstand. She gathers and recites facts, and judges love her for it.”
“She can’t recite facts she doesn’t have, though. So unless she’s making them up . . .”
“Okay, let’s back up,” Vanessa says, her tone switching to soothing. “We need to figure out why you’re in their crosshairs. They’re here because they got a tip, but we don’t know who’s accusing you of insider trading or why.”
“I already told you—”
“I know, I know, no mortal enemies, no archrival out to take you down,” she interrupts. “But look, Ian, this isn’t a movie. The person behind this isn’t going to be lurking in your peripheral vision making overt threats with a sinister laugh. The answer will be in the subtleties.”
“I don’t really do subtleties,” I say honestly. “In anything.”
She surprises me by laughing. “So I’ve heard. But it’s time to start, at least for this.”
Vanessa stands and pushes a blank yellow legal pad across the desk to me. “I want you to make a list of every person you’ve crossed paths with in the last year. Hell, make it the last two years. Anyone who might be jealous, resentful, pissed, write their name down. Don’t discount people you think are friends. Anyone who you’ve toasted Pappy with, write it down.”
“I don’t drink bourbon,” I mutter.
“Negronis, then, whatever.”
I glance up in surprise that she knows my favorite drink.
She lifts her eyebrows. “I told you I’d do my homework. If we want to win this thing, I’m going to need to learn every little detail about you. I need to know every secret, every birthmark on your balls—”
I hold up my finger. “Don’t have one of those.” I’m pretty sure.
She taps a coral-painted nail against the legal pad. “Names, Ian. Write them down, and do it today. Time’s against us here. Their persistence makes me think they’re damn determined to turn this into a formal investigation, and if they do, our chances of winning get lopped off at the knees.”
I swallow, a lot less confident now than I was at the beginning of the meeting.
She stands and gives me a perfunctory nod. “I’ll be in touch,” she says, punching something on her phone.
I pick up a pen as Vanessa strolls out the door, phone already glued to her ear.
Pivoting my chair, I turn to take in the overcast afternoon, tapping my pen against the pad. I know I should be thinking about myself, trying to figure out who might be looking to take me down, but I can’t stop thinking about how Lara and I are quite possibly looking for the exact same thing: what the hell is tying me to J-Conn.
The irony is, I don’t have a fucking clue.
I’ve just started the process of naming all the jackasses on Wall Street when Matt enters my office without knocking.
“How’d it go with the lawyer?”
I glance up, grateful for the distraction. “The good news is she believes I’m innocent.”
“And the bad?”
I drop my pen and rub my hands through my hair. “The SEC still doesn’t.”
He grunts and drops into the chair across from me. “We’re still sure it’s J-Conn they’re sniffing after?”
I shrug. “Lara more or less confirmed it.”
His eyebrows go up. “Lara?”
“Ms. McKenzie. Whatever.” I wave my hand in the air. “We need to figure out who would lie to the SEC about me and why.”
Matt looks at the pad on my desk. “That your list?”
“Start of it. You got anyone?”
“Fuck the list. It’s a shot in the dark. If you want to know who contacted the SEC, you’ve got to go straight to the source.”
I shake my head. “I already tried that, remember? She won’t say shit.”
“That was last week. Try again.”
“What do you want me to do, interrogate her?”
“Whatever it takes, man. Your charm didn’t work before, so use your other ace up the sleeve.”
“I’m better with the ace in my pants.”
He rolls his eyes. “Keep it zipped. What I meant was wear her down. In everything else, you’re relentless about getting what you want, but you’re pulling your punches with her. Why?”
I glance down at the notepad. He’s right. I hate that he’s right. Hate even more that I don’t have an answer for him. Not one I’m ready to admit out loud, anyway.
“She’s not pulling her punches with you,” Matt says quietly. “She followed you the other day to get the information she wanted.”
“So?”
“So maybe it’s time she got a little taste of her own medicine.”