Next morning, just a normal workday.  For most.

Lightwave at the Loft…

Brian was at his desk when Justin skipped down the stairs. “Nine-fifteen. You’re late.”

“The Boss kept me up half the night,” Justin swung around the desk.

“But HE made it by nine,” Brian raised a brow through Justin’s short kiss.

“Then for my own sake, I’ll have to cut him off earlier.”

Brian blinked aside with a static smile. “Starting right now you’re on flex time.” He lifted the large envelope beside his desk.  “I forgot to give you these yesterday.  RegionAir.”  

“Thanks.  This’ll be the first time I’ve ever seen my work bigger than eight-by-ten.” Justin took the envelope to his drafting table and opened it with held-breath excitement while straining to sound nonchalant.  “Is dark gray foam core okay with you?”

“You’re the Art Director,” Brian pulled the RegionAir disc and readied the run.

Made Justin glow.  Until he saw the proofs.  Held one up in open-mouth disbelief.  Quickly pulled another.  Shoved it aside to view the third.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck. “Brian?  These aren’t the right ones.”

“What?” Brian jumped up, marched over.  “They’d BETTER be.  The presentation is in two hours.”

“They’re RegionAir,” Justin handed a proof to Brian, “But not the right graphic.  I sent detailed instructions,” he fumed over Brian’s arm. “It’s too common, the print is all wrong,” whapped his fingers dead center, “This looks like a breeder snapshot of Sunday Afternoon at the airport.  All that’s missing is their kids.”

Brian blew a hot breath.  “Call Graphics and check if there’s another set. If not, we may have to go with it.”

“I’m not gonna go with it,” Justin backed off, eyes blazing, whipped the copy from Brian’s hand and slapped it onto the others.  “This is not my work.”  He crammed the proofs into the envelope, crunched it under his arm, snatched a disc off his desk and headed for the door.  “I’ll meet you in Conference A in two hours.”

Brian stopped him with, “Wait a minute,” and dashed to his desk. 

Justin watched Brian fill his briefcase like a con on the run.  “I can get there by myself.  Finish what you’re doing.”

“There’s a bigger table in room A,” Brian snapped his case shut, snagged Justin’s shoulder on the fly to the door.  “Dark gray foam core, Verdana bold-”

“Demibold,” Justin corrected, “The print shouldn’t overpower the logo,” as they walked out.

Brian trailed Justin down the stairs.  Justin was right.  About the look of the ad, about its ability to impact the client – about his work.  More than just business, it was about establishing their identity.  Brian knew he himself would have been storming to the source of the error.  Really fired up his admiration for Justin.  And a spontaneous urge to fuck him right here, right now.  But he had to hold that impulse.

At Pittsburgh’s Allegheny County Courthouse…

Mel slouched back in a chair, glanced at her briefs on an old desk, at the Jury platform where seven men and five woman sat watching…The Show…a suited older Defense Attorney questioning Mel’s Young Man victim in the witness chair while the Older Defendant man sat glaring – a prettied-up sleaze ball.

“Is it true that this explicit email you sent to -”

“OB-jection,” Mel almost yawned.  Inadmissible, but damning.  Fucking Defense sneaked it in to discredit, and she had to play it down to annoying junk.

“Sustained.”

No surprise.  Mel shifted in her chair to look bored, maybe get the Jury to think so, too.  But Michael’s son resented the stress.  Mel hunched forward in dull pain, grit back a whimper and didn’t hear the Judge until his second alert.

“Ms. Marcus?  Ms. Marcus.  Do you wish a recess?”

She saw Defense staring a how-dare-you dagger, hot-eyed back I’m-not-THAT-low then struggled to a stand and raised solid eyes to the Judge, “Your Honor, at this time the Prosecution would like to request a short – ” she held her stomach and braced against a hand on the desk.

Judge stern-eyed, “Would both Counsels approach the bench, please?” and motioned the Bailiff to Mel’s aid.

Mel flat-palmed “I’m alright” to the Bailiff, shot a quick smile to the confused Young Man who knew to vacate his seat and move out of earshot.  She slowly stepped to the bench beside Defense, first to voice his ire.

“Your Honor, my client deserves fair, uninterrupted representation.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Judge looked at Mel.  “Ms. Marcus, with all respect to your dedication, if you’re unable to continue, I strongly suggest you abdicate to Co-Counsel or risk a mistrial.”

