by Brad Meltzer
“You’ll be fine,” Nathan said, repacking the microphone in the duffel.
“I was just thinking,” Lisa interrupted. “What if Rick doesn’t ask for the info?”
Ben shrugged his shoulders. “I guess we’ll just have to be happy with the pictures we get. If we can I.D. him, we’ll be able to finger him if he decides to act against me. And then we can at least link him with whoever his next Charles Maxwell is.”
“Speaking of which,” Nathan said, “do you have any idea what case he might ask for?”
“I was thinking about that,” Lisa said. “The American Steel case is a big money issue. That one’s got to be worth at least a couple of million.”
“No way,” Ben insisted. “As far as I’m concerned, there’s only one it could be: Grinnell.”
“You think?” Lisa asked.
“I’m sure,” Ben said. “That case is a potential gold mine.”
“How about clueing us legally impaired spectators in?” Nathan said.
“Howard Grinnell and a bunch of other investors own a gigantic old church in downtown Manhattan. About three years ago, they decided to tear down the church to build a new restaurant and shopping complex—just what New York needs. When they went to the zoning board for approval on their demolition plans, word got out, and the New York Historical Society and a bunch of religious groups asserted that the church was a historic landmark and couldn’t be destroyed. After major lobbying by everyone involved, the church was officially declared a landmark, and therefore was protected by the city. Grinnell and his investors eventually sued New York, saying that by not allowing them to build on their land, the rezoning was a taking of their property.”
“According to the Takings Clause of the Constitution,” Lisa interjected, “the state cannot take land without paying the owner a reasonable value for it. In this case, the value is the money the property would have brought in if it was made into a skyscraper.”
“But I thought you said it was rezoned,” Nathan said. “How is zoning a taking?”
“That’s exactly the question,” Ben said. “Zoning isn’t considered a taking as long as the zoning furthers important community interests. For example, a city can zone an area of land as residential to keep away commercial developers and to ensure that a community thrives. That’s fair zoning. The issue here is whether preserving a historic landmark furthers the community’s interests.”
“It obviously does,” Lisa said, “since the landmark is part of the community. It helps protect the history of the community, and it also helps attract tourists to the community.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Ben said. Looking back to Nathan, he explained, “Lisa and I disagree on this one. I think it’s definitely a taking. Just look at the facts: This investment group paid millions of dollars for this property, which, when they bought it, was allowed to have commercial development on it. They should have been able to rely on that information. Instead, Lisa thinks it’s okay for the government to come in and say, ‘Sorry, we changed our minds. You can’t build anything here and, moreover, you can’t even touch the church since it’s a historic landmark.’ That’s crazy. The government just waltzed in and effectively took the land from the owners. Grinnell and Company now have a dingy old church that’s basically worthless.”
“It’s not worthless. Now they own a historic landmark.”
“Lisa, no one is coming to New York City to see this run-down church. It’s not Disney World. They can’t charge admission. They’re stuck with it as is.”
“If the land needs so much protection, why doesn’t the government just pay Grinnell for it?” Nathan asked. “Why should a private citizen have to bear the burden of paying for a historic site that everyone else enjoys for free?”
“There you go,” Ben said. “I told you you should’ve gone to law school.”
“But the owner still owns a historic monument,” Lisa said.
“Big deal,” Ben said. “What are the bragging rights going to get you? If you can’t make money from it, you’ve got fifty million dollars sunk into a stamp collection you can’t sell.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Lisa asked. “Otherwise, we bulldoze history so we can have more strip malls.”
“Listen, I don’t want to sound like Scrooge here, but history doesn’t pay the bills. This group invested millions of dollars because they relied on the city’s zoning. If the city changes its mind, then the city should compensate whoever it screws. Period.”
“Ben, you’re saying we should—”
“Okay, I think we get the idea,” Nathan interrupted. “I’m sure you two can go at it all night, but some of us have work tomorrow.”
“Besides, it’s not our decision,” Ben said. “Hollis and crew will tell us what to write, and that’ll be it.”
“Precisely,” Nathan said, closing his duffel. “So let’s wrap this up. Is there anything else we need to discuss?”
