Danielle’s mouth goes dry, but she manages to speak. “Michael Sterns is my client, as you know. I brought him into the firm three years ago, and the multi-jurisdictional class action I’m working on for him is, and will continue to be, extremely lucrative for the firm. In fact, that case alone has generated almost $350,000 in the past nine months.”
Now heads come up and eyes fix upon hers. Nothing excites a partnership like talk of big fees. Knox leans back in his chair. “Yes, we’re quite aware of what a good client Mr. Sterns is.”
“Then I’m sure you can appreciate how thrilled I am to report that Mr. Stearns told me he intends for me to handle all of his future litigation—even though I’m only an associate.” She can’t resist that last dig. This guy is a card-carrying asshole, and if his clique manages to block a positive vote on her partnership, she wants everyone to know she won’t take it lying down.
“Have you spoken to Michael lately?”
“Well, no—”
“Didn’t he have a significant problem in New Orleans last week?”
Danielle chafes at his cross-examination. She could wring E. Bartlett’s neck. He’s cut her loose to hang in the breeze. Beneath her anger is a crushing panic. If she doesn’t keep her job, if she doesn’t make partner—how will she pay for Max? She looks at Knox with determination. He isn’t going to take this away from her. “I wouldn’t call it a problem. I’d call it a great case.”
“But you refused to fly to New Orleans to accommodate him, despite the fact that his company has fee potential in the millions?” Knox’s words are bullets. “Or that he has made it clear that he wants you—and you alone—to handle his cases?”
Danielle stops. What can she say? That she has neglected her work because she has to find out if her son is crazy? That, having been told that her son is receiving the best possible care, she still won’t come back to work and take care of her clients? She is furious that she’s given this mental-midget ammunition against her, particularly when the deck is stacked in the first place. She meets his cold stare head-on.
“Mr. Knox, as a parent, I’m sure you agree that some things in life take precedence. An emergency arose regarding my son. Michael Sterns had a vessel arrest in New Orleans. I arranged for a senior associate to fly down there and cover it for me. I was in constant touch by telephone. Believe me, Mr. Sterns is aware of the situation and has not complained about the handling of the matter at all.”
“Not to you, perhaps,” says Knox. “As it happens, Mr. Sterns flew up yesterday to let me know that he is, unfortunately, quite upset about your refusal to interrupt your little trip—”
“Ted, that’s uncalled for,” says Price.
“Okay, fine.” Knox’s voice is brusque. “But you know as well as I do, Lowell, that this business is twenty-four hours a day. They need us; we go. If we don’t, there are fourteen other law firms that’ll jump to take our place. And if this girl doesn’t have what it takes to make that commitments …”
A stunned silence fills the room. Danielle sits back, letting the gaffe sink in. “I’m a damned good lawyer, Mr. Knox,” she says quietly. “And I’ve got the hours and the clients to prove it.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Lowell’s kind eyes match his reassuring voice.
“In fact,” she says softly, “my billings are higher than yours were when you made partner.”
Knox ignores the muffled laughter of a few of the other partners, who catch Danielle’s eye and smile. “Be that as it may,” he says stubbornly, “Sterns told me that he might be willing to let someone else in the firm handle his cases, given your … situation.”
Danielle doesn’t know what to say. Knox is humiliating her in front of the entire partnership, and not one partner has spoken in her defense. E. Bartlett abruptly excuses himself, apparently deciding to leave her to her own devices.
Knox’s voice is cold. “I think it’s obvious that your priorities have nothing to do with your clients or this firm—”
“That’s enough.” Lowell’s voice is crackled frost. “I’m disappointed in you, Knox. We are not here to engage in personal attacks.” He pauses a moment. “Does anyone else have something to say?”
Danielle looks around the table. Stony silence greets her.
“Well, thank you, Danielle,” says Lowell. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.” Her voice is tight. Cinnabar stripes twin her cheeks as she pulls open the heavy, burled door and stalks out. “More like good riddance,” she mutters.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Danielle is breathless after her frantic drive back from the Des Moines airport to Maitland. The flight from New York had begun boarding when she received a hysterical call from the Fountainview night nurse, who told her of a crisis with Max. She said that Dr. Reyes-Moreno would meet Danielle at the hospital but that she was not at liberty to divulge any additional information. Danielle was terrified during the entire flight. When she finally lands in Des Moines, she drives as fast as she can to Plano; jams the car into a handicapped space; and dashes into the unit.
She catches sight of Reyes-Moreno in the hallway. She is in deep conversation with Fastow. He towers over her, his stick neck bent to catch her words. His black, frizzy hair is shot through with gray. They stop talking as soon as she reaches them. “What’s wrong with Max?” she demands.
“Danielle,” says Reyes-Moreno. “You remember Dr. Fastow. He is—”
“I know who he is,” she interrupts. “Where’s Max?”
Reyes-Moreno takes her arm and steers her into an empty office. Ichabod trails behind. “I’m afraid that Max seems to be dissociating,” she says. “His behavior today—while not suicidal—has been highly erratic and disturbing.”
Danielle tries to keep the panic out of her voice. “What do you mean, ‘dissociating’?”
“He is losing touch with reality.” Her olive eyes are rueful. “It could be the result of extreme anxiety, but we feel it needs to be addressed immediately. In addition to Max’s continued perseveration upon suicidal ideations, he has had another … episode.”
“What does that mean?”
Reyes-Moreno’s eyes slide past Fastow before they fix on Danielle. “Max attacked Jonas. As you know, it isn’t the first time.”
Danielle’s heart races. She flashes back to that horrible day when Max assaulted Jonas—the blood on his head and Marianne’s stricken face. “Why didn’t you tell me this? Did he … hurt him?”
“Unfortunately, we had to keep Jonas under observation all day yesterday.” She touches Danielle’s arm lightly. “He’ll be fine. The fact remains, however, that Max punched Jonas in the nose, and the boy bled profusely. It also seems that Jonas has a cracked rib.”
Danielle is shocked. “Where is Max now?”
“We put him in the quiet room—”
“How dare you?” Danielle has seen that room. It’s solitary—that’s what it is. A big white box with canvas padding all around and a slit of a window to shove food through. She stalks toward the door. Reyes-Moreno grasps her arm.
“Danielle—he isn’t in there,” she says. “We’ve had a bit of a … situation arise. Please, let’s sit.” Reyes-Moreno closes the door and continues. “As you know, we put Dr. Fastow on Max’s team at the outset of his assessment. He has done a stellar job with Max’s medications and is confident that he has found the right—”
“Cocktail,” snaps Danielle. “What does that have to do with—”
“There simply isn’t any other