Wearing the Spider (A Suspense Novel) (Legal Thriller) (Thriller) Read online

  Wearing

  the Spider

  Susan Schaab

  Galavant Press, LLC

  Albany, New York

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Publicly-known and famous persons, organizations, buildings, places and incidents are used fictitiously and fictitious attributes are crafted for the purposes of the plot. Such references are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All references are from the author’s imagination.

  Copyright © 2007 Susan Schaab.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Published in the United States of America

  by Galavant Press, LLC.

  Galavant Press, LLC

  PO Box 8629, Albany, New York 12208

  www.galavantpress.com

  1.800.886.1802

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2006910989

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication

  (Provided by Quality Books, Inc.)

  Schaab, Susan.

  Wearing the spider / by Susan Schaab. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  LCCN: 2006910989

  ISBN: 978–1–934291–05–4 (hardcover)

  ISBN: 978–1–934291–10–8 (ePub)

  ISBN: 978–1–934291–11–5 (PDF)

  ISBN: 978–1–934291–12–2 (Kindle)

  1. Women lawyers—Fiction. 2. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 3. Legal stories. 4. Detective and mystery stories. 5. Suspense fiction. I. Title.

  PS3619.C295W43 2007 813'.6

  QBI07-600001

  To my loving husband

  who opened the creative door for me

  and encouraged me to walk through it.

  And to my amazing son

  who blesses me with inspiration and joy.

  Prologue

  I didn’t guarantee it would be paperless, my friend,” said a man’s voice speaking into a wireless headset. His secretary appeared in the doorway with coffee, and he waved her in. Following his gesticulating index finger, she placed the cup and saucer carefully in the small clearing on his desk and left the room.

  “No, it’s a twelve to fifteen year proposition on average, from petri dish to market. Only a few thousand ever get the green light. It’s more than just a red-tape issue,” the man said into his headset.

  As he spoke, he toyed with a brass figurine of a female. After a few seconds passed, he took his first sip of the Kopi Luwak brew and rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Oh, hold on.” The man pushed a button on the telephone. “Yeah?”

  A woman’s voice came through the speaker. “That reporter’s calling again. Line two.”

  “Let him wait,” said the man. He pushed the button to resume his conversation.

  “Sorry for the interruption.”

  He opened a drawer, pulled out a Redweld and extracted a bundle of papers clipped together. “Yeah, just think of me as an alchemist turning dross into gold.” He chuckled. “We can arrange for the results to show a seventeen percent relative reduction. Data’s inherently malleable.”

  He flipped a page and listened, as he took another mouthful of coffee, swirled it over his tongue and swallowed.

  “No, that’s the beauty of it,” he paused. “I’m not a gambler. I’m a creator of wealth. Value at the close of the transaction, not dependent on any uncontrollable variable.”

  He smiled to himself. The computer screen on his desk glowed with a webpage of statistics.

  “Two billion at least. That’s worth a few dead people, right?” He laughed into the receiver and then fell silent for a few minutes. His email inbox had replaced the Internet browser window on his computer screen and he typed electronic messages as he listened to the voice in his ear.

  “Oh, come on, Chuck. Corporations make product line decisions every day based on the cost of potential wrongful death suits as a debit against profit. Whether or not a few side-effects show up is really inconsequential to the bottom line. You’re trying to play in the big leagues, my friend, but you guys want to keep using an amateur’s playbook.”

  He fell silent again. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said after a few seconds. “That’s all it is. Just a cost of doing business.”

  He slurped the steaming liquid. “Okay. Will do,” he paused. “Done. We’ll talk next week.” He yanked off the headset, pushed the blinking button on his phone and spoke openly into the air of the room, “Mad Max! What can I do for you?”

  “I have a question,” a male voice sang out of the telephone speaker.

  “Yep.”

  “When I ran into you last week and you bought me a drink, did you slip me a mickey or something? I had some crazy hallucinations that night and the mother of all headaches the next day.”

  “Don’t blame me if you can’t hold your liquor,” the man said, as he drained the last drops of dark liquid from the cup.

  “C’mon, man. That whole conversation was off the record. You didn’t have to drug me.”

  “Maaaax, amigo, you insult me. You really think I’d do something that pathetic?”

  “Okay, right. Never mind. Now, on the record. Gimme your reaction to Newspan’s cover story. You know. The one that claims the FDA lets scientists from the big drug companies serve on advisory committees. The guys that dictate drug policy.”

  The man stayed silent as he stood and stuffed some items into a leather portfolio.

  “C’mon, man. They’re talking about Congressional hearings. Don’t you have any comment?”

  “Why would I comment on that?”

  “You represent Finley Regent, don’t you? And, other pharmaceutical companies?”

  “Yeah, that’s public knowledge.”

  “What about these allegations of ‘conflict of interest?’ Some of these scientists are making big bucks from their recommendations to the FDA. Any of Finley Regent’s scientists under investigation?”

