The Justice Game Read online

  “What do you know about gun terminology?” she asked.

  “Not much. What I’ve read.”

  “Gun control folks like describing guns as ‘automatics’ and ‘semi-automatics,’ to make it sound as if a gun like this is a machine gun. A fully automatic keeps firing as long as you hold down the trigger. A semi-automatic, like this gun, fires one round each time you pull the trigger.”

  Jason had read some information about how easily the MD-9 could be converted to a fully automatic before it was redesigned in the early 90s. But he decided to save that topic for later.

  “You’ll also hear people use the term automatic when referring to a pistol like the MD-45. In that context, what they mean is that the pistol automatically reloads, using the explosive force of the cartridge to load and cock itself after each shot. These pistols are actually auto-loading or semi-automatics.”

  She looked up at Jason. “Does that make sense?”

  “Sure,” he said. In truth, it was a little confusing. But he’d figure it out.

  Melissa Davids demonstrated the proper handling and shooting techniques for the MD-9, instructing Jason in the best stance as she downed several man-shaped targets about fifty feet away. Jason noticed that even in Davids’s expert hands, a few of the shots missed their mark.

  She took off the earmuffs and turned to him. “Attorney-client privilege?”

  “Of course.”

  She looked at the gun, weighing it in her hands. “This thing’s a piece of junk. It’s awkward and bulky and kicks like a mule. It’s good up to about twenty-five feet, and that’s it.”

  Jason resisted the obvious question: Then why do you sell it? For one thing, he didn’t want to alienate the company CEO on their first meeting. For another, he already knew the answer: People buy it.

  She handed the gun to Jason and pushed a button that made the targets pop back up. Another button moved them to twenty-five feet away.

  The gun felt heavy and awkward in Jason’s hand, like it needed a second handle at the back of the gun so his left hand could provide some stability. He tried to mimic Davids’s stance but didn’t quite get it right.

  “Bring that one leg back just a little,” she said, tapping his right foot until he slid it back. “Competitive shooters use a squared-off stance, but in a true self-defense encounter, you’re more concerned about balance and the ability to move laterally.

  “Now, keep your strong arm straight and stiff, with your support arm slightly bent.” Davids demonstrated as she talked. “Bring the gun straight up into your line of vision until the sights are lined up and on-target.”

  Jason did as he was told. His hands trembled a little, partly from the cold, partly from nerves, partly from the unexpected weight of the gun.

  “Fire away,” Davids said, her voice loud enough to penetrate the earmuffs. “Empty the magazine.”

  The trigger action was quick and required little pressure. But the gun bucked, and Jason’s first few shots were slow and off-target. He gained a feel for the gun and started squeezing faster, adjusting on the fly after each errant shot. Even after all the targets had dropped, Jason kept squeezing and firing, aiming at a piece of wood farther down the range, peppering the ground with 9 mm bullets. Shell casings flew past him, one hitting the rim of his safety glasses. He emptied the magazine in a matter of seconds.

  Davids was smiling. They both hung their earmuffs around their necks.

  “Whoa,” he said. “That was a rush. No piece of dirt is safe when I’m firing an MD-9.”

  Davids eyed him with a look that seemed to indicate a slight reappraisal. “Most first-time shooters start a little more cautiously,” she said.

  The second attaché contained a shiny pistol that Davids handled with the pride of a first-time parent. “It’s a prototype,” she explained. “An MD-45. Five-inch barrel. Blue carbon steel and aluminum alloy frame. Rosewood grip. Two ten-round magazines.”

  She loaded the gun and handed it to Jason. It felt a ton lighter than the MD-9, with a comfortable wooden grip that fit nicely into the contour of Jason’s hand. Davids popped the targets up and moved them back down the range to fifty feet.

  Jason sighted in the gun, and Davids corrected his stance. “Relax a little more. Bring the gun straight up. Don’t lock your elbow.”

