Private Sector

by Brian Haig

  Well, there are many motives for entering the field of law, intellectual or moral fascination, parental expectations, greed, and outright confusion heading the list. Miss Westin was apparently driven by ghosts. I wasn’t sure that was altogether healthy. Actually, were I running this firm, there’d be a bomb-sniffing dog and a metal detector by the door on the off chance Miss Westin wanted to even up the score a bit. But that’s just me.

  Cy then said, “Don’t mention this to Sally. Or, for that matter, to anybody. We try to respect one another’s privacy, and only a very few of our senior partners know the tale. Our associates are bred to be competitive, and some would no doubt find ways to employ it as a weapon.” His expression turned grave and he added, “But you’re not in the hunt for a partnership, and you need to be aware that your behavior can affect her future.”

  “I’ll try to be responsible for my own screwups.”

  “Always a commendable attitude.” He shoved off from the door, flashed a smile, and placed a chummy hand on my shoulder.

  He suggested, “And I’ll bet you’re wondering why the Army agreed

  to use this firm.”

  “Actually, I’m not.”

  “Sure you are.” He gave me a knowing look and added, “I went to law school as a route into politics . . . Catholic University Law, in fact. A young Army officer named Tommy Clapper was in my studygroup. We got to be pretty good friends.”

  “Is that right?”

  As he walked out, he remarked, “We talk all the time.”

  That aside, I found myself liking Cy, and I think he sort of liked me. I don’t mean we were butter and toast, but I was marooned here because I pissed off my boss, and he was stranded here because he pissed off the American people. Set aside that order of magnitude and it did strike me that we had a bond of fellowship. Also, there was something of the charming rogue in him. I like a man with a few serious flaws. I can relate.

  Further, it’s an admirable skill to deliver a threat with panache, velvet gloves, and all that. Any idiot can say, “Cross me, mother-fucker, and I’ll lump you up good.” A diplomat smiles and says, “Here, doggie, doggie,” with a big rock held behind his back.

  The more impressive feat was that Sally Westin story. Talk about motivational force—how do you ignore that? The poor girl had all those awful demons in her head, and now it was up to little ol’me to see her that ass didn’t end up on the street.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SALLY RETURNED TO THE OFFICE MERE SECONDS AFTER CY DEPARTED. NEXT came a tour of the facilities, starting with the library, which occupied a quarter of the seventh floor. This entailed miles of expensive carpet, wood tables, leather lounge chairs, and sturdy shelves filled with thick books. Some thoughtful soul had arranged the interior decor to remind one of an English gentlemen’s club. The smell reminded me of a men’s locker room. I was getting nauseous.

  “Most firms,” Sally was saying, “use electronic services or books on CDs. It saves space and money. We took a vote and decided to retain a real library.”

  “Why?”

  “Time. The electronic services are extensive and up-to-date, but you lose so much time logging on and waiting for your searches to find a match. The partners don’t care, of course. But we associates care a great deal.”

  Actually, I didn’t care either. “Next, please.”

  Next turned out to be an elevator ride to the ninth floor, where the partners were housed. It turned out that a key controlled by the English lady behind the front desk was required to coax the elevator to take us to that floor. Do I need this bullshit? Anyway, I smiled and winked when we drew near, but she was too well-bred to acknowledge that. The brass embossed nameplate beside her right elbow indicated she was named Elizabeth. Best I can tell, nearly three-quarters of all English ladies are named Elizabeth, which I guess is really convenient for English gents because when they awake in the morning beside an unfamiliar face, they say, “Morning, Lizzie,” and something like six out of ten times the rest of the morning works out okay.

  “Seven senior partners and eighteen junior partners are here in the D. C. office,” Sally explained to me in the elevator. “New York, Philadelphia, and Houston have twice that many. And L. A. , which specializes in entertainment and sports, has three times as many. Boston is our real backwater, but we’re considered the poor stepchild and are working hard to rectify that.” Translation: The Washington associates wanted more partnerships and fatter pay-checks.

