by Allan Topol
What really happened? She had to find out.
Almost at the glass booth, manned by armed guards, she noticed the sign. “NO CELL PHONES BEYOND THIS POINT.” Hell, she still had a couple more minutes, she thought. And there was something she could do, even before the funeral.
She checked the contacts on her iPhone and dialed Sara Gross, her former schoolmate and friend, now a doctor in Oxford, waking her in the middle of the night in Ohio. “I only have a minute.”
She told Sara about the call from Anguilla.
“We can talk on Tuesday morning, but when Vanessa’s body arrives will you examine it?”
“Of course. What am I looking for?”
“Anything you can tell me about how she died.”
After a pause, Sara said, “I’ll do that.”
Allison realized that she hadn’t given Sara any guidance, but she didn’t know what she was looking for. Still, Sara was smart. If Vanessa’s body disclosed any evidence about her death, Allison was confident Sara would find it.
Washington
Leave it and move on, Martin chided himself. But easier said than done. He felt it like a twenty-pound weight hung around his neck.
He was usually able to compartmentalize. But not today.
Suddenly he remembered it was Veteran’s Day, a holiday for some in Washington. But not for him. He had tons of work at the office.
Francis was still sleeping. He trudged downstairs, brewed a pot of coffee, had some cereal, and headed to the office.
Three hours later, Martin was sitting behind his green leather top desk in his corner office overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue, twelve floors below. He lifted the china cup and swallowed the bitter black coffee as he watched lanky Paul Maltoni, clutching a legal pad and pen with his curly black hair as unruly as ever, come into the office and sit in front of his desk. Paul was Martin’s star associate, who had been with the giant law firm Martin had founded and headed for eight years.
Martin felt a common bond with this brilliant young lawyer who, like Martin, came from a modest background and rose to the top of his class at Yale Law School as a scholarship student. Martin expected Paul to become a partner in another year.
“We have a big new case,” Martin said. “And I need you to work with me on it.”
“Sure, Andrew. What’s it about?”
“Global Media wants us to challenge the proposed FCC Rule calling for a Board of Censors to review and to cancel television shows for undue sex or violence. The so called ‘decency regulations.’”
“As a violation of free speech?”
“Correct. And we’ll also have some procedural issues relating to the rulemaking. They decided to fire their current lawyer.”
“I’d love to work with you on that.”
“You’d be perfect for it, but …” Martin hesitated. “Look Paul, you’re an excellent lawyer, but you love working on lots of things. Sometimes too many. You have to learn to say no.”
Paul looked chagrined.
“This is a discussion we’ve had before,” Martin added softly. “So if you don’t have time, it won’t be good for me and it won’t be good for you.”
“I am busy now, but not overloaded.”
“Okay, but we’ll be operating on a tight schedule.”
“I’ll give it all the time it needs.”
“I should have the background material later today. I’ll …”
Martin’s office phone rang. Hoping it was Arthur Larkin calling about the Supreme Court, he stopped talking and held his breath, waiting for Alice, his secretary, to answer. Seconds later, she buzzed on the intercom. “Arthur Larkin, White House Counsel, is holding for you.”
Martin lifted the phone to his ear.
“Hi, Arthur. What’s up?”
“Can you meet with me over here this afternoon. Say three o’clock?”
Martin looked at his calendar marked for a conference call at two thirty with his partner Janet Derby and people from Merck about FDA approval for a new drug application. Janet could cover it.
“That works for me. You want to give me a subject?”
“I’d rather do it in person,” Arthur responded in his usual gruff tone.
“Fair enough. See you at the White House then.”
Putting down the phone, Martin felt his body tingle. Well, there it was. Braddock wanted to consider him for chief justice. No, he couldn’t count on that. Never mind what the New York Times said yesterday. Arthur might want to talk about something else—or worse—solicit Martin’s view about who should be considered.