Mel’s eyes fluttered at the ultimatum.  “I’ll…take that under consideration.”

Judge nodded, “Tomorrow.  Nine AM,” he eyed both, stood up.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Defense gleamed.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mel gloomed.  Another day to wear her client down.

“The witness is excused.  This court is adjourned until tomorrow morning and will reconvene at nine AM,” Judge banged his gavel.  “May I remind the Jury that this case is not to be discussed outside the limits of this courtroom.”

Bailiff toned the “All rise,” as Judge retired to his chamber, Court Steno cased her equipment, Defense noisily gathered papers and Jury members shuffled out.

Mel dragged back to her table where Young Man waited with his Crisis Advocate Gent.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Mel nodded then rolled up serious eyes.  “We need to discuss…the possibility that…” she barely forced it out, “…another Attorney may need to take over.”

“But,” he shook his head, confused, “I want YOU.”

Mel fought to keep from exploding, kept her smoky voice low and easy, “It wouldn’t be fair to you to have someone…not at peak…hurt your chance to win this.”

“So what does that mean?” he shook his head at the desk,  “That I have to start all over again?  With somebody else?”

“My colleagues are very familiar with this case.  I’ll make sure the best -”

“Two whole years,” he stared with glazing eyes at his silent Advocate, then harder at Mel, “I just can’t DO it all again.”

“You CAN,” Mel didn’t blink, grabbed his arm.  “Because he had no right to force you.  And you’re not here because of me, or him,” she glanced at the Advocate, “Or anyone else.  You’re here for YOU.”  She tried a smile but could tell it wasn’t enough, gripped his arm.  “You deserve the best.”

He didn’t look at her.  Just shook his downcast head, turned out of her grip and shuffled off like a rejected loner toward a small group of friends waiting at the door.

“I’ll work with him,” Advocate softly offered before hurrying to join the Young Man.

Mel stood alone in the empty courtroom, listened to the last echoes of their footsteps, held the tears behind her stoic professional image.  The Grand Slam Girl just struck out.  But somehow that aspect didn’t seem so important.

At a suburban Professional Building…

The office desk plate read: Craig Taylor – Senior Financial Consultant.  Past it, Craig sat staring at his phone, jaw and eyes set from a mind in rapid process.  Decision made, he snatched the receiver and pressed one button.

“Aaron?  Craig.”  He slouched back, swiveling a short arc with his chair.  Not a devious man, this bothered him.  “I’m…uh…considering taking on a company called…” he straightened, lifted a note and read, “Lightwave.  But they’re new, so I need some verification.  A credit check on Brian Kinney,” he leaned back again, hand to his forehead.  “I can’t fax you an authorization.  I know.  I know.  Just do it…as a personal favor?” Voice lower with conviction, “I need it to decide…if I should take the risk.”

Craig sat silent for a tense minute.  Then his eyes widened and he shifted up to pull his wallet from a back pocket.  “No, but…hold on.”

Craig laid the phone on the desk, shuffled through his wallet, located a worn Ryder Agency business card, tilted it to avoid light reflecting off clear tape joining the torn halves. Justin’s name and the Loft address were written beside a heavy black line over Brian’s name.  Craig grabbed the receiver, held the card.  “I have an address.  And phone number.  I understand that.  No one else.  You have my word.”

Craig hung up the phone, expression of guilty-as-charged.  And it bothered the hell out of him.  He looked at the torn, taped business card, brushed a fingertip over Justin’s name.  The closest he could get to the real thing without damning his own pride.

At WaveLight Graphics, though he’d been briefly introduced to the staff shortly after being hired, Justin still felt out-of-place.  Three women in tourist-type casual suits, two men in Dockers and polo shirts - nobody under forty.

The Crewcut Chap at a large copier was first to notice.  “Just leave the mail on the desk.”

“I’m not the mail clerk,” Justin smiled.  “Justin Taylor.” Got a blank response.  “From Lightwave?”

One Grandma sketch artist smiled up, “Oh, you’re that nice young man we met a couple weeks ago,” and she glanced at a Gray Coiffed Lady who match-smiled and nodded.  “What did you need, dear?”

“Is Mr. Ruder here?  It’s kind of urgent.”

Justin spun to face a bassy voice from the doorway behind him.

“Urgent?  What’s so urgent?”

Ruder – a proper late-fifties Ichabod Crane with a gray mustache and in a Penney’s suit.  Justin didn’t have time to waste.

