by Adam Mitzner
Gwen was hard-pressed to figure out a cogent distinction between Davis and Hammon, but she was already versed enough in the art of persuasive advocacy to know that she needed to argue that Jasper Toolan’s alleged prior abuse of his wife was exactly like the facts of Hammon and could not have been more different from the scenario in Davis. The one very fortunate fact aiding that analysis was that Jennifer Toolan had not called 911. Rather, she had walked into the local precinct to file her complaint. That would be the hook to claim that her statements to the officers were “testimonial”—just like those in Hammon—and absolutely nothing like the 911 call in Davis that reported a crime.
“There she is,” Katie Van Slyke squealed when Gwen approached their table. “I was beginning to think you had gone into witness protection or something.”
“I’ve just been busy at work,” Gwen said.
Katie was Gwen’s college roommate and her best friend, or she had been back when Gwen spent more time with people than she did with her work computer. Even so, Gwen would have canceled their lunch date but for the fact that she hadn’t seen Katie in more than three months and feared that if she bailed today, Katie would organize an intervention.
“That was your excuse for missing my Galentine’s Day party. And also about New Year’s Eve at Rachel’s.”
It was true on both counts. Another one of their college crowd, Rachel Wood, had hosted a New Year’s Eve party. Gwen had planned on going, had been actually looking forward to it, and then had ended up celebrating the ball drop in a conference room at work, putting the finishing touches on a settlement that absolutely had to be dated December 31 for some tax reason but that was actually not completed until 3:00 a.m. on January 1. Then she’d RSVP’d yes to attend Katie’s Galentine’s Day party, and work once again had reared its ugly head.
“I know you’re a career woman now, and that’s all good, but I’m worried about you, Gwen. I never see you anymore, and you’re always working. Back when you were dating . . . He Who Shall Not Be Named . . . at least there was some fun in your life. Now I’m not so sure.”
Gwen had christened her ex with Voldemort’s moniker. What once sounded funny, however, now suggested something much more sinister about their breakup than Peter’s habitual infidelity.
“I’m good, Katie. No need to worry. Rumors of my spinsterhood are greatly exaggerated. I went on a first date just the other day with a guy I really liked.”
Katie’s face became animated for a moment, but then the waitress came by to take their drink orders. Katie asked for a glass of white wine by the vineyard’s name, while Gwen opted for club soda.
“I have to go back to work,” Gwen said by way of explaining her beverage choice.
“So do I,” Katie said with a grin. “Back to your date, though. Tell me everything.”
Gwen had forgotten how nice it was to share good news. She had precious little of it of late.
“Not much to tell just yet. He’s a broker at Maeve Grant. Nice-looking. Our age. From Michigan.”
Katie went over Gwen’s first date with Will the way lawyers interrogate witnesses—a no-stone-unturned approach that was relentless. In less time than it took for their salads to arrive, Katie knew that Gwen and Will had met up at Tao and that he had attended the University of Michigan, had been in New York for less than two years, and was not actually a broker but a trainee.
“And at the end of the date?” Katie asked lasciviously.
“We shook hands in front of the restaurant. It was kind of awkward, in a cute way. We were both going back to work. I thought he was going to kiss me good night, but instead he shook my hand and said, ‘I had a lovely time and I hope very much that you will see me again.’ He said it just like that. Like he was the Prince of Wales or something, you know?”
“He sounds like a romantic.”
“I guess.”
“So, when are you going to see him again?”
“We’re actually going out again tonight. But I just got put on this new case, and that may mean that I’m going to have to put my romantic life on a hold for a little bit. It’s okay because I’m super excited about the case.” Gwen waited a beat to build suspense. “I’m on the team defending Jasper Toolan,” she finally said.
Gwen expected Katie to be as excited about her work news as she was about her dating news, but she knew as soon as the words left her mouth that wasn’t going to be the case. Katie displayed the same disappointed face that Gwen imagined her mother would wear if she had been part of this conversation.
At six, Gwen’s evening plans were thrown into disarray by Jay Kanner.
“Benjamin wants more research on the forfeiture section,” he said.
As disappointed as Gwen was about the prospect of having to cancel on Will, the fact that she was disappointed—and not relieved—was a first for her in a very long time.
“The prosecution is going to claim that Jasper forfeited his right to confront his wife at trial when he murdered her,” Kanner said. “Their argument is going to go something like: It can hardly be the case that if Mr. Toolan had sent his wife two first-class tickets to the French Riviera for a long, all-expenses-paid vacation during his trial, Mrs. Toolan’s prior statements would be admissible, but because Mr. Toolan decided to murder her instead, they are not. So, we’re going to have to counter that.”
After hanging up, Gwen returned to the legal database. As if the legal research gods were matchmakers at heart, she found the case law she needed almost immediately: a 2008 Supreme Court opinion called Giles. In that case, the defendant shot his unarmed ex-girlfriend six times, once in the back after she was facedown on the floor. To rebut the defendant’s claim that he shot in self-defense, the prosecution sought to rely on the girlfriend’s statement to police, made only a few weeks prior, that Giles had threatened to kill her. They further claimed that Giles had forfeited his confrontation rights by making his girlfriend permanently unavailable—in other words, the same argument that the prosecution was going to advance in the Toolan case.