Swept up in what Arthur’s call might mean, he’d forgotten about Paul, who was clearing his throat. “Okay, we’re finished,” Martin said. “Alice will send you the material when we receive it.”
Paul left, and as Martin walked across to the cherry credenza, he studied the photo of Chief Justice Hall seated in a high-backed black leather chair with Andrew, standing beside him, holding out a law book. He still remembered Hall’s note, “To Andrew, my clerk, my friend. With best wishes and my hope that you will one day sit in this chair.”
And maybe, he would.
* * *
By the time he reached his office, Paul’s stomach was churning. All he had overheard was that the president’s counsel wanted to meet with Martin. Paul had read in the Times yesterday about Chief Justice West’s resignation and Martin named as one of the people being considered to succeed West. He didn’t think it was a coincidence. More likely, Arthur wanted his old tennis buddy to become chief justice.
Damn it, Paul thought. It was so great working with Martin. And so challenging. Somehow, Martin always found solutions—ways to argue cases that no one else saw. Paul would hate it if Martin left.
Also, there would be the personal impact for Paul. With Martin remaining at the firm, Paul was a certainty to make partner unless he peed on one of the oriental carpets. But with Martin gone, and other powerful partners viewing him as Martin’s associate, it would be an open issue. Paul was well aware that law firms, like all organizations, were full of petty jealousies and resentments.
Paul thought about the first time he met Martin. After graduating from Yale Law and clerking on the DC Circuit, Paul had been working in a neighborhood legal services office in Washington. At its annual banquet at the Washington Hilton, the organization was honoring Martin for the contributions his law firm had made to the program. Two weeks before, Paul’s father, who ran a small roofing firm in New Haven, had fallen off a roof. While the accident wasn’t fatal, his dad would never work again. He didn’t have disability insurance and Paul’s only sibling, Gabriella, was a grad student in a PhD program in English at Columbia. That left Paul as the sole source of support for his parents.
After the banquet, Martin invited Paul for a drink at the Cosmos Club. Paul was surprised to hear that Martin knew all about his legal career, and also about his father’s injury. Without beating around the bush, Martin offered Paul a job as an associate at the firm with a hundred thousand dollar signing bonus and said, “We’ll even help you get a mortgage when you decide to buy a house.”
As a law student at Yale, Paul would have viewed working at a large law firm as a sellout, but he had to help his parents. And it might not be so bad. He’d be working on cutting-edge legal cases, even if it would be for corporate clients.
So Paul made a spot decision to accept.
If Martin left, Paul should still make it. The partners all gave him outstanding reviews. Only Jenson had been critical. Paul sensed that Jenson was jealous of Martin, resented having to share Paul’s time, and might want to strike at Martin through Paul. He’d been so pissed when Jenson once told him, “You’re Martin’s fair-haired boy.” And Jenson, Paul knew, coveted the chairman position. So if Jenson moved up …
He chided himself. This isn’t about you. Martin deserves it. Paul couldn’t imagine anyone else with Martin’s smarts. The whole country would benefit from his wisdom and judgment, instead of just the firm’s money-g
rubbing clients.
Paul heard the office phone. “Caller ID,” said Jenson’s secretary, Grace. The environmental case he’d been working on with Jenson for two years flashed into his mind, settled last week on great terms. So what the hell’s he want now?
“Will you come up here?” Grace said.
She sounds more like her surly boss every day.
“I’m on my way.” Paul looked around for a yellow legal pad. Finding it wasn’t easy. This office is a pig pen, he thought. He remembered when dating Vanessa, and he’d taken her here, she’d said, “How can you get anything done in a mess like this?” Nonplussed, he’d responded, “But I know where every piece of paper is.”
He located a pad in a pile on an ancient wooden chair, standard issue for associates. Before heading up to Jenson’s, he tucked in the tails of his blue button down, put on his navy suit jacket, and slipped a couple of pens into his pocket. His suit was Macy’s. Martin wore Lanvin. One day Paul’s suits would be Lanvin. And after he became partner, he’d spice up his wardrobe with some of those colorful shirts and ties, like Martin.
