by Grant Mccrea
16.
WHEN I GOT TO WORK the elevators were down. Firemen slogged about the lobby, heavy with rubber clothes, oxygen tanks, large axes. Bomb scare, someone said.
A sign from God. Fuck the Lockwood hearing. I’d call the court. Plead natural disaster. Unforeseen contingency. Death and destruction. Lower back pain.
I called the other side. Pled my case. They agreed to an adjournment. We called the judge’s clerk.
No problem, he said.
It worked.
I was free.
I figured I’d drop by FitzGibbon’s office. See what I could see.
I grabbed a cab to the Consolidated Can building.
The cab smelled of stale cigarettes, and distress.
I negotiated the three security checkpoints. I found myself on the thirty-third floor. FitzGibbon was in.
The salsa guy was there, sitting like a stiff in his usual spot.
Furniture. It comes in all shapes and sizes.
FitzGibbon was leaning back in his chair, feet on the desk. He had on a pair of what looked to be very expensive snakeskin boots. And a seersucker suit. I hadn’t seen one since New Orleans.
I told him about my talk with Jules.
FitzGibbon didn’t ask me how Jules was. He didn’t ask me whether there was anything he could do to help.
Instead he leaned forward, looked me in the eye, and said, Hey, as if the thought had just occurred to him, you don’t think he’s innocent, do you?
I tried not to look too surprised.
It’s not my job to make that judgment, I said.
He leaned back in his chair.
I admire that, he said. I really do.
Well, I said. I’m doing my job.
Mmm, he said, and looked off into the distance.
He leaned forward again. Gave me a long and searching look. Didn’t say a thing.
The guy was not normal.
Or maybe he was trying to get me rattled. Sizing me up. See how I handled it.
Either way, I decided not to push the envelope, yet. Probably not prudent. To alienate the firm’s biggest client, fishing for dirt.
I’d like to come back and talk to you some more, I said. After I’ve got a little more information. I want to dig around a bit.
Sure, he said, the toothy smile growing larger. Anything for a lowlife.
I returned the smile.
There was another long pause.
You look a bit like Harrison Ford, he said.
Ah, I said. Thank you.
I wasn’t sure it had been intended as a compliment, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. All I could think about was how to get the hell out of there. Before things got even weirder.
It’s been a pleasure, I said, and got up to leave.
But it wasn’t going to be that easy.
Redman, he said as I reached the door.
I turned around.
I assume you’ve got some good Trusts and Estates people?
New business, I thought, switching to rainmaker mode. This could be going somewhere. Maybe Warwick had been right.
Sure, I said. We’re a full-service shop.
I’ve got a little something I’d like somebody to take a look at.
Just give me an idea what it’s about, I said, so I can set you up with the right people.
I was thinking of Dorita. T & E was her specialty.
Well, he said, it’s a little delicate. But I guess you’re my lawyer, right? Attorney-client privilege and all that?
Strictly speaking Jules is my client. Though of course you’re paying the bills.
Are you sure? he said, looking none too pleased.
There’s no reason you can’t be my client too, I said. So long as there’s no conflict.
Conflict? Why would there be a conflict?
I don’t know. It depends on what it is.
Let me tell you, he said, just between you and me.
I wasn’t sure that it could be just between him and me. For one thing, Mr. Hairdo was in the room. But I let him talk.
You know that Jules and I haven’t always got along.
Yes, I said. I think you mentioned that.
I took him out of my will.
So I understand.
You don’t judge me for that, do you?
It’s not my job to judge, I said, truthfully.
I have my reasons. If you knew them, you wouldn’t judge me.
I’m not judging you, I said, not entirely truthfully.
I was, in fact, judging him. But I promised myself not to bill him for the time.
The thing is, he said, he’s got some trusts. From his grandfather.
I had wondered how Jules could afford a loft in Manhattan. I’d put it down to rent control.
Your wife’s father? I asked.
He got that vacant look again. He looked at Mr. Hairdo. Mr. Hairdo looked back. If something was communicated between them, I sure didn’t know what it was.
FitzGibbon turned back to me.
Mine, he said. Dad felt guilty, at the end, I guess. He left us some money. Put some in trust for the future grandchildren.
Ah.
Very substantial trusts.
Ah.
The income isn’t much. But when Jules turns twenty-five, he gets the capital.
I see.
It bothers me.
It bothers you.
Yes. I’d like to talk to somebody about it.
I was starting to get the picture.
Well, I said, that would seem to present a pretty stark conflict.
How so? he asked obstinately.
Jules is my client, as I said, even if you’re paying. And what you’re talking about certainly doesn’t sound like it’s in my client’s interest.
His face darkened.
It’s for his own good. The kid’s never going to come to anything as long as he can suck off grandpa’s tit.
Ignoring the bizarre metaphor, I stuck to my guns.
That may well be true, I said. I don’t doubt you. But that’s not a judgment I can make. Like I said, I’m not in the business of judging.
You’re in the business of getting paid by me, goddamn it.
His neck bulged with purple veins. I saw my nice new business flying out the door. But there were lines that even I was not ready to cross.
