“Did you pack his things?” I asked.
“Yes. It was really quite sad.” She sighed. “All those years.” She ran her hand across the comer of his empty desk.
We were silent for a few moments.
“Would you mind if I looked through the boxes, Helen? Maybe there’s a clue.”
“Certainly.”
“I promise to put everything back in order.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry. It’s been a bit slow here. I’m just wrapping things up.”
“Will you stay on?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine her working for anyone else.
“I don’t think so. I’ve been asked to stay on, but I can’t imagine starting all over again with someone new.” She smiled. “Mr. Marshall was more than enough for one lifetime.” Helen moved to the door. “Well, I’ll be out at my desk, Rachel. At least until six o’clock.”
“Thanks, Helen.”
“Did you find anything unusual while you were packing?” I asked.
She turned. “No. It’s all there except for a few items. I found a few motions, some correspondence, and a draft of that brief he was working on the night he…the night he passed away. I sent them on to other lawyers who were working on the cases with him. His correspondence hasn’t been unusual. He wasn’t one for saving things. Very neat and orderly. He was quite proud of that.”
“I remember,” I said.
She left the room, and I sat down on the couch before the cardboard boxes. There were seven of them. I pulled open the first box. It was filled with framed photographs. There was one of Marshall, tuxedoed and grinning, shaking hands with Richard Nixon; it was signed, “To Graham Marshall—a fine American and first-rate attorney—Dick—3/15/70.” In another photograph Marshall and Gerald Ford were huddled in conversation: Marshall was wearing a dark suit, and Ford, pipe in hand, was in shirtsleeves with his tie loosened. There was a recent family portrait: Marshall and his two children in tennis whites, grinning and holding rackets; his wife in a lavender sundress and gold necklace, looking vaguely attractive and very expensive. There were other photographs—Marshall shaking hands with Chief Justice Warren Burger, toasting Senator Charles Percy, playing golf with Congressman Daniel Rostenkowski. Not a hint of a pet.
The next five boxes contained books—law books, history books, books of quotations, a dictionary. I flipped through several. Nothing unusual.
The final box apparently contained the contents of his desk: pencils, pens, a tin of Dunhill pipe tobacco, three pipes, scissors, stapler, legal pads, letter opener, and the like.
As I sorted through the boxes, I thought again about that peculiar gravestone: “A Nickname for Providence.” And that name. Canaan? Promised land? An odd name for a pet. I reached into the second box and pulled out Marshall’s dictionary, an old leather-bound edition. I flipped to the entry for “Canaan”:
Canaan (Kā nən). 1. The fourth son of Ham and the grandson of Noah. 2. In biblical times, the part of Palestine between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea; the Promised Land. 3. A small village in Massachusetts, founded in 1679 by Reverend Winthrop Marvell and disbanded in 1698.
I copied the definitions onto a sheet of yellow legal paper, folded the sheet, and put it into my briefcase.
“Rachel?” Helen Marston was at the door.
I gestured at the boxes. “Not much help here.”
“I’ve been sitting at my desk,” she said, “trying to remember.”
“And?”
“I still don’t remember a pet, but I think Mr. Marshall had a client named Canaan.”
“Really?”
“Perhaps. I can’t seem to recall who it was. But I remember working on something involving something called Canaan.”
“What do you remember?” I asked.
“Almost nothing. This was a few years back. Let’s see…1984 or 1985, I believe. Mr. Marshall devoted many hours to it. There were evenings, weekends.”
“Is there a file on it?”
“I have no idea.” She studied me. “There was something about that project that seemed fishy.”
“In what way?”
“Mr. Marshall handled everything on that matter himself. If there was a file, he kept it in his office. I may have typed a few things for it, but everything went back to him. He specifically instructed me to keep no copies of anything pertaining to Canaan.” She paused. “Mr. Marshall always was high-handed. As you know, he made his own rules. But these Canaan procedures were quite irregular even for him.”
“Is there a way to check if there’s a file on this Canaan?”
