Irreparable Harm (A Legal Thriller)

by Melissa F. Miller

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  Sasha and Peterson sent Metz home to try to rest. Then, by unspoken agreement, they got their jackets and headed to the bar at the Renaissance Hotel. It was close enough to walk to, but far enough from the office that they weren’t likely to run into anyone. Not that many of Prescott & Talbott’s lawyers would be found at a bar in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon.

  They walked the four blocks in silence. The only sound was the clacking of Sasha’s heels against the pavement as they hurried through the brisk air. When they entered Braddock’s, they were met by a blast of warm air and a smile from Marcus, who was tending an empty bar.

  “Counselors,” he greeted them from behind the gleaming bar, already reaching for the bottle of McCallan 18 to pour Peterson his usual.

  “Marcus,” Peterson said in return as he took a seat away from the door and the television set to CNN. As he situated himself on the stool, he reached into his pants pocket and fished out his key ring, then tossed his keys on the bar so they wouldn’t rip his suit pants when he sat. He’d learned the hard way that keys and Hickey Freeman suit pants did not mix well.

  The sparkling ruby plane on his key chain charm caught Sasha’s eye as it did every time. Hemisphere Air had given Noah a custom-made crystal globe of the earth, encrusted with the small ruby plane, in appreciation of a defense verdict he’d won while Sasha was still in law school. It had been a true bet-the-company case, with several billion dollars at stake. Noah treated the expensive trinket like it had come from a gumball machine, but he never missed the chance to tell the story of his victory.

  The bartender muted the television’s sound and put a dish of peanuts and the glass of neat scotch in front of Peterson.

  Sasha perched on the stool next to Peterson, her feet dangling several inches above the brass footrest that ran the length of the bar.

  “Sapphire & tonic for you, Sasha?” Marcus asked, placing two bowls—one with cashews and one with blue-cheese stuffed olives—on the bar in front of her.

  “Please.” She smiled at the bartender and plucked an olive from the dish.

  He returned quickly with a generous pour and leaned over the bar. “Are we celebrating a court victory this afternoon?” he asked, calculating his potential tip in his head.

  “I’m afraid not today, Marcus,” Peterson said. “In fact, we need to discuss some strategy.”

  “Got it,” the bartender said, unoffended, and retreated to the far end of the bar, where he resumed drying glasses. He’d tended bar long enough to know when to make himself scarce. He wouldn’t interrupt them again unless they called him over.

  Sasha stirred the ice cubes around in her gin and tonic, thinking. After they’d gotten Metz to understand the possibility that the crash had not been an accident, they’d probed him gently to see if he knew anything else about Patriotech or RAGS, but they got nothing else out of him.

  He had asked if he should tell the NTSB about the RAGS link. Peterson told him they needed to analyze the situation and determine the best way to self-report if it turned out to be the right thing to do.

  Sasha figured both men knew they’d have to tell the government. They were just trying to buy time to see if the TSA or NTSB would find out on their own, so they wouldn’t have to incur Viv’s wrath. It would be a hell of a battle to convince Viv to disclose what would look like a mistake on her part. Sasha was glad that would be Peterson’s job, not hers.

  She took another olive from the dish on the bar.

  “Noah, we have to find out if any other planes have the RAGS link installed.”

  Peterson nodded and took a long drink of scotch. “I agree. And tomorrow, once Bob has calmed down, we’ll ask him to poke around discreetly and see if he can find out.”

  Sasha opened her mouth but Peterson cut her off. “Mac, I know what you’re thinking, but we can’t take this to Vivian until we know more. You don’t know her like I do.” He took another swallow.

  Sasha bit back a response. It was true, she didn’t know the woman, but surely Metz or Peterson could make her see the urgency. The trouble was Metz was terrified of her, and Peterson would only go to her when he was good and ready.

  She sipped her drink and tried to think of another approach. It was hard to think because she had this cloudy feeling she was overlooking something. It had started during the morning’s meeting and had grown stronger all day.

  She closed her eyes to concentrate. What was she missing? She tried to remember when the feeling hit. Calvaruso. It was when Naya announced Calvaruso wasn’t the class representative. How did the retired city laborer play into this?

  She opened her eyes in time to see Peterson drain his glass and signal for another. Unable to decode what her brain was trying to tell her, she let it go for the moment.

