Little Black Book

“It’s a great idea, Chau. But you probably couldn’t get it patented. And it wouldn’t work just to go for protection in the US, because most of the textiles it would be used for are produced overseas. Best try to sell your idea to an established manufacturer.”

I feel for Chau. She is one of my favorite basement-workbench inventors, working nights on one brainstorm after another. Her employer pays staffers a $500 bonus for “worthwhile” ideas. Along with a trip to Disneyland, for the whole family. Chau is single.

She is silent a moment.

“You’ll help me find companies to talk to?”

“Of course. Don’t quit your day job, but we can probably get something out of it for you.”

“You work on contingency?”

“As usual,” I smile. “If you have $1000 for expenses, I’ll do the rest against whatever we can negotiate with a buyer. If and when.”

Chau nods, ponytail bobbing. It makes her look youthful, even though her face has more worry lines than when we first met.

We shake hands, and Chau goes over to Ted’s desk in the middle of the floor to make arrangements. He acts as personal assistant to all four of us who share this open-plan office space with glass partitions that let in the light from the large windows.

“Nice,” comments one of two youths sitting on a couch in our central area. I glance at Ted.

“Walk-ins” he mouths, pointing at me.

The young man gestures around our third-floor warehouse conversion and out at the Bay. It’s not the financial district, but the views are great, when it’s not foggy. So yeah, nice.

I smile and wave the two into my office.

“Never went to a lawyer before,” says the outgoing, dark-haired boy wearing a flannel shirt over a tee. The other boy, with longish blond hair falling into the fold of a hoodie, follows quietly.

“You guys have kind of a bad rep,” the dark-haired boy continues with a grin, plopping down in a chair in front of my glass table-desk. “Like the one about, what’s the difference between a vacuum cleaner and a lawyer riding a motorcycle? The vacuum cleaner has the dirt bag on the inside! You heard that before?”

I force a little chuckle. “I think I’ve heard most of the lawyer jokes. What are friends and family for, right?”

Blond kid takes the other visitor’s chair and sits next to the joker, head down.

Joker continues conversationally, “Anyway, ‘Basil Demotis,’ what kinda name is that? I thought most lawyers was … you know …?

“Older? Women?”

“No, I mean like …”

I wait for it.

“Sort of like … uh … Jewish?”

The blond kid winces.

“Oh, that’s a common misconception. The rest of us can get a license if we take an equivalency exam. Pass a literacy test and learn the holidays. Demotis is a Greek name. What’s your name?”

“Ramon. I’m like Jason’s wingman.” He gestures toward his companion.

“Good to meet you, Ramon. So, why do you need to talk to a lawyer, Jason? Just the basics. We might need to talk alone later, if it’s confidential stuff.”

Ramon looks suspicious. “You’re not charging yet? The website said free initial consti…”

“Consultation, yes. I have to ask, how old are you, Jason?”

“18, and it’s Jayson with a ‘y’,” he says automatically, in a soft voice.

“Sorry, could I take a quick peek at your driver’s license?”

Reluctantly, he pulls a wallet on a chain from his jeans pocket and shows me a license that looks genuine. “Jayson Sorrell.” Eighteen. Not a minor.

“And what’s this about?”

“See, my dad died a few months ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I didn’t see much of him. My mom and dad split when I was ten and a half.”

That’s very precise. So, a searing memory.

“He was a genius-type scientist but crap with people. You know the type?”

“I’d have to say yes. So, that’s why you found me?”

“Yeah. Because you work with … his type, right?”

Now I see his logic. I do “intellectual property” law. And since I went out on my own after leaving Big Law, I have advertised my practice in such a way that I get a stream of bright and often quirky personalities. Ten percent of them keep my practice afloat. Jayson’s probably not in the 10%.

“Ok, but what’s the legal angle? I don’t handle family law matters like child support and inheritance. Lisa Park over here …”

“No, no, it’s about this.”

Jayson reaches into the pocket of his hoodie, pulls out a little black notebook, and tosses it onto the glass tabletop between us. It’s a well-worn pocket journal with the word “Notebook” embossed in faded gold letters on the faux-leather cover. I haven’t seen one of these in years.

“I need to make sure I don’t have conflicts. Who did your father work for?”

“He used to work for Lasker, but then was just on his own, consulting.”

“Lasker Industries?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok, they’re not a client. Let’s talk, and I’ll tell you what I can do, on what terms, and you can decide if you want to go forward. Either way, it’s confidential, ok?”

“Sounds good.”

I open the notebook.

“Paul Sorrell” is inscribed neatly inside the front cover in black ink, with a date beside the name. Six years ago.

There are other dates entered on the following pages, almost to the end of the notebook. Most of the writing is in pencil: notes in a kind of personal shorthand, numbers, a few words I can read, such as “aerosol,” maybe some references to chemical compounds, some drawings with hastily scratched symbols that look vaguely familiar. On a casual reading, it doesn’t make much sense.

“Crazy, no?” Ramon interjects. “What you think, some kinda code? Like for the women he was …” he stops as Jayson glares at him.

“Why would you think that?”

