by Pat McKee
The Equity Account is the stuff of associates’ dreams, partners’ anxieties, and the key to the firm’s riches. I was Ali Baba with his first glimpse of the cave, stunned at the wealth arrayed before me. Partners were forbidden to talk about their shares in an effort to prevent intra-firm rivalry, but perceived inequities, slights, and favoritisms inevitably resulted in waves of speculation among associates and partners. But that was all it was, speculation. No longer for me. That instant my ignorance turned into astonishment.
“This is only an advance. The final accounting of your partnership profits will be made at the end of the year.” Fowler paused, his dark eyes boring into me. “Of course, your share of profits is completely dependent on the judgment of the Management Committee, based on performance. At your current rate you can count on profits averaging in excess of two-million dollars a year. This year they should be much more, as a result of the premium paid by Milano for your victory. Congratulations.”
Two-million dollars a year. This in addition to my salary. I never had dared to assume my share of firm income would be so much—maybe later, after years of devotion, but not so much so soon.
I had rehearsed this moment in my mind hundreds of times, the moment when all my efforts, my sacrifices, had paid off, the moment in my life when my doubts should be banished. But when the time came, I could barely bleat a response.
“Thank you. I just—”
Fowler shook his head.
“This is no gift. You earned it. And I expect you to keep on earning it. With partnership comes great responsibility. I expect complete loyalty from you, as I do from every partner. And you should know that I am not willing to accept your loyalty, or that of anyone else for that matter, on blind faith. I’m willing to take risks. But I do so with my eyes open.”
“Yes, Sir. I understand.”
I truly understood, as did everyone at Strange & Fowler. Security was a firm fetish, Fowler’s personal quirk.
The full extent of the internal security systems of the firm was revealed to few, and most of us were only enlightened concerning the measures that applied to our own areas of firm activity. There were rumors of clandestine overlapping systems that provided additional layers of security in the most sensitive areas, such as firm finance and intellectual property. As much as the firm’s efforts were supposed to be secret, the results were often too evident to ignore.
On occasion attorneys vanished, glimpsed only as security officers whisked them from their offices, special property teams assembling their files and electronic devices for remote audit and removing their personal belongings for delivery to their astonished family. One day a valuable member of the team; the next, disgraced and defending criminal action. As intrusive as the island security had appeared when I arrived, it seemed primitive compared to that of Strange & Fowler. I suspected that William Fowler’s own home would be at least as secure as the firm, and a glance around the study confirmed my suspicions as I observed several grey lenses, blinking red at every movement or sound they detected.
Mr. Fowler took a sip of his drink, and for the first time since we sat, he settled back into his chair, the business at hand now accomplished.
“Judge Richards is staying at the Abbey. We’re meeting him in the morning down at the range to shoot a little skeet—you know how that man loves to shoot skeet. You can relax here in the afternoon while I excuse myself for a meeting. I’ll be back in time for us to attend dinner with Anthony Milano. Anthony wants to thank you personally for what you have done for Milano Corporation. I understand his lovely niece Melissa will be in attendance as well. That last bit of information might interest a handsome, well-off young bachelor such as yourself.”
I again tried not to look surprised—not about the information concerning Melissa Milano, but about Judge Richards. Few judges could afford to spend much time at the Abbey, Frederica Island’s five-star resort hotel, where the daily fare for a room exceeds what a trial judge earns in a week. Judge Richards, who grew up on a one-mule farm in the north Georgia mountains, seemed one of the least likely to be able to bear the freight. Prior to becoming a judge, he had been a criminal defense lawyer, defending bootleggers and drug dealers, not a member of a big firm, who would have been able to draw significant cash for a run for the judiciary from affluent clients and partners investing in influence. Like many Georgia trial judges, it was the families of those he had kept out of jail and the hordes of others who identified with them who put him in office. He seldom received a campaign contribution exceeding the hundred-dollar threshold that required disclosure by the election ethics laws.