“I’ll ask the Inactive Files Department tomorrow. A file that old is probably in the warehouse. But they should be able to locate it with the computer. I’ll ask first thing tomorrow.”
“Terrific, Helen. I’d appreciate it. But try to make your inquiries sort of vague. Ishmael Richardson told me he wants this investigation confidential.”
“Of course, dear. I should have an answer by noon.”
“I’ll check in then. While you’re at it, Helen, ask them to look for a file on Maggie Sullivan. There might be a connection.”
Helen nodded and went back to her desk. I stood up and took one last look around the large office. No doubt the next partner in line was packed and ready to move in. The death of a senior partner was the starting signal for the Abbott & Windsor version of musical chairs. Several lawyers below the rank of the dead partner would lurch one space closer to the goal: a corner office with a view of the lake. By the end of this week some mid-level associate would be leaving his windowless “inside” office and moving into an “outside” office with one narrow window facing the dull tangle of expressways and warehouses of the west side of Chicago. That “outside” office would have been vacated by a senior associate or junior partner in favor of a slightly larger office with two windows facing the north side or south side. And that office, in turn, would have been vacated by a senior-level partner who would now lay claim to the treasured corner office of Graham Anderson Marshall, to have and hold until death do them part.
It was a nice office, with a view of Lake Michigan and Buckingham Fountain. I moved to the large window. From forty-one stories up, the giant Calder sculpture down in Federal Plaza looked like a discarded rusting paper clip.
Chapter Four
I left Graham Marshall’s office. On my way down the hall I passed Calvin Pemberton’s office. Kent Charles was standing by the door.
“Well, look who’s here,” he said with a smile, “the Miss Illinois of the American Bar Association.”
“Hi, Kent.”
“Haven’t seen you for a long time, Rachel. Not since you left us. How you been?”
“Not bad.”
“Cal and I were just talking about your favorite case. Bottles and Cans. You have a minute?”
“I guess.”
I followed Kent into Cal’s office. Cal Pemberton was sitting on the couch.
“Hi, Cal.”
“Hello, Rachel.”
I sat down on the chair facing the desk and scooted it around toward the couch.
Cal Pemberton was wearing a brown three-piece suit, vest buttoned, and a dark bow tie. Kent had his suit jacket off and his club tie loosened.
“So you two are going to run Bottles and Cans?” I asked.
“We’re going to give it a try,” Kent said as he walked behind the desk and sat against the credenza. He rested his arm on top of Cal’s computer terminal. “Cal and I were just going over some strategies for the next round of depositions.”
Kent Charles and Cal Pemberton were the two young heavy-hitters in the litigation department. Both specialized in antitrust litigation, although Kent also had a growing practice in white-collar crime. Kent was in his early forties; Cal was in his late thirties. Although paired together under Graham Marshall on the Bottles & Ca
ns litigation for more than a decade—long enough for people to think of them as a unit, like Siamese twins—they were an odd couple.
Kent Charles was a dark and athletic study in aggression. He had played linebacker for the University of Illinois football team. He was first-string his junior and senior years, even though his height and weight-six feet, 195 pounds—made him one of the smallest linebackers in the Big Ten. Illini fans at Abbott & Windsor claimed he had been a ferocious hitter with a reputation for head-spearing running backs and clothes-lining receivers.
He had that reputation in his law practice too. Kent thrived on combat, and sought it out even in otherwise friendly lawsuits—by noticing motions to be heard on the day after Thanksgiving or Christmas (thereby ruining his opponent’s holiday), by objecting to routine requests for extensions of court deadlines, by overwhelming opponents with interrogatories and document requests, by antagonizing witnesses and attorneys during depositions. He was savvy enough to pull it off—no easy task considering the number of lawyers in Chicago who were just waiting for the chance to get even with Kent Charles. Most would never get the chance. Kent Charles combined a total commitment to trial preparation with an uncanny ability to find his opponent’s jugular vein in a lawsuit while disguising his own. Clients, of course, loved him—as clients love any litigator who provides a vicarious outlet for their own aggression. Kent Charles was the quintessential hired gun.
