When dealing with a sexual harassment lawsuit, I always advised my clients to get an employment attorney before making a move. I cared who I was going to work alongside with. Lawyers in New York were a dime a dozen, and most were about as reliable as the E subway line when it snowed.
“Tiffany D’Oralio.” She smoothed away invisible wrinkles from her dress.
Not bad. Not cheap either. Amanda Gispen clearly meant business.
“I know the man who wronged me is going to be armed with a convoy of the best lawyers in town, and you are known as the most ruthless litigator in your field. You were my first call.”
“Technically, I was your first drop-in. Now that we’ve officially met, I assume you think I won’t be able to represent your former boss.”
She smiled hesitantly. “If you knew that, why did you agree to meet me?”
Because I would rather endure a long, meticulous death being thrashed by a million plastic spoons than represent the piece of flaming crap you are going after.
Running my gaze along the planes of her face, I decided I respected Amanda Gispen. Pushy was my love language, assertiveness my favorite word. Plus, if my hunch was right, we indeed had a mutual enemy to take down, which made us both allies and fast friends.
“I gather your former boss knows you are seeking legal action.” I picked up a stress ball I kept in the conference room, rolling it in my fist.
“Correct.”
Shame. The element of surprise was half the fun.
“Elaborate.”
“The incident that brought me here occurred two weeks ago, but there were telltale signs before it.”
“What happened?”
“I threw my drink in his face after he’d invited me to play strip poker in his private jet on our way back from a meeting in Fairbanks. He grabbed me by the arms and kissed me against my will. I stumbled and hit my back. When I saw he was advancing toward me again, I raised my hand to slap him, but then the flight attendant barged in with refreshments. She’d asked if we needed anything really loudly. I think she knew. The minute we landed, he fired me. Said I wasn’t a team player. Accused me of giving him mixed signals. That’s after twenty-five years of employment. I told him I’d sue him. That would be a dead giveaway, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” I genuinely was. “Now tell me about the telltales you were referring to.”
She drew a ragged breath. “I heard from someone that he sent her a picture of his . . . his . . . thing.” She shuddered. “And I don’t think she was the only one. Understand, there was a whole vibe to this company I worked for. Men would get away with just about anything, and women had to sit there and take it.”
My jaw flexed. Her attacker was probably already lawyered up through the nose. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was working on a motion to be filed for the case to be dismissed on technical or procedural grounds. However, from my experience, hedge fund princes were fond of settling out of court. Their victims, too, weren’t too hot on lamenting their most sensitive and shameful moments in a room full of strangers only to get ripped apart by lawyers afterward. Problem was, I didn’t want to settle out of court. If he was who I thought he was, I wanted to put him on the chopping block and make meatballs out of him for everyone to see.
And I wanted to make him my means to an end. My prized win, when I finally got the partnership.
“Have you thought this through?” I rolled the stress ball along my palm.
She nodded. “I’ve seen him get away with too much. He’s wronged so many women along the way. Women who, unlike me, weren’t in a position to complain. They went through things much harsher than what I had to deal with. I’m ready to put an end to this.”
“What are you looking to get out of this? Money or justice?” I asked. Usually, I’d butter my client up to go for the former. Not only because justice was an elusive, subjective goal, but also because, unlike money, it wasn’t guaranteed.
She shifted in her seat. “Both, maybe?”
“The two are not always mutually exclusive. If you settle, he walks away unscathed and continues abusing women.”
Let the record show that this wasn’t just the out-for-blood monster sitting in the pit of my stomach that was speaking, or fourteen-year-old Nicky, but also a man who’d met enough sexual harassment victims to know a predator’s pattern when he recognized one.
“And if I go to court?” She blinked fast, trying to absorb it all.
“You might get your payday, but then . . . you might not. But even if we lose, which—no promises—I don’t think we would, he’d hopefully become more wary and potentially have a harder time getting away with this sort of behavior.”