Judgement Day

by Andrew Neiderman

  He laughed again, clearly disdainful this time, but Miriam didn’t join him. Kevin had never been disdainful about the Boyles, Carltons, and Sesslers before. She had always assumed he wanted to be just like them.

  “Isn’t the lamb great tonight?” he asked, and she smiled and nodded, eager to put the discussion aside and slow down her heartbeat so she could rid herself of the flickering butterfly wings just under her breast.

  It worked. They didn’t talk about law or the case. More content after their coffee and dessert, they went home to make love as passionately as she could ever remember.

  But the following morning, she saw him go to the closet to find the pants he had worn to the Bramble Inn. He put his hand in the pocket and took out Paul Scholefield’s business card, looked at it, and put it in the inside pocket of the jacket he would wear to work on Monday.

  Throughout the weekend, Kevin had sensed a coolness in the community. The friends he had expected would call to congratulate him never called. Miriam had a conversation with her mother that he later found out was not pleasant. When he pressed for details, she finally told him that her mother had gotten into a fight with one of her so-called good friends defending him.

  He almost got into a fight himself when he stopped at Bob’s Service Station for gas Sunday morning and Bob Salter quipped that it was too bad the lesbians and gays were getting all the breaks in this country.

  So he wasn’t surprised at the cool reception he received at the office on Monday morning. Mary Echert, who served as his secretary and as the receptionist, barely said good morning, and Teresa London, Garth Sessler’s secretary, flashed a smile and looked away quickly as he made his way to his “hole in the wall.”

  Kevin wasn’t in his office long before the intercom buzzed and Myra Brockport, Sanford Boyle’s secretary, in a voice that made him think of a stern schoolteacher he had had in grade school, said, “Mr. Boyle would like to see you immediately, Mr. Taylor.”

  “Thank you,” he replied and snapped off the intercom. He stood up and straightened his tie. He felt confident, elated. Why not? In three short years, he had made a nearly indelible mark on this well-established old firm. It had taken Brian Carlton and Garth Sessler a little over five years each to achieve a full partnership. In those days it was Boyle and Boyle, Sanford working with his father, Thomas, a man now in his mid-eighties, still sharp, still imposing opinions on his fifty-four-year-old son.

  Kevin had feared Boyle, Carlton, and Sessler might resist offering him a partnership. There was a snobbery about them and about this firm. All three partners were sons of lawyers who were sons of lawyers. It was almost as if they considered themselves royalty, descendants of monarchs who inherited scepters and thrones, each with his own special kingdom, one with estate planning, another with real estate . . .

  They had the biggest houses in Blithedale. Their children drove Mercedeses and BMWs and went to Ivy League schools, two already close to graduating law school. All the professional people in the community looked up to them, valued an invitation to their homes and their parties, and valued their attendance at their own parties. It was as if becoming their partner was becoming anointed.

  Having been a member of the high society in this community all her life, Miriam was keenly aware of all this. They were at the point where they were going to build their dream house. Miriam talked about having children. Their upper-middle-class existence seemed guaranteed, and there was never any question about Kevin’s desire to establish himself in the small Long Island community. He had been born and bred in Westbury, where both his parents still lived and ran his father’s accounting firm. He had attended NYU Law and come back to the Island to find the girl of his dreams and work. This is where he belonged; this was his destiny.

  Or was it?

  He opened Sanford Boyle’s office door and greeted the three senior partners, and then he took the seat in front of Sanford Boyle’s desk, aware that it put him in the center, Brian Carlton seated on his left, Garth Sessler seated on his right. It looks like they want me surrounded, he thought, amused.

  “Kevin,” Sanford began. He was the oldest of the three, Brian Carlton being forty-eight and Garth Sessler being fifty, and he showed his age the most. He had the soft look of a man who had never had to do so much as mow his own lawn or take out his own garbage. He was nearly bald, his cheeks sagged, and his double chin trembled whenever he spoke. “You remember how we all felt about this case when you first announced you wanted to take it.”

