by Allan Topol
“I had to ask.”
“The answer’s no, but you should drop that one from your repertoire.” Martin’s voice was sharp.
Arthur raised his hand. “Okay, don’t get pissed. What about money?”
“Tell your FBI people to see Walter Cox at PWC in town. He does my taxes. Has all the records, including ten years of tax returns. I’ll tell him to open up the books.”
“What’ll we find?”
“I filed and paid every year.”
“Good for you. What else?”
Martin sighed. “I had one bad investment a couple of years ago in Florida realty. There wasn’t much money involved.”
Arthur winced. “I got burned myself big time with a dot com during the go-go nineties. We should stick to law practice.” Arthur ran his hand through his hair. “Ever had any disputes with the IRS?”
“They disallowed $10,000 of the deduction I claimed on the Florida realty matter. No big deal. That’s it.”
“Will you be able to take a huge pay cut and live on the salary of the chief justice?”
“Absolutely. I’ve saved a lot from what I’ve made at the firm. I want to serve my country.”
“And you want the power that goes with the position.”
“Of course.”
“Now let’s return to the skeletons in your closet, the things you’d like not to read about in the newspaper, all the way back from putting chewing gum under your desk in fifth grade and feeling up Juliet, the girl with the big tits, in the seventh. Now’s the time to put it all on the table.”
Martin thought once more about Jasper’s call and calmly replied, “I already told you there isn’t anything.”
Arthur sighed deeply, finishing his coffee and refilling the cup.
Wanting to shift the discussion away from himself, Martin asked, “Who else is on the short list?”
“Mary Corbett on the Second Circuit and Lance Butler from the Fifth Circuit.”
Both formidable, Martin thought. Well respected federal appellate judges.
“It’ll be one of you,” Arthur continued, “unless all three go up in smoke. Anything to say about the other two?”
“They’re both good people.”
“I agree.”
“What’s your timetable?”
“All three of your names will be leaked to the Washington Post to run in tomorrow’s paper. The president expects to announce his choice within two weeks. The next step will be an FBI investigation followed by an interview with the president. Okay, we’re done. Keep your cell phone on whenever possible.”
Walking along the corridor from Arthur’s office, Martin felt like leaping into the air for joy and shouting “yes!” How far he’d come, he thought. The son of a steelworker in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania, laid off when the mill slowed down and forced to scrounge for work in construction. He had a mother with polio and a sister killed by a gang in high school. These were unhappy times. Then with the help of a guidance counselor, he won the scholarship to Yale established for a resident of Western Pennsylvania. Things soaring after that—Oxford on a Rhodes and Yale Law with scholarships, loans, and part-time jobs. And now maybe he’ll become chief justice of the United States.
Get a grip, he warned himself. He was still nowhere near being nominated. Butler and Corbett were tough competitors. The Senator Jasper incident with Vanessa was a huge cloud on the horizon. And Martin couldn’t let that interfere with his chances.
Though he hadn’t been offered the job, Martin realized he had to alert the other members of the law firm’s management committee before they read about him being on the short list in the press. He took out his cell phone and called his secretary. “Schedule an emergency meeting of the management committee this afternoon at six.”
* * *
Martin walked down the polished wooden floor with its oriental runners to the Fred Glass conference room. He liked management committee meetings to take place there as a way of remembering Fred’s instrumental role in starting the firm.
With his own departure now possible, Martin recalled dedicating the conference room two years ago. It was a month after Fred’s death. Martin had asked Betty, Fred’s widow, and their two children and six grandchildren to bring pictures of Fred to hang on the walls along with legal memorabilia of his accomplishments. They brought photos of a gigantic financing he engineered for New York State, shots of acquisitions for IBM, GE, Intel, and a stock offering for Aero Industries. They also showed his award from the president of Harvard for his fundraising. So now Martin might also be leaving. But the baby the two of them had spawned was powerful. It would thrive without its founders.