  Unlike its evil cousin, the MD-45 felt smooth and comfortable in Jason’s sweaty hands. The trigger had a crisp let-off and very quick reset. He fired efficiently and with much greater accuracy. The gun had a larger-caliber bullet but only about half the kick. The longer barrel and precision machining made it easier to hit the targets even at this greater distance—not exactly in the heart but at least a shoulder wound or maybe one that strayed down to the thigh. He only missed the entire target once.

  After he finished, Jason and Davids removed the earmuffs and safety goggles.

  “You like it?” Davids asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re going to order you one, Noble. I’ll ship it to a dealer in Virginia Beach. It’s a prototype that will have all of our latest safety features including—are you ready for this?”

  “Sure.”

  “A built-in GPS system for tracking the gun. That way if it ever gets stolen, you’ll be able to trace it. It’ll also have a fingerprint-activated safety lock that will allow the gun to be fired only by you.”

  Jason knew those types of guns were in the works—some of the lawsuits he had researched even suggested it was negligence not to use safety locks like that in the design of every gun. But Jason didn’t know that MD Firearms was working on this prototype.

  “I thought owning this type of gun might come in handy for media interviews or maybe even your closing argument,” Davids said. “You’ll hear a lot of talk about how we push semi-automatic assault weapons and how we’re the great merchant of death. Might be helpful for you to say that you own an MD Firearms gun, one equipped with a GPS system and fingerprint safety lock. Also, the publicity wouldn’t hurt our marketing.”

  Jason wasn’t so sure. He still thought it might be more powerful to say he’d never owned a gun in his life. That way, nobody could accuse him of being part of the industry. But Davids wasn’t exactly asking his permission. He had the sense that nothing would alienate his client quicker than disrespecting her product.

  “Let’s shoot a few more rounds and then get you fingerprinted,” Davids said, reloading the prototype. “Our market studies have shown just one glitch with the MD-45 so far.”

  Jason waited, still wrestling with the thought of being a gun owner.

  “With all those safety features, nobody wants to buy it.”

  * * *

  Jason left town without stopping by to see his father. He hadn’t spoken to his dad in at least a week, and his dad would have no way of knowing that Jason had flown into Atlanta.

  Christmas would be here soon enough, and it would be mandatory for Jason to visit. He would keep it short—Christmas Eve and Christmas Day—making sure that some crisis in his law practice required him back in Richmond the day after Christmas. Jason’s older sister had married and moved to California. She only showed up every third year, and this would not be one of them.

  Jason hated Christmas.

  22

  One week later

  Robert Sherwood wanted to wring Andrew Lassiter’s scrawny little chicken neck but instead gave himself twenty-four hours to calm down. The drug patent verdict was the second time in three months that Justice Inc. had called it wrong. Sherwood’s clients were lighting up the phone lines. His efforts to calm them met with limited success. Felix McDermont, Sherwood’s largest and most unpredictable client, was beside himself.

  “Take me off your list,” he told Sherwood. “I can flip a coin and get the same results.”

  “Don’t do anything precipitous. We’re still batting over 90 percent.”

  “Being forty million short based on your recommendation was precipitous,” McDermont replied. “Ending our relationship is
not.”

  After the phone call, Sherwood had begun polling his board members. When he had garnered the votes, he’d arranged a meeting with Andrew Lassiter for this morning.

  The timing was lousy, but what options did he have? His entire life, Sherwood had made it a habit to deal with problems as soon as they reared their ugly heads. Problems only got worse with time, never better. Besides, if he waited until January, Lassiter might catch wind of the plan. He would lobby the board members, and they might soften once the heat from the patent verdict dissipated.

  Sherwood had the votes now. There was no guarantee he would have them in January. He couldn’t change the fact that Christmas was only one week away. No doubt he would become legendary for this, the comparisons to Scrooge almost too easy.

  But he had no choice. Lassiter could no longer be trusted.

  * * *

  “He’s here,” Olivia said.