“Mr. Ruder, I’m Justin Taylor with Lightwave?  And I need the other proofs for RegionAir.  These are the wrong ones,” Justin held out his envelope, watched Ruder’s face tighten as he accepted.

We don’t make mistakes.  Ruder pulled the sheets from the envelope, pleased with what he saw.  “No…these are right,” he nodded.  “These are the ones I approved.”

“You…” Justin stared incredulous.  “But that’s not what I requested.  The picture is wrong-”

“Yes, I saw that other one.  Don’t you agree that THIS is visually more on target?” Ruder smiled with mild teacher demeanor.

“- and the font -” Justin shook his head.

“Futura is a classic standard.  Very clear, very readable.”

Justin smoldered, low-toned, “Would you mind if I used your equipment to redo it myself?”

“Son, I’ve been doing this for twenty years –“ smile stiffening, “- and there’s nothing wrong with the graphic just the way it is.”

“As the Art Director for Lightwave, I’d like to have it done as I originally submitted.”

“So you’re an Art Director,” Ruder crossed his arms.  “As the CREATIVE Director, I have the final say, and you answer to ME,” Ruder stared daggers.

By now, the others glued eyes to their work while sneak-peeking the heat.

Justin clenched the disc he’d brought, stared unblinking, voice discreetly steady.  “With respect for your position and experience…I don’t fuck with YOUR work.  Don’t fuck with mine,” and he brisked out the door against Ruder’s exasperated turn to his workers.

“Did…did you HEAR that?  Did you hear what he SAID?” Ruder glanced at the empty doorway, then back to his team.  “I warned you this could happen…that this new man would bring in his own people.  Well, I’m not putting up with it.  NONE of us should have to put up with it.  WE built this company -” Ruder held up and shook the envelope, “- with THIS kind of expertise,” calmed under supportive looks, “And I’m making sure Mr. Rheinholdt knows it.  Now…let’s get back to business and show them what quality art is all about.”

Ruder marched out the door and trotted up the stairs.

Standing at Rheinholdt’s desk, proofs in hand, Ruder was the calm picture of dignity.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I understood that Lightwave was supposed to be a special project, not a new department with its own Art Director.”

Rheinholdt stared unblinking, “What exactly is the problem?”

“The specs Mr. Taylor submitted for RegionAir were substandard and had to be revised.  When we gave him these finished, more professional proofs, he demanded to redo them himself, insulting my staff AND me.  I would appreciate if you would remind Lightwave that I’m still the final authority on all work done in Graphics.”

In Conference A, Justin stormed over to Brian spreading proposals around one end of a rectangular table, displayed his disc in a tight grip.

“That asshole Ruder won’t let me do these.”

“Why not?” Brian sprang tall.

“Just give me the car. I’ll go down to Kinko’s or PIFA if I have to.  I still have friends there,” Justin shook his head.  “I can’t believe this bullshit.”

Brian charged to the door.  “We have a presentation in an hour, and we’re going down to Graphics.”

Rheinholdt appeared in the doorway, face serious.  Sandwiching him and Brian, Ruder and Justin exchanged hot glares.

“Brian,” Rheinholdt said sternly detached, “We need Justin to mount these -” and he handed out the familiar envelope that dropped Justin’s mouth and got Ruder’s gloat.  “- along with the ones Justin did earlier.”  Expressions traded; Brian raised a brow.  “Giving our client a choice will increase our chances of a sale,” Rheinholdt eyed Justin then  Ruder.  “I’m sure you gentleman will agree.”

Justin took the envelope, nodded, stepped around Brian and toward Ruder who quickly turned to take lead.  Justin purposely caught up so that they strode even like repelling magnets with only brief furtive glances: You can’t censor my creativity, Justin seethed; You’ll never force me out of my job, Ruder vowed.

Rheinholdt walked into the room and faced Brian.  “I hired Justin as your assistant, not an Art Director.  That title is reserved for our most senior and highly qualified artist.”

Brian stepped closer, eyes hard, “At Lightwave, Justin IS the most senior and highly qualified artist.”

“I made clear from the start that there should be no disruption.  Lightwave is still on trial.  WaveLight is established and still turns modest profit.  I won’t sacrifice that for an idea that may work in theory but not in practice.”

“Over a TITLE?” Brian almost laughed.

“Over what it means to the staff,” Rheinholdt narrowed his eyes.  “In this building, Justin is your assistant.”

