Читать книгу Direct Action - J D Svenson - Страница 6

Two days earlier

On Level 60 of the ninety-floor shard of glass that held Sydney’s magic circle law firms at a seemly distance from the populace below, Cressida Mitsok leant with one hand against the glossy wall of the corridor and tried to stop shaking. For God’s sake, she moaned inwardly. It’s just a fucking partnership meeting. Remember the stadium, she thought, watching the white specks of yachts tango the afternoon easterly below. Remember desal. That gorgeous rack of steel on Botany Headland condensing drinking water out of salt because of you. And what about Pacific Highway, Coffs to Yamba? You won a bloody award for that. The sliver of pride that swelled elbowed out terror momentarily. Six years as a Senior Associate and eleven with the firm, you’ve earnt this. They know you. In the muted lighting she opened her handbag and looked inside again. Just a nibble, she reasoned. Just one shot of that creamy sweetness, that divine release against her teeth. C’mon. One.

No.

Save it for the Porsche, she told herself. Besides. You’ll get chocolate on your teeth.

Here was the door. In the veneer reflection Cressida reviewed her appearance. On the glossy wood her skin shone like steam on silver, her collarbones as fine as a dancer’s against the lemon silk of her top. That five kilos she’d put on during WestConnex had stayed at bay under Inge’s iron watch and, of course, the weekly triathlons; the skirt now skimmed pleasingly rather than bulged across her hips. And while the rest of her outfit was sharp as a tack, the hair was left intentionally messy, essential to the golden triad for female solicitors: attractive but approachable; capable, yet feminine; and young – most importantly, young – but not too young. Still diverting … fertile … but not flaky. After years of careful attention, of scouring magazines and clocking the outfits the other female solicitors wore, of finding out where they shopped and where they had their hair done, she knew that at last she looked like the real thing. Partner material, bitches, she thought in the direction of those on the other side of the door. She closed her eyes, nailed a smile to her face, and knocked.

On the other side of the door, two feet away in French cuffs and a fresh Majorca tan, the Sydney Managing Partner of Hannes Swartling regarded her from the nearest end of a vast boardroom table. Behind him all eighty-five partners of the firm looked on: forty from the Sydney office, fifteen from Melbourne, and at least thirty shadowy figures around the table on video links from the Asian and European representatives. The anointing of a new member to their ranks was a hallowed event, and their expressions were both haughty and expectant. She smiled at them, trying to remain calm, and also to keep her gaze from the small stack of documents that lay among the clutter of plates on the table. The Managing Partner offered her a chair and she took it. ‘Cressida, welcome,’ he said. ‘Thank you for joining us. Coffee?’

‘Black thanks, Michael,’ she said, smoothing her hair. A liveried butler noted her order on a pad and glided out.

And there were the boxes. As much as she tried to affect nonchalance, they pulled her gaze like tiny black holes. Small, black and velvet-lined, one sat in front of each of the Partners, like miniature portals to the other side. The side of Partnership: of three-course gratis lunches, 10am starts and 4pm knock-offs. Of calling the shots instead of taking them in the tit. Of profit sharing. And no more bloody billable hour targets. All of which, as every Senior Associate had engraved on their heart, spelled unimaginable freedom, respite, and bliss.

Despite the promise of all that, however, there were only three applicants this year: herself; a scary-brilliant patent lawyer called Dr Margaret Minters; and some young upstart from tax who fancied his chances of ascension before thirty like they all did. But the boxes were what she was focused on – if only sheer force of intention could compel their contents one way and not the other, like she seemed to be able to do for everything else in her life. The boxes each contained two marbles: one yellow, one blue. When the time came, the silver canister in front of Michael would be handed around and each partner would deposit a yellow or a blue; in conscious adaptation of the archaic ritual, a single blue was sufficient to kill her application.

‘Well,’ said Michael, surveying the faces. ‘I think we’d all agree. Ms Mitsok has put in a very impressive application.’ There came a general murmuring of agreement, and Cressida flushed. Relax, she thought. Your arms are water. ‘For my part,’ he said, turning to her, ‘I am certain you would be a wonderful addition to the Partnership.’

‘Thank you,’ said Cressida, proffering a carefully modulated smile.

‘But this is an opportunity for questions. To iron out any remaining issues. If there are any, of course …’ He regarded the room. ‘Partners?’