The learned justices of the US Supreme Court, however, ruled that whatever Giles’s reason had been for committing murder, it hadn’t been out of a calculated decision to prevent his girlfriend’s harmful testimony. As such, he did not forfeit his confrontation rights, and his girlfriend’s prior statements of abuse were not admitted at trial.
That settled the issue. Although Gwen couldn’t be sure whether Jennifer Toolan had been physically abused by her husband, she was certain that if Jasper had murdered his wife—and she didn’t for a second think that he had—it wasn’t a calculated decision to prevent his wife from testifying someday about an old abuse claim that she had already withdrawn, and over which he had never even been arrested. Which meant that she had the answer to the forfeiture question.
With her work done, Gwen would be able to get out of there and meet Will for dinner. She realized that even better than feeling disappointed about the prospect of having to cancel on him was feeling excited to see him.
12.
Will lived in what might have been a nice apartment but for the facts that he shared it with four other guys and it had only three bedrooms and one bath. It was in Murray Hill, which had become the newest haven for the city’s youngest residents, who had been priced out of the trendier neighborhoods in Brooklyn and therefore found themselves in Manhattan.
The five of them occupied the top two floors of what had once been, at least according to the plaque on the gate, the rectory for St. Gregory’s Church. The building was owned by a divorced guy who kept the lower levels for himself and his two young daughters, who visited Wednesdays and every other weekend.
Will had the smallest bedroom, but at least he lived in it alone. The master and the second were both shares that barely fit two twin beds. Will’s living quarters—created by a makeshift wall strategically erected in the living room to capture one windowpane—had clearly been configured as an afterthought to accommodate another tenant. He had crammed a quee
n bed inside, although it meant that the door always hit it, the clearance just short of allowing it to swing its full arc. The room was otherwise empty, allowing enough floor space for a narrow passageway barely wide enough for egress. The closet Will used, as well as the bathroom, were on the floor above him, where the other two bedrooms were located.
The most unfortunate part of the apartment’s layout, at least as far as Will was concerned, was that the communal space—the living room and adjoining tiny kitchen—were just outside his thin bedroom wall. Unless the other guys were asleep or out, they were always sitting there, usually watching TV with the volume way up.
When Will arrived home that evening, Cy was sitting on the sofa, watching a rerun of Bones, drinking a bottle of Dos Equis.
“Mr. Wall Street,” Cy announced.
Will had long since learned to ignore what had become his moniker among his roommates. The other guys worked for different tech start-ups. Even with a gun to his head, Will wouldn’t be able to describe effectively what any of their employers actually did or any of his apartment-mates’ job responsibilities.
He entered his tiny hovel and picked towels, as well as the last two days’ worth of dirty underwear, up off the floor. Laundry day was still a few days away, but in the unlikely event the evening ended in his room, he wouldn’t want Gwen to think he was a total slob.
Gwen had already seen him in a suit, so Will thought that a more casual look might work for him tonight. He put on his best pair of jeans, which fit snugly, a black button-down shirt—the sleeves carefully rolled up to just below the elbow—and boots that gave him another half inch in height, pushing him over the six-foot threshold.
On his way out the door, Will again crossed paths with Cy, who was still sitting on the sofa. He noticed two empty beer bottles on the coffee table and a third in his hand. Cy lifted his bottle of Dos Equis to eye level and said with a god-awful Spanish accent, “Stay hard, my friend,” and then laughed as if it was one of the funniest things he’d ever heard. Will could still hear the laughter when he exited the apartment.
El Rio Grande’s shtick was that it had two large outdoor patios with an indoor space between them. One patio was designated as Mexico and the other as Texas, although the same food was served in each. The only discernible difference between the sovereignties was the Texas side displayed the Lone Star State’s flag and lots of DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS signs, while Mexico took a similar pride in that country’s heritage. In February, however, neither patio was open, which made the enclosed restaurant between them particularly loud.
When the guacamole was placed before them, Will decided the time was right to share his news. “That new client . . . he opened an account and wired in eighteen million.”
Gwen’s face lit up. “That’s great. Congratulations.”
“Yeah, but there’s still a little hiccup. My boss . . . get this, his name is Robert Wolfe, and I swear, he actually looks like a wolf. He’s got this full beard and long hair and bleached-white teeth. Anyway, he’s demanding to meet with the client before letting me trade.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“The short answer is that he’s . . . the technical term, I believe, would be an asshole. The longer story is that the only reason he wants to meet my client is to steal him out from under me.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I was going to slow-walk it, but that’s not going to work. I have little choice but to set up the meeting. But I’m a little worried that might not solve the problem. My boss is definitely the kind of guy who, if the client doesn’t go along with his ideas, would think nothing of torpedoing the business altogether.”
“How can he do that?”
“He’d go to Compliance and make up some legal concerns.”
“Are there any?”
“Other than that it seems a little odd that the guy is letting someone like me manage so much money, no. But it wouldn’t matter. No client is going to wait around while Maeve Grant does a financial colostomy on every nickel they’re investing. So just by raising the issue, my boss scuttles the business.”
