Doubt (Caroline Auden #1) - C. E. Tobisman Page 0,12

after the presentation, he overheard Dr. Heller talking with the editor of the Fielding Journal about publishing his new article. Feinberg said Heller sounded excited about it. So did the editor.”

“This is all very speculative,” Louis said, leaning back in his leather chair.

“I know,” Caroline said, looking down.

“And yet . . . I believe it deserves some further inquiry,” Louis said.

Caroline met her boss’s bright eyes.

“Please make some calls,” he said. “See if anyone has a copy of that article. Don’t waste a lot of time on this, though. I don’t want you spinning your wheels if there’s nothing to find.”

“I could call the Fielding Journal,” Caroline offered.

“Good plan.”

“I’ll get right on it,” she said, her tone the equivalent of a sharp salute.

But then she paused.

“Other than trying to track down that article, is there anything else you want me to do?” Caroline fished. Louis had mentioned putting a more senior lawyer on the SuperSoy team to take over after she’d finished her initial review of the science. Maybe now he’d do that and she’d sink to third chair. Or fourth.

“Please go ahead and take a shot at drafting the section of our Daubert brief discussing the scientific literature. The inferences we can draw from the Feinberg, Ambrose, and Tercero studies aren’t as strong as I’d like, but they give us something to say beyond ‘people who ate SuperSoy got sick soon afterward.’” His tone left no doubt that he put little faith in Dale’s pet argument. “If we find that missing article, it may become the centerpiece of our arguments. But for now, I want you to organize what we have.”

Caroline resisted the urge to cheer. Louis was expanding her involvement in the case.

“I want an outline of your argument on my desk in two days,” Louis finished.

Two days? Caroline blanched, her nascent celebration rained out.

Louis lifted an envelope from his in-box.

Caroline easily read his body language. The meeting was over. That was fine. She had much to do and little time to do it.

But at the door of Louis’s office, she stopped. She had one more question. A proposal, really. Much as she hated to make it, the tight deadline compelled her to.

“There was this associate, Deena,” Caroline began. “She said she was here to help us—”

“I’d prefer that she not be involved.” Louis’s voice was hard as a mallet on ice.

Caroline’s eyebrows knit. Why was Louis looking at her like she’d just suggested letting a team of baboons into the office to help out?

Louis placed his envelope aside. “Deena’s boss, Anton Callisto, isn’t just a member of the Steering Committee, he’s an ex-marine. Everything’s a war to the man. Make no mistake, his lending of Deena to us isn’t a favor. It’s espionage.”

Caroline stayed silent. She’d assumed that in litigation, the fight would be with the other side. Apparently that was wrong.

“It isn’t just Anton.” Louis folded his hands atop his ink blotter. “The members of the Committee don’t trust anyone. They don’t trust us. They don’t trust each other. They want their own people out here in Los Angeles, where the action is. They want to keep an eye on what we do. I agreed to host these associates because Dale asked me to. But I don’t like it.”

Louis turned his attention back to his mail. “You may use the loaned associates for assistance on minor tasks, spot research projects and the like. But I want one of my own people taking the lead on tracking down that article. And writing up the science.”

“You mean me,” Caroline said. She didn’t need to see Louis’s nod to know the burden remained on her slender shoulders.

Hurrying out of Louis’s office, she formulated a plan. A timetable for completing all tasks necessary to finish the assignment in time. It was Monday evening. She had until the end of Wednesday. Forty-eight hours to corral the science into an outline. She could meet that deadline. Forty-eight hours was a lot of time, she told herself . . . if she didn’t sleep. Or eat. And possibly limited her trips to the bathroom.

But first things first: call that editor and find that article.

Without realizing it, she’d hurried her step until she was jogging toward her office.

“Dead?” Caroline asked into the receiver, even though she’d heard perfectly well.

“Yes,” the Fielding Journal’s editor said. “He fell off a cliff in Malibu. The ground gave way under his feet. He broke his neck.”

“That’s horrible.” Caroline pondered the capriciousness of the Fates. You just never knew