To Catch the Moon (32 page)

It was true, sad but true, and hugely
undermining to the prosecution, that the woman Owens had gotten so
angry at in the bar, the woman at whom he brandished his pistol,
did not want to testify. She’d made that crystal-clear to Alicia
over the phone.

How many times do I have to tell you? I dated
the guy twice, I never want to see him again, and I sure as hell
don’t want to waste my time coming to court!

Alicia had been as persuasive as her own
limited interest had allowed.
I understand that. But what he did
was wrong. And dangerous. And illegal. Not to mention very
threatening toward you.

I don’t care.

Don’t you want to teach him a lesson?

Long pause, then,
You know what? I’m no
teacher. He can learn his lessons from somebody else.

The CLETS criminal history came up clean. No
priors on Owens’ record in California. His DMV record revealed
numerous transgressions, including several speeding tickets, but
nothing notable.

Fine. She’d be a good girl and do her due
diligence and put in a call to the jail, a step harried prosecutors
usually skipped in the interest of time-saving. It didn’t take long
to get an Adult Detention Center clerk on the phone. Late in the
afternoon she sounded incredibly ready to call it a day.

“I’m calling about Owens, Theodore the
Third,” Alicia said. “Are there any holds on him?”

“Lemme check.” Alicia heard rapid computer
key clicking, then the clerk spoke again. “Nothing.”

“You’re sure?’

“I’m sure.”

So Owens had no outstanding warrants in any
other state. Alicia went round and round a few more times, trying
to get witnesses on the phone. No success. What she was left with
all pointed to the same conclusion: Owens, the son of a lawyer and
himself an engineer, was a hotheaded jerk. It would be great if she
could convict a guy for that—though California’s prisons couldn’t
handle the load—but the bottom line was that the cops were right.
The best she could get this guy for was misdemeanor brandishing.
Minimum penalty ninety days in county jail; maximum one year.
Chances were good that would make him think twice next time.

Fine. She’d make that her opening bid. She
might have to come down from there, depending on what opposing
counsel came back with.

Now the clock reported 4:24 PM. Better to
call fast before Owens’ attorneys quit for happy hour. Alicia had a
low opinion of defense lawyers, particularly the slick, high-priced
specimens that Theodore Owens III had hired.

Alicia was thankful to find Veronica Hodges
still in her office, and still, apparently, in the mood for work.
She delivered almost nothing by way of greeting or preamble before
diving headlong into argument.

“I sincerely hope you’re not making more of
this than there is. I’ll grant you that Teddy probably had a little
too much to drink, but it was late on a Friday night, he was just
coming off a long and difficult week, and the last thing he should
have had to tolerate was such callous behavior from a woman he’d
cared for deeply.”

Alicia rolled her eyes. She didn’t give a
hoot about Owens’ stress level or supposed self-esteem problems.
But you had to hand it to defense lawyers. They were even better at
spin than politicians.

“Be that as it may,” she told Veronica
Hodges, “your client behaved in a hotheaded, reckless manner that
endangered the lives of everyone around him.”

“I must dispute that characterization. He was
upset, yes, but understandably so, and I would hardly call his
behavior reckless. As a matter of fact—”

Veronica Hodges launched into the sort of
spirited defense “Teddy” was paying her so well for. Alicia half
listened while poking her nose into the top folder on her caseload
pile, a mini Tower of Pisa on the right front corner of her desk.
After a minute or so of Veronica Hodges’s spiel, Alicia cut in.
“I’m prepared to make an offer. For misdemeanor brandishing.”

Silence. Then, “Misdemeanor brandishing?”

“Right.”

“Let me get my client on the phone. I’ll call
you right back.”

“Fine.” Alicia disconnected and pulled the
next folder off her caseload pile. This one too looked like a prime
candidate for settlement. That or she was getting lazy in her old
age.

She’d just begun reading the next case’s
police report when Veronica Hodges called her back. “We’ll take
it,” she said. “But we want the minimum ninety-day sentence.”

