The video screen levitated back into the ceiling, and Lucy Carter-Jones stepped onto the stage to a smattering of applause. When I’d met her on December 19, I’d been too overcome to take much notice of her, but now I could appreciate how elegant she was. She was impeccably dressed in ice-blue wool, with not a hair out of place and not a muscle, either. She moved carefully to the lectern and stood very still before it, as if she’d broken a bone or was afraid she might. But I guessed that she was simply reserved, self-contained inside a hard lacquer shell. That was probably an asset in a job where people regularly broke down in her office or tried to milk her sympathy.

“Good morning,” she said into the microphone. “Thank you all so much for coming today.” Her accent was British, with precise consonants and BBC vowels.

“Like we had a choice,” the photographer carped behind me.

If Lucy heard that, she ignored it as she introduced the presenters/facilitators, a male-female team from an outside vendor who specialized in putting on such programs.

“They’re still filthy-rich today,” Cheryl whispered. “But Lucy wanted no part of it. She walked away—from her family, the money, all of it.”

Lucy was walking away at that moment, too, as she turned the lectern over to the presenters and retreated to a chair at the back of the stage.

“Now she devotes her life to ensuring fair labor conditions.” Cheryl’s eyes glowed. “It’s so inspiring.”

The facilitators began with a PowerPoint lecture about the definition of sexual harassment and its various workplace manifestations. They explained that they would be screening a series of short videos in which actors portraying office and factory workers would reenact various situations designed to stimulate audience discussion.

“I’m stimulated already,” snickered the photographer. His interns tittered. Cheryl shot him a glare. “I’ve about had it with this asshole,” she hissed.

The giant video screen descended again, and the moment the auditorium lights dimmed, the phones and tablets came out. I didn’t own a smartphone or a tablet, but inside my battered briefcase was a ream of printouts that I was itching to work on. I glanced right and left, and when I confirmed that almost no one was watching the program with more than half an eye, I pulled the papers out.

These were the discovery pleadings in the Palmer case. I’d devoured all the public filings long before my start date, but discovery requests and responses weren’t filed with the court, and it wasn’t until I logged on to the company network late yesterday that I’d been able to access them. When Mark Ivins filed his complaint, he made only generalized allegations of misfeasance and malfeasance on the part of CDMI management. His discovery demands should give me a better idea of the shareholders’ specific grievances.

While the slick videos played on the screen at the front of the room, I flipped through pages and pages of interrogatories and document requests. The first batch of questions focused on executive compensation and sought details about every senior executive’s comp package and the decision-making process that went into it. Ivins was also seeking the names of every board member who’d participated in that process, probably with a view toward taking their depositions, a move that would upset most board members and increase the pressure they might bring on senior management to settle the case.