  Sherwood blew out a huge breath. If he listened carefully, he could hear the songs of the season echoing up from the street. The lobby of Justice Inc. was decorated with a large tree and the politically correct amount of white Christmas lights. The two failed predictions had cost the firm’s clients a lot of money, but the firm itself had been immensely profitable this year. Sherwood had just signed some hefty bonus checks.

  Now this.

  Olivia showed Lassiter into the office and closed the door. The two men shook hands. Lassiter was hunch-shouldered and red-eyed, wearing a ratty navy blue sweater and jeans, his laptop tucked under his arm. Sherwood had seldom seen Lassiter without the laptop. Lassiter’s hair looked like he had just rolled out of bed, and he blinked a couple of times behind his thick glasses. Why are the brilliant ones always so socially inept?

  The two men had initially made a formidable team. Lassiter had developed the software and micromarketing formulas to predict jury verdicts, while Sherwood had worked the venture capitalists for financing and developed the hedge fund clients who paid so handsomely for Justice Inc.’s service.

  As the company grew, Sherwood became the face man for interacting with board members, investors, and clients. Lassiter obsessively focused on the study of the human mind, constantly refining the formulas and models for predicting jury behavior.

  But now he had lost his touch. And Sherwood was the one who got stuck cleaning up the mess when Lassiter was wrong.

  “Have a seat,” Sherwood said. He motioned to the navy blue chair. He knew the rumors about the chair and had never done anything to discourage them. It was a useful way to signal bad news without actually saying anything. People could brace themselves.

  Lassiter’s eyes reflected confusion and hurt, like a loyal dog tossed out of the house when a new baby comes home.

  He twitched once and stepped to the side. He took a seat in the other chair facing Sherwood’s desk, the brown leather chair.

  Interesting.

  Sherwood took a seat behind his desk.

  Without prompting, Lassiter started in, the blinking on overdrive. “I watched the mock trial deliberations again last night and tweaked the program. Part of it was the limited voir dire that Judge Davis allowed in the real case. Plus, the defense lawyers alienated the jurors when they attacked every witness who took the stand. We can’t factor in for bad lawyering, especially when the reputation of that firm was so strong.”

  Sherwood kept his tone businesslike. “But Andrew, all three shadow juries came back with a defense verdict. The real jury found patent infringement and $325 million in damages. Our clients don’t want excuses; they want results.”

  “We have given them results, Robert. It’s science, not a guessing game. Let me show you a couple of things.”

  Lassiter moved his glasses to the top of his head and opened his computer. Sherwood knew what was coming—detailed explanations of formulas and micromarketing techniques, a mishmash of algorithms and spending preferences and consumer psychology. There were others in Sherwood’s organization who could apply the models but didn’t have half the baggage.

  “Put the computer away, Andrew. We’re beyond that point.”

  Lassiter looked up at Sherwood with alarm bordering on panic. “What do you mean?”

  Sherwood leaned forward. He hated doing this, but Lassiter’s reaction was confirming his decision. “The company needs to move on without you, Andrew. Our clients are losing confidence in us. These last few months have been tough. The board agrees that it’s time for change.”

  Sherwood paused so the words could sink in. It was clear he had stunned Lassiter. The man stared into space for a moment and then gingerly placed his computer on the floor, as if continuing to hold its weight was more than he could bear.

  “I’m sorry,” Sherwood said. “I know this is terrible timing, but I’ve gone to bat for a good severance package.”

  Lassiter started to speak but couldn’t. He looked like he might break down at any second. “You had a board meeting already?” he finally managed.

  “I’ve spoken to every member.”

  For the next several minutes, Sherwood explained the details of the proposed severance deal. The payout was $2.5 million. In addition, Lassiter would keep his 15-percent stake in the company and could cash in if the company went public. In return, Justice Inc. needed a signed release and confidentiality agreement.

  By the time Sherwood finished, Andrew Lassiter had regained some of his composure. The glazed-over look had faded. He put on his glasses, picked up his computer, and stood. He cleared his throat. Once. Twice. “You can’t do this,” he said. “I designed virtually every program we use.”