Yes, I said, you are paying the bills. I agree. But frankly, if you insist on this as a take-it-or-leave-it proposition, I’ll have to say no.
He glared at me. His neck throbbed.
It was a stalemate. I’d played it right. He was a tough guy. Tough guys admire toughness.
Listen, I said, here’s what I can do. I have a buddy, a very smart guy. A pillar of the T & E bar. He’s got his own firm. I’ll refer you to him. He’ll do a good job for you.
FitzGibbon didn’t look entirely mollified, but he nodded his large red head.
All right, he said. Have him call me. I’ll have him checked out.
17.
I WENT BACK TO THE OFFICE. The bomb scare, or whatever it was, was over.
I thought about FitzGibbon’s last remark. I wondered whether he’d had me checked out too. And if he had, what he’d found.
I called up John (Don’t-Call-Me-Jack) Kennedy. He and a buddy had spun off a small Trusts and Estates boutique. Wills. Old ladies. Trusts. Tax shelters. Helping the rich stay rich. John was very good at it. He had the perfect blend of perfectionism and schmooze. And a closet full of designer bow ties.
He was a touch over-sensitive about his name, however. I took a childish glee in exploiting it.
Hey, Jack, I said.
Don’t call me Jack, Dick.
You won’t be so rude to me once you hear what I’m calling about.
I’ll be the judge of that. Really, I mean it.
Okay, okay, shoot. You got some work for me. You’ll never let me forget it.
Right on both counts. But even better than you think. Listen up. We’ve got a big client. Big big.
Eamon FitzGibbon. CEO of Consolidated Can. You know him?
I know of him.
Good. Big, fat, red-faced, Irish charm. But most important, rich as Croesus.
That I knew. Even us T & E guys read The Wall Street Journal.
Especially you T & E guys.
Especially us.
Right after you finish with the Times obits. I know. Anyway. He needs some help. Estate stuff. Maybe some tax stuff. Doesn’t sound like much. But as sure as A leads to P with an ampersand you can make something big out of this.
I don’t doubt it. Sounds good.
Don’t doubt me. I can’t give you any details. Privilege, you know. Do a conflict check. Actually, I can tell you this much: it’s more than privilege. Dark-glasses-and-trench-coat stuff. Keep it quiet, okay? We’ll get together. Compare notes. Later. Just make him happy. We’ll go places, Jack.
Don’t call me Jack.
That’s my boy. Keep him happy, okay?
You said that already. You can count on me.
I know that. That’s why I called you, and not one of my other asshole T & E buddies.
I’ll try to ignore the ambiguity in that last.
Excellent.
All right.
All right.
18.
I COULDN’T SLEEP. Again.
I went downstairs to the kitchen, avoiding the living room on the way. I warmed myself a glass of milk on the stove. I always warmed my milk on the stove. The microwave made it taste strange. Like someone had peeled an onion over it.
I would have added some Scotch, but we ran a dry house. Except for Melissa’s statutory AA bottle. The temptation talisman. They’re supposed to keep one in the house. To show that they can live without touching it.
No smoking in the house either. No substances, Dr. Steiglitz insisted. I had to sneak out back. Maybe I should quit, I often thought. It’s bad for you, I’d heard.
I took my warm glass to the bedroom. I lay down. I turned on the TV. CNN. The Albanians were protesting in Macedonia. Fascinating. I watched blankly. I drank the milk slowly.
The milk didn’t do it for me.
I gave in to it. I had no choice. I got up. I smoothed the creases from my suit. I sucked in my gut. I said, okay, that’s you, in the mirror there. That’s you. You’re good-looking, sort of. Accomplished. Compared to most. You have nothing to fear. Get back to the bar.
And so I went. I glanced into the living room. Melissa on the couch, reading. I went out the back door. Around the side of the house. Down the block. Back to the Wolf’s Lair.
I sauntered through the door. It felt like I had never left. I looked around, surveying my territory. I sniffed the air, to see if any strange dogs had left new spoor.
I didn’t see Jake.
I felt a vague and unexpected disappointment.
Thom behind the bar. His welcoming smile.
The usual?
Can’t say no.
Make it a double?
Thom knew my predilections.
Twist my arm, I said.
Thom poured my drink, wiped the counter clean. The Scotch was warm and comforting. I took a magazine from the rack. The Economist. What’s happening in Armenia. The Minister of Justice announces court reform. Good luck.
Two stools down, an older guy. I’d seen him there before. Long gray hair. Ponytail. Kodiaks. Pall Mall non-filter. Thick hands. Thin lips. A worldly air. A working man. A poet. I remembered his name. Hal.
Hey Thom? I asked.
Rick.
You know this Jake guy?
Sure, he said. Been around here quite a bit lately.
Says he’s a carpenter. So I hear.
You know anybody can tell me if his work’s any good?
Not really, Thom said. But I can ask around.
I’d appreciate it, I said.
Hal turned to me.
Hey, man.
Hey, Hal.
What’s up?
Nothing much.
What brings you here?
I don’t know. Conflict. Disaster. Depression.
More laughter. The dark warm mahogany of the bar. The cool brass rail.
Hey, you were talking about Jake? asked Hal.