  The elevator door opened—no receptionist, more burnished wooden walls, sconces, and rich carpet. This was getting tedious, an upscale version of monochromatic. The hallway formed a long rectangle. Doors were on the outer walls, none on the inner walls. The partners’names were inscribed in stylized gold letters on their doors. There’s something very cool about having your name embossed on the door, an indication of stature, permanence, and job security. Also, nobody mistakes your office for the men’s room and pees on your wall.

  “The offices face outward,” Sally explained. “Senior partners are on the east, newer partners on the west. The middle section contains a conference room and dining room. Only partners and clients are allowed to use the dining room.”

  We continued walking down the senior partners’ hallway, and she pointed at more doorways. “That’s Cy’s. Next door is Harold Bronson’s.” After a bit more walking, with Sally pointing at more doors and repeating more names I made a point to immediately

  forget, we ended up back where we started, at the elevator.

  I asked, “What’s this case we’ll be working on?”

  “You’ll find out in a moment. Senior associates are largely in charge of the cases and report directly to the partners.” She looked at me and added, “You and I will report to Barry Bosworth. He reports to Cy. Like the military, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. But in fact, that’s the way civilians think the military works, the way Hollywood portrays that it works, and not at all how it really works. Nobody butts into my business, as long as I don’t give them cause. In fact, I was weeping with nostalgia.

  We passed by Elizabeth again, and I got another flinty look. Probably she wanted to ball my lights out and was too reticent to admit it. The English are known for their reserve about these things.

  But evidenced by the three steaming cups of java already positioned on his coffee table, Barry Bosworth appeared to be expecting us. He was straining to make a hospitable impression and, in fact, was coming around his desk, beaming idiotically and saying, “Welcome, welcome, Sean. Hey, I can call you Sean, can’t I?”

  “You already did,” I noted.

  He chuckled. It wasn’t the least bit funny, but he chuckled. Word spreads fast when you’re a pain in the ass.

  Incidentally, I hate it when people get all obsequiously friendly at opening meetings. From my experience, they’re usually the first ones to slide you the greased weenie when the chips are down.

  Anyway, he was moving toward the couches, asking, “Well, why don’t we sit down and get acquainted?”

  A few observations about my new supervisor, Barry Bosworth: early-thirtyish, lean, handsome, dark-haired, with one of those silly three-day-growth beards. His most notable feature was a pair of dark eyes that squinted with cold intelligence and colder ambition. He wore a shiny, expensive suit and, I guessed, had a BMW 760 parked in the garage, a wife and 1.3 kids in the shiniest suburb, and a car payment and mortgage that screamed he make partner or pack up the family and find a lousier neighborhood. But that’s a lot to surmise about someone you’ve only just met. Probably I missed a detail or two; like the mistress in the high-rise, and the BMW in the garage might be a 5 series wishing it were a 7 series.

  Anyway, he leaned toward me and said, “I hope Sally has shown you around?”

  “She did.” I asked, “So what’s this case I’m supposed to work on?”

  He smiled and asked, “Right down to business, eh? Time is money, right?”

  “Your time is money, Barry. At th
is moment, mine’s a waste of taxpayers’money.”

  He giggled, like I was making a big joke. I wasn’t. He picked up his coffee cup, took a few measured sips, studied me, and said, “Have you ever heard of Morris Networks?”

  It can sometimes be a good idea to confirm misimpressions, but in the event he hadn’t already concluded I was every bit the asshole he’d been led to expect, I shook my head. He, in turn, responded with a polite nod, as if it were perfectly natural for any grown-up with a television and access to newspapers not to have heard of Morris Networks. As I said, big-firm lawyers think we, their military brethren, are idiots.