“And he’d do that?”
“Did I mention that the guy’s an asshole? I’m certain he doesn’t care about Maeve Grant as much as he does screwing me over.”
“I think it’s going to be okay, Will. You’re a dog, right?”
“I’m not a dog,” he said with a grin. “I’m like the dog.”
“Exactly,” she said, her smile beaming.
Will was fast realizing that Gwen was not like the other women he’d dated. She was whip smart and certainly had more candlepower than he did. That she was probably a notch more attractive too made him worry that he might not be bringing anything to the table, although he assuaged himself with the thought that perhaps he was underselling himself in the looks department. Besides, she must have seen something in him to agree to a second date.
The February air was still cold when they left El Rio Grande, but it no longer brought him to a shiver. Will was uncertain whether it was because of the alcohol or the actual temperature, but the fact that he could see vapor form in the air with their words told him that it was just as cold as before, maybe even a few degrees lower.
They made their way east, chatting aimlessly until they reached Gwen’s building, a high-rise on First Avenue.
“This is me,” she said.
Will waited, hoping for a sign indicating the evening was not over. Gwen leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. He didn’t move for a moment, then two, but after the third beat, he stepped closer, so that their bodies were touching, albeit with their winter coats providing a protective barrier. Gwen’s hand reached up into his hair, and Will put his hand on her back.
Gwen stepped back then, breaking their seal. When Will opened his eyes, he felt slightly dizzy.
“Good night, Will Matthews. Maybe you’ll take me out on a non-school night soon.”
13.
The email from the Cage arrived a few minutes after ten. The subject line read APPROVAL.
Will clicked it open.
Drogon: Account No. 3184242
Rhaegal: Account No. 7140331
Viserion: Account No. 2791816
A half hour later, Will’s phone rang. By now, “Blocked Number” was synonymous in Will’s mind with the name Sam Abaddon.
“I’m downstairs. I need your help with a special project.”
Will looked up at the clock. Too early to be plausibly out for lunch.
“I don’t know if I can get away.”
“I know that you can. I’m not entrusting eighteen million—and soon to be a whole lot more than that—to a guy who needs to ask permission to leave his desk.”
It was easy to weigh the risk-reward of the offer. If he left and Wolfe fired him for it, Will could bring Sam over to a new brokerage house. By contrast, if he said no and Sam pulled his business, Will’s career was over. Not just at Maeve Grant, but anywhere.
On his way out, Will stopped into Brian’s cube. “If the Wolfe is on the prowl . . . just make something up about where I am.”
Sam’s chauffeur-driven Lincoln Navigator was idling in front of the Maeve Grant Tower. Will climbed into the back to see Sam on the phone. Sam welcomed him with a hearty grin, then held his thumb and index finger close together to indicate the call would be short.
The car began to move into the traffic on Park Avenue, cutting across Central Park at Ninety-Seventh Street. After that they continued heading west, ultimately merging on to the Henry Hudson Parkway.
Sam was talking into the phone about some transaction that was being consummated in yen. Although Will should have known whether 500 million yen was a lot in dollars, he wasn’t certain. Finally, as they were driving under the George Washington Bridge, Sam ended the call by saying, “Denwa de no o wakare.”
He turned to Will. “Young Will, how are you on this fine morning?”
“I’m good. And you?”
“Absolutely amaz
ing.”
“Care to share where we’re going?”
“Of course. Didn’t mean to have you feel like you were being kidnapped. I just had to settle some business with the Far East first. They’re a day ahead of us, and this deal has a hard break at COB.”
Will nodded, acutely aware that Sam hadn’t answered his question about their destination. He decided not to pose it again. By now the signage on the highway indicated they were entering the Bronx.
“I’m having a get-together Saturday night at my place,” Sam said. “Mostly business people. I’d like you to come. It’ll give me the opportunity to introduce you to everyone at once as the newest member of my team.”
Sam paused. He seemingly viewed the invitation to a party in two days as sufficient explanation for why Will was in the back of his SUV driving through the Bronx in the middle of a workday.
“That sounds great. Thank you.”
“And bring a plus-one.”
“Okay,” Will said, hoping—praying, actually—that Gwen was free Saturday night. If not, he’d be squeezing Brian into a dress.
“I suppose a smart guy like you is right about now asking yourself why a party invitation for Saturday night required your immediate presence. And why we’re going to the Bronx.”
“Not going to lie, Sam. I was wondering that . . .”
Sam smiled and then looked away, as if he was momentarily tongue-tied. If that was the case, it would be a first.
“I want to put this delicately, Will. But . . . well, we’re going to pay a visit to my tailor. A fine gentleman named Mario Gazzola. He’s the best in the city. In fact, I’d put him up against my guy on Savile Row and the best they have in Milan too. Well worth the hike to the Bronx to see him.”
“Your tailor?”
“The party is black tie. I should have mentioned that. And forgive me, but I assume that you don’t have a tuxedo. And, again, with respect, I further assume that even if you do have one, it would be of a similar quality to your suits.”