While I was curious how Judge Richards was able to stay at the Abbey and indulge his favorite activity at the Frederica Island skeet range, I wasn’t concerned so much about his financial condition. I was thinking about myself. Being seen so soon after trial with the judge who had presided over the biggest victory of my life would not look good, especially not at a place so expensive and out of his league. But if William Fowler wasn’t concerned about the appearance, then I couldn’t be either. I would pass my first test of loyalty. So, instead of venturing an unwelcome comment about the propriety of socializing at the Abbey gun range with Judge Richards, I rose to the bait Mr. Fowler dangled in front of my nose.
“Melissa is beautiful, smart, and rich.” I lifted my glass in a toast to Melissa and drained the last of the bourbon. “We connected a couple years ago at a symphony fundraiser. She had recently completed her Master’s in Finance at the London School of Economics when she was tapped as Treasurer for the Capital Campaign, probably as much for her financial savvy as for the money her family brought to the table. The last I heard, she was engaged to an Argentine polo player who had just signed a hundred-million-dollar endorsement contract.”
Fact was, I knew far more about Melissa Milano than I cared to let on. She had recently come to town and was getting her bearings. I had seen her only in passing at a few corporate meetings with Placido, but Melissa is not a woman easy to forget. So when I saw her at the symphony capital kickoff unescorted, I offered to show her around Atlanta. We went out many times, always casually, often to a Braves game, to a concert, or a restaurant, and I must admit that after a month of squiring Melissa around, I was as smitten as a schoolboy. But I was not the only one paying Melissa attention, and I was blindsided when I returned to Atlanta after a two-week trial in Charlotte to see a picture of her on the sports page hanging on the arm of a Hawks forward. Then there was the Argentine polo player. We never went out again.
I held no illusions about Melissa Milano. As gracious as she appeared, I realized she probably considered me more the hired help than a potential suitor. But a lot had changed in two years. I no longer was a highly paid wage slave, but now a partner in a powerful law firm, fresh off a highly public win on behalf of her family corporation. If I had another chance with Melissa, I wasn’t going to blow it.
“That was a rumor about the polo player, probably concocted by the boy’s agent. I can assure you Melissa is not engaged. Anyway, even a hundred-million dollars isn’t a lot of money to the sole heir of Placido Milano. Thanks to you.” Mr. Fowler’s face betrayed the faintest of smiles. “Oliver will show you to your room. He’ll see to it that you have everything you need. We’ll breakfast at eight.”
Oliver led me to a second-floor suite that overlooked the beach. Even as I turned in, the weather outside had not let up. I fell into a deep sleep to the sound of wind-driven rain against the windows and storm surge slamming the beach—with a grey lens focusing from the ceiling, blinking red with each breath I took.
Five
The early morning sun streamed into my room well before breakfast. The storm had passed, and I drifted into consciousness and back out again, no clear demarcation between dreaming and reality, sleep and wakefulness. I decided to get up, find some coffee, and enjoy the morning before the heat became unbearable.
Oliver was way ahead
of me, and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee led me to my first cup. Savoring the coffee and the serenity of the morning, I stepped onto the wisteria-shaded loggia that ran the length of the house and overlooked the ocean. I found a comfortable chair and began to get my bearings. Toward the ocean, a perfect green lawn terminated at a low brick retaining wall. Beyond it was a hundred yards of white sand and dunes, washed by the now-tranquil Atlantic and the sun, now a bright, orange ball just above the horizon. The shore curved outward to my right so that I could see the strand of homes along the beach, each one a bit further toward the rising sun than the one before, each one a unique vision of its owners’ tastes and desires—a vision unencumbered by concerns of mere expense.
The ocean spread before me. Since my childhood, I have yearned to come home to it. There was no one to be seen for miles in either direction; I had the ocean all to myself. Now was my chance to get reconnected.
