Private Lives

4



Helen Pierce twirled her favourite gold pencil between her fingers and looked out of her fifth-floor window, over the Soho skyline, hoping that today would be a better day than the day before. After Monday morning’s conference meeting and the drama of Larry’s heart attack, she’d only been able to bill four hours on her time sheet – her lowest daily total in two years. Even when she’d had a bout of swine flu, she’d managed to send out emails and draft letters to counsel from her sickbed.

Helen’s work ethic was one of the reasons she was among the most successful lawyers in London. Although it was only nine thirty in the morning, she had already logged two billable hours to Jonathon Balon, the billionaire property developer she was representing in a high-profile libel case. After twelve months’ work on it, fees were already in excess of one million pounds; when you factored in the rest of Helen’s caseload, an assortment of reputation management, privacy and defamation disputes for footballers, oligarchs, movie stars and captains of industry, she could bank on clearing four million in annual fees in this financial year.

When the Evening Standard had listed her as one of London’s most influential people, they had called her ‘a wolf in chic clothing’, a description that she secretly loved. She knew that some men found her image sexy: her sharp blond bob, hard green eyes and roman nose gave her the look of a striking Hollywood character actress, and she certainly made the best of her figure in tailored suits and her trademark patent heels. But what turned Helen Pierce on was the fact that she had the reputation of being the toughest media lawyer in London, and as London was the world’s centre for libel action, that meant she was almost certainly the best at what she did in the world. Now that was sexy.

The shrill ring of her phone disturbed her from her thoughts.

‘Miss Pierce?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s the clerk from Judge Lazner’s office. Can I put him through?’

‘Very well,’ she said, frowning. What could he want?

Mr Justice Lazner, one of the High Court judges on the Queen’s Bench, was due to sit over Jonathon Balon’s libel case slated to trial in September. Balon had been the subject of a hatchet job in the prestigious American magazine Stateside, whose eight-page profile piece on the billionaire entrepreneur had claimed that he had got his start in business using money loaned to him by a North London gangster family as a way of laundering drug money. Balon had been understandably livid, especially as it did nothing to improve his reputation as a ruthless operator. Helen Pierce was his obvious first choice as legal representation: fight fire with fire, as he had put it. Helen had liked that.

‘Good morning, Helen.’

Helen had spoken to Julian Neil, Judge Lazner’s clerk, many times before.

‘Isn’t it?’ she said, using her husky voice to full effect. She always flirted gently with any male of influence in the judicial system. ‘Although I’m sure you heard about poor Larry?’

‘How is he?’ asked Julian.

‘He’s doing well, I hear. Soon be back at the bar at the Garrick, I dare say.’

The clerk gave a polite laugh.

‘Send him our regards. Now, Judge Lazner has asked me to speak to you about Balon versus Steinhoff Publications.’

Helen nodded. How could she forget? Stacks of beige files wrapped in pink ribbons covered her desk, every one relating to her biggest case. She had been poring over them for hours over the weekend. Most libel cases didn’t even make it to trial, often settling in the tense hours before court, but this was not a case Helen particularly wanted to settle, partly because she thought she could win it and partly because of the hefty fees involved with a trial that would stretch well into the autumn.

‘He wants to bring the trial forward,’ said Neil.

Helen sat up straight, feeling an unusual flutter of anxiety.

‘But we have a date. September the eighteenth.’

There was a grunt of disapproval down the phone.

‘The courts are not here for your convenience, Miss Pierce. Another case has just settled that was pencilled in for four weeks in court. We propose your case takes its slot. Commencement three weeks Monday.’

Helen knew that ‘we propose’ was a polite way of issuing an order.

‘You want us to begin in less than a month?’ she said. ‘But we’re not ready.’

‘Oh Helen. You’re always ready. Besides, Judge Lazner spent half of last night looking though the case files and thinks three weeks for a pre-trial review should be more than ample. It’s best to get these things sorted sooner than later, don’t you think? Even you must want to get a holiday this summer.’

Helen cursed loudly as she put down the phone.

The judge had been correct when he had said that three weeks was long enough for the final preparations, but she didn’t just want to be ready; she wanted to have anticipated every potential problem. Helen wanted to win every case – and most of the time she got her way. But this trial wasn’t just about proving the allegations were wrong and being awarded damages. It was about restoring Balon’s reputation. That was why people came to Donovan Pierce: the firm delivered. They weren’t cheap, but their clients were happy to pay. The footballer who spent fifty thousand pounds on an injunction covering up his numerous infidelities could save himself hundreds of thousands if not millions in sponsorship deals. Expensive? They were cheap at twice the price.

