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Holding in a sigh, I deliberately thread a path through the open-plan workspace so she has more space to wobble around without crashing into anything.
I won’t be liable for damages if she falls and breaks something.
My legal team—Mr. Oxford, Miss de Silva, and Mr. Tanden—are already seated at the long, glossy walnut table in the window-studded conference room. They’re crisp and professional with their heads bowed together as they pore over briefs and whisper conspiratorially.
The murmurs stop as soon as we enter. With smooth precision, the three rise, smiling coolly.
Smiles that falter as Marissa staggers in and slams her purse down on the table with a loud slap! Just walking, her stylish grey pantsuit has come half-unbuttoned at the waist and looks completely wrinkled.
“What firm you with?” she demands harshly, glaring at my lawyers. “Bet’ve never heard of ’em.” She plants her hands on her hips with a triumphant smile, while her own embarrassed team takes tense flanking positions again. “I came prebeared. The besht lawyers in Sheetle.”
Sheetle?
God help us.
Thankfully, Miss de Silva shakes from her frozen, thin-lipped smile and says, “Our private practice exclusively serves Mr. Marshall. We aren’t publicly advertised, although I’m sure your lawyers are all skilled professionals.” The way she stresses professionals leaves no doubt about her opinion of Marissa’s behavior. “If you’ll all take a seat, we can begin. Would anyone like coffee?”
No one wants coffee.
I don’t think anyone wants to be here a second longer than they have to be.
Marissa’s lawyers settle down stiffly across the table.
I take a seat next to my team, while Marissa stumbles into a chair opposite me like a petulant child and glares.
She was the one who called this meeting, dammit.
I’m simply obliging her stupid request.
And I refuse to let this situation get out of control again, so I take the lead, steepling my fingers over the glossy wood.
“Miss Sullivan,” I begin. “I believe I can offer you an acceptable agreement. Your intellectual property claim has no merit. However, I can understand the pain and suffering that your father endured after his partnership with my aunt ended, and the subsequent addiction that resulted. While the statute of limitations on an emotional distress case wouldn’t extend this far, I’m willing to overlook that to offer you a generous posthumous settlement on his behalf. Drop the copyright case today, and I’ll gladly negotiate a number with you.”
My lawyers offer affirmative murmurs.
This is the best strategy we came up with to stop the circus. A reasonable sum to solve a very big problem.
Marissa’s lawyers look relieved. I don’t doubt they’ll advise her to take the deal and scram.
Only, Marissa Sullivan is smirking.
An ugly, lopsided smirk that ruins her magazine-perfect beauty and turns it into a caricature. “You think that’s it? You think I want your money?”
She’s still intoxicated, but suddenly she’s speaking clearly. Determination gives her words clarity and force. She practically rips her purse open and pulls something out.
A battered sketchbook, its cover worn and its pages tattered.
She flings it down on the table so hard the resulting smack makes Miss de Silva jump.
“What’s this?” I stay motionless, eyeballing Marissa.
“My father’s sketchbooks,” she announces. “Proving a copyright claim.”
She flicks the pages open. The sketchbook stops on a page full of concept drawings, clearly showing iterations working up to—Inky the Penguin.
It’s all there.
Motion sketches, base geometry, various phases of the big magic ink spot on his belly. It’s clearly developmental work refining the ideas into the finished chubby character we know today.