Feeling like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window he looked across the atrium to see if that cute paralegal was in her office. She wasn’t. He grabbed the crossword from this morning’s New York Times and headed out.
To keep in shape, he took no elevators between floors. Only interior staircases. He found himself puffing as he climbed three flights and thought he better start running again and lifting weights. And find another woman. After a year, agonizing over Vanessa’s break up with him was stupid.
On the twelfth floor, he walked along the stately corridor, an antique grandfather clock its only decoration. Jenson’s office was at the corner diagonal to Martin’s. He got no smile from Grace. “He’s on the phone,” she said, pointing to Jenson’s closed door. “He’ll buzz when he’s ready.” Paul always had to wait for Jenson, and it irritated him.
But the man had a brilliant legal mind. He had to give him that. Otherwise, Jenson reminded Paul of a toad. He was five eight, pudgy and bald, except for a ring of black hair mixed with gray around the side of his head. This crowned a tough looking face with a sharp nose and chin and a tight mouth with thin lips. From going on the firm’s retreats, Paul knew that Jenson played at tennis and golf with no skill or style.
Unlike Martin, usually considerate of Paul’s time and feelings, Jenson could care less. Paul thought Jenson went out of his way to be rude. Other associates told Paul he was the same with them and they all dreaded working for him. Jim, in the office next to Paul’s, admitted he got so tense working for Jenson that he couldn’t get it up with his wife.
Paul noticed the light go off on Jenson’s line. Sullen Grace said, “He’s ready for you now.” As Paul walked in, Jenson curtly said “Hold on a minute while I make some notes on the last call.”
Paul looked across at Jenson standing at the specially designed wooden lectern he used as a desk, with papers on the sloping front part and a computer on the flat rear shelf—something to do with his bad back.
Waiting, Paul glanced around at the football memorabilia from Green Bay Packers victories, including helmets and jerseys. Vince Lombardi, pointing his finger, targeted Paul from a picture on the wall.
Jenson was chomping on an unlit cigar while he made notes.
He put his pen down and took out the cigar. “The firm has a good opportunity. We’ve never worked for the State of California, but I cultivated their new attorney general at a conference last month. Today, he called me about a dispute they have with Nevada over Colorado River water. Nevada is planning to divert more than its allotted share before it gets to California to support growth in Las Vegas. He asked me to think about their legal options and to call him next week. If they like what we show them, he’s promised a lot more work.”
“Shouldn’t they file in the US Supreme Court?” Paul said right back. “The Court has original jurisdiction of disputes between states.”
Jenson nodded. “Precisely what I was thinking.”
Now he’s going to draft me to work on it. Damn it.
“Listen, our little star,” Jenson said. “I want you to join on this, and prepare by early next week a first draft of California’s brief as if they were filing in the Supreme Court. That’ll impress this California AG. He’s already sent me all the key documents. I can e-mail them to you.”
Damn! Damn! Damn! “Mr. Jenson,” Paul took a deep breath. “I’m willing to take this on, but I can’t promise you a brief by early next week. By the week after next I can, for sure. Unfortunately, I’m already committed to other work for this week.”
“For Martin,” he added. He was frowning. “A big new matter for Global Media.”
Jenson pursed his lips. “Fine, Maltoni,” he said, piqued. “I’ll get somebody else.” He pointed the cigar at Paul for emphasis. The chewed down end was wet and falling apart. It smelled disgusting. Jenson flung it toward a wastebasket. He missed. He left it on the floor, and went over to the credenza where he opened a wooden humidor, extracted a fresh cigar, peeled off the wrapper, and shoved it into his mouth.
Paul felt like saying, “Look asshole, one week can’t possibly matter since the case hasn’t even been filed; regardless, you take your brief and shove it.” But hell, wait a minute, if Jenson were to become chairman … Paul needed to work this out.