Before Brian could answer, three light knocks on the doorframe got their attention.  A classy-suited Young Ms with a briefcase and a British accent.

“So sorry to interrupt, gentlemen.  Would you be so kind as to tell me if this is where the RegionAir presentation is to take place? I realize I’m a bit early.”

Rheinholdt approached her with debonair style unlike his business starch.  “Actually, we were just about to get started,” he extended his hand.  “I’m Klaus Rheinholdt, President CEO of WaveLight, and -” he flared a hand toward Brian, “-Brian Kinney, Manager of our Lightwave division.”  He watched her eyes radiate interest.

In Graphics, eyes radiated tension in an atmosphere with only the most necessary verbal directions cutting through the sound of keyboard clicks, pencil scrapes and paper crackling.  Justin mounted Ruder’s proof, stood it with four beside the table and started another of his own.

Ruder lifted his proof, displayed it to the team.  “Our next success story,” he smiled at their nods of approval.  A show that the Lightwave upstart was there on Ruder’s terms.

Justin finished his mount.  After Ruder replaced the piece, Justin snatched the stack, laid his own work on top and aligned the six mounts with a bang on the table and HIS work facing the troops.  Brief smile and the message that he was there on his OWN terms.  Then he walked out with a terse, “Thanks.”

Jennifer sat in her car outside the Realty Office, dialed her cell and waited.  “Craig?  I’m leaving right now.  I’ll see you soon.”  She disconnected, sat with the phone a moment before backing out of her lot space.  Craig wanted to meet about Justin.  With a tone that raised her apprehension.

Mel sat in her car idling in front of her own home, looking at the house then the road.  Somber eyes, lips pressed thin, she stared straight ahead and drove away.  She didn’t want to sit alone.  Or call the sitter’s and take Gus early.  Just leave everything behind and keep the scenery changing.

At the Gallery, Linz, Sidney and an anxious bohemian-dressed Girl Artist watched a driver raise the roll door on his delivery truck.  He pushed a crate labeled California Creations Very Fragile onto the liftgate and slowly elevated it down.

“Thank God they found it,” Linz breathed to the relieved Girl.  “The show is planned around your incredible glass sculptures.”

“I need somebody to sign,” Driver waved a bill.  “And you’ll have to move it off the gate.  I only take it this far.”

While Girl signed off, Linz and Sidney each grabbed an end of the crate and lifted.  Height difference took his end higher, tilting the crate toward Linz.  They froze motion and locked stares at the ominous tinkling shift of pieces.

Conference A door opened to frame RegionAir’s happy Ms shaking Rheinholdt’s hand.

“Lovely,” she nodded to him, then to Brian and a beaming Justin, “Lovely ideas, Mr. Kinney and Mr…” she groped embarrassed.

“Taylor,” Brian saved, threw a decisive look at Rheinholdt, Justin, Ms – “Justin Taylor.  Art Director.”  He saw Rheinholdt’s smile sour.  Fuck it.

“I’ll look forward to hearing from you soon,” she added, “Thank you so very much.”  She left with high heels clicking down the hall.

Justin gathered boards off easels, “I’ll take these down to the car,” to Brian busy collecting proposals and notes into his briefcase.

Still holding the door open, Rheinholdt stated, “Fine work, Gentlemen,” nodded to Justin’s bright “Thanks” as Justin passed through the doorway.  But he blocked Brian trailing with a briefcase in one hand, contract in the other. 

In the hall, Justin stalled to check if Brian was still behind him, heard Rheinholdt’s firm, “Let me make this clear again.  Justin is your assistant, not an Art Director.”  A jab that drove Justin on with a heavy pace.  The title of respect and recognition for his work was not from Rheinholdt.  It was Brian’s idea.

Facing Rheinholdt, Brian stared down at the smaller man. “We agreed Lightwave’s purpose is to innovate.  Not conform.”  He aimed the contract into Rheinholdt’s hand.  “And this is practice.  Not theory.”  Then he moved past Rheinholdt into the empty hall, pace heavy as Justin’s.  Those are the facts, Klaus.  What you do with them is YOUR call.

Four cars traveling, silent drivers and passengers staring ahead.  Linz and Sid: Not what I needed.  Jennifer/wanted.  Mel/expected.  Brian/planned.  Justin: Not what I thought.

Song: “Kaern Turned” James Holden vs Ben Pound

[1]-[2]-[3]-[4]-[5]-[6]-[7]-[8]-[9]-[10]