By contrast, Cal Pemberton was the crafty schemer. If Kent Charles went for the jugular with a switchblade, Cal Pemberton dissected capillaries with a surgical laser. To Cal Pemberton, a lawsuit was a game of chess. He could sit alone in his office for hours, staring out the window, idly twisting a lock of his unkempt hair as he plotted moves and countermoves months and even years into the future. He rarely explained the purpose behind the obscure research assignments he gave to younger associates; as a result, the confused and frustrated associate would spend days in the firm’s library researching an issue that seemed to bear no relation to the lawsuit. But then, two years later, during the fourth day of a deposition, while Cal’s opponent stifled a yawn and checked his watch for the tenth time that hour, Cal would elicit a series of answers from an unsuspecting deponent which, when coupled with the earlier research project, would permanently alter the course of the lawsuit, and always to the advantage of Cal’s client. It took clients a long time to warm up to Cal Pemberton and his labyrinthine strategies, but once they did they insisted that he handle all of their cases.
Like any good commander, Graham Marshall had exploited the best that Cal and Kent had to offer. To Cal Pemberton, the bespectacled and brilliant loner, he assigned the byzantine litigation strategies that turned on subtle points of law and seemingly insignificant facts. To Kent Charles, the poor boy from Joliet who had battled his way into the rarefied atmosphere of the large corporate law firm, Marshall assigned the toughest depositions, the nastiest motions, the angriest clients. Kent Charles was clearly Marshall’s favorite, his loyal and enthusiastic disciple. Batman and Robin, the firm’s pundits called Graham Marshall and Kent Charles—never to their faces. If Cal Pemberton was jealous, he never let on.
Their personal lives were a study in contrasts also. Kent Charles played handball every day at the Union League Club; Cal Pemberton played bridge Wednesday evenings at the Tavern Club. Cal lived in the western suburbs with his shy, plain housewife and his shy, plain son. He was twenty pounds overweight and his curly brown hair was receding on top and usually in need of a trim everywhere else. Kent Charles lived alone in a highrise on the Gold Coast. His second wife—a stewardess—had been killed three years before in a midair collision over San Diego. After a remarkably brief period of mourning—which included according to the firm’s rumor mill, intimate ministrations from the wife of a tax partner who was out of town for a few days after the funeral—Kent had become again one of Chicago’s most eligible and active bachelors. That he was a widower seemed to make him even more alluring.
And Kent was, I had to admit, a hunk: dark blue eyes; thick black hair combed straight back; tanned face; dark mustache; even, white teeth. As I turned toward him, I felt—as always—that I was in the den of a charming but hungry carnivore.
“I hear you’re working on Graham Marshall’s estate,” Kent said, glancing at my legs.
“And I hear you’re dating the weather girl on Channel Nine,” I answered quickly, trying to mask my surprise. How did he know about my assignment already?
Kent grinned. “Rumors. I’ve never even met her.”
“Guess you can’t believe everything you hear these days,” I said.
Cal squinted. “Is there a problem with Mr. Marshall’s estate?”
I shrugged. “Not that I know of,” I said, glancing at Kent.
“Let me explain,” Kent said. “Someone saw you today at lunch with Ishmael Richardson over at the University Club. Four hours later you’re here in Graham’s office looking through his personal belongings.” Kent smiled and raised his hands. “We’re not spying on you, Rachel. It’s just that Hamilton Frederick stormed into my office thirty minutes ago demanding that I—how did he put it?—demanding that I reprimand you for failing to show proper respect to a partner. He claims you refused a drafting assignment from him. Worse yet, he said you were insolent.”
I feigned shock. “Me? Insolent?”
Kent chuckled. “That pompous clown thinks you still work here. Since I’m on the associate compensation committee, he wanted to register a complaint. I’m afraid you’re no longer within my jurisdiction.”
“Be sure to tell Ham that I’m sorry I can’t help him on that case,” I said with a smile as I got up to leave.
“If you have any questions about Graham,” Kent said, “give either one of us a call. Graham meant a lot to both of us.”
