media. It’s sprinkled with phrases like “hostile work environment,” which usually refers to off-color jokes and pages of the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issues pinned to cubicle walls.
Then I read the affidavit from the first of Randall Kane’s alleged victims. She’s a thirty-seven-year-old mother of three who spent nine years as Kane’s executive secretary. In her written statement, sworn under oath and the penalty of perjury, she describes how on more than thirty occasions, she repelled Kane’s physical and verbal sexual advances, and how when she finally quit and filed a complaint, he used all the corporate resources at his disposal to destroy her life.
By the time I finish reading the complaint, I realize that
Randy
Kane’s problems aren’t going away with a scary letter or pretrial motion. And there are eleven other women whose sworn testimonies are essentially identical, right down to the phone call they receive from Kane’s corporate lackey telling them they’ll never work again if they keep this up. Three of the women recorded the calls.
I close the file on my desk and ponder the East River. Kane apparently isn’t just an unfaithful husband. He’s a scumbag and possibly a serial rapist who just happens to be worth a billion dollars. He deserves to pay a high price for his actions, and if I help him avoid it, I’m no different from that in-house lackey of his making obscenely threatening phone calls.
For a decade I’ve punched all the right tickets, from Law Review at Columbia to two years prosecuting white-collar crime for the DA’s southern circuit, and after three and a half years at Walmark, Reid and Blundell, I’ve got senior partner in my sights.
You know how many female senior partners there are or have been at Walmark, Reid and Blundell? None.
So why am I walking down the corridor to Tony Reid’s corner office?
Is it possible that Tom’s midnight pitch hit the mark?
God help me if it did.
Tom has made me feel like crap in a hundred ways, but I never dreamed he’d make me feel professionally jealous, or worse, that he’d pass me on the ethical ladder.
But now I’m a very well-paid consigliere, and he’s defending someone he believes is innocent—for free.
Reid waves me into his office, and I drop the stack of affidavits on his antique desk.
“You better read this,” I say. “We go to trial, Randall Kane will be exposed as a ruthless sexual predator.”
“Then it can’t go to trial,” says Reid.
“I can’t represent this man, Tony.”
Reid calmly gets up and closes the door. It barely makes a sound.
“I wouldn’t think I’d have to remind you, of all people, how important Randy Kane is to this firm. In every department, from corporate to real estate to labor management, we bill him hundreds of hours a year. A dozen unfortunate women have been manipulated by a shameless lawyer, an ambulance-chaser out for his own gain. You know the game. And if by some chance they’re telling the truth? Guess what, ladies? It’s a tough world.”
“Get someone else then, Tony. Please. I’m serious about this.”
Tony Reid thinks about what I’ve said before he responds. Then he speaks in the same persuasive tone that has made him one of the most successful trial lawyers in New York.
“For an ambitious attorney, Kate—and everything I know about you indicates you are as ambitious and talented as any young lawyer I know—cases like this one are a rite of passage. So unless you come back to this office at eight tomorrow morning and tell me otherwise, I’m going to do you and this firm the favor of pretending this conversation never happened.”
Chapter 52
Kate
THAT NIGHT, I get back to my apartment at the unheard-of hour of 7:00 p.m. Three years ago, I bought this insanely expensive one-bedroom apartment in the eighties on the Upper West Side because it had a garden. Now, having poured myself a glass of pricey Pinot Noir, I’m actually sitting in my garden and
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issues pinned to cubicle walls.
Then I read the affidavit from the first of Randall Kane’s alleged victims. She’s a thirty-seven-year-old mother of three who spent nine years as Kane’s executive secretary. In her written statement, sworn under oath and the penalty of perjury, she describes how on more than thirty occasions, she repelled Kane’s physical and verbal sexual advances, and how when she finally quit and filed a complaint, he used all the corporate resources at his disposal to destroy her life.
By the time I finish reading the complaint, I realize that
Randy
Kane’s problems aren’t going away with a scary letter or pretrial motion. And there are eleven other women whose sworn testimonies are essentially identical, right down to the phone call they receive from Kane’s corporate lackey telling them they’ll never work again if they keep this up. Three of the women recorded the calls.
I close the file on my desk and ponder the East River. Kane apparently isn’t just an unfaithful husband. He’s a scumbag and possibly a serial rapist who just happens to be worth a billion dollars. He deserves to pay a high price for his actions, and if I help him avoid it, I’m no different from that in-house lackey of his making obscenely threatening phone calls.
For a decade I’ve punched all the right tickets, from Law Review at Columbia to two years prosecuting white-collar crime for the DA’s southern circuit, and after three and a half years at Walmark, Reid and Blundell, I’ve got senior partner in my sights.
You know how many female senior partners there are or have been at Walmark, Reid and Blundell? None.
So why am I walking down the corridor to Tony Reid’s corner office?
Is it possible that Tom’s midnight pitch hit the mark?
God help me if it did.
Tom has made me feel like crap in a hundred ways, but I never dreamed he’d make me feel professionally jealous, or worse, that he’d pass me on the ethical ladder.
But now I’m a very well-paid consigliere, and he’s defending someone he believes is innocent—for free.
Reid waves me into his office, and I drop the stack of affidavits on his antique desk.
“You better read this,” I say. “We go to trial, Randall Kane will be exposed as a ruthless sexual predator.”
“Then it can’t go to trial,” says Reid.
“I can’t represent this man, Tony.”
Reid calmly gets up and closes the door. It barely makes a sound.
“I wouldn’t think I’d have to remind you, of all people, how important Randy Kane is to this firm. In every department, from corporate to real estate to labor management, we bill him hundreds of hours a year. A dozen unfortunate women have been manipulated by a shameless lawyer, an ambulance-chaser out for his own gain. You know the game. And if by some chance they’re telling the truth? Guess what, ladies? It’s a tough world.”
“Get someone else then, Tony. Please. I’m serious about this.”
Tony Reid thinks about what I’ve said before he responds. Then he speaks in the same persuasive tone that has made him one of the most successful trial lawyers in New York.
“For an ambitious attorney, Kate—and everything I know about you indicates you are as ambitious and talented as any young lawyer I know—cases like this one are a rite of passage. So unless you come back to this office at eight tomorrow morning and tell me otherwise, I’m going to do you and this firm the favor of pretending this conversation never happened.”
Chapter 52
Kate
THAT NIGHT, I get back to my apartment at the unheard-of hour of 7:00 p.m. Three years ago, I bought this insanely expensive one-bedroom apartment in the eighties on the Upper West Side because it had a garden. Now, having poured myself a glass of pricey Pinot Noir, I’m actually sitting in my garden and
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