  “Um, Noah? Is everything okay? I mean, aside from the crash. You seem sort of distracted.” Sasha chose her words carefully. Peterson was her mentor and she considered him a friend, but they rarely discussed their personal lives.

  He looked at her, his cool blue eyes as sad as she’d ever seen them. “It’s Laura, Mac. I think she’s going to leave me.” His gaze dropped to the bar and his shoulders fell.

  “Leave you? Why would Laura leave you?”

  Sasha had been to dinner at the Petersons’ home several times and had spoken to Laura Peterson at dozens of Prescott & Talbott events. She seemed to dote on her husband. She spent her days decorating her house, gardening, and swimming. She was always talking about her book club and the charitable organizations she belonged to. Laura was the model Prescott & Talbott wife.

  “I don’t know. She just doesn’t seem to care anymore if I’m around or not. Take last night. I had to come in to the office and she didn’t say a word. Just went back to reading her book. Then, when I got home, she was sound asleep in the middle of the bed, as if she didn’t expect me to return.”

  Sasha looked at him, at the pain etched on his face. “Noah, maybe she was just tired.”

  He raised his eyes to hers. “You don’t get it, Mac. Or maybe you do and that’s why you’re single. The firm comes first, has always come first. When we were newlyweds, I was just starting out. I told Laura work had to come first for a couple years, until I’d proved myself. Then, it was until I made partner. Then, until I had a solid book of business. Then, until I was on the Management Committee. And every time I promised the balance would switch after I’d cleared the next hurdle, I meant it. But look at me. I’m sixty. I work constantly. I have no children, no grandkids, and a smart, gorgeous wife who has wasted her life sitting in an empty house waiting for me to be her partner.”

  Sasha saw tears in his eyes and forced herself not to look away. “Noah, if that’s really how you feel, why don’t you retire? You have more money than God.”

  “What about my clients? Do you think Metz could navigate this morass without me?”

  “What about your wife?”

  Noah shook his head. “Retirement? What would I do? Legal consulting?”

  The cloudy feeling was growing stronger again. Sasha ignored it and said, “Then what about the P&T Sabbatical Program?”

  The Sabbatical Program was another of the Prescott & Talbott Work-Balance Committee’s misguided attempts to improve attorney morale. Any equity partner could apply for either a six-month or twelve-month paid sabbatical to recharge, pursue a passion project, travel, teach a class, volunteer, whatever. When the program was announced, it had an effect on attorney morale all right, just not the intended one.

  Most of the morale issues had been raised by junior attorneys who felt they were being overworked and not given professional development opportunities and by young income partners who felt they were being overworked and undercompensated. A program for the guys at the top of the pyramid to take a one-year paid vacation while their underlings picked up their slack hadn’t been wildly popular. It sounded like Peterson could use it, though.

  “The sabbatical program, hmm. We could rent a vil
la in Spain. Maybe Italy. No, France. Laura likes France.” Peterson sat up straighter. “I’m going to call Laura right now and suggest it. Thanks, Mac.”

  Sasha finally broke through her cloud as he was going on about his big plans. “Wait, please. Something you said about retiring. Legal consulting. That would be a logical second career for you, right?”

  “Yes, Mac. What of it?” Peterson was impatient to plan his year in Provence.

  “Just hear me out, Noah. Angelo Calvaruso was a city laborer. You know, the guys who drive the snow plows in the winter and cut the grass and trim the trees at the city parks in the summer. So, he retires and starts a job as a consultant for some Bethesda company? What sense does that make?”

  Peterson just looked at her.

  “None, right? It’s been bothering me all morning. And I can’t believe it didn’t hit me when we were talking to Metz. The name of the Bethesda company that hired Mr. Calvaruso as a consultant was . . .”

  Peterson beat her to it. “Patriotech.”

  Sasha picked up her bag and slid off the barstool. “I’m going to visit Mrs. Calvaruso.”

  Peterson nodded. “Take someone with you. And, Mac, be discreet. I guess I’ll need to talk to Metz and Vivian about reporting this today after all.” He signaled for Marcus to bring him a third scotch to fortify him for the conversation ahead.

  “Good luck,” Sasha said as she turned to leave.