I walked back toward the main reception area. A few secretaries were still at their desks, earning overtime. Most of the lawyers were still in their offices. Like most large law firms, Abbott & Windsor never closes down. There are lawyers there at all hours of the night and day. The word processing department and the copy center run on three shifts around the clock. A special typing pool starts work at eight o’clock at night. In a closet off the coffee room there are five rollaway beds. There is a private shower on each floor, stocked with shampoo, deodorant, shaving cream, disposable razors, and fresh towels. I was glad to be leaving.
While waiting for the elevator I studied the piece of metal that “graced” the forty-first floor entrance to Abbott & Windsor. Art dealers in Chicago view senior partners of law firms as easy marks; over the years they have solemnly unloaded their garbage on them at exorbitant prices. Walk into any big Chicago law firm and you will find a large piece of tortured stainless steel, complete with bronze plaque, squatting in the lobby.
“Hey, gorgeous!” The voice was unmistakable.
“What are you doing loose?” I said, turning around. “Don’t tell me you made bail on that morals charge?”
“Bail? Shit, Rachel, you think that sheep is going to testify against me? Believe me, she felt the earth move.”
We were both grinning.
“How are you doing, Benny?” I asked.
“Same old shit, Rachel. You know the story.”
“I know.”
“Where you going?” he asked.
“Back to my office,” I said.
“Wanna grab a bite to eat?”
“Sure. Let me just stop by my office for phone messages. You never know. General Motors may have finally seen the light and decided to hire a good lawyer.”
“I’ll keep you company. This place is driving me crazy,” he said.
“I know the feeling.”
“And anyway, I got some weird info on Graham Marshall that might interest you.”
“Not you too. I thought everything was hush-hush.”
Benny gave me a big grin. “Rachel, t
he omnipresent Benny Goldberg knows all. How do you think I’ve survived with these goyim? And anyway”—he winked—“I’ve got something on Marshall you’re gonna love.”
Chapter Five
Benny and I walked down Monroe Street to Dearborn. The sun was to our backs, and there was a cool breeze coming off the lake. The last of the commuters brushed past us hurrying toward the train stations, squinting into the setting sun. We turned north on Dearborn and walked by the First National Plaza. The outdoor café on the Plaza was filled with young couples sipping wine coolers. In the shadows of the Plaza the Chagall mosaic looked like a giant slab of moldy cream cheese, splotched with pastel greens and blues.
“When are you going to marry me, Rachel?”
“Benny, don’t start that again. You know my mother wants me to marry a nice Jewish doctor.”
“Hey, I’m a juris doctor. What’s that? Chopped liver?”
Benny Goldberg was an anomaly at Abbott & Windsor, a chubby Jew among tall, athletic Wasps. Unlike the typical Abbott & Windsor lawyer, whose language complied with the television networks’ code of decency, Benny’s profanity was astonishing, apparently inspired by his chronic bowel disorders.
Benny also had a first name that sounded like a first name and a last name that sounded like a last name. This, too, put him in the minority at Abbott & Windsor, where most of the lawyers had interchangeable first and last names. The firm’s letterhead included Sterling Grant, Hamilton Frederick, Ishmael Richardson, Porter Edwards, Hayden James, Baker Scott, Townsend Ward, and—until recently—Graham Marshall. And centered at the top of the letterhead, the long-dead founding partners: Kendall Abbott and Evans Windsor.
Benny had been with Abbott & Windsor since he graduated near the top of his class at Columbia Law School six years ago. His longevity at the firm was due to a Mexican standoff between the firm’s need for Benny’s brain and the firm’s discomfort with everything that housed, fed, and transported that brain. Up until Graham Marshall’s death, the equilibrium had started shifting in the firm’s favor as Benny began approaching partnership age. Under ordinary circumstances Benny had no future at Abbott & Windsor beyond his thirtieth birthday. An Ishmael Richardson or a Townsend Ward would shudder at the prospect of introducing Benny to a client as “my partner, Ben Goldberg.”
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