  “Yes.” He looked from one to the other. The three of them sat like austere judges in a Puritan court, all the lines and features of their faces sculptured deeply, each one looking more like a statue than the man himself.

  “We all think you were absolutely masterful in that courtroom—precise and stinging. Perhaps too stinging.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You practically clubbed that little girl into submission.”

  “Had to do what I had to do,” Kevin said, sitting back. He smiled at Brian Carlton. The tall thin man with a dark brown mustache leaned back, too, the tips of his long fingers pressed together as if he were there to oversee the discussion and not participate in it; while Garth Sessler, as impatient with small talk as usual, tapped his fingers on the side of his chair.

  For some reason, Kevin never realized how much he disliked these three before. True, they were all bright, but they had as much personality as a data processing machine. Their reactions were as automatic and unemotional.

  “I’m sure you know the whole community’s buzzing. All of us have been on the phone most of the weekend with clients, friends . . .” He waved his hand in front of his face twice as if he were chasing away flies. “The fact is, the reactions are about as we expected. Our clients, on whom we are quite dependent for our living, are generally not happy with our position on this Lois Wilson thing.”

  “Our position? Haven’t these people ever heard of innocent until proven guilty? I defended her and she was exonerated.”

  “She wasn’t exonerated,” Brian Carlton said, lifting the corner of his mouth sarcastically. “The prosecution just threw up its hands and backed out after you trapped a ten-year-old girl and made her admit she had been telling some lies.”

  “Same thing,” Kevin replied.

  “Hardly,” Brian said. “But I’m not surprised you don’t see the difference.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Let’s get back to the point.” Garth Sessler interrupted. “As we tried to explain to you before you became so heavily involved in the case, we have always steered away from these controversial cases. We’re a conservative firm. We’re not looking for notoriety or publicity. That sort of thing drives away the affluent clients in our community.

  “Now then,” he continued, taking the reins of the discussion firmly, “Sanford, Brian, and I have been looking over your history with our firm. We find you a dedicated, responsible person with a promising future.”

  “Promising?” Kevin turned instinctively toward Brian. He had entered this office believing his future had arrived. It was no longer just a promise.

  “In criminal law,” Brian said dryly.

  “Which we are not interested in,” Sanford concluded. For a moment Kevin thought they were the Three Stooges.

  “I see. Then this is not a meeting to offer me a full partnership in Boyle, Carlton, and Sessler?”

  “A full partnership is not the kind of thing we just hand out overnight, you know,” Garth said. “Its value lies not only in the financial rewards but in what it means, and that meaning comes from the investment one makes in the community as well as in the firm. Why . . .”

  “However, we see no reason why you won’t become a full partner rather quickly in some firm that specializes in criminal law,” Sanford Boyle said. He flashed a polished smile and sat forward, his hands folded on his desk. “Not that we aren’t happy with everything you’ve done here. I want to repeat that.”

  “S
o you’re not firing me so much as letting me know I’d be better off someplace else,” Kevin said sharply. He nodded and relaxed in the chair. Then he shrugged and smiled. “Actually, I was considering tendering my resignation anyway.”

  “Pardon?” Brian said, leaning forward.

  “I already have another offer, gentlemen.”

  “Oh?” Sanford Boyle looked quickly at his partners. Brian remained stone-faced. Garth raised his eyebrows. Kevin knew they didn’t believe him, as if there was no possibility of his ever having thought of going to another firm. Their arrogance began to get under his skin. “With another firm in the area?”

  “No. I’m . . . not at liberty to say any more just yet,” he replied, the lie almost forming itself on his lips. “But I assure you, you will be the first to know the details. Excepting Miriam, of course.”

  “Of course,” Sanford said, but Kevin knew these three often made personal decisions without consulting their wives. That was another thing he despised about them—their relationships with their wives and children were too impersonal. He shuddered to think that someday the four of them might have been sitting around this office offering a partnership to a bright young attorney like himself who could easily have a much more satisfying and exciting career someplace else but who might be easily tempted to accept the security and respectability of (suddenly he thought, God forbid) Boyle, Carlton, Sessler, and Taylor.