  “If you think I’m going to answer that, you must still be under the influence of whatever was in your drink the other night,” the man said as he disconnected the line.

  A few minutes later, he was standing on Park Avenue hailing a taxi, another headset in his ear, this one attached to a BlackBerry. A taxi slowed and approached the curb where he was standing.

  “No, she won’t. I know. Field research,” he said into the receiver. “And, even if she does, it’ll fall on deaf ears.”

  A few seconds passed. “The brass ring. Partnership,” he said.

  Pulling open the passenger door, the man scanned the backseat. He frowned and turned back toward the sidewalk, nodding to a smartly-dressed elderly woman who had approached, also seeking transportation. Surprised, she walked slowly toward the taxi and he ushered her into the backseat to the sound of her expressions of gratitude. The person on the other end of his cellular conversation, an audio bystander, commented on his act of chivalry.

  “Yeah, okay, so sometimes I’m a gentleman,” replied the man. “There’s another one right behind it.” He waved down a second yellow cab that followed the curbside ritual.

  “Actually, that taxi was a tar pit. I’m wearing a five thousand dollar suit,” he said, as he inspected the seat of the second taxi and slid inside. He slammed the car door and grumbled directions to the elderly Hispanic gentleman behind the wheel. “God, I miss my car and driver,” he said into the headset.

  For the next several minutes, the man sat silently in the backseat listening to the voice in his ear. The
taxi turned into a side street in pursuit of the destination he had announced. After a second turn, onto Broadway, a loud popping sound could be heard, followed by a swoosh as the vehicle began to rock rhythmically to the left rear, in an awkward tri-tire waltz.

  “Blowout,” said the driver as he guided the taxi to a nearby curb.

  “A fuckin’ blowout,” repeated the passenger into his headset. “Can you motherfucking believe this? Goddamned third-world transportation. Gonna be late. Call you back.”

  He ended the call and opened the passenger door. Jumping from the backseat, he stood on the sidewalk, looking for another cab as he began to rant at the driver.

  “Don’t you people inspect the tires before you start a shift? What kind of bullshit service is this? If you think I’m gonna pay the meter, you’re …”

  The Hispanic man had knelt down to inspect his damaged tire and was ignoring the tirade.

  “Santa Maria!” said the driver, his eyes wide and his face flushed as he made the sign of the cross and ducked down next to the fender of the car. He began breathing rapidly and squinted, inspecting the busy, traffic-congested street and across the upper sections of the surrounding buildings.

  “Thaz NO blowout,” he shouted in accented English as he pointed to the destroyed tire. “Thaz a BULLET HOLE!”

  1

  The sound of four voices undulated in tandem during a pre-dawn conference call on the fourteenth floor of a midtown Manhattan office building.

  “So, you’re saying you don’t think we could register any of these trademarks?” asked a participant from a remote location.

  “I’m just saying you run an acute risk of challenge,” said Evie Sullivan, rubbing a new hue of redness into her eyes. “Once we file, the application can be opposed by other trademark holders. If their claims are valid, they can prevent the ultimate registration of your mark.”

  “That’s just great. We’ve … we’ve already invested significant capital in start-up costs. The timeline’s been set.”

  “I’m sorry about that. I only received your email yesterday and I ordered immediate searches. It was what I saw in those search results that made it important that we speak so early this morning.”

  “So, you think Pharsalus could block our application?”

  “It’s a strong possibility. There’s a likelihood of confusion with similar marks they own. As we’ve discussed, they have over thirty marks registered in Classes Three and Five. I don’t think we could get a registration through for any of these.” Evie sipped from a steaming paper cup and scribbled on a stack of Official Gazette copies from the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  “We’ve got our hottest product of the decade about to be introduced with no name,” said a voice from among those murmuring over Evie’s speakerphone.

  “So, you have your FDA approval in hand?” she asked.

  “Yes. All the bureaucrats are cooperating except those in the Patent and Trademark Office.”

  “I’m sympathetic,” she said. “Howard, Rolland & Stewart is on call to file an expedited application when you come up with a new product name.”

  “Okay, we’ll have to go back to Marketing,” came the dispirited response. “Please tell Alan what we’re up against.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll keep him informed.”

  As Evie disconnected the line and took a bite of a cinnamon muffin, she glanced down at the New York Law Journal on her desk, dated August 24, 2005, a Tuesday. A headline grabbed her attention, so she took a second look at the front page:

  Finley Regent Acquires Wagner Zeus

  Closes Deal with Record Speed

  She knew that the deal was being helmed by a partner at her firm. The same partner who would have participated in the early morning conference call if he’d met her at the office that morning as promised.

  The Finley Regent acquisition had apparently proceeded to closure within weeks, which was unusual for a deal in the hundreds of millions. Alan will come in here all full of himself, she thought. His ego will have gained ten pounds.