“I think that’s about it,” Ben said. “Let’s hope it goes well tomorrow.”
“And if it doesn’t, I just hope you don’t freak out and become a sick and twisted version of yourself,” Ober said.
“What are you talking about?” Lisa asked.
“Oh, no,” Ben moaned. “Not the Batman theory.”
“What?” Lisa asked.
“I don’t know if you’ll be able to handle it,” Ober said.
“I’ll take my chances.”
Slapping his hands together, Ober said, “The theory is based on the idea that your whole life can fall apart in one bad day.”
“And how does this relate to Batman?” Lisa asked skeptically.
“Think about how Bruce Wayne became Batman: His parents were shot to death in front of his eyes. On that day, he lost his entire life and had to become something different to stay sane. Same thing with Robin—his parents died on the trapeze. Now think about the villains: The Joker fell in a vat of acid and was betrayed by those he trusted. Two-Face was hit with a vial of acid. In the movies, Catwoman was pushed out of a window and the Riddler lost his job. All it takes is one bad day to step over to the side of obsessive madness.”
“That’s a wonderful theory, but there’s one flaw,” Ben said.
“And what’s that?”
“It’s that THOSE PEOPLE AREN’T REAL! THEY’RE COMIC BOOK CHARACTERS!” Ben yelled, sending Nathan and Lisa into hysterics.
“So?” Ober asked.
“So, I’m not that worried about whether I’ll want to get myself a Bat-a-rang or become Gotham City’s newest villain. For some silly reason, I don’t think your theory applies to real life.”
“You say that now,” Ober said, “but you have no idea what tomorrow will bring.”
“You’re right,” Ben said. “I may not know what tomorrow will bring, but I’m pretty sure it won’t be a cape and a utility belt.”
When Ben, Nathan, and Ober returned home, they found Eric sitting at the dining-room table, writing. “Where were you guys?” he asked, putting down his pen. “I was starting to get worried.”
“We were—”
“Nowhere,” Ben interrupted.
“Ben, can you just stop it?” Eric asked.
“No, I can’t just stop it,” Ben said, walking into the kitchen to get a drink. “You started it, and now you have to deal with it.”
“I said I’m sorry. What the hell else do you want?”
“What do I want?” Ben asked, pouring himself a glass of cold water. “Let’s see: I want trust. I want respect.”
“Forget about it,” Nathan said, taking a seat next to Eric. “Everyone just go to bed.”
“Oh, and Ober,” Ben said, “I don’t appreciate you telling my mother about Eric’s and my argument. It’s none of her business.”
Ober sat on the couch, leafing through a magazine. “I just said it was a tiny disagreement.”
“Now why did you have to tell my mother that?” Ben asked. “Was that really necessary?”
“You kno
w how she is,” Ober said. “She started grilling me on what was going on. She’s relentless. It was like she could smell that something was wrong. That was the only thing I said, though. I swear.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. After that, I was strong.”
“Then why did she tell me that you also confirmed the rumor that I was sleeping with my co-clerk?”
A wide smile spread across Ober’s face. “That one I told her just for fun.”
“Thank you,” Ben said sarcastically. “Because of your idiocy, Lisa is now invited to my house for Thanksgiving.”
“She’s going to your house for Thanksgiving?” Ober laughed. “She’ll be eaten alive there! Oh, is this great, or what?”
“You may want to tell Lisa to wear a bulletproof vest,” Eric said.
Shooting a scowl at Eric, Ben turned back to Ober. “Just wait until I get your mom on the phone.” Picking up the blue duffel that was at Nathan’s feet, Ben headed toward the stairs. “You may want to bring the straitjacket back from the cleaners, just in case.”
Chapter 9
AT NOON THE NEXT DAY, LISA ENTERED THE office and announced, “They postponed it again.”
“How?” Ben asked, looking up from one of over two dozen cert petitions piled on his desk. “It’s Saturday—the justices aren’t even here.”
“Osterman just called Joel from home. They still haven’t decided it.”
“Unbelievable,” Ben said. “What was the reason? Do they want to make Grinnell the most drawn-out decision in history?”
