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I remind myself that he’s my boss. When I respond, I say, “I reviewed the settlement offer, and I disagree,” I say simply.
“Thanks for your opinion,” he says. “Let’s get started,” he says and pulls open file folder.
“Gentlemen,” he says to all of us and nods at the table. Lucky for me, I’ve never waited for an invitation to sit at any table and I won’t start today.
I sit down, open my file and start looking over the notes I made.
“So, we’re giving everyone six months and a five thousand-dollar voucher for furniture and clothes, right?” Barry ticks the broad terms off the list on his fingers.
“That’s right.” Amelia nods.
“I think that sounds very generous,” Remi says, and my eyes fly to him. He meets my gaze, and challenges, “Tell me why I’m wrong.”
“Yes, Coincidence, tell us why all of our years of experience should yield to your law review article,” Barry says snidely.
I eye him and let the scorn I’m feeling show.
He’s my boss, and I respect his career, and I don’t give a shit about him making fun of my name. If anything, it shows how unoriginal he is. But damn if I’m going to sit here and be quiet while he screws our clients.
“My experience may be ten percent of yours when it comes to sitting at tables like this one. But when it comes to the way the law treats uninsured, non-property-owning survivors of natural disasters, you’re not even a speck in my rearview mirror. I’m not going to sit here while you sell the people who entrusted their entire futures to you and this firm down the proverbial river,” I say. “Excuse the pun.”
“Tell us how giving them more money than they’ll ever see is sell
ing them short? You think years of litigation while they sit in limbo is helping them?”
“I think giving them what they deserve, something that makes them whole instead of something that’s essentially a basket of fish with no way to catch more.”
“This flood will affect them for generations. Homes were lost. Valuable, irreplaceable things are gone. Their children are traumatized. They need some sort of therapy or something to help them work through some of the trauma we are supposed to be helping them.”
“Therapy? Give me a fucking break, Remi,” Barry says in exasperation.
“Remi, this feels like amateur hour,” Amelia says and I flush. “You’re putting foal who doesn’t know how to walk into a pasture full of hungry wolves,” she says derisively.
“Amelia,” Remi says in a warning tone.
“My client and I are leaving. We will send a final settlement offer. You tell us what you think. We want to make people whole, but we’re not paying for more than that,” she says. She gathers her dark leather Gucci briefcase and strolls out.
“Conscience, we’re not talking about my children. Their children are conditioned in a way mine are not,” he says, and this time I decide his intentional flubbing of my name is actually a Freudian slip. I’ll happily be their conscience. And the champion of the people who aren’t here to make their voices heard.
“How, exactly?”
“They live in neighborhoods where crisis abounds,” he says.
“Have you been to their neighborhood?” I ask the question of everyone at the table.
Both of them—Remi included—shake their head no.
Disappointment settles heavily around my shoulders. “Why not?” I ask.
“We’ve seen pictures; that’s sufficient,” Barry says.
“That is not sufficient,” I snap. My voice is sharp, but I find it reprehensible that no one has even been there.
“Sorry, who the fuck are you, even? Why are you doing more than getting me coffee at this point?” Barry says suddenly. His temper has apparently broken free of whatever was caging it.
“Coffee? Who are you talking to?” I ask him—suddenly incensed. Propriety is forgotten.
“You,” he points at me, his teeth bared.