  “Those are all works for hire.” Sherwood’s voice was more emphatic now. He stood as well. “You know that, Andrew. This is the best way.”

  Lassiter was trembling but had his jaw set. “I’m not your employee, Robert. We’re partners. We started this company together.”

  “You don’t want this fight, Andrew.”

  “I’m going to see a lawyer.”

  Sherwood sighed and moved out from behind his desk. He put a hand on the outside of Lassiter’s arm. Lassiter stared at him, through him. “We’ve had a good run, Andrew. And I hope we can still be friends. But I’ve got a fiduciary duty to our shareholders and the board, not to mention the clients.” He gave Lassiter a squeeze on the arm. “I could have had our HR department do this, but I felt like I owed it to you to do this myself. I really am sorry.”

  Lassiter stared for an awkward few seconds, saying nothing. He blinked, took a sideways step, and headed toward the door.

  “Wait a second,” Sherwood said. “I need the computer.”

  Lassiter looked down at his laptop and back at Sherwood, his mouth open in disbelief. Sherwood held out his hand. “I need it now.”

  Lassiter cradled it like a football. His eyes took on a wild look, as if he might explode at any second.

  “There are folks in your office packing all your personal stuff as we speak,” Sherwood said. He kept his voice steady, like he was talking a person down from a ledge. “Rafael is waiting right outside to escort you out of the building. I need your computer and keys. Don’t make it any harder than it already is, Andrew. You know our policies.”

  Lassiter hesitated for another few seconds, his face twisted in pain, before he handed the computer to Sherwood. He reached in his pocket and retrieved a key ring. With trembling hands, he removed his office keys.

  He looked so pathetic. Tears welled in his eyes. It was as if Sherwood had just ordered him to the electric chair rather than offering him a multi-million-dollar severance package.

  “Are you going to be all right?” Sherwood asked.

  Lassiter stared at him for a moment, as if he couldn’t believe that Sherwood had the audacity to ask such a question.

  “This isn’t right,” Lassiter said. There was no throat-clearing this time. “It’s just not right.” He turned, as if in a trance, and opened the office door.

  Rafael Johansen was waiting outside.

  After Lassi
ter left, Robert Sherwood sat down at his desk and lit up a cigar. He knew that Lassiter would review the offer with a lawyer and see the light. Sherwood probably should have handled this the way other CEOs would have—let the HR guys do it. But that had never been Robert Sherwood’s style.

  He took a long draw on the cigar, calming his frazzled nerves. Andrew Lassiter was a good man. Off-the-charts brilliant. Justice Inc. would never have made it without him. But Sherwood had his fiduciary duties, and he couldn’t let friendships interfere.

  Sometimes he hated his job.

  23

  The phone message took Jason by surprise. He hadn’t heard from Andrew Lassiter since leaving Justice Inc. three months ago.

  Call me as soon as possible. It’s important.

  Jason returned the call from an office phone. Lassiter answered on the first ring.

  “Are you alone?” Lassiter asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I got fired from Justice Inc. Sherwood squeezed me out. I need your help.”

  Through the phone lines, Jason could hear Lassiter’s desperation. The man was breathless, spitting his words out quickly.

  “They’ve got all my software, my programs, everything. Sherwood lined up the votes from the other directors and called me in yesterday. One week before Christmas. Can you believe this? He had his goons escort me out of the building.”

  Jason was having a hard time processing all this. Andrew Lassiter wasn’t just an employee; he was a cofounder, the brains behind the micromarketing formulas.

  “You’re a shareholder. How can the board just vote you out?”

  Lassiter cleared his throat, his nervous habits on full throttle. “Technically, they can’t take away my stock. But if they don’t take the company public, my shares will be worthless. They’ll increase Sherwood’s salary, send more money to Kenya, do everything they can to eliminate year-end profits. They can manipulate the books to pay stockholders whatever they want.”