Helen inhaled sharply and picked up her phone.

‘Lucy, call the Balon team for a conference in the boardroom. Immediately.’

She sipped green tea as she collected her thoughts. She had to get this right. No loose ends, no variables. No prisoners. Slipping on her Armani jacket, she strode down the corridor into the boardroom, where her team were waiting for her, their expressions eager but anxious. They were all sharp graduates, the pick of the bunch, chosen not for their intimate knowledge of torts and case history, but for their commercial ruthlessness.

Anna Kennedy was in the seat beside her.

‘How’s Larry?’ she asked as Helen sat down, voicing what everyone was thinking.

‘He’ll be fine,’ said Helen briskly. She had no time for small talk right now. ‘Change of plan. The Balon case is happening in three weeks’ time, so you can all kiss goodbye to any holiday plans you might have had for the next few weeks.’

She watched their faces closely for signs of dissent. She knew for a fact that one of them had booked a trip to Jordan, and another was planning to attend his brother’s wedding in California. They all knew the golden rule: Donovan Pierce came first. If any of them were perturbed by the news, they didn’t show it. That was good; she had trained them well.

‘Susie, I want you to go over all the witness statements, find the gaps.’

A trainee raised a nervous finger. ‘Witnesses?’

‘All of the people interviewed in the article,’ said Susie, slightly impatiently. ‘Plus Balon’s Stateside staff, and friends, family, enemies and employees past, present and future.’

Helen gave a half-smile. She liked that ‘future’; it showed her team were making sure everything was covered, even the unlikely scenarios. The unlikely was the one thing that was sure to screw you in court.

She turned to David Morrow, the handsome senior associate who had worked most closely with her on the case. ‘David, by tomorrow I want a brief on my desk outlining all the weaknesses in the case. We don’t want to be left exposed on any point.’

She gave each of them a rigorous task with a tight deadline, impressing on them her desire to leave no stone unturned, then stood and walked out. There was no time to waste for her either, as she closed the door on her office and took the first file from one of the stacks. The clerk’s call had put the stop on her own weekend trip to Ravello, but that didn’t bother her. She led from the front and her priorities were always with the firm.

Flipping through the pages, she speed-read the file, scribbling notes as she went. The truth was, she trusted no one but herself to spot all the holes, to exploit any weakness in the other side’s case.

She looked up with irritation as the phone chirped.

‘Lucy, I said no calls.’

‘It’s Eli Cohen from Cohen Simons.’

‘I see. Put him through.’

Cohen Simons was a small but influential management company with a roster of ageing Hollywood stars and a couple of exciting young ones; besides, any phone call from Tinseltown always piqued her interest. They were usually very high-profile, and high-profile was good for the firm.

‘Eli,’ she said. ‘How’s tricks?’

‘Not good, Helen,’ said the manager. ‘This is a confidential matter. Can you talk?’

‘Of course.’

She flipped her notebook to a new page.

‘A client of mine is about to have a matter exposed in one of the nationals. Naturally we want to keep it under wraps.’

Helen allowed herself a small smile. She knew the pattern: this was going to be a juicy case.

‘Okay, we’ll start with the what, rather than the who. Tell me what’s happened.’

‘An actor client, a major star with a long-term partner, had a one-night stand a couple of weeks ago. Girl’s blackmailing him. She wants a truckload of money or else she’s going straight to the press.’

‘Has she got any evidence?’

‘Evidence? You talking man jam?’

‘Man jam?’ She winced.

‘You know, a DNA sample from a sexual encounter. Although to be honest, he can barely even remember the sex, he was so wasted.’

Helen quickly scribbled ‘Other parties?’ If this actor had been drunk, there was always a chance other people could corroborate. A sloppy drunk on the pull didn’t usually care too much about covering his tracks.

‘I meant photos, video footage,’ she said.

There was a pause. ‘There’s a photo on a mobile phone of them taken together in bed.’

‘Have you seen it?’

‘Not personally. But my client had it sent to him.’

‘I’ll need to see it asap.’