“Well, that’s what a ‘little black book’ is for, right? I mean, I had to look it up online. For dirty secrets, right? Like keeping phone numbers and notes about chicks. Old-school Tinder.”

“Where did you find this?” I ask Jayson.

Jayson looks down.

“Jayson, do you live with your mother?”

“Well, yeah, while I’m finding my own place with some friends.”

“So, was the notebook at your mom’s place?”

“Sort of. It came in the mail last week.”

“Addressed to you?”

“Not really.”

I wait.

“But you picked up the mail and didn’t show this to her?”

“Yeah.” No eye contact.

“It wasn’t in an envelope from a law firm?”

“See, that’s the thing! It was in a padded envelope, no return label, with our address written in a lady’s handwriting. Not printed, but the other kind of writing. Hard to read.”

“Cursive?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Ramon blurts, “like they used to make you learn in school, but they gave up 'cause it’s stupid.”

“You saw it, too?” I ask Ramon.

“Yeah. Loopy writing. A lady, mos def.”

“Jayson, you thought it might worry your mom to see this thing sent by another woman?”

“I guess.”

“Still have the envelope?”

“No, Mom comes into my room sometimes, so I tossed it. Why, is it important?”

“Well, I guess we don’t know. So, you haven’t shown the notebook to your mother.”

“Dude, you even been listening?” Ramon splutters. Jayson gives him a hard look, and Ramon slumps back in his chair.

“Right. Anyone else?”

“Just Ramon. That’s how we know about the reward. Because Ramon, he saw the ad.”

Jayson slides a piece of paper across the table toward me. It’s a flyer with a piece of sticky tape still attached to one corner.

“That was in the window of a bar by the Lasker building downtown,” explains Ramon, leaning forward. “I bus tables down the street. I saw the name, same as Jayson’s dad!”

“That is awesome, Ramon,” I remark, impressed. Ramon sits up straight in the chair and looks triumphant.

“$20,000 REWARD for information about lost property of Dr. Sorrell.”

A QR code is printed next to this short announcement, and I point my phone at it. I click, and it takes me to a web page requesting anyone who finds a black notebook belonging to “former Lasker employee” Dr. Paul Sorrell to call a certain number at Lasker Industries for a $20,000 cash reward, no questions asked.

“20 thou! You think that’s for reals?” Ramon looks at me intensely.

“Mos def. Hang on a sec.”

I poke around the Lasker website and Wikipedia and then take a closer look at the notebook entries. I usually work with clients in IT and electronics. Dr. Sorrell was known for innovations in materials science, and Lasker has product lines in synthetics, plastics, and ceramics. But some of the notebook entries include symbols that relate to electrical current, which I recognize now. Others appear to refer to chemical compounds.

“Guys, I have seen notes like this before. There are dates and times of what look like actual experiments. There are sketches of designs. I think this is an invention log – an essential piece of documentation to make patent claims. When exactly did your father leave the company?”

“Before the divorce.”

“So, he was on his own before he started this log. Lasker knew how he worked, and they might claim they own it, but this, this is his baby. We should have an expert look it over.”

Jayson looks troubled.

“Well, you are his baby, and in the end, he wanted this to belong to you and your mom, not the company.”

“What about the woman with the loopy writing?”

“A landlady? Maybe his old secretary? Somebody he trusted to get the notebook to your mom if he didn’t develop or sell his big idea before he died. We might figure that out, eventually. How did he die, anyway?”

“Cancer. He was a smoker.”

“So, he wasn’t up to finishing the project, he knew the end was coming, and he wanted his family to have the benefit. Sounds like that, doesn’t it?”

Jayson’s head is down again, and he knuckles a tear away.

“Yeah,” he mutters softly. “And I always thought he was a jerk.”

“Maybe, but this,” I hold up the notebook, “says he had brains and also cared for you two.”

“Thanks. That will mean a lot to Mom, after everything she went through. So, what do we do now? Tell Mom and collect the twenty thousand?”

I glance up at Ted’s desk, where Chau Hang is just leaving. I hurry over to the door.

“Chau, would you like to do a little consulting for me? Say, in exchange for expenses in getting your negotiations set up?”

Surprised, she nods quickly.

I steer her back into my office and introduce her to the boys. We wait tensely while she looks through the little black notebook. Finally, Chau raises her head in wonder.

“I can’t be sure until I try running the experiments myself,” she says cautiously. “I know someone at the university who would let me use the lab for some of that. But it looks like a process for a solar receptive spray-on coating. Something that could efficiently generate electric power from the roofs and sides of buildings, for example. That’s what it looks like.”

“That’s gotta be worth a $20,000 reward!” exclaims Ramon.

“No, it’s worth millions, if it works,” Chau corrects. “Hundreds of millions, maybe. If it works, and if you can secure the IP.”

“Sounds like we’ve all got some work to do,” I remark.

“On contingency?” Chau asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I know some people who might put up cash for a share.”

“And my dad wanted to make sure we got this,” Jayson says slowly.

Ramon slaps his shoulder. “Sometimes dirt bags is just for vacuum cleaners, bro.”