Cressida watched and waited as little butterflies flip-flopped in her stomach. Richard Branagan, her direct supervising partner in Building & Construction, gave her an encouraging smile from halfway down the table and she smiled back. In an hour I’m meeting Felipe at the Westin, she thought. And the delightful Tiffany D. In the ‘modern master bedroom well-appointed for quiet yet energising escapes’. Chocolate. Porsche. Yacht.

For a moment there was silence, and for a second, then another, there came a flush of hope – would they go straight to the vote? The Managing Partner would pick up that canister, she’d be asked to wait again outside, and they’d go straight to popping in their little marbles. She swallowed, smiling.

But then a voice began from down the table.

‘You do realise …’

Cressida searched quickly for its owner. Ah yes. Foster. Sixtyish, grey tie, Insurance. He’d never liked her. She braced herself but regarded him coolly.

‘… that you’ll be the youngest female appointment to Partnership in this firm’s sixty-six year history?’

She feigned surprise. ‘No,’ she said, smiling. ‘Well. I apologise that it took me so long.’

A chuckle ran the length of the table and Cressida relaxed, just an inch.

‘But doesn’t that mean, Miss Mitsok,’ another voice piped up. Fuck. ‘… that you’re likely to have other priorities soon? Family, for example?’

Her heart dropped to her stomach. Wenn Davis, Perth Environment and Planning; no women in his practice. Her mind raced. Could he really, actually ask that? But that was the thing, she knew. He bloody could. He could ask anything, especially when confidentiality undertakings bound everything HR that ever happened at the firm. And yet – the appearance of gender tolerance was also essential, so duly there was a rustle of concern at his words. Knowing the territory, Davis pressed on.

‘Come, gentlemen,’ he chided them. ‘We all know this meeting is entirely in camera. There has to be an honest discussion – the firm’s future relies on it.’

Cressida held up her hand, palm out, all reason and measure.

‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘If you’re wondering whether I’m going to disappear in a few years – abandoning the firm’s most important clients to the demands of … motherhood, for example’ – she spoke the word with distaste – ‘the answer is no. I’ll be quite content as a childless Alpha Female with several million in blue chip, thanks.’ And thank God Felipe wasn’t clucky. ‘Have you heard how expensive those child creatures are? I’d rather keep the money myself.’

The table laughed, more warmly this time. Cressida chalked up another point in her favour. Her coffee arrived and she sipped it, scalding herself but not flinching. The butler retreated to a corner and waited.

‘Well,’ the Managing Partner said as the room settled, ‘if there are no other questions?’ He reached for the black compendium in front of him, and Cressida’s stomach did somersaults.

‘Hang on a minute, Michael.’ The assembled heads turned, and a tiny frown creased Cressida’s brow. So there was a woman in the room after all. And one Cressida didn’t recognise. That was odd. Almost every single staffer of Hannes Swartling she knew either by introduction and careful grooming during the time she had been with the firm, or from memorising their bios on the firm website. But she didn’t remember this face. For something to do she picked up her coffee cup and sipped it, but it was empty and she put it down again.

‘I see from your application that you’re a building and construction lawyer,’ the woman said. ‘But some time ago you spent’ – she inspected the document in front of her – ‘two years at ASIC. Prosecuting white-collar crime, of all things. Just on that … Do you anticipate your relationship with your father will affect your role in the Partnership?’

Cressida blinked. One. It only took one.

‘I’m sorry, and you are …?’

‘Ah, Cressida,’ Michael said, turning to her, ‘this is Debra Bollos. Up from Melbourne. New Head of Finance down there. But you’ve been most recently in our Hong Kong office, is that right, Debra?’

‘Five years,’ the woman said, with an eye-roll that seemed meant to speak volumes. About what, exactly, Cressida wasn’t sure. Her own Southeast Asian work had been the highlight of her career – plenty of work, distant supervision, and a lean enough team to be able to get on with it. Plus Asian men were much more polite to women, she’d found. The Muslim countries had been the best – unlike most Australian male lawyers she’d worked with, they didn’t drink alcohol like drains.

A man in a green tie next to her leant forward. ‘Actually yes,’ he said, while Cressida racked her brain for his name. Andrew somebody; Tax, Melbourne.

