Chapter 4 - The Consultation
The reply from Michael Landon’s office arrived at 8:14 the following morning.
It was short, professional, and devoid of the corporate warmth that usually masked disinterest.
Ms. Vance,
I have reviewed your initial email and the attached files. The documentation appears remarkably thorough. Can you meet at the Blue Line Coffee shop on 4th Street this afternoon at two o'clock? Bring everything you have.
Regards, Michael Landon
I didn't take the afternoon off from my receptionist job; I called in sick, telling my supervisor I had a sudden fever. It was a lie, but for the first time in my life, I didn't care about the consequences.
I wore the nicest blouse I owned—a navy blue silk-blend top I had bought for a job interview three years ago—and ironed my only pair of slacks until the creases were razor-sharp.
The Blue Line Coffee shop was small, warm, and smelled of roasted espresso beans and toasted cinnamon. I arrived ten minutes early, chose a corner booth with a clear view of the entrance, and placed the manila folder flat on the wooden table like a shield.
At exactly two o'clock, the bell above the door chimed.
A man in his late forties walked in, shaking the light autumn drizzle from the shoulders of a dark tweed blazer. He wore faded jeans, scuffed leather boots, and carried a worn leather briefcase that looked like it had survived twenty years of appellate courts. His hair was iron-gray, his jawline square, and his eyes sharp behind thin wire-framed glasses.
He scanned the room, spotted me sitting rigidly in the corner, and walked straight toward my table.
"Jenna Vance?" he asked, his voice gravelly and low.
"Yes. Mr. Landon?"
He slid into the vinyl booth opposite me without ceremony, pulling off his jacket and draping it over the back of the seat. He didn't order coffee; he just reached across the table, tapped the corner of the manila folder with a thick finger, and looked me straight in the eye.
"Let's see it," he said.
For the next forty-five minutes, the coffee shop around us vanished into a blur of clinking ceramic cups and muffled conversations. I laid out the evidence chronologically, exactly as I had organized it the night before.
I showed him the legal pads with the coffee stains and the ink-smudged measurements. I showed him the polaroids of baby Sophie lying on the original quilted prototype. I showed him the email thread from October 2018, highlighting Brandon’s dismissive reply followed by the exact date Hushmat Inc. was incorporated in Delaware.
Michael didn't interrupt. He didn't nod encouragingly or offer sympathetic platitudes. He simply turned each page with deliberate slowness, sliding his glasses down his nose to inspect the stitching diagrams and the acoustic frequency calculations I had jotted down in the margins.
When he reached Brandon’s email—“Cute idea. I’m not sure there’s a real market for it... Maybe something for the Etsy moms”—he stopped.
He stared at the screen of my printed printout for a long, silent moment. Then a slow, faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"He called it an Etsy mom project," Michael murmured, almost to himself.
"Yes," I said, my throat tightening. "He told me nobody was going to buy a stitched quilt from a tired mother."
Michael looked up, leaning back against the vinyl cushions and folding his hands over his stomach.
"This is remarkably clean," he said.
I stared at him, my heart skipping a beat. "What do you mean? I didn't patent it, Mr. Landon. I couldn't afford a patent attorney back then. I barely had enough money for formula."
"Patents are important, Ms. Vance, but they aren't the only form of intellectual property protection," he explained, his tone shifting into that of an educator addressing a bright student. "You built a tangible, working prototype. You documented its unique mechanical and structural features. You preserved photographic evidence with verifiable timestamps. And, most importantly, you transmitted those complete specifications directly to the individual who subsequently commercialized them, establishing clear prior art and a direct chain of communication."
He tapped the table again.
"Your brother didn't just borrow an idea. He received a confidential disclosure from you, dismissed it in writing to lull you into inaction, and then appropriated the design through his corporate entity."
"So... do I have a case?"
Michael didn't hesitate.
"You don't just have a case, Ms. Vance. You have a very serious leverage point."
A cold wave of relief washed over me, followed immediately by a sharp spike of anxiety. "I don't have money for retainer fees, Mr. Landon. My savings account has less than five hundred dollars in it."
Michael reached into his briefcase, pulled out a standard contingency agreement, and slid it across the table along with a silver fountain pen.
"I don't charge upfront fees for clients whose stories make me want to throw my coffee cup through a boardroom window," he said, his voice entirely deadpan. "If we recover damages, royalties, or a settlement, my firm takes forty percent. If we walk away with nothing, you owe me nothing."
I looked down at the paper. My hand trembled slightly as I picked up the pen.
May you like
"What happens next?" I asked.
"Next," Michael said, closing his briefcase with a sharp, metallic snap, "we stop asking for permission."