Martin never looked forward to these management committee meetings. Running an organization by committee is a plague. For years, with Fred’s acquiescence, he’d operated the firm as a benevolent dictatorship. He could have strangled that group of young partners who, ten years ago, demanded a management committee elected by all partners. He felt like King John at Runnymede. He had to acquiesce or the firm would disintegrate. But, he’d nonetheless maintained the real power by operating as chairman.
Entering the conference room he checked his watch. Five to six. He looked around. Three were already here. On one side was Meg Worth, head of the firm’s wills and estates practice. Good old Meg, stocky and solid in both appearance and outlook. She had pale blue eyes, rimless glasses, and a Dutch bob. In her mid-forties, she was always calm, always searching for the compromise.
Martin liked that she was a voice of reason. Next to Meg, was Tom Wilder, IP litigator and quintessential nerd. At fifty, he was a tall string bean with thinning black hair over a narrow face. His navy suit was rumpled. It probably had never been cleaned or pressed. Constantly tugging on his earlobe, he needed a shave, even at ten in the morning, but he was a technical genius. Recipient of a PhD from Cal Tech in near-record time, he tossed it all away and enrolled at Harvard Law. And what amazed Martin was that Tom could not only understand complex technical issues, but managed to explain them to a lay judge.
Across the table, was Michael Perry, Fred’s choice as his successor to head up the firm’s transactional practice. Short, with carrot red hair and intense gray eyes, he walked with a cane due to a congenital hip problem that couldn’t be rectified by numerous operations. He never lost sight of the bottom line, which made him such an effective negotiator, giving on the less important issues and digging in on what counts.
And next to Michael, the empty chair. Waiting for Jenson.
No big surprise, Martin thought. The guy must have a hidden camera somewhere in here so he can always be the last.
Finally, Jensen strode in. “Can we get started?” he said. “I have an important dinner meeting with a client.”
“We were waiting for you,” Martin replied.
Jenson looked at his Rolex. “It’s exactly six now.”
Meg laughed.
“I’m glad our little exchanges amuse you,” Martin said.
The others laughed as well.
Great camaraderie, Martin thought. “Okay. Down to business.”
He saw their eyes turn toward him. They must have all read yesterday’s Times. They had to know what was coming, why he’d assembled them on such short notice. “A couple of hours ago, I met with Arthur Larkin. He wants to place me on a short list for chief justice. I told him yes. The others are Mary Corbett, from the Second Circuit, and Lance Butler, from the Fifth. He’ll be leaking our names to the Post for tomorrow’s paper.”
For a moment, there was silence. Martin realized they were each thinking about how his leaving would affect them and the firm. His view was that his being chief justice would add luster to the firm. In that respect, it would be good for business and might even offset the loss of their largest rainmaker.
At last Tom said, “Congratulations. It’s a tremendous accomplishment for you and for the firm.”
Meg and Michael called out. “Here, here.”
Jenson nodded without saying a wor
d. Remaining silent, Jenson took out a cigar, rolled up the cellophane wrapper into a ball and tossed it to the far end of the table, then shoved the cigar into his mouth.
“Let’s talk about some of the practical problems,” Michael said. “Assuming that you leave.”
The commercial lawyer, Martin thought, ready to raise business issues.
“We have to face the fact,” Michael continued, “that we’ll lose some clients. Lortech and Aero, for starters. And lots of others.”
“That does not have to happen. It’ll take hands-on attention. But if we designate committed partners to follow-up with each client, we should be okay.”
“I think that’s right,” Tom said, tugging on his ear. “We’ll have to select individuals to be the contacts with each one.”
Martin said, “I’ll draw up a client list and designate each one’s new firm contact.”
Jenson stopped chomping on his cigar. “You can do that to get the process started, Andrew, but ultimately, the rest of us will have to decide who becomes the primary contact. We’ll be here.”
“That’s correct,” Martin said.