‘Ah. Andrew, hello,’ said Cressida.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Yes, I was going to ask about that.’ He glanced at Debra. ‘He’s coming up for parole soon, isn’t he?’

Cressida stared. Four years it had been since her father had been arrested, seven since he’d been found out, and here they were, questioning her about it as if it was yesterday. She swallowed and spoke.

‘Debra, Andrew,’ she began. ‘My father’s past in this firm has nothing to do with mine.’ She turned to the Managing Partner, letting a sliver of irritation grate. ‘Surely my application is sufficient on its face without needing to refer to irrelevant matters.’ She regarded the rest of the table again. Her people. Something these two irrelevant anomalies were not. ‘Those that know me know this aspect of my private life is of no concern,’ she added, smiling.

‘But you must appreciate, Cressida,’ Debra persisted, ‘not many Senior Associates applying for partnership have involvement in a major fraud on their copybook.’

Cressida flicked her gaze back and narrowed her eyes.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I mean,’ Debra continued, with a smile both patronising and incredulous, ‘wasn’t there some suggestion that you were involved in working on the dust case? With him, on the very same fraudulent material that led to his arrest?’

Cressida stared.

‘If I were you I’d check my facts before saying something like that,’ she said, ‘or you might find yourself served with defamation proceedings.’

Debra’s mouth dropped open and a murmur issued from around the table, but Cressida held her gaze.

‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘No charges were ever laid.’

But her voice was lost in the rise of outraged ridicule that followed her words. They didn’t understand. She was sick of people making wild allegations about her without the facts. And why here, of all places, among her colleagues, did she have to defend herself?

Then another voice rose amid the din. As heads turned and the noise subsided, Cress instantly knew who it was. She would recognise that honey drawl anywhere. Brian Prendergast, charismatic Head Partner in Mergers & Acquisitions. Cressida had met him only rarely, but every time she had, he’d looked and sounded like his insides were lined with bitcoin. He was the sort of person who got people to do what he wanted without their even realising, and Cressida knew it would be no different now. He held his hands up, pausing for the ruckus to subside. She held her breath and waited.

‘Debra,’ he began, his voice replete with the relaxed and reasoned authority of someone who knew people would listen. ‘You probably haven’t come across our Cressida a great deal.’

Our Cressida. She savoured the thrill. How lucky that she had resisted mouthing off.

‘No I haven’t,’ said Debra. ‘But if she goes around threatening senior partners with defamation in a partnership meeting, she’s not someone I—’

‘If I could just finish,’ Brian interrupted, aiming that platinum smile, and the glances that echoed at Debra from around the table were enough to silence her. ‘It’s correct that we were fortunate to have Cressida spend some time at the Australian Securities and Investment Commission,’ he said. ‘And I say fortunate, because those of us here would remember the good use she put that prosecutorial training to on her return. You would all remember John Gray’s acquittal on the eight hundred million dollar insider trading charge – or more particularly, the legal fees he paid us, which were nearly more.’ There was nodding and a chuckle round the table. ‘And the best of us wouldn’t have lasted half the time Cressida did in our Szechuan office,’ he said, voice rising with both humour and emphasis. ‘Two years, wasn’t it?’ he said, turning to her. ‘Not including the six months you spent learning Mandarin beforehand, am I right?’

Cressida flushed in embarrassment, at the same time weak with relief at the diversion. ‘Something like that.’

‘But all jokes aside,’ Brian continued, his voice dropping to a tone of gravitas, ‘not only the language preparation, but Cressida’s natural’ – he looked at her with obvious admiration – ‘star quality is the only way to put it, and her fine legal mind came in very handy closing a nearly impossible deal while she was at our China office. Some of you would remember the construction of the Dagangshan Dam.’ He paused briefly, then added, ‘In fact, if it weren’t for Cressida, I doubt we would still have a Western China office. We were very proud of her.’ He turned to look at her again. ‘That business with Mr Mitsok is well in the past now, for both Cressida and us as a firm,’ he continued. ‘In my view we would be committing almost as great a crime, if I could be so bold, if we were to hold his acts against his daughter now. She has my vote for the Partnership, that’s certain.’

Cressida took a deep breath and tried not to levitate off the chair. At last. It wouldn’t do to look too eager, she thought, concentrating on keeping a straight face. As if on cue, the door opened and a succession of waiters came in with pale pink, glistening glasses of alternating schnapps and champagne on trays. Cressida stared straight ahead, focusing on a painting on the wall at the far end of the room. Steady, she told herself. Steady.