  “Well. . . right.” He then suggested, “Why don’t we start at the beginning then? Twenty years ago, midway through his sophomore year, Jason Morris walked up to the dean of Stanford University and said he was quitting because the college had nothing valuable to teach him. I’m a Stanford man myself . . . undergrad and law. Imagine how the school perceived that, right?”

  “Right.”

  “This wasn’t just any college, Sean, this was Stanford, right?” Having made that point, he continued, “He took a job with AT&T, and by twenty-six, was a senior vice president. But he left for WorldCom, who were grooming him to become CEO. Then one day, Jason just walked in and quit because WorldCom had nothing to challenge or teach him.”

  “Sounds like Jason has perseverance issues.”

  Barry replied, “That’s very funny.” But he didn’t laugh.

  He continued, “Next, he went to a private venture capital group in New York City, was very good at it, and by thirty-three was worth around a billion dollars. He cashed out in 1995 and started his own enterprise. He had two very good ideas: that broadband was the future of telecommunications, and that fiber optics was the future of broadband. Others were investing in satellites or ways to squeeze more gigabits of information across copper wires. Jason believed they were idiots. His idea was to build a global fiber-optic network that would revolutionize the industry. His reputation drew investors like lemmings.”

  “Morris Networks,” I quickly suggested.

  “Same guy, same company. We’ve been representing him for several years. Outside our bankruptcy work, which now accounts for over half the firm’s annual billings, he’s our biggest client. We do nearly all the outsourced legal work for Morris Networks, and take my word, it has put the D. C. office on the map within our firm.” He dipped his head and added, “For instance, last year’s annual billings were in excess of fifty million dollars.”

  Geez. So, okay . . . divide fifty million big buckos by the twenty-five partners upstairs, and last year’s job security was in the bag. And if that spout kept pumping, they’d soon increase the number of D. C. partners, which gave motive, clarity, and intensity to that hungry look in Barry’s eyes.

  “And the types of work your firm does for Morris?” I asked.

  “Our firm, Sean.” He fixed me with a resolute look and informed me, “We’re all one team here.”

  Yeah? Then let’s compare paychecks, pal—but I didn’t say that. I said, “Okay . . . what do we do for this company?”

  “They’ve done twenty mergers and acquisitions to get their hands on technologies Jason felt he needed for his network. We handled all that. Also the work to get them patents, contracts, licenses, FCC and SEC work, overseas work, general corporate matters and financings, frequencies, and right-of-ways, and we manage

  their D. C. and state lobbying.”

  “What don’t we do?”

  “Not much—their in-house counsel handles internal legal issues, we handle external issues. They keep five partners and an army of associates laboring furiously on their behalf, and we have three foreign firms on retainer.”

  “And what case will I be working on?”

  “No need to get nervous, Sean.”

  “I’m not nervous, Barry.”

  “No . . . of course you’re not,” he replied dismissively. We regarded each other a moment. Clearly we did not like each other, and clearly ours was going to be a difficult relationship.

  But he continued, “Morris has a number of contracts to provide telecommunications services for government agencies, including HEW, the Labor Department, the FBI, and three or four Defense Department contracts. It just won another contract for a government agency called DARPA.”

  “The Defense Advanced Research Program Agency.”

  “Good. So you’re aware it’s where a lot of the top-secret programs emanate. The Department of Defense put out a bid for someone to provide backbone services for DARPA, to connect all its scientists and researchers on a secure videoconferencing network so they can share ideas and advances. Morris won, and two of the failed bidders have sour grapes. AT&T and Sprint launched protests, which is de rigueur in these things. The last hope for thwarted bidders is to try to get the decision overturned. It’s worth one point two billion over ten years.”

  I contemplated this, then asked, “And you’re—” He started to interrupt. “Right. We’re doing what?”

  “Defending against the protest. Partly working with the Defense Department, and partly doing missionary work with Congress, which funds these projects.”

