East Coast Gazette

It’s a reference to the length of an article — I swear!

Title: 48 inches (pt 2/?)
Rating: R
Summary: Rodney’s first byline in the business section was mostly accidental.

(To read the story up to and including the latest update, go here.)

Happy reading!

*

The next time Rodney saw him was three months later, in the mahogany-and-fern offices of the Dow Jones legal department, hunched over an in uncomfortable guest chair feeling three inches tall and four-years old—listening to the scrape-scrape-scrape of the guy’s ballpoint pen on a recycled-paper legal pad.

“There’s a good likelihood this is just a scare tactic,” he said, eyes flicking up to catch Rodney’s gaze. “It’s all right to breathe, Mr. McKay.”

“If it’s just a scare tactic then why did Elizabeth order me down to legal like a misbehaving middle schooler?” Rodney demanded.

John Sheppard, Esq., raised his eyebrows. “It might have something to do with the fact that you ignored all six messages I left on your machine about scheduling a meeting,” he said mildly and then smiled, wry and crooked and like he was telling a dirty joke in a bar. “Just breathe, it’s going to be fine.”

“Says the man who’s not being threatened with a frivolous libel suit by one of the largest corporations in the world.” Rodney rubbed at his face.

“Look, this is a preventative measure—like a legal tetanus shot,” Sheppard soothed.

“Oh, fantastic,” Rodney muttered. “Pick the one vaccination that hurts.”

“Well,” Sheppard said brightly, reaching for a tape recorder, “at least I’m not billing you.”

“Let me guess: $5,000 retainer, $300 an hour?” Rodney asked.

Sheppard hit the ‘record’ button. “Nope,” he answered, and added, “Now—let’s talk about your piece on the Genatech.”

*

Genatech’s battalion of litigators were claiming that Rodney had misrepresented the nature of the company’s last 8-K DON’T PANIC conference call—claiming “gross exaggeration” and “malicious intent” and “flat-out foolishness” in his reporting that had sent the company’s stock from $34.23 a share to $10.01 in after-hours trading the day his article broke on wsj.com. Their lawyers had called Dow Jones’ legal department who’d called Elizabeth who’d grabbed Rodney by the elbow and shoved him into an elevator which had led him to this moment: trapped in a corner office debating the definition of the words ‘unforeseeable consequences’ with a guy who’d done his undergraduate degree at Reed.

“As much as I like to think I wield ultimate power in the world of financial news,” Rodney said, disgusted, “that story went live I at like, 7:32 p.m. and didn’t even make the print edition the next day—I hardly think it had the muscle that late into after-hours and of that little importance to drop the stock like—to that degree.”

He almost said, “like a butterface,” but the confluence of lawyers and audio recorders in the room nearly promised another agonizing seven hour sexual harassment and sensitivity training course if he did.

Sheppard gave him a knowing look anyway and said, “This isn’t a matter of if you did or didn’t, Mr. McKay—it’s a matter of whether or not anything you wrote was actually defamatory in nature or if it actually did have a negative impact on their stock.”

Rodney glared at him. “You sit in this office and read the Harvard Law Review instead of newspapers, so you might not know this, but when bad news comes out about a company, it is almost guaranteed that investors—and as a result—the market will react.” He leaned in over Sheppard’s desk and made an earnest expression. “Let me tell you a story about a company called Enron.”

“Keep going,” Sheppard invited, a smile warm on his face, “I’m sure being a jackass to me is going to expedite this process.”

“I am experiencing a not-unusual amount of stress at this moment,” Rodney grumbled.

“And I respect that, but seriously—the faster we get through this faster you can put this behind you,” Sheppard rejoined. “My time’s for the wasting, as I understand it, yours isn’t.”

“Oh my God,” Rodney said finally, after a long, long time, “I don’t want to know what your hourly billing is, do I?”

John gave him a serene, untroubled smile and produced a pile of legal documents.

“Now,” he said, ignoring Rodney’s question, “let’s start over.”

*

Genatech didn’t have a leg (or any revenue) to stand on, and the issue was handled quietly and in John’s office two weeks after that, with Rodney being ushered out at at critical junction.

“I have a right to be here while that suitmonkey spews blatant slander about me!” he’d hissed as John shoved him into the lushly-carpeted hallway.

“First, no you don’t,” John told him, “and secondly, you sound like you have some sort of nasal condition. It’s throwing me off my groove.”

Three days after that, Rodney got an email:

To: ri.mckay@wsj.com
From: jwsheppard@dowjones.com
Subject: Genatech

Mr. McKay,

Congratulations, your legal woes have come to an end.

Sheppard

“What,” Rodney said to his computer screen, “that’s it?”

“Of course that’s it,” Elizabeth said later, frowning at him over her steaming tray of dosas. She’d mentioned, too-casually, to the most hyper of spring interns that there was nothing like fresh, hot dosas from Thiru’s cart down in Washington Square Park. “What do you want, a parade?”

“You realize psyching your newsroom jailbait into buying you food is cruel, right?” Rodney asked through a mouthful, trying to lick masala sauce off his fingers at the same time.

Elizabeth smiled at him. “He brings an insulated lunchbox packed daily by his mother—it’s only right we toughen him up for the real world,” she told Rodney sweetly. “And it’s not like I didn’t have him grab you one, too.”

“You’re right,” Rodney agreed, restraining himself from moaning into the food. “It’s character-building.”

*

Rodney didn’t see Sheppard again until the next time somebody threatened to sue him, which he anticipated would be just as anticlimactic as Genatech’s feeble-minded attempt until he walked into Sheppard’s office to see Elizabeth already sitting there, mouth tight.

“So, not a tetanus shot this time,” he said faintly, sliding down into a chair.

Sheppard gave him a wane smile. “No,” he answered.

“We have a major problem, Rodney,” Elizabeth cut in, solemn. “Do you remember the piece you did on Haldrin LLC?”

Rodney frowned. “Yeah—and I remember we checked with legal before we ran it.”

“You were covered then,” Sheppard interrupted. “Two of your sources just recanted.”

*

TBC