“They actually made the deadline next Tuesday.”
“They moved Conference from Wednesday to Tuesday?”
“Just for next week,” Lisa explained. “They wanted to make sure everyone had off the day before Thanksgiving, so it has to be decided by then.”
“That was nice,” Ben admitted.
“They have their moments,” she said. Lisa sat down on the sofa and took off her shoes. She looked at her watch. “Only eight hours until the big meeting. Are you getting scared?”
“I definitely have butterflies.”
“At least now you don’t have to worry about being tricked into revealing the Grinnell decision.”
“I learned my lesson, thanks,” Ben said curtly.
“Don’t take it personally.”
“How can I not take it personally?” Ben asked.
“I’m not saying you’d blurt it out,” she said, “but your face might give it away if he asked you how the decision came out.”
“My dear, when one has a poker face like my own, one does not worry about giving things away.”
“In your little mind, do you really believe you have a great poker face?”
“I know I have a great poker face.” Ben gave her a stone-cold stare.
“That’s your poker face? You look constipated.”
“I look fierce,” Ben said, fighting to keep his features at full intensity. “I’m a wolf on the hunt. I’m prowling. I’m sleek.”
“You’re dreaming. If I saw someone looking at me like that, I’d think they were severely medicated.”
Coming out of character, Ben wagged a finger. “Don’t underestimate the power of a medicated stare. That’s how we won the Cold War.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “And Reagan’s entire reelection campaign was based on the success of the medicated stare.”
“I’m not listening to you.”
“If that’s the way you want to be, I should tell you that denial is a terrible psychological deterrent. It harms you in ways you cannot imagine.”
“It’s okay,” Lisa said. “I like to live life on the edge.”
At seven-thirty that evening, Ben packed up his briefcase and took his coat from the closet. “You all ready?” Lisa asked.
“I think so,” Ben said. He put his coat on his desk and felt his chest, checking for the fifth time that his microphone was properly attached. “I think that’s it,” he added, once again grabbing his coat. “As long as Nathan does his job, this should all work out. By tomorrow, we’ll have a bribery charge and a positive I.D.”
“Call me when everything is finished. Good luck,” Lisa said, leaning over to Ben and giving him a kiss on the cheek.
Ben smiled. “How hard did you have to fight your urge to slip me the tongue?”
“I could barely restrain myself,” she said. As Ben walked to the door, she added, “Just make sure you get Rick to proposition you. Without that, all we have are some pictures of two men eating dinner.”
“Consider it done.”
As Ben headed up Massachusetts Avenue, his mind was flooded with anxiety. Looking for people who might be following him, he glanced over his shoulder at two-minute intervals. The November night was cold—freezing to Washingtonians—and he turned up the collar of his coat. I come from Boston, he thought. This weather shouldn’t bother me. Half a block away from the Thai restaurant, Ben glanced over his shoulder. No one. Then he started speaking into his chest. “Breaker One-Nine, Breaker One-Nine, do you read me? This here’s Ober’s father, Robert Oberman, and I was wondering if my son is still lightweight in the brain. Do you read me?” As he approached Two Quail, he saw that the window table was empty. He once again peered over his shoulder. Still nothing. Finally, he glanced in the window of the Thai place and saw the disguised figures of Nathan and Ober. The two friends wore Washington, D.C., sweatshirts and matching mesh baseball caps from the Smithsonian. With cameras by their sides, they fit in perfectly with the late-fall tourist crowd. Nathan gave Ben a small but unmistakable thumbs-up to let him know that the receiver was working.
Walking up the stairs to Two Quail, Ben wondered what time Rick would show up. I’m sure he’ll be a little late, he thought.
Located in an old brownstone behind Capitol Hill, Two Quail was unassuming. All that identified it as a restaurant was the tiny burgundy and white sign above the entrance. What it lacked in elegance on the outside, it made up for with its opulent interior. Filled with antique furniture, Two Quail was designed to resemble a family home, where every room was a dining room. To further the lived-in look, the tables in the restaurant offered unusual seating arrangements: sculptural sofas, Art Deco love seats, antique wingback chairs, and refinished, upholstered benches. Ben approached the maître d’, who was dressed in black wool pants and a black cashmere turtleneck. “Hi, my name is Ben Addison. I’m supposed to meet a friend here in about five minutes.”