“I have an idea,” he said. “I’ll get Diane. She’s a second-year, very smart and fast, to work with me. I’ll do my best to make it next week, but to be safe, let’s figure early the following week.” Paul paused, then added, “I’d like to work on this case. And you know I can give you as good a brief as anyone.”
Jenson didn’t respond. Then he snarled. “Humph.”
Paul sensed that meant he’d agreed.
“Okay,” Jenson finally said, “But it better be a good brief.”
“Have I ever given you one that wasn’t? Those summary judgment papers I just did got us a great settlement.”
“Alright. Alright. That’s enough. Try for Friday. And it better be your work, too. Not just Diane’s.”
Feeling pleased, Paul charged down the stairs. He lined up bright-eyed Diane to help him.
Between Martin possibly becoming chief justice and Jenson, Paul saw his path to partnership as a minefield. But he would find a way to navigate through it.
Beijing
Liu Guan sat at the head of the polished rectangular table in the director’s conference room adjacent to his large corner office in the Xiyuan headquarters of the MSS. The four men he had selected to be members of his select operations committee were the best people in the agency. He had divided up the world among them. Chang had Europe; Chu, Asia and the Pacific; He, Africa; and Peng, Latin America. Liu reserved for himself control over operations in the United States.
He took one final puff on his cigarette, blew smoke circles in the air, snuffed it out, and began talking.
“We are embarking on a new day for Chinese intelligence operations,” Liu said. “Our old methods of relying primarily on our information coming from our scientists and engineers who travel abroad to conferences, as well as on information from foreign tourists, including ethnic Chinese, who happen to come to China for meetings, will still be utilized.
“But these will be secondary. We are now establishing an extensive network of agents in place in foreign countries, often as members of our embassy staff or as journalists. These agents in place will be charged with obtaining secret information in their host country and relaying it to Beijing. This change is consistent with our new status as the primary rival of the United States in the world order. We are on the verge of surpassing the United States economically and militarily within ten years.
“I want each of you to develop in thirty days a plan for installing at least ten agents in place within your assigned territory. Those will be the beginning of much more extensive networks of Chinese spies throughout the world. I won’t tell you how to do it. Each of you should use your imag
ination and creativity.”
Liu paused to push back his wire-framed glasses and to run his hand over his pencil thin mustache.
“Now are there any questions?”
Looking around the silent room, Liu felt the vibration in his jacket pocket of an electronic device, connecting him to his secretary. She was aware that this was an important meeting for Liu. She would not have sent him a text message unless it was critical.
Liu removed the device and glanced at the message: “President Yao wants you to come to his office as soon as possible.”
Whenever Liu received a summons from the Supreme Leader, he dropped anything he was doing.
“This meeting is now over,” Liu said. “I will be expecting each of your plans in thirty days.”
The fifty–eight-year-old Liu marched back to his office. Though he was five foot ten, not a short man, he wanted to stand higher than most other men to gain a psychological edge, so at the MSS he wore platform shoes, which added another three inches, but they slowed him down. That wasn’t a problem. He wasn’t running any races within the MSS headquarters.
“Car ready?” he barked at his secretary.
“Yes, sir. Chou is out in front. He’s arranged a motorcycle escort.”
Xiyuan in the West Garden section of Beijing, near the Summer Palace, was only seven miles northwest of Tiananmen Square and the president’s office. The late afternoon traffic in central Beijing was fierce, and the motorcycles with their sirens and flashing lights, indicating an important official, were essential for Liu’s car to cut through the gridlock. Beyond that, Liu, the son of a wealthy Shanghai real estate developer, loved the trappings of wealth, the symbols of power that elevated him above the common man.
Ten minutes later Liu was in the back of a plush black Chinese-manufactured limousine with tinted glass windows forcing its way through traffic. He had no idea why Yao wanted to see him.