  “Anyway, I’d better get back to my desk and finish up my paperwork on the Wilson case. Thank you for your half-assed expression of confidence in me,” he added and left them staring at his wake.

  When he closed the door behind him, he experienced a sense of delicious freedom as if he were free-falling from an airplane. In a matter of minutes, he had defied his so-called destiny and stood back like someone in firm control of his future.

  Myra couldn’t understand the wide smile on his face. “Are you all right, Mr. Taylor?”

  “I’m fine, Myra. Feeling better than I have in . . . in three years, to be exact.”

  “Oh, I . . .”

  “See you later,” he said quickly and returned to his office.

  For a long time, he sat behind his desk, thinking. Then he slowly reached into his pocket and took out the business card Paul Scholefield had given him. He laid it before him on the desk and stared down at it, but he was no longer looking at it; he was looking beyond it, into his own imagination, where he saw himself in a city court defending a man accused of murder. The prosecution had a strong, circumstantial case, but they were up against him, Kevin Taylor of John Milton and Associates. The jury hung on his every word. Reporters followed him through the courthouse corridors, pleading for information, predictions, statements.

  Mary Echert tapped on his door and brought in his mail, interrupting his daydream. She smiled at him, but he could see from the expression around her eyes that the chatter had already begun.

  “I don’t have any appointments today that I might have forgotten, do I, Mary?”

  “No. You are down to meet with Mr. Setton about his son tomorrow morning and asked me to get you the police report.”

  “Oh. Yes. That’s the sixteen-year-old kid who took a joy ride in his neighbor’s car?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Fascinating case.”

  She tilted her head, confused by his sarcasm. As soon as she left, he dialed John Milton and Associates and asked to speak to Paul Scholefield.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was on his way to Manhattan, and he hadn’t even called Miriam to tell her what had happened.

  3

  Boyle, Carlton, and Sessler had comfortable, tasteful offices back in Blithedale. Almost twenty years ago, Thomas Boyle had converted a small, two-story Cape Cod house into his and Sanford’s offices. Part of the charm of the office was its homey atmosphere. One did feel relaxed there; perhaps too relaxed, Kevin thought. He had never had that reaction before. He had always appreciated the domestic touch in the curtains and drapes, the carpets and fixtures. He left one home every morning to go to another. That was his original way of thinking.

  But the moment he entered John Milton and Associates, all that changed. He had gotten off the elevator on the twenty-eighth floor, which had a spectacular view of downtown Manhattan and the East River. At the end of the hall were the oak double doors with scripted writing that proclaimed “John Milton and Associates, Attorneys.” He entered and found himself in a plush reception area.

  The wide open space, the long tan leather couch, leather settee, and leather chairs announced success. Over the couch was an enormous brightly colored abstract painting that looked like an original Kandinsky. This was the way a successful law office should look, he thought.

  He closed the door behind him and stepped over the lush, velvety tan carpet, feeling as though he were walking over a layer of marshmallow. The sensation brought a smile to his face as he approached the receptionist, who sat behind a half-moon teak desk. She turned from her word processor to greet him, and he widened his smile instantly. Instead of being greeted by the homey, plain-faced Myra Brockport or the gray-haired, pale-skinned, and dull-eyed Mary Echert, who greeted clients back at Boyle, Carlton, and Sessler, Kevin was greeted by a scintillating dark brunette who could easily have been a contestant in a Miss America pageant.

  She had straight coal-black hair that lay softly over her shoulders, the ends nearly touching her shoulder blades. She looked Italian, like Sophia Loren with her straight Roman nose and high cheekbones. Her dark eyes were almost luminous.

  “Good afternoon,” she said. “Mr. Taylor?”

  “Yes. Nice office.”

