Helen Pierce twirled her favourite gold pencil between her fingers and looked out of her fifth-floor window, over the Soho skyline, hoping that today would be a better day than the day before. After Monday morning’s conference meeting and the drama of Larry’s heart attack, she’d only been able to bill four hours on her time sheet – her lowest daily total in two years. Even when she’d had a bout of swine flu, she’d managed to send out emails and draft letters to counsel from her sickbed.
Helen’s work ethic was one of the reasons she was among the most successful lawyers in London. Although it was only nine thirty in the morning, she had already logged two billable hours to Jonathon Balon, the billionaire property developer she was representing in a high-profile libel case. After twelve months’ work on it, fees were already in excess of one million pounds; when you factored in the rest of Helen’s caseload, an assortment of reputation management, privacy and defamation disputes for footballers, oligarchs, movie stars and captains of industry, she could bank on clearing four million in annual fees in this financial year.
When the Evening Standard had listed her as one of London’s most influential people, they had called her ‘a wolf in chic clothing’, a description that she secretly loved. She knew that some men found her image sexy: her sharp blond bob, hard green eyes and roman nose gave her the look of a striking Hollywood character actress, and she certainly made the best of her figure in tailored suits and her trademark patent heels. But what turned Helen Pierce on was the fact that she had the reputation of being the toughest media lawyer in London, and as London was the world’s centre for libel action, that meant she was almost certainly the best at what she did in the world. Now that was sexy.
The shrill ring of her phone disturbed her from her thoughts.
‘Miss Pierce?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s the clerk from Judge Lazner’s office. Can I put him through?’
‘Very well,’ she said, frowning. What could he want?
Mr Justice Lazner, one of the High Court judges on the Queen’s Bench, was due to sit over Jonathon Balon’s libel case slated to trial in September. Balon had been the subject of a hatchet job in the prestigious American magazine Stateside, whose eight-page profile piece on the billionaire entrepreneur had claimed that he had got his start in business using money loaned to him by a North London gangster family as a way of laundering drug money. Balon had been understandably livid, especially as it did nothing to improve his reputation as a ruthless operator. Helen Pierce was his obvious first choice as legal representation: fight fire with fire, as he had put it. Helen had liked that.
‘Good morning, Helen.’
Helen had spoken to Julian Neil, Judge Lazner’s clerk, many times before.
‘Isn’t it?’ she said, using her husky voice to full effect. She always flirted gently with any male of influence in the judicial system. ‘Although I’m sure you heard about poor Larry?’
‘How is he?’ asked Julian.
‘He’s doing well, I hear. Soon be back at the bar at the Garrick, I dare say.’
The clerk gave a polite laugh.
‘Send him our regards. Now, Judge Lazner has asked me to speak to you about Balon versus Steinhoff Publications.’
Helen nodded. How could she forget? Stacks of beige files wrapped in pink ribbons covered her desk, every one relating to her biggest case. She had been poring over them for hours over the weekend. Most libel cases didn’t even make it to trial, often settling in the tense hours before court, but this was not a case Helen particularly wanted to settle, partly because she thought she could win it and partly because of the hefty fees involved with a trial that would stretch well into the autumn.
‘He wants to bring the trial forward,’ said Neil.
Helen sat up straight, feeling an unusual flutter of anxiety.
‘But we have a date. September the eighteenth.’
There was a grunt of disapproval down the phone.
‘The courts are not here for your convenience, Miss Pierce. Another case has just settled that was pencilled in for four weeks in court. We propose your case takes its slot. Commencement three weeks Monday.’
Helen knew that ‘we propose’ was a polite way of issuing an order.
‘You want us to begin in less than a month?’ she said. ‘But we’re not ready.’
‘Oh Helen. You’re always ready. Besides, Judge Lazner spent half of last night looking though the case files and thinks three weeks for a pre-trial review should be more than ample. It’s best to get these things sorted sooner than later, don’t you think? Even you must want to get a holiday this summer.’
Helen cursed loudly as she put down the phone.
The judge had been correct when he had said that three weeks was long enough for the final preparations, but she didn’t just want to be ready; she wanted to have anticipated every potential problem. Helen wanted to win every case – and most of the time she got her way. But this trial wasn’t just about proving the allegations were wrong and being awarded damages. It was about restoring Balon’s reputation. That was why people came to Donovan Pierce: the firm delivered. They weren’t cheap, but their clients were happy to pay. The footballer who spent fifty thousand pounds on an injunction covering up his numerous infidelities could save himself hundreds of thousands if not millions in sponsorship deals. Expensive? They were cheap at twice the price.
Helen inhaled sharply and picked up her phone.
‘Lucy, call the Balon team for a conference in the boardroom. Immediately.’
She