I jogged to the beach, kicked off my boat shoes, stripped off my T-shirt, waded past the waves breaking on the sandbar, and dove. I pushed myself down, farther, deeper, and opened my eyes. The ocean all around was a constant presence, a being. The sun shone through the green water, shafts of light illuminating the world around me, a place of quiet, peace. Sea creatures darted around me.
A face appeared, beautiful, young, feminine, unfamiliar, smiling, beckoning. I longed to stay, but could not; my lungs burned. I kicked and burst the surface breathing deep the salt air. The sun and salt burned my eyes. I searched the water for the source of my vision. I saw nothing.
I turned to the beach and surveyed the island from a hundred yards distant to anchor myself in reality. Though I could see much of the south end of the island, my view to the north was in part obscured by the brick wall that lined the Third Street side of the Fowler cottage. The wall ended at the edge of the lawn. There, one had an unobstructed view up and down the beach. I could see something just beyond the wall that piqued my interest, the appearance of something unusual on this well-established island: new construction. Seldom was anything new built at this end of the island because there were few places left to build. I waded back to the beach, climbed on the retaining wall, and peered into the neighboring lot.
It was an almost-completed home that looked much like a newer version of Fowler’s cottage, a villa of stone, iron, tile, and terra cotta. A number of mature oaks had been planted around the cottage, where it was evident from the otherwise-uninterrupted tree line extending on either side that several had been uprooted for construction. The exterior was complete, and a team of workers swarmed in and out, intent on finishing their work. Unlike most construction sites, however, there were only muffled sounds of hammering and sawing, not the shrill whine of power saws and rhythmic pounding of pneumatic nail guns.
I looked at my watch and realized I had taken longer than expected. I sprinted back to the cottage, snatching and throwing on my shirt and shoes along the way, and entered the breakfast room off the loggia as Oliver produced two plates: one in front of an already-seated William Fowler, who was studying the newspaper, and one destined for me.
“I trust you slept well, Paul.”
“I did. Just enjoying the morning. Time got away from me.”
“That happens a lot here on the island. Have a seat.”
Oliver placed my breakfast before me.
“I hope you like Eggs Benedict.”
“My favorite.”
Fowler returned to his paper for a moment as I cut into the perfection of a poached egg.
“So I see you discovered our new neighbor.”
He caught me with a bite half-chewed, and I finished it before I spoke.
“Well, Sir, I was surprised to see new construction. I didn’t think there were any parcels left on this part of the island.”
“There aren’t. Quite a story connected with that lot.”
“I think I remember an article, something about a real estate developer getting in hot water for tearing down a cottage . . .”
“Right. There once was a lovely cottage on that spot owned by an elderly couple from Chicago. They were somehow connected with Wrigley’s, I believe. When they passed away, the cottage remained in their estate, unused, for years. Without regular care it deteriorated.
“Along about that time there appeared on the island an Atlanta real-estate developer possessed of an extraordinary amount of money and little else. He had been rebuffed in several attempts to acquire one of the island’s most desirable cottages. He found that the heirs of this estate were more interested in cash than in keeping a place they never had even seen, and he was able to purchase the cottage, but only at an exorbitant price. Once in possession of the cottage the developer proceeded to tear it down, and along with it uproot most of the two-hundred-year-old live oaks that shaded the property.”
“That’s it. But I thought he built something else there.”
“You may be recalling the newspaper accounts of his razing the cottage and the huge modern monstrosity he built in its place. It was completely unsuited for the island. The Atlanta papers mockingly gave the developer several awards. He didn’t get the joke. The island residents were incensed. It seemed to me he actually believed he was providing us poor benighted fools an education in architectural style. Well, he soon found he was unwelcome on Frederica Island. The brisk business he was doing in Atlanta came to a halt overnight, and his real-estate empire failed. His bankruptcy trustee could get only pennies on the dollar for that outrageous structure.”
“So what happened to it?”