  “Thank you. Mr. Scholefield’s anxious to see you. I’ll take you to him directly,” she said and stood up. “Would you like something to drink . . . tea, coffee, a Perrier?”

  “Perrier would be fine. Thank you.” He started to follow her across the lobby toward the corridor at the rear.

  “Twist of lime?” she asked, turning back to him.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He was mesmerized by the movement of her body as she led him down the corridor, stopping at a small kitchen area. She was at least five feet ten and wore a black knit skirt and white blouse with long sleeves. The skirt clung so tightly to her hips and buttocks, he could see the wrinkle as her muscles extended. It took his breath away. He laughed to himself, thinking how disapproving Boyle, Carlton, and Sessler would be.

  She handed him a tumbler filled with the sparkling liquid on ice.

  “Thank you.”

  The look in her eyes and the warmth in her smile sent a trickle of excitement down into his loins, making him blush.

  “Right this way.”

  They passed one office, a conference room, and then another office before stopping at the door that had Paul Scholefield’s nameplate. She knocked and opened it.

  “Mr. Taylor, Mr. Scholefield.”

  “Thank you, Diane,” Paul Scholefield said, coming around his desk to greet Kevin. She nodded and walked off, but Kevin was unable to pull his eyes from her for a moment. Scholefield waited with understanding. “Kevin, good to see you.”

  “Wonderful offices.” Paul Scholefield’s office was twice the size of Sanford Boyle’s. It had a high-tech decor, the furniture glossy black leather, the bookshelves and desk glossy white. To the left of his desk were two large windows that looked out over the city to the East River. “What a view.”

  “Breathtaking, don’t you think? All the offices have such views. Yours does, too.”

  “Oh?”

  “Please, sit down. I’ve already told Mr. Milton you’re here, and he wants to see you after we’re through.”

  Kevin settled back in the black leather chair in front of Scholefield’s desk.

  “I’m glad you decided to give our offer serious consideration. We’re literally inundated with new work,” Paul Scholefield said, his eyes brightening. “So, did your present law firm offer you a partnership?”

  “Not quite. They offere
d me an opportunity to find something else more suited to my nature,” Kevin replied.

  “What?” Paul held his smile.

  “Apparently, the Lois Wilson case and the manner in which I conducted it has proven to be an embarrassment to them. Legal devices, technique, all of it is all right as long as it’s done discreetly. You know, like manipulating some grandmother so they can get a piece of her estate or finding loopholes in the tax laws to fatten the pockets of their affluent clients,” Kevin explained bitterly.

  Paul shook his head and laughed. “Myopic. Quite provincial and narrow-minded. It’s why you don’t belong there, Kevin. Mr. Milton’s right about you,” he added, his expression becoming serious. “You belong here . . . with us.”

  “Mr. Milton said that?”

  “Uh-huh. He was the one who spotted you first, and he’s usually right when it comes to analyzing people. The man has remarkable insight.”

  “Have I met him?” Kevin asked, wondering how someone could be so sure of him without having met him.

  “No, but he’s always looking for bright, new prospects . . . likes to scout lawyers, go to hearings and trials like baseball scouts go to high school games. He saw you in action first and then he sent me. It’s the way he went about hiring all of us. You’ll meet everyone today—Dave Kotein, Ted McCarthy, and our secretaries. But let me show you your office first, and then we’ll see Mr. Milton.”

  Kevin took a final sip of his Perrier and rose to follow him out the door and down the corridor. They stopped at an office door that had obviously just had its nameplate removed.

  “Must have been something to tempt whoever it was away from this firm,” Kevin commented.

  Paul’s eyes grew smaller as he nodded. “It was. A personal tragedy. He killed himself not long after his wife died in childbirth. His name was Richard Jaffee, and he was a brilliant attorney. Never lost a case while he was here.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know.”

  “Mr. Milton is still quite upset about it, as you can imagine all of us are. But having you join us, Kevin,” he added, putting his hand on Kevin’s shoulder, “is going to cheer us up.”