The next case stared up at Alicia. The
digital clock clicked to 4:31 PM. Her New Year workload would keep
her in the office till nine that night, at least. And in by seven
the next morning, at the latest.

“Fine,” she said. “We’ve got a deal.”

*

Joan sat in the San Francisco conference room
of the investment banking firm Whipple Canaday and reviewed all the
many reasons why she didn’t care for investment bankers. Never had.
It was one reason why her own tenure as an I-banker—immediately
after her truncated stint at Stanford Business School—had been so
short. The other, of course, was Daniel’s marriage proposal, which
had offered a socially acceptable path out of long-houred,
high-pressured high finance into the much more salubrious arenas of
home and family.

And lunch, and tennis, and massages, and
shopping.

Now investment bankers were making her wait,
which irritated her Hudson sensibilities no end. Joan nursed a mug
of double cappuccino and tapped the toe of her pump on the Tabriz
rug, the rhythm quickening with each passing minute.

She hoped these damn bankers were more
efficient at selling companies than they were at keeping
appointments. Whipple Canaday was the same firm Daniel and her
father had hired when they purchased Headwaters two and a half
years before. Her deepest desire now was to extract as much money
out of the company as possible and thereby solve her cash-flow
problem. She had an idea how best to achieve that goal. And once
she had, she would plan her next step, whatever that might be.

The looming question of her future made the
mopes yet again descend on Joan’s spirits. She rose from her chair
and slunk toward the conference room’s bank of floor-to-ceiling
windows. The north-facing view from the forty-eighth floor of the
Bank of America building gave on to a panorama of the Bay Area:
from the East Bay and Berkeley hills to the prison island of
Alcatraz to the Golden Gate Bridge and lush green contours of the
Marin headlands. Directly in front of her, poking into the overcast
winter sky, was the pyramidal apex of the Transamerica Building.
Far below, the financial district huddled in checkerboard squares
of white and brown and gray.

The problem with Joan’s future was that she
was discovering she had little enthusiasm for either of the paths
she had initially imagined for herself. Becoming CEO of Headwaters
was a nonstarter for so many reasons. And the more she thought
about going into politics, the more depressed she became. All that
campaigning! Long days of listening to other people’s troubles,
followed by long evenings of listening to other people’s troubles,
which culminated after victory in long days trying actually to
solve
other people’s troubles. Really, what was the point?
To be famous and looked up to? She was already famous and looked up
to!

No, perhaps the better route was to get
married again. She hated, absolutely hated to admit it, but maybe
her mother had been right on that score after all. Marriage, at
least to the right man, would immediately solve her problems.
People wouldn’t wonder what she was doing. She was being married!
Then she would have children, and people would wonder even less
what she was doing. She was raising children! With one live-in
nanny per child, which she considered the absolute minimum, most of
the burden would be off her shoulders but still she would be beyond
reproach. She wouldn’t even have to do charity work while the
children were young. They provided a built-in excuse. Really, it
was quite an ingenious solution, which was probably why so many
women she knew picked it.

Joan stared at the city splayed out before
her. All she needed was the right man. He had to be successful and
he had to be wealthy. Best if he was famous, too. She did enjoy a
touch of celebrity in a man: it enhanced her own.

Milo fit the bill in so many ways, and in
addition he was quite solicitous of her. At least usually, though
his performance in the five days since New Year’s had been abysmal.
He had made zero attempt to contact her. Had he phoned? No. Had he
sent roses? Not a stem. A piece of jewelry, perhaps? Nary a stone.
He hadn’t even sent an e-mail. And this after she had given herself
to him in the only way a woman could truly give herself to a
man.

Of course, she knew his behavior was a direct
result of that Maldonado woman showing up at the suite to lob
accusations. Nor could Joan forget how truly pissed off he had been
to discover that she’d turned off his cell phone. But he’d heard
her perfectly plausible explanation of why she’d gone back to
Carmel. And as she had predicted, the cell phone snafu hadn’t cost
him his job. She’d seen him on the air.