“Alright,” Jenson said, taking charge. “We now have a process for the client transition issue. First, Andrew draws up his proposed list. Then the four of us make the final decisions. Is everyone in agreement with that?”
The others nodded.
Jenson continued. “Now, next issue. Andrew, under the partnership agreement, you have an unfunded pension for life based on your last five years’ income. So that’s set. What about your recusal in cases involving firm lawyers?”
“I’ll disqualify myself from any case involving a firm lawyer. Ethically, I think that’s the way to go.”
“I agree,” Meg said.
“Are we finished then?” Martin asked.
“I have something else,” Jenson said.
“Sure. What?”
“FYI, I’ve been working on the Attorney General of California. And it’s paid off. We’ve been retained for the first of what I expect will be many cases. This involves a conflict with Nevada over water rights.”
“That’s great,” Michael said. “If it’s half as successful as Andrew’s work for New York, we should earn a bundle.”
“Agreed. I’m going all out. Paul Maltoni’s helping me draft California’s Supreme Court brief.”
Martin was startled. Paul, he thought, was working for him on the Global Media FCC case. He considered telling Jenson he was wrong. But his pleasure in that would only make problems for Paul. The Global Media case was damn important. He hoped to hell Paul knew what he was doing.
Martin gathered up his papers and left. Though his knee was bothering him, he sucked up the pain and went for a walk along the mall. A stiff breeze was blowing. The temperature plunging.
“Hot chocolate?” a vendor asked. A couple of joggers passed.
After the management committee meeting, he was now more than ever longing to be chief justice. He loved being a lawyer, but he was ready for a change. Ready to move on to something new and exciting.
Meantime, he was still at the firm. He had to deal with the Global Media case. If I stay, I want to win that one, he thought. Before returning to the office, he stopped for a cappuccino at a small café.
Back in the office, he saw Meg sitting next to his secretary’s desk.
“The brethren sent me as their representative. We’re all sorry that we got a little carried away discussing practical issues. We want you to know how proud and pleased we are for you. We really hope you get it.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. We’ve been together a long time.”
“And we genuinely do appreciate all you’ve done for us.”
* * *
Xiang had run cross-country at Carnegie Mellon. He looked like a runner as he walked into his kitchen at 4:15 in the morning, dressed in running shorts, a plain gray sweatshirt to brace against the thirty degree temperature, and sneakers. He grabbed a cup of coffee and a piece of stale bread and headed out to Connecticut Avenue and then into Rock Creek Park.
It was still dark, with heavy fog covering the area—typical for November in Washington. The trail, filled with leaves, was deserted as he expected it to be. Xiang passed the tree with a large hollow hole in the trunk facing away from the trail which he used as one of the spots for Jasper to drop documents which Xiang later recovered. He continued running. Ten minutes before 5 a.m. he reached the meeting point. No sign of Jasper. Xiang sat down on a tree branch and waited for the senator.
Xiang recalled what Liu told him about Jasper when he gave Xiang the assignment four months ago. “The senator is extremely powerful as Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee and has access to his government’s most sensitive military documents. Jasper is also badly in need of money. He faces a reelection campaign next year, and in American politics, which are so corrupt, money is everything. Besides that, he lost all his savings with a poor investment in a high-tech startup in Colorado. He has an expensive life style operating houses in Washington, Denver, and Aspen, and a mistress to whom he gives costly gifts.”
Xiang felt nothing but contempt for Jasper, a man who had no control over his own destiny, and for the American political system in which offices went to candidates who had the most money.
In the thick fog, Xiang saw the senator approaching, precisely at five. Xiang stood up and looked around. No one else was in sight. Despite the cool morning breeze, Xiang noticed that Jasper was perspiring heavily. From tension, he guessed. The senator’s face was also red from the sun. He must have been in a Southern resort.
“What happened?” Xiang asked tersely, wanting to get right to the point and wrap up their discussion as soon as possible.