She paused for a moment, her sharp mind looking at the angles, assessing the risks.

‘So you can get a gagging order, can’t you?’ Cohen asked. ‘The British laws play to our side here, don’t they?’

‘Yes, but there are other sorts of deal we could set up.’

This was the stuff they didn’t teach you at law school: how to broker watertight six-figure pay-offs, or to put it another way, how to bury the bodies so deep no one would ever find them. She couldn’t count the number of secret confidentiality agreements she had drawn up to silence a mistress or a boyfriend. Of course there were other strategies too: arranging with an editor to kill off one story in return for a bigger one, an exclusive cover story about something else. Or you could even play hardball and hit the media where it hurt: in their budget. That was one of Larry’s favourite tricks. Threaten to cut off their advertising, or permanently restrict access to a roster of stars. ‘Play dirty,’ that was what he used to say. ‘It’s all the bastards understand.’

She looked down at her notes. ‘So how much does she want?’

‘Five hundred thousand.’

‘Pounds or dollars?’

‘The chick is British, so I assume pounds. Although when she suggested it, my client panicked and told her to go f*ck herself.’

Half a million sterling was big money, which meant a big name. A very big name.

‘Who’s the client? The President?’ she said with a laugh.

Eli didn’t laugh.

‘Sam Charles.’

Helen smiled to herself. This was one of the perks of her job. She got to see beyond the curtain into the secret goings-on of Hollywood, see how people really behaved when the cameras stopped rolling. After all this time, she really shouldn’t have been surprised at anyone’s behaviour, but she hadn’t thought Sam Charles had that sort of ballsiness in him. But that was neither here nor there. The fact was that Sam Charles was one of the biggest stars in the world, especially as part of a Hollywood golden couple. Every newspaper and magazine in the world was going to want that story; no wonder this girl was asking so much.

‘I can see why you want to keep it under wraps,’ she said.

‘This girl says she’s going to go to the press if we don’t give her an answer in twenty-four hours.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Helen.

She paused to collect her thoughts.

‘What’s the girl called?’

‘Katie.’

‘And when did Sam last speak to her?’

‘Maybe an hour ago.’

Helen jotted her strategy on her notepad.

‘I want you to call Katie back. Stall her. Make out you need time to get the five hundred together.’

‘Should Sam call her?’

‘Definitely not. No more contact under any circumstances. Besides, she’ll believe it more if it comes from his manager.’

‘But we don’t want to pay her off.’

‘No, but it will buy us time. We don’t want her going to one of the kiss-and-tell publicists or directly to the press if we can help it. Where is Sam now? I’ll need to speak to him, get every detail of the encounter.’

‘He’s filming in Capri. It will be difficult to pull him out.’

Helen tapped her gold pencil on the pad and smiled.

‘So we’ll go to him.’

She put down the receiver and looked at the stack of Balon case files on her desk, wondering how many she could fit into her hand luggage, then shook her head. She really couldn’t justify popping off to a glamorous Italian island on expenses, even if the Ravello jaunt was off. Balon was her priority, worth millions in fees and, if they won, priceless in publicity. Sam Charles would pay handsomely too – and Helen rather fancied chatting about his indiscretions over a Bellini or two – but it was below-the-radar stuff and thus of less value to the firm. Reluctantly she picked up her phone and dialled Anna Kennedy’s extension.

Within a minute the young associate was at her door, notebook in hand.

‘Sit down,’ said Helen.

‘Is there a development in the Balon case?’ asked Anna.

Helen shook her head.

‘Sam Charles has been playing away,’ she said, watching Anna’s reaction. The girl simply raised her eyebrows. She was no star-struck groupie and had probably dealt with similarly successful clients at Davidson’s. ‘The young lady in question has threatened to go to the papers, and naturally Mr Charles wants to stop the media getting hold of the story.’

She paused for a moment.

‘This is partner’s work, Anna. The big time. I wanted to do this job myself, but with the Balon trial happening, it’s just not possible.’

Anna nodded.

‘I’m happy to take it,’ she said, her expression neutral.

‘This isn’t some jolly to the Med, Anna.’

‘I understand.’

‘Then I’m sure you also understand that I need the Balon work on my desk before you go.’

‘Of course,’ said Anna, standing up and walking to the door.

‘Oh, and Anna?’ said Helen as she was leaving. ‘Don’t even think about making a single mistake.’