Heart Vs. Humbug

“The stone must be examined,” George said, anger in his eyes and voice.

Brett stepped between the two men, hearing the click of the news reporter’s camera. If he didn’t take control of this situation now, it could quickly escalate beyond anyone’s control.

“Mr. George, I’m Brett Merlin, Mr. Scroogen’s attorney. Mr. Scroogen is merely skeptical about the authenticity of this stone carving, as am I. We’d both appreciate your calling your tribe’s professional archaeologist to settle the matter.”

“Mr. Merlin, I’m surprised you would suggest such a thing,” Octavia said. “Surely you know that is not the proper legal procedure in a case like this.”

“Oh?” Brett said, turning to her. “And what would you know of the proper legal procedure?”

“Mr. Scroogen must first report this find to the group issuing the building permit for this site—namely, Bremerton’s Community Development Department. They in turn will have to contact the state representative of the Archaeology and Historical Preservation Department in Olympia, who will then contact the professional archaeologists from the tribes so they can visit this site to do a thorough examination.”

She knew the proper legal procedure, all right. Too well. It was just as Brett had suspected from the first. She had to be behind this business.

He stepped closer and faced her squarely. “How do you know this?” he challenged.

“Because I’m a lawyer.”

She was a lawyer?

Brett watched the satisfied smile on Octavia’s face as she delivered that piece of unexpected news. He couldn’t be more surprised—or more annoyed—to realize how completely off-guard she had caught him.

But what irritated him most was that he knew she had expected the error. She knew he had not taken her threats seriously. She knew he had been misled and bamboozled by her beauty, just like probably every other poor sap who had met her. She knew it, and she had counted on it.

It seemed he had made a couple of very serious errors when it came to this lady. He gave himself a moment to regroup his thoughts before going on the offensive to save what he could from the situation.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he demanded. “Why have you hidden the fact that you are an attorney?”

A single eyebrow arched up her forehead. “You, Brett Merlin, accuse me of hiding the fact that I’m an attorney? You, who marched into my grandmother’s radio station yesterday and handed her a fallacious complaint you sent to the FCC without mentioning the fact that you were only doing it because you are a high-powered attorney hired by Scroogen to make trouble for her?”

She paused in her ultra-composed—and obviously rehearsed—indignation to turn to the reporter standing just beside her.

“You did get all that, didn’t you?” she asked sweetly.

“Every word,” he answered as he pointed at the tape recorder that had suddenly materialized in his hand. The young man then turned and shoved the mike into Brett’s face.

“Is what Ms. Osborne said true? Is your FCC complaint against Mab Osborne merely an attempt to make trouble for her?”

“Let’s not get off the subject here,” Brett said quickly. “We are at the future site of an exciting new condominium complex that will bring both jobs and prosperity to this community, a complex that could be delayed by the discovery of this stone carving. The question you should be asking is, who might be responsible for putting the carving on this stone?”

“Are you saying you don’t believe this is an Indian relic, Mr. Merlin?” the reporter asked, the inflection in his voice obviously hoping Brett would say just that.

“I’m saying that no one here is qualified to make such a determination,” Brett answered cautiously.

“Is the legal procedure that Ms. Osborne delineated accurate, as you understand it?” the reporter pressed.

“Only if this really is an ancient native American artifact,” Brett said.

Brett turned back to the foreman. “Mr. George, would you ask your tribe’s cultural representative to come over now? If he looks at the carving and says it isn’t early native American, it would be a quick and easy solution that would save a lot of time and needless involvement of others.”

“I’ll use the phone in my truck,” George said, and quickly made for his vehicle parked at the curb.

“This carving may originate with another tribe and, therefore, be beyond the expertise of a Suquamish cultural anthropologist,” Octavia said. “No, Mr. Merlin. Quick and easy will not suffice. This find must be reported and handled according to the prescribed law for its protection.”

Octavia then turned to the reporter. “You appear to be in on the beginning of what could be a major new native American find. This could make an excellent continuing story.”

Her words had the effect of redoubling the young man’s photographic efforts. With every picture the news reporter snapped, Brett watched Octavia’s smile grow.

“Stop this,” Scroogen yelled at the reporter, and then waved his arms at the seniors. “Get out of here. You’re trespassing. The rest of you construction workers, get back to work.”

“Wait, Dole,” Brett said, wondering if this wasn’t exactly what Octavia Osborne wanted Scroogen to do—right in front of a reporter.

“I can’t wait!” Scroogen protested.

Brett grabbed Dole’s arm and lowered his voice so the others couldn’t hear.

“Legally, you have to wait, Dole.”

“I’m under time-sensitive contracts to develop this land. If I renege on those contracts, I’ll be ruined!”

“Keep your voice down and slow down. A little delay will not ruin you, Dole, so save the dramatics. I very much doubt this so-called ancient carving is legitimate. Far more likely it is a contemporary artistic endeavor.”

Brett paused to look directly at Octavia, who was urging the reporter to take even more pictures.

He returned his attention to his recalcitrant client. “Look, Dole, you have no choice now but to report this as prescribed by law. But if what I suspect is true, it won’t take long before this supposed relic is relegated to the trash bin as a phony. At the most, it should only be a few days’ delay. A few days won’t jeopardize your schedule.”

“But—”

Brett poked Dole in the ribs before conveying the rest of his caution beneath his breath. “Would you rather someone serve you with a court order to cease and desist all your building operations, giving the media a chance to turn this so called ‘find’ and your construction site into a real sideshow?”

“That could happen?”

“I’ve no doubt that Octavia Osborne would see to it,” Brett said. “Dole, don’t you get it? This attorney wants you to screw up and turn this into a fight. That’s why she made sure that damn reporter is on hand. This has all been carefully orchestrated to cause you trouble.”

“I thought you told me less than an hour ago that Octavia Osborne couldn’t cause me any trouble?”

“Yes, well, I admit I underestimated the lady and the foolish lengths she’d go to. Still, she’ll find she’s caused more trouble for herself than you. Now, use the car phone to call the Community Development Department and report this ‘find.’”

“Why don’t you do it?”

“Because you’re the developer. And because I’m going to be having a word with this reckless attorney and put the fear of God into her, so we don’t find ourselves facing any more of this kind of foolishness. Go, Dole. The sooner you make the call, the sooner we can put an end to this delay.”

As soon as Dole obediently, albeit reluctantly, turned toward the direction of the car, Brett turned toward Octavia. She stood in the middle of the seniors and the workmen and the reporter, jabbering confidently.

He could have understood her taking any legal avenue available to protect her grandmother’s interests. But not this flagrant disregard for the law.

Brett Merlin knew how to quell an unscrupulous adversary’s slams at his clients. He knew how to make such an unethical attorney quaver and crawl.

And he knew he was about to do all this to Octavia Osborne.