Page 70 of Bombshell

The law offices of Laird & Wharton are understated and serious, but also vaguely tense. The young, ambitious lawyers here would shove their mothers out of the way to get ahead, and you can feel it in the air, like a warning.

“Sterling Ford, here for a meeting with Ms. Laird and Mr. Welles,” I tell the receptionist, a thirty-something woman wearing an oversized, hand-knit poncho with garish makeup, as if Betty Page got up one day and dressed like Martha Stewart.

She smiles brightly but says nothing, instead pushing a button on her phone and speaking into her headset. “Ms. Laird,” the woman says, “I have a Sterling Ford here.”

She listens a moment, then rises to her feet. “This way, Mr. Ford. Ms. Laird and Mr. Welles will join you in our conference room.”

I go over the conversation I want to have in my head. Cameron Laird is the attorney who helped me anonymously purchase—and then sell on—my shares in MacLaine Media. She’s young, ambitious, and very talented. And somehow, despite being a lawyer, she seems like a good person. We’d spoken on the phone earlier about Ellie, as well as another matter.

I requested one other lawyer be here as well, one I’ve met before, but who probably won’t remember me. I’d warned Cameron as to why. In the past five years I’ve had a lot of time to consider lawyers, especially Mr. Welles. Since he’s still practicing, I assume he’s on good terms with the State Bar Association, a feat that can only be explained by assuming Welles kept his fingers crossed when he vowed to uphold the law and avoid conflicts of interest.

The timing of my scholarship getting pulled five years ago simply can’t be a coincidence. Someone was paid to take a stack of thin evidence—provided by Angus MacLaine—and make it amount to something that would get me banished from Valmont. Who better than a lawyer who was supposed to be representing the interests of the University, maybe one who worked for and had sway over the Dean of Students? And after what I learned today, the crime I want Welles to answer for has gotten a lot bigger in scope. His actions contributed to my daughter living a nightmare—a nightmare Welles will be living soon.

“God, you’re unbelievable, Welles. Every time I think you’ve hit rock bottom, you dig a little deeper,” a woman says, upset enough that her voice leaks into the hallway.

“You’re just fucking jealous I’m going to make partner when they announce it next month, even though you came to work for your older brother,” a man replies, his thin, nervous voice at odds with the message he’s trying to convey. “Look at this fucking meeting, you know? You helped this Ford guy, who’s stupid fucking rich, with whatever-it-was, and when he comes back needing more help he asks for me. Says something, don’t you think? I know your brother will agree with me. ”

I guess my hunch that the professional Ms. Laird and the gutter-snake Mr. Welles wouldn’t see eye to eye was correct.

The receptionist shoots me an apologetic look, looking slightly confused to see me grinning like a kid at Christmas, and raps quickly on the door sending the two lawyers to rigid attention.

Cameron recovers first, springing up to offer me a handshake, “Mr. Ford, how wonderful to see you again.”

“Hello, Mr. Ford. I’m Peter Welles.” He doesn’t bother coming to shake my hand, instead sitting at one end of the conference table, his neck struggling to fill the small collar of his shirt and giving the unmistakable impression of a gopher popping its head out of its hole. My hands flex instinctively, as if even they are smart enough to know this guy’s neck needs wringing. It’s functionally no work to imagine Peter Welles looking into the mirror as a boy of 12, and, seeing the weasel-face staring back at him, determine his future profession: scummy lawyer.

He also doesn’t recognize me. At all.

It takes a lot of self control not to rip his head right off his bony shoulders.

Cameron closes the door, and I take stock of the room we’re in. Dark, with just a couple windows along the exterior wall. Contrary to television and movies, most law offices don’t actually have floor-to-ceiling glass walls and permanently open blinds. Legal stuff is nasty shit better kept to closely-guarded cloisters. The real rule of thumb for law offices seems to be: the thicker the walls are, the better your secrets keep. And these walls are thick. A brass band could march by outside, and I bet we’d hardly notice.

“Mr. Ford, we spoke briefly on the phone, so I have some idea why we’re here, but why don’t you fill my colleague in on your situation?” Cameron says, taking a seat at the other end of the table, opposite Welles, and leaving me between them, like a bone for two dogs to fight over.

She and I didn’t discuss this in much detail, but I approve of the choice.

“I’ve recently discovered I have a daughter—one I didn’t know about.” It takes me five minutes to discuss enough of the details to get the advice I need, but without going into so many details that Welles gets distracted by how batshit crazy this story actually is.

“I’m so glad you came to us,” Welles says, seizing the floor as soon as he can. Dollar signs shine in his eyes. Not only am I stupid fucking rich, according to his own words, the MacLaines are practically American royalty. He’s not just getting a payday but a scandal.

Good. Impress me, you little, little man.

“This is a life-altering event for you,” he continues, “and you’re clearly the wronged party here. What kind of resolution were you hoping for?”

“I want the restoration of my parental rights—as soon as possible.”

“That will take a court petition, getting on the docket, then the inevitable motions and the MacLaines will definitely file for continuances as long as they can,” Cameron says using her sorry-for-the-bad-news-voice. “It could take months just to get the petition heard.”

“Dammit,” I say, feigning disappointment. I knew that already thanks to the legal offices of Google, so I had time to get over it. Welles doesn’t need to know that, however. “Isn’t there some way to speed things up?”

“With what you’ve told us, I don’t see how—” she begins.

“Of course there’s a way. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, eh Mr. Ford?” Welles shoots me a sly wink.

She frowns at her colleague, shooting him a warning glance, which he completely ignores. “Short of a child welfare issue reported to the county by Family Services, there’s nothing in court procedure that will require a quick hearing.”

“Exactly,” says Welles smoothly.

“I’m confused,” I say slowly before sliding fresh bait onto my hook. “Is there a way or isn’t there?”