  She sorted briefly through the stack of mail that had accumulated while she’d been away, but because of the early hour and a dissipating caffeine haze, her thoughts drifted and she succumbed to distraction, allowing herself to relive the prior day’s flight.

  She had boarded an afternoon flight home from Los Angeles and expected to surrender to exhaustion after working through the weekend. As she approached her third row business class seat, she noticed a man seated on the aisle who was devoted to the stack of reading material in his lap. He had wavy dark hair with strands of early gray at the temples, and she saw in his face a tanned serenity. His herringbone sports jacket was flush with the contours of his shoulders and his slacks were defined by the thighs of an athlete.

  She politely declined his offer of assistance with her suitcase and deposited it in the overhead compartment herself. When she moved across him to take her seat, she held only an airport-bought copy of the Wall Street Journal.

  “Are you planning to read all the way to New York?” he asked. She noticed his eyes move from his reading material and rest on her newspaper.

  “The headlines … if I can stay awake,” she said while fastening her seat belt and turning her gaze toward the window. The ground crew was completing its pre-flight preparations and the airplane engines were purring. She felt the man’s eyes on her so she turned toward him and asked, “Why? Want to borrow it?”

  “I’d rather have you read it to me,” he replied.

  Evie then focused on the man’s face, without the cool displeasure she often felt at unexpected male overtures.

  “I read the front page while standing in line,” she said. “An article on prison reform. Guaranteed to soothe you to sleep. Or, there’s an Op Ed ranting about the Enron case. A chorus of corruption.”

  “A friend of mine reads the Wall Street Journal religiously. Claims everything in his life depends on it.”

  “Many people consider it required reading.”

  “Joe Barton,” he said, extending a hand.

  “Evelyn Sullivan,” she paused. “Evie.” After shaking, she asked, “You from L.A.?”

  “Just north of Malibu. Got a meeting in New York.” His voice was a rich baritone, but he spoke softly.

  “Buy you a drink?” he asked.

  “Are there any worthwhile choices?” She glanced toward the flight attendant taking orders a row away.

  “I can offer you something a bit more interesting.” She watched Joe reach under the seat in front of him and extract a bottle of a Veneto Amarone and a corkscrew from a leather bag.

  “I see you don’t need anything but glasses,” the attendant said as she deposited two airplane-issue wine glasses on his tray.

  “Thanks, Irene.” Joe had either noted the woman’s nametag or had taken the flight frequently enough to become acquainted with its attendants.

  “To illusions,” he said, raising his glass in Evie’s direction.

  “Thanks for the wine,” she said. “But are you going to help me out with the toast?”

  “Ever heard the theory that positive illusions about oneself can cause a person to be more successful? There was this study. It concluded that people who allow themselves to hold a few exaggerated perceptions about themselves may have more success than those who are strict realists.”

  “What kind of success?”

  “The study didn’t specify,” he said with a slight grin.

  “Hmmm. And what sort of self-deception do you engage in?”

  She remembered Joe’s laugh as he ignored the question. “The theory is based on the fact that memory is organized egocentrically—the more self-descriptive something is, the more memorable it is. And the more it affects behavior. So, since those distorted perceptions are at the forefront of a person’s memory, the more positive they are, the more they may motivate that person.”

  “For example?”

  “For example, a man thinks of himself as a professio
nal-level golfer. As long as he believes that, he might actually play a round at a level worthy of a pro.” Joe smiled and she noticed that he had charming little creases at each end of his smile. She remembered thinking he must smile often.

  “So, you’re saying that living in a fantasy world might improve a person’s performance? Sounds like a re-hash of ‘the power of positive thinking,’” she paused. “May I ask what sort of exaggerated self-perceptions you allow yourself?”

  “The whole process depends on keeping those perceptions to oneself. If they’re revealed and reality sets in, well then, their effect is lost.” His smile was contagious.

  “I’ll try not to let mine show. Okay … to illusions,” she agreed as they clicked glasses.

  “So you have business in New York? Or is it home?” he asked.

  “New York’s home. I’m returning from a meeting in Los Angeles.”

  “In the interest of someone else?”

  “I was negotiating with the owner of an office building downtown. His company was bidding on a license to a work of art created by one of my clients. A sculptor.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s a stunning piece called The Solitary Lady.”

  “So, you’re a lawyer?”

  “Yes. I counsel clients on intellectual property rights.”

  “Copyrights and trademarks. Uhmmmm. All your clients artists?”

  “No. Mostly technology clients. More software deals than anything, but my passion is representing artists—protecting their reputations and trying to control the unauthorized use of their work.”

  “And I evaluate technology projects for patent potential. We’re always at the negotiating table granting licenses to patented property. I could be a future client.”

  “Or adversary.”

  “Or adversary.”

  “You’re a consultant?”

  “No. I run the project development division of a software company.” He handed her a business card.