“When I met with Liu in Tokyo in my suite in the Okura in July, a young woman on my staff at the Senate Committee on Armed Services overheard our conversation.”
“She overheard your conversation?” Xiang was incredulous. “How is that possible?
“She was in the bedroom of the suite. Asleep, I thought. Liu and I met in the living room.”
You fool, Xiang thought. You stupid, contemptible fool.
“What’s the name of the woman?”
Jasper shifted awkwardly. “Vanessa Boyd.”
“Your lover?”
“Yes.”
“Now she’s threatening to disclose what she heard?”
“Vanessa’s dead. She drowned on the Caribbean island of Anguilla, Sunday night.”
“And you were with her at the time?”
Jasper nodded weakly. “It was late at night. She had a lot to drink. Dumb bitch shouldn’t have gone swimming. She accidentally drowned. I tried to save her.”
“To your knowledge, did she tell anyone what she heard in Tokyo?”
Jasper shook his head. “I don’t think so. She didn’t tell me about it until a little while before she went swimming and drowned. I had no idea. I thought she was asleep in the bedroom at the Okura.”
Xiang realized he was missing a piece. “So what’s the problem? Vanessa’s dead.”
He was staring at Jasper, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“She secretly recorded the Tokyo conversation.” Jasper was speaking softly, barely above a whisper.
Xiang leaned forward, straining to hear.
“She made a CD,” Jasper said.
Xiang was horrified. This was worse than he had ever imagined. Happily, he was not responsible for the problem. Liu should have taken precautions to make certain he and Jasper were alone in the Okura suite and there were no bugs. Liu had been careless, but Xiang couldn’t dare tell that to Liu. He became apprehensive when he realized he would have to report all this to Liu. It could still come back to bite Xiang. Without a solution to the problem, Liu might shoot the messenger, particularly a subordinate who knew about his failing.
Xiang had a knack of always cutting to the bottom line quickly. Here, he realized that his only chance of saving Operation Trojan Horse and
his own life was by getting his hands on that CD.
“Where’s the CD?” Xiang asked.
Jasper looked chagrin. “I don’t know. Vanessa only told me about it Sunday. She didn’t have it with her in Anguilla. I looked through all of her things after she drowned.”
“Have you searched her apartment since you’ve been back?”
Jasper shook his head.
No, of course not, Xiang thought. US Senators don’t do stuff like that. They only fuck subordinates and then call for help, letting others do their dirty work.
Jasper provided Xiang with the address of Vanessa’s apartment near DuPont Circle. Then he said, “When you look for the CD, remove her diary, calendar, and anything else that mentions me. I don’t want to leave any evidence showing we were involved or that she went away for the weekend with me.”
“Did you and Vanessa ever send e-mails to each other?”
Jasper shook his head vigorously. “Never. I made her promise when we began seeing each other that there would be no personal e-mails. Those are what usually nail men who …”
“Are fucking around.”
“You don’t have to put it that way.”
Xiang was pleased he wouldn’t have to deal with Vanessa’s computer. “Anyone know she was going to Anguilla with you?”
“I asked her not to tell anyone. To my knowledge she didn’t.”
Jasper raised his right arm and pointed a thick finger at Xiang. His hand was shaking. “You have to find that CD. My whole life depends on it not falling into the wrong hands.”
Your life means nothing to me, Xiang thought. But he did have to find that CD, not merely for Operation Trojan Horse, but because his own life depended on it.
“Did Vanessa live alone?” Xiang asked.
Jasper nodded.
“Good. I’ll break in, search for the CD, and sanitize the apartment to eliminate any mention of you. But you’ll have to find a way to do the same for Vanessa’s office. I can’t break into a Senate office building.”
While frowning, Jasper thought about it for a minute, then said. “I’ll do it myself. I’ll get in this morning before the staff arrives. It’s my committee. If anyone asks, I’ll say I’m looking for a report.