As far as she was concerned, he was out of
line to keep holding a grudge. And he was seriously misinformed if
he thought he could sleep with her and then go radio-silent. She
would clarify that misconception but quick. And in the meantime,
she would show him she had a life of her own by spending a few
nights at the Ritz while conducting her Headwaters business.

Though it was a difficult trick playing
hard-to-get with a man who hadn’t even noticed she was missing
...

Joan heard a bustle behind her at the
half-open door of the conference room. She turned to see it push
open and a phalanx of bankers troop inside, dressed in all the
colors of the rainbow from blue to gray. At their head was senior
partner Frederick Whipple, a close friend of her father’s and a
onetime assistant secretary of the Treasury Department.

“Joan.” Frederick grasped both her hands
while his minions fanned out around the conference table,
positioning themselves behind seats as if Musical Chairs were about
to begin. “I am so very sorry about Daniel. Such a needless
tragedy.”

“Thank you, Frederick.” She bowed her head,
as had become her habit when the condolences rolled in.

“Please allow me to make the introductions.”
Frederick proceeded to give names to the half dozen suits who would
aid him in the proceedings. Joan made no attempt to keep track of
who was who. She would deal only with Frederick, as her father had
done.

Everyone sat down. Frederick assumed his
position at the head of the conference table, as befitted his
five-star-general role, and Joan sat at his right hand. Fresh
coffee was served, and after some chitchat Joan was asked the
reason for her appointment. She addressed herself to Frederick.

“As you know, Daniel loved Headwaters
Resources,” she told him. “He loved the day-to-day running of the
company, he loved building its team, he loved facing its
challenges. But Daniel is gone now.” She paused and looked down at
her lap, as though she needed to collect herself. No one said a
word. No one rushed a new widow, not even the most impatient
bankers on the planet. “I want to carry on my husband’s vision for
Headwaters,” she raised her head to say. “And I believe the best
way to ensure his legacy is to sell the company.”

Frederick Whipple nodded sagely. “I
understand what you’re saying, Joan, but I caution you against
making such a decision hastily. You have undergone an enormous
trauma very recently.”

“I appreciate your concern, Frederick, but
you can rest assured that I have considered this from every angle.
With the advice of my family counsel,” she added, guessing that
Frederick Whipple deeply approved of Henry Gossett. Of course, she
hadn’t actually said word one to Henry. “And upon prudent
reflection, I wish to proceed.”

Joan knew that Frederick Whipple would not
object again. He had no desire to rile up a valuable client who was
clearly committed to a course of action. She knew from her own
I-banking experience that Whipple didn’t really care whether her
decision was ill-advised or not. If she was so bullheaded she was
going ahead anyway, he simply wanted his firm to be the one to
collect the fees from the transaction.

A throat-clearing sounded from the man
directly at Joan’s right. She turned her head to look into the
bespectacled eyes of a gray-suited thirty-something male. “Are you
certain you want to sell the whole company?” he asked.

She frowned and tried to appear slightly
confused. “I think so,” she managed, then fell silent.

As she had hoped, a sort of charge ran
through the assembled troops. Out of the corner of her eye she
could see the suit direct his earnest gaze at Frederick Whipple. A
wordless communication passed between them.

“Joan,” Whipple then said, “have you
considered bringing the company to the market?”

She widened her eyes, pretending to appear
all innocence. “What are you suggesting, Frederick?”

“An IPO, Joan. An initial public
offering.”

“Selling shares in Headwaters for the first
time,” the suit added.

Joan had to stop herself from screaming out
what popped into her head:
I know what it means, you idiots! Who
around this table thought of it first?
But she tried to appear
as if the idea had never crossed her mind. She let her hand fly to
her throat in that classic feminine gesture of surprise. “Oh,
my.”

The suit spoke again. “Bringing the company
to the market may well maximize its value.”

Whipple took up where the suit left off. “An
IPO of, let’s say, twenty percent of the company would provide a
steady stream of cash flow even as it offers you a slow exit from
the company. We may be able to generate considerable enthusiasm for
shares of Headwaters Resources.” He paused. “Particularly with
circumstances as they are.”