If the lobby of the Lightner Building had been impressive, the offices of Harland and Sinton made the entrance look like the back door of a greasy rib house.
Gold.
Practically everything was covered in some form of gold leaf. Gold lamps, gold lettering on the glass walls, and free gold pens that sat in bowl on a coffee table that looked so delicate I was almost afraid to breathe on it. Ornate antique furniture lined the firm’s reception area, and the coffee table looked as though it belonged in a Viennese opera house. From the reception area you could see all the way into the conference room. The glass partition walls were clear and gave the impression of a large open office. The place was still in full swing, with lawyers milling around the offices, looking busy for the dollars turning over on the meter.
I gave Boo a slight nod, and she dipped into her purse, found her cell, and set the timer on her phone to count down from thirty seconds. This was also Roger’s signal; he fired up the camera and made sweeping shots of the offices.
“David, Mr. Flynn,” said a deep, authoritative voice. It was Gerry Sinton. He came out of a side office and strode toward us with his hand extended, ready to greet. Three younger men in suits, who I took to be associates, came behind him and hung back while he took David’s hand.
“You should’ve called ahead and told us to expect the camera crew,” he said, with a smile that barely masked his disgust. “I’m sure Mr. Flynn has your interests at heart, but letting TV crews into your confidential attorney meetings is a little misguided.”
“Actually, it was my idea,” said David, and even though I could hear the tension in his voice, he’d managed to crane his neck in order to face Gerry as he’d said it.
“I think it’s a great idea, but there’s a time and a place…” began Gerry.
“We need to get out in front of this with the media,” I said. “It’s already out there. Far better that we make the story ourselves. Then we can control it.”
“We’re getting the exclusive, so we’re amenable to a little editorial input,” said Boo, extending her hand to Sinton.
“Lana Feldstein,” she said.
“Gerry Sinton. Call me Gerry. I don’t believe I’ve seen you on 60 Minutes before, Lana.”
“It’s Ms. Feldstein,” said Boo, taking off her glasses and hitting Sinton with all the power from those incredible eyes. Some kind of electricity, or light, shined out of Boo’s green secret weapons. She seemed to attract men to those eyes like moths to a lightbulb. They needed it but knew it was too hot to touch.
“Of course, Ms. Feldstein,” he said.
He held on to Boo’s hand for a second or two longer than was necessary, but he was unable to hold her gaze for the same period; no one could.
Boo’s phone rang; the timer had run out, and she canceled the chime and pretended to take a call. “Scott, did you get the shots?” she said.
“Scott Pelley—the producer,” I said. “Roger here is able to upload video wirelessly to their editing suite. They’re just going over the shots from the lobby with the editor in the studio.”
Sinton nodded, and his lips worked over his teeth, as if he were trying to get rid of a bad taste. He looked over his shoulder at another man, who stood in the hallway leading to the inner offices. Whatever was conveyed in that look made this man take off, back into the warren of offices beyond the conference room. There was no way they could make a move now, not with video footage of Child’s and my location existing outside of their control.
“You’ve got the full file?” he said.
I handed him the prosecution file so he could make copies.
He handed the file to one of the associates, who quickly left to copy it. We followed Sinton down a glass-paneled hallway.
For the moment, we were safe. Until we had to leave. Although I didn’t want to ride our luck too much. I’d told David we would be no longer than an hour in the office. If he couldn’t hack the algo in that time, then we bailed, no matter what.