Trial Courtship. Laura Abbot
“And don’t forget to bring a date to the party!”
“Now you’ve pushed me too far.”
She shook her head disparagingly. “Somebody has to help you meet the right woman. Shall I line up one of my single friends?”
He shrugged. “Do I have a choice?” Before disappearing into her office, she shot him one of those looks that clearly said, “Mother knows best.” Someday maybe he’d think about marriage, family. But not now. He hadn’t worked backbreaking construction jobs to earn his way through Michigan State, driven a cab nights while he finished his MBA and clawed his way up the ranks of Great Lakes Management Group to be sidetracked from his goals. Now that he’d achieved a partnership, he wanted to solidify his reputation as the best negotiator the company had ever had, and that didn’t involve distractions of the female variety.
After delivering Kelli to her car, he walked briskly toward the converted warehouse—now a fashionable downtown address—where he had a third-floor flat. The aroma of hot mustard and sauerkraut wafting from the brown paper bag he carried made his stomach grumble. Thank God Kamp’s Deli had late take-out service. A guy could do a lot worse than the best pastrami on rye in northern Ohio.
Reaching his door, he clutched his briefcase under one arm and fumbled in his pocket for his key. Although it was already after nine, he still had the latest Cyberace annual report to review. But the prospect of another late night didn’t bother him. Deep in his gut, he had the feeling that, despite the obstacles, he could make this merger work.
He pushed open the door to his flat, switched on the lights and set his briefcase and sandwich on the chrome-and-glass table. He was proud of the sleek aesthetic decor—a black leather Eames chair and chrome reading lamp, a white sofa grouping, matching coffee and end tables, Klee and Picasso prints furnishing the only splashes of color. A far cry from his father’s double-wide trailer, which Tony had had to call “home.” Take a look, Pops. Your kid has made it.
Shucking his suit jacket, he shuddered against the distasteful image of Stan Urbanski, with the omnipresent cigar stub clenched in his teeth. Stripping off his tie, he then pulled a bottle of ale from the nearly empty refrigerator. Slowly pouring the contents into a chilled pilsner glass, he raised the drink. Cheers! An unexpected wave of loneliness swept over him. What good was success when there was nobody to share it?
Dispelling the maudlin thought, Tony turned his attention to the thick meaty sandwich, idly thumbing through the day’s mail while he ate. A renewal notice for the Wall Street Journal, an invitation to a charity ball at Shaker Heights Country Club—not bad for a nobody from Detroit—and an envelope with a Cuyahoga County return address. What the hell?
He slit the envelope with his pocket knife and pulled out the enclosed letter. “You are summoned to appear in the Court of Common Pleas...to serve as a juror.” November 18? Shoving his sandwich aside, he stared at the words. Not now! He guzzled the remainder of his ale, then slammed the empty glass down on the table top. Joseph and Mary. That was only three weeks away. Shortly before he had to be in New York City to handle the delicate final merger negotiations.
He started to ball up the offending notice, then thought better of it. No need getting in an uproar. Hell, judges were savvy individuals. Surely when he explained his role in a nationally significant business deal, no judge would insist he serve.
Still, it was damned inconvenient. He’d get on the phone first thing in the morning, speak to someone at the jury commission. With luck, maybe he’d be permitted to serve another time.
PALE NOVEMBER SUNLIGHT shone in Tony’s eyes as he faced Harrison Wainwright across the executive’s imposing desk. “How do you plan to handle your work on DataTech-Cyberace if you can’t get excused from jury duty tomorrow?” Wainwright leaned forward, his steely eyes fixed on Tony, his eyebrows meeting in a frown.
Tony met his colleague’s gaze. “I understand the importance of this merger, and I intend to justify your confidence. Once I talk to the judge, there should be no further problem.”
If only he could be sure. When he’d phoned the jury commission, Tony had been abruptly cut off. “You will have to take it up with the judge on November 18.” But he hadn’t earned his reputation as a skilled negotiator for nothing. “Besides,” he continued, “Barry Fuller is really coming along. I’ll be putting in extra time nights and on the weekends and, with Fuller’s help, I don’t see a problem, even if it turns out I have to serve.”
“I don’t have to remind you that time is critical for Ed Miller at DataTech,” Wainwright continued in his deep baritone. “The new product launch is the linchpin of this merger. DataTech has to get the jump on their competition to secure the projected market share. Their ad agency is already pressing for some decisions.”
Tony shared Wainwright’s sense of urgency. “I’ve spent a lot of time convincing Cyberace’s directors that this is a great deal. And it is. DataTech gets the cash they need to produce and promote their new product, and Cyberace shareholders get a chunk of promising stock in a well-managed company. What’s not to like?”
Wainwright started playing with his fountain pen, screwing and unscrewing the lid. “Cyberace is a closely held corporation. Not everyone over there thinks bigger is necessarily better. That concerns me.”
Tony seized the initiative. “Understandable, but I feel certain we can address the issues to everyone’s satisfaction. Once I’m finished with Cyberace, they’ll be begging DataTech for the merger.”
Wainwright set down the pen decisively and picked up the phone. “Okay, you’re my man, but, Skee, watch your backside with Steelman.” He nodded dismissively and began dialing.
Tony stood. “You can rely on me.” He left the room, pausing outside the office to focus his thoughts.
Rodney Steelman, the founder of Cyberace. Not exactly your Dale Carnegie honor graduate. Territorial, old-fashioned and blunt. In short, just the kind of challenge Tony liked.
On the way back to his own office, he stopped at the receptionist’s station and turned a charming grin on the attractive middle-aged woman. “If anybody’s looking for me in the morning, tell them I’m in court.”
She raised her eyebrows. “What now, Mr. Urbanski?”
“Nothing. Just jury duty. I’ll be back after lunch.” He moved away from her desk.
“Don’t count on it.”
He stopped. “Why not?”
“My sister-in-law was called last year. She had a heck of a time getting excused, even when she explained she was the sole caregiver for her invalid mother.”
“They don’t call me Henry Clay around here for nothing.” He backpedaled down the corridor, giving her a jaunty two-fingered salute.
TONY IMPATIENTLY JABBED the courthouse elevator button again. He’d run over from his office and had about thirty seconds to get to the jury commission on time. Not that he expected everyone else to be dutifully prompt, either. He couldn’t be the only one for whom the summons was inconvenient. The whir of machinery announced the elevator’s arrival before the metal panels slid open. He shifted his laptop computer carrier into his other hand to hold the door for departing occupants. That’s what he’d soon be—a man departing.
As the elevator ascended, he reviewed his progress on the DataTech-Cyberace merger. He’d holed up over the weekend, going over the information he had on both companies, finding weaknesses in the positions of each—weaknesses he intended to exploit with all the skill of a high-tech surgeon probing a vital organ. It was relatively simple to point out the advantages of a deal, but a good negotiator needed to know when to apply pressure, when to back off and how to predict the consequences.
His secretary was compiling complete bios for each of the principals. As he’d explained to Barry Fuller, the junior associate in his department, tactics were nothing without knowledge of personalities