The Offer
He was sitting in her chair, at her desk, a manila folder squared neatly in front of him, when she opened the door.
Close it, he said.
She closed it.
He slid the folder across without a word. Inside: a printed access log, her badge number, her name, timestamped 11:52 p.m., the data room, forty-one minutes.
I built this firm's reputation on being the kind of place clients trust with things that would end them if they leaked, he said. I'd hoped you understood that by now.
I understand that Kestrel's books are fraudulent and you knew before I did.
I understand that a client's financial house is messier than junior associates like to imagine, and that blowing up a deal four days from signing over a data-entry dispute would end careers, yours very much included.
He opened a second folder. A separation agreement, her name already typed in. A number beside the severance line that made her breath catch despite herself. Sign this, take the money, walk away quietly, and none of this ever has to be a story anyone tells. Don't sign it, and I promise you the bar complaint alone will make sure you never practice law in this state again. I will make very sure of that personally.
And the six hundred people whose pensions are funding the first-loss position on a lie?
Are not your clients, he said. Vantage is your client. Kestrel's retirees were never yours to protect.
She looked at the pen sitting on top of the agreement, and thought, absurdly, of a fishing rod in a garage with her name burned into the handle.
She reached for the pen.
Raymond's desk phone rang before her fingers closed around it, loud in the small office.
He answered, irritated, then went very still.
Ray, came his assistant's voice, tinny and fast through the speaker, the SEC's on line two asking for Grant Halloway by name. And there's a reporter in the lobby asking the front desk about Kestrel's inventory numbers.
Raymond's eyes came up to Jo's, and for the first time since she had known him, she watched him realize he was already too late.