“One of my neighbors acquired the property, tore down the eyesore, and is building the tasteful cottage you discovered this morning. He discretely let it be known that it was available, and I am happy to say that we have a delightful new neighbor who just put a contract on the cottage.”
“Who’s that?”
“Judge Richards.”
Fowler peered over his paper.
“I’m sure he’d be happy to give you a personal tour after skeet this morning. You should have plenty of time before our dinner with the Milanos.”
We finished our breakfast in silence, Fowler devouring the newspaper, my mind racing to a hundred different conclusions.
Oliver drove us to the shooting club in a pristine, deep-black, forty-year-old Mercedes Cabriolet that had belonged to Mr. Fowler’s father, top down, the ocean breeze cool. On the way we took an impromptu tour of the south end of the island, by the Beach Club and the Abbey and past a grove of ancient oaks said to have been established before the Declaration of Independence. The shooting club was off the island, across the estuary on a small hammock near the island causeway, the range sited across the marsh.
Judge Richards was already outside the field house with an attendant, assembling his shotgun himself. We walked over to greet the judge, and Oliver retrieved two gun cases from the trunk. I recognized the three golden circles and three golden arrows that serve as the mark of the five-hundred-year-old arms firm Beretta.
“William. Fine day for shooting.”
“Judge, you know I’m happy to go shooting with you any day.”
“Paul, I’m glad you could join us. I know William is proud of the work you did in the Milano trial. You were brilliant.”
“Thanks, Judge.”
“Ever seen one of these?” The judge broke his shotgun, checked the barrels, and handed it to me with the assurance of someone who had been around guns all his life. “Holland & Holland.”
To be more precise, it was a Holland & Holland Royal Deluxe side-by-side 12-gauge shotgun with custom hand engraving, by the company that makes arms for the Kings and Queens of England. This shotgun cost about as much as my new car. I turned it, snapped the barrels closed, and sighted it across the marsh. A perfect drop, a magnificent gun, and a work of art. I broke the gun and handed it back.
“I’ve only seen those in locked gun cases.”
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“I’m sorry, Paul, but I only brought us a pair of Silver Pigeons. It seems the judge has us out gunned.”
“Out gunned and out manned. Come on. I’ll let you shoot it, once I beat you a few rounds.”
Skeet shooting is a sport designed to ready one for shooting birds in the wild. But even in the South, there are few game birds left outside private hunting preserves, so most people don’t get to do much more that shoot at clay targets, called pigeons, thrown to simulate the flight of birds. I usually shoot clays. I wasn’t a very good shot, and I was pretty sure that not even a Holland & Holland would sharpen my eye.
Judge Richards took position first, signaling ready.
“Pull.” The clay disk launched from a trap at the far end of the range, the judge’s shotgun blasted a single round, and the target exploded into dust. The three of us alternated at eight positions around the semicircular range and fired 25 shots each. The first round Judge Richards hit 24, though I would have scored his only miss as a hit, since he clipped the clay, but it had failed to break. Fowler shot 20, and I, a dismal 16. I didn’t get much better in the next two rounds, but the judge shot one perfect round of 25, and Fowler’s best was 23.
“Good thing you’re better in the courtroom than you shoot.” Judge Richards handed me his gun. “Try a couple shots with this.”
While it had been balanced to within an ounce and hand engraved by dedicated artisans, the judge’s gun did little to improve my shooting, and I hit only three of five. By this time my shoulder ached, and I had almost lost what little patience I possessed. I had spent most of my adult life laboring in a steel-and-glass tower, not honing my hunting skills on a quail plantation. But after last night, I had reason to think that might change.
“Tell you what. You come out tomorrow morning, let me show you what you’re doing wrong, and I’ll have you shooting in the 20’s before noon.” I opened the barrel and handed the shotgun to Judge Richards. He broke it down and placed it in its walnut and brass case, waving off the attendant who approached with an oiled cloth to wipe down the gun.
