just knew with sudden urgency that she had to repair the damage her connection with Eddie had done to Louis’s opinion of her. To his trust. She needed to figure out how to recover both.
But before she could speak again, Dale trotted up, his face flushed. His too-big mouth grinned widely like a golden retriever in the heat of a game of catch.
“We’re almost ready to go,” Dale said. “Herb’s got the PowerPoint all set up.”
Dale gestured with his chin toward the audiovisual vendor, who sat hunched over a laptop at a small desk behind the plaintiffs’ counsel table.
“Plus, I wore my lucky tie.” Dale fondled the lime-green tie with aqua dots, tilting it forward for Louis and Caroline to see. “My wife got it for me for Christmas.”
Caroline kept her face neutral. What was Dale’s wife like? Did she know about her husband’s philandering? People were often blind to what they didn’t want to see.
“I haven’t lost a single case yet with this baby,” Dale said brightly. “This is the longest run I’ve ever had for a lucky tie.”
Caroline studied the talismanic piece of fabric. It didn’t seem to have any unearthly glow or other special properties she could divine.
“I retired my last lucky tie after that loss in the Wrangler rollover case,” Dale said, wincing. “But we’ve got a great presentation for the judge ready to go today. I just know he’s gonna love it.”
Caroline smiled gamely and made the noncommittal mmm sound people use to fill gaps in conversation.
The door to the judge’s chambers clicked open, and the bailiff emerged.
“The judge will take the bench in five minutes,” he announced.
In response, the attorneys scattered around the courtroom began to move toward the front, like goldfish rising to food. People began to take their seats. The show would begin soon.
“Hey, Dale,” called a broad-shouldered man from the front of the gallery.
Caroline identified the man as Anton Callisto. Deena’s boss. With his thick build and close-cropped silver hair, he was someone you’d want on your side if a fistfight broke out.
Anton waved Dale over to the counsel’s table.
“Come on,” Dale said to Louis and Caroline. “We need to decide who’s sitting where.”
Falling into step behind Dale and Louis, Caroline followed them to the front of the courtroom. She noted the strange layout. The podiums where the attorneys for each side would be arguing were positioned directly behind the long counsel tables, where another five lawyers for each side would sit. As a result, Dale would be looking over the heads of his seated colleagues when he stood up at the podium.
Other than the half-dozen lawyers who would sit up front at counsel’s table, the attorneys would be relegated to the seats in the gallery. There weren’t enough seats at the table for all of the attorneys on the Plaintiffs’ Steering Committee.
Dale regarded the seating situation and rubbed his hand across his chin. Then he looked at Louis. “I’d like you up here, Louis,” Dale said. “That leaves two seats for Anton and Paul.”
Caroline watched the proceedings with dismay. After failing to induce Dale to study on the plane, this effort to relegate her to the back of the courtroom seemed . . . unwise.
“Excuse me,” Caroline said. “Don’t you think I should sit at counsel’s table?”
Dale looked at her with a curious expression etched on his face.
“I wrote the section of our brief about the scientific literature,” Caroline said. “You might have questions for me during the argument.”
Dale shrugged. “Okay. Sure.”
He grabbed a passing paralegal and said something into her ear. She disappeared then returned a few seconds later with a folding chair, which Dale wedged between Louis’s seat and Anton’s seat.
Squeezing herself between two large men beside her, Caroline felt small and invisible.
She opened her laptop and pulled up the index of articles. Just in case Dale needed it.
“Wish me luck,” Dale said, sitting down on Louis’s other side.
“Good luck,” Caroline muttered.
The bailiff stood poised, waiting for the telltale click of the door and the soft shuffle and stir that would announce the arrival of the judge. The moment came with an electric jolt and a sigh. A door behind the curtain opened to reveal a man with copper hair and a dark goatee. His black robe swished as he walked over to the bench and sat down.
“Court for the Southern District of New York is now in session,” the bailiff announced. “The Honorable Todd R. Jacobsen presiding.”
The judge spread his binders and tablet on the table in