‘That’s all very well,’ said Andrew. ‘But I’m not convinced.’

There was a murmuring round the table. Cressida sucked in her breath and stared at him.

‘If I could elaborate,’ Cressida said, an amount of serenity having been restored to her by Brian’s words. ‘Of course I helped him,’ she said. ‘I was twenty-five, and he was my father. But if you are suggesting that I had even the tiniest inkling that the other affidavits were …’

But then she stopped. There was no point. He was either for her or against her, and anything she said herself wasn’t going to change that. Her strength was in the rest of them. They’d stand by her. Of course they would.

‘Michael,’ she said, turning to the Managing Partner. ‘Surely this is not the appropriate forum for this. If my father’s conviction is so damning of my partnership application, perhaps someone could indicate why I was asked to put one in?’

Andrew stroked his tie and regarded her. ‘No offence was meant, Cressida. But if it’s not discussed here, then where? To have that blot on your record only two years into practice …’

She clamped her jaw shut and tried not to scream at him. He was my father. I trusted him. How was I to know that he was up to his neck in it? It’s alright for you, she thought, you tax lawyer. You arrogant, self-satisfied princelet of Melbourne aristocracy, with your inheritance of class and knowledge from five generations of law royalty; any blots on your record would have been promptly swept under the carpet by the boys’ club, unlike my father who came here as a scato immigrant and had to prevail over every adversity with spit and toilet paper. It probably wouldn’t help her application if she got up and strangled him, though. Fortunately for both of them, at that moment Brian intervened.

‘Come now, Andrew,’ Brian said, ‘Cressida cannot be asked to account for matters that were never established in a court of law. She is a fine … Oh.’

With a flicker the fluorescents lights above went out, the video links went dark, and the assembled partners became suit-shaped shadows. A murmur of surprise went up and in the dim green glow of the exit signs the Managing Partner moved to the door. He opened it to scan the corridor.

‘Would you believe it,’ he said, returning. ‘The whole floor’s out. We’ll um … Sorry, Cressida. We’ll have to reconvene.’

There was a collective groan, and then the Partners started getting up. Jackets were shouldered amid talk of retirement to the nearest bar for a beverage. Cressida looked on incredulously.

‘What?’ said Cressida. ‘But …’

It will take weeks to do that, she wanted to shout! Eleven years it had taken to get to this meeting. Eleven years of virtual imprisonment in the four walls of her office, day in, day out, whether in Sydney or Vientiane or Sweden or bloody Szechuan Province, through weekends and public holidays and even, two years running, Christmas Day. Of a Senior Associate’s courting and kowtowing, eating food and drinking wine she didn’t want, just to be drunk enough to laugh at the jokes of corporate clients she couldn’t stand, in everything from girlie bars in Singapore to interminable yacht cruises in Sydney Harbour she couldn’t escape (which was almost worse). And here they were, acting like the cancellation of her promotion to Partner was nothing. How could they be so indifferent? Then the room was empty, Debra and Andrew trailing out.

‘Better luck next time, Cressida,’ said Debra. Andrew smirked and drained a schnapps from the sideboard, regarding her, then followed.

Cressida grabbed a glass of the champagne and downed it in three gulps. The bottle’s ornate gold label shone in the half-light – Châteauneuf-du-Pape; it retailed for six hundred dollars a bottle, she knew. Well at least I’ve cost you all an hour or two’s billing, she thought, collaring a glass of the schnapps. Or just an hour’s if you’re doing motor accidents. Sucking down half, she pushed herself away from the table and looked out the window, trying to dispel her rage. Hang on. Beyond the harbour’s sheet of moonlit water the entire North Shore was black, the only lights those lining the base of the Harbour Bridge or the headlights of cars crawling across it. How quiet it was, she thought. And when had she ever in her life sat in a room by herself in the dark? In the silence she could feel the surge of her heart in her chest. For once in her life there was nowhere to go, nowhere to be; it was almost restful. Then a door slammed outside in the silent corridor and she jumped. With a shiver she swallowed the schnapps, collected her gym bag from behind the shadowed reception desk, and followed the Partners into the fire escape.