  Everything he’d said up to this point made sense. It’s what makes this such a great country, and what makes Washington such a great city for lawyers. The Feds collect some two trillion per annum in tax revenue, it has to be spent, and lawyers are up front, writing the contracts, and at the back, suing everybody for breach of contract. It’s all one big foodfight, and the lawyers are the crumb snatchers.

  “Why me?” I asked.

  “Good question. Lisa Morrow worked on this same issue. We found her knowledge of the Defense Department quite helpful, and she found it equally fruitful. She learned a great deal about how your procurement practices work.” He added, “It’s pretty pathetic.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, you know . . . you’re dealing with military and government people.”

  “I see.” Which was shorthand for, You’re an asshole.

  “Also, when it’s government money, the face of politics sticks its ugly nose in. AT&T and Sprint have a lot of clout.”

  “And I’m allowed to work on this? No conflict-of-interest issues?”

  “We’ll keep you out of those areas that pose a problem. No lobbying in the Pentagon or the Hill.” He added, “But you can certainly meet with in-house counsel at Morris Networks to help prepare our case.” He put down his coffee. “Any questions?”

  He was assuming, of course, that I’d be around long enough to help out. Barry obviously wasn’t as smart as he thought he was.

  I said, “Not at this time.”

  “Good. Now, last point. That awful uniform has to go. And, yes, we’re aware that can present a financial burden, so we’re making the same arrangement we made for Lisa.”

  “And what arrangement would that be?”

  “Be at Brooks Brothers at 4:00 P.M. You’ll be fitted with everything you need. The firm pays the bill and leases you the wardrobe for twenty dollars a month. At the end of your year, it’s yours to keep. Also, you may occasionally be required to drive around clients, so we’ve taken the liberty of leasing a Jaguar sedan for your use.” He regarded me with a smug expression and added, “These are professional requirements that are unapproachable at your salary.”

  I stared at him, and he stared back at me. “I already have a few suits.”

  “I’m sure you do. And I’m sure they’re, uh, nifty suits . . . just . . . well, not nearly up to our quality standards. We can’t have a member of this firm walking around looking like a clown, can we?”

  “How about like a gigolo?”

  He laughed. “Don’t be an idiot. The people we represent don’t want to be seen with hungry lawyers. All new associates get this package.”

  Sally commented, “We’ve passed this by your inspector general’s office. It’s perfectly legal.”

  So what do I say? If I accepted, I was like a k
ept man, and I owed the firm something in return. But clearly I wasn’t being asked. So I didn’t say anything.

  Sally deposited me back at my office, where some idiot had stacked a foot of thick manuals on my desk. “Those are our operating and ethics policies,” Sally explained, and with a pointed look, added, “have them read by morning. A short test will be administered to ensure you understand the material.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m not. It’s routine. Fail, and you’ll have to sit through three days of instruction.”

  “And then?”

  “Then you’ll be retested. The firm is quite serious about its attorneys knowing its procedures and ethical standards.”

  “As it should be. And if I fail again?”

  “Associates are fired. In your case, the firm would probably notify the Army you can’t complete the program.”

  Well, this was suddenly interesting. I said, “Really . . . ?”

  “Yes.”

  I shooed her out and used the number Clapper had provided to call Lisa Morrow. A secretary answered and said she’d get her.

  After a moment a slightly put-out voice said, “Thank you for calling, but I’m happy with my current phone service and I’m not at all interested in a timeshare.”

  I laughed.

  She said, “Weren’t you supposed to call about six months ago? About a drink? A dinner? Something?”

  “Look, if you’ll please allow me to explain—”

  “Sean, don’t.” I heard her draw a sharp breath. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Lisa, I’m . . . well, I’m hurt. I’ve never lied to you,” I replied, very sincerely.

  After a pregnant moment, she said, “You’re right. That was unfair. I’m sorry.”

  “You should be.” I added, “I was in a coma the past six months. They say I kept mumbling your name. It’s the only reason they didn’t turn off the life support system. I, well . . . Lisa, listen . . . I owe you my life.”