Looking down his list, the maître d’ said, “Yes, Mr. Addison, we have a reservation for two at eight o’clock. Would you like to sit now, or would you rather wait for your friend?”
“If it’s okay, I’d rather sit now.”
“Of course. Right this way.” He led Ben to the table by the window. “Enjoy your meal,” he said as he placed a menu in front of him.
“I’m in,” Ben whispered into his chest. “Can you still hear me?” From his vantage point, Ben could make out a distinct nod from his friends in the restaurant across the street.
“What’s he saying?” Ober asked.
“Hold on a second,” Nathan said, focusing on the voice that came through the tiny earplug he was wearing. “He asked if we can hear him.” Nodding his head, Nathan forced a smile and said to Ober, “Now all we have to do is wait.”
At a quarter after eight, Rick still hadn’t arrived. Where the hell is he? Ben wondered, taking a thin breadstick from the basket at the center of the table. Maybe he’s not coming. Maybe he saw right through our plan. No, there’s no way. He’ll be here. The skinny bastard’s greedy. He’ll definitely be here.
“Can I get you something from the bar?” the waiter asked.
“Huh?” Ben asked, startled.
“Can I bring you a drink while you’re waiting?”
Ben looked down and saw that he had crumbled the breadstick into tiny pieces that were now dispersed across the starched white tablecloth. “No. No, thank you.”<
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“He looks worried,” Ober said, peering through the telescopic lens of Nathan’s camera.
“Of course he’s worried,” Nathan said. “Rick’s fifteen minutes late.”
“Do you think he’ll show?”
“How should I know?” Nathan asked. “I don’t know this guy.”
Five minutes later, the waiter approached Ben. “Are you Mr. Addison?”
“Yes,” Ben said. Without saying a word, the waiter handed Ben a folded piece of paper. Opening it, he read the handwritten note that said: “Ben, how about moving this party elsewhere? Those tourists across the street are starting to make me nervous. Follow your waiter to the back of the restaurant, and I’ll take care of the rest. Naturally, I’ll understand if you don’t want to come, but if you don’t, this will be the end of our dialogue. Rick.”
When Ben looked up, the waiter said, “You can follow me, sir.”
“Where do you think he’s going?” Ober asked as Ben left the table.
“I have no idea,” Nathan said. “He hasn’t said a word. Maybe he’s just going to the bathroom.”
As he moved toward the back of the restaurant, Ben said to the waiter, “Y’know, here I thought I was going to have a nice relaxing dinner. Then, all of a sudden, bingo, I get a note that says to step outside. Can you imagine my surprise?”
“Holy shit, he’s in trouble,” Nathan said, picking up his camera and racing to put on his coat.
“What’d he say?” Ober asked as he followed Nathan’s lead.
“Just grab your camera,” Nathan said. Dashing out the front door, the two friends ran across the street and into Two Quail. As they entered the restaurant, they were stopped by the maître d’. “Can I help you?”
“Where’s the guy who was sitting at this table?” Nathan pointed.
“I think he went to the bathroom,” he said.
Rushing past him, Nathan ran through the restaurant. “Where’s the bathroom?” he yelled as he bumped into a busboy.
“Over there,” the busboy said, pointing Nathan to the back of the restaurant.
Nathan charged into the bathroom and pulled open each of the stalls. “Shit,” he said, seeing that both were empty. Leaving the bathroom, he ran into Ober. “He’s not in there,” Nathan said, standing in a small corridor in the back of the restaurant. Looking around, he saw an emergency exit at the end of the corridor. Nathan and Ober ran toward the door, pushed it open, and found themselves in the back alley behind the restaurant. Down the block, they saw a departing black limousine. “Quick, gimme my camera,” Nathan said. Ober handed it over. Nathan snapped four quick pictures as the car raced out of sight. “Damn!” he yelled as it disappeared around a corner.