Yeah.
Kind of weird, that guy.
Weird? How so?
I don’t know. Just something about him. Something in his eyes. The way he looks at you.
How’s that?
Like you’re not there. Like he’s thinking of something else.
I hadn’t noticed that.
Look for it, next time. You’ll see what I mean.
I made a mental note.
Hal went back to his beer, I to my double. The Scotch began to do its work. The warm seeped slow and dreamlike into my extremities. I drank the rest. I sat awhile. My brain slowed down. I smiled, paid Thom, ambled for the door.
Now, I thought, I can sleep.
19.
MELISSA WAS ON THE COUCH, legs curled beneath her, head askew. Sleeping. I stood, wondering. Daring to wonder. What would it be like to make love to her? I’d forgotten. And anyway, my recollection, if I had one, would have been misleading. She was a different person now.
If I disturbed her she’d be angry. Her sleep had not come easily, since her return from the hospital. What little rest she got was precious. To her, and to the rest of us. When she’d had some sleep she was less difficult.
I found a blanket, spread it over her. I leaned over. Braced myself on the sofa arm. Looked into her face. The face I loved. I took a chance. I kissed her forehead. Her eyelids fluttered, but she did not wake.
A victory.
I turned away. I crossed the room. I went upstairs. The stairs were steep. My feet were heavy.
Exhaustion. The house was full of it.
20.
I SLEPT. I WOKE. It was black outside. I willed myself back to sleep. I woke again. The sun was up.
My feet were clammy. I could tell I smelled. I made myself take a shower. I avoided the mirror. Last time I’d looked, I’d seen small veins sprouting on my nose. I’d tried to console myself. Just the Second Law of Thermodynamics at work. Entropy. All things tend toward a state of maximum disorder. There was nothing I could do about it. It was a law. And I was a lawyer. I was bound to uphold the law.
I trudged to Kelly’s room.
Wake up, I said. It’s a beautiful day.
I know, she mumbled, turning over and putting a pillow over her head, I can’t wait til I’m awake.
Oh, all right, I said. I guess you’ve earned a late morning. I’m not sure how.
For being me, she mumbled.
That’ll do, I said.
At the office the air was heavy and gray. I answered some calls. I read some faxes and e-mails. I delegated some trivial tasks.
I had to get out of there.
I made an appointment to see the Assistant District Attorney in charge of Jules’s case. Some hotshot young guy, I’d been told. I knew I wasn’t going to get much out of him. But it was a good idea to feel him out. See which way the wind was blowing.
The ADA’s office was at the end of a long narrow corridor in an old gray building in lower Manhattan. The door was closed. The receptionist asked me to wait outside for a few minutes. While he finished a phone call.
There was nowhere to sit. I amused myself by examining the bulletin board. It was plastered with the usual bureaucratic detritus. Badly photocopied wanted posters. Employee of the month announcement, eight months out of date. Tattered menus from the many local take-out joints.
The office door opened. The ADA waved me in.
Hi, he said. Russell Graham.
He shook my hand with a firm grip. He had a strong chin and a Roman nose. A generic name. I could tell he was going places.
He shared a small room, replete with the usual government-issue squalor. Battered gray filing cabinets. Ancient oak swivel chairs. Ink stains. Piles of dusty files that looked as if they hadn’t been consulted since the Great Depression. And
, speaking of depression, a rumpled colleague, asleep with his head on his desk, his nose dangerously close to an ashtray overflowing with chewed cigar butts.
Russell, I said loudly. Pleased to meet you. Rick Redman. I’m representing Jules FitzGibbon.
The rumpled fellow lifted his head. Rubbed his eyes. Looked around in confusion. Scuttled out the door.
Russell gave me a rueful smile. Made no comment.
Good to meet you, he said.
You might change your mind about that later, I said.
He laughed good-naturedly.
How can I help you? he asked.
Well, frankly, I said, I don’t know anything about this Larry Silver case. I’d be happy to hear whatever you’re willing to share with me.
There was a pause while he thought about that.
There’s not much to tell, he said. It seems to be pretty straightforward. At least six neighbors heard the fight. The kid is found dead in the alley an hour later. Blunt trauma. That’s about it.
So I gather Jules is a suspect?
I think you can assume that.
Stupid question, I guess, I said with a grin.
He didn’t return the smile.
Any other suspects? I asked.
I’m not sure that I’m at liberty to tell you that.
I understand.
At the appropriate time.
Yes.
What about physical evidence?
You know, I’d like to help you. Or at least, I’d like to help you within the constraints of my duty to the State. Now, it’s no secret to you, I’m sure, that Mr. FitzGibbon, the father, is rather well connected. In fact, he’s the chairman of and biggest single contributor to the mayor’s antidrug campaign.
So I understand.
Of course, that would never affect the way we prosecute the case. But, well, you understand.
I wasn’t sure I did. I tried to say so as diplomatically as I could. With a questioning look.
Let’s just say, said the ADA, that I’m likely to be weighing my words perhaps a bit more carefully than I would in other circumstances.
I understand, I said. Of course. But if there’s anything you can tell me. About any physical evidence. That you’re at liberty to reveal.
