The inhuman voice said, "You have . . . twelve new voice mail messages-"
He punched a button. Hannah's voice began with, "It's Sunday afternoon. I know everyone's upset about what happened, but we still need you to-"
He shook his head, erased the message, and listened to the next one.
Her voice was more subtle this time, "It's Hannah again. Listen, could you please do-"
He punched another button, and the digital voice said, "Message erased. Next message."
Hannah's voice again. He hung up his phone, knowing what the other nine messages would be.
$ $ $
Raphael Bianco wasn't sure how to deal with Gabe Weiss's death. Raphael had never thought about mortality before and never had anyone close to him die. After Gabe had pulled the trigger that night, Raphael sat on the museum floor with his hands covering the gushing wound, but he couldn't save Gabe. He blamed himself all weekend and numbed his brain with Diazepam to erase the guilt and anxiety. Still in a gray haze Monday morning, he needed a boost to get back into Sullivan & Adler litigation mode.
Inside his office, he laid his cheek on his desk, looked across its plane at the white anthill in front of his nose. He could see the grains, the powder gleaming like snow. It reminded him of Christmas in Westchester when he was a kid and all he had to worry about was snow angels and his mom calling him inside for dinner. As he listened to The Smashing Pumpkins' Rat In A Cage from an Internet radio station on his computer, he was thinking about how his mother liked to make lasagna instead of turkey for Christmas.
"I'm a rat in a cage," he began mumbling, "and this place actually is a vampire. Sending me right into the flames."
Raphael lifted his head up slowly, took out his new American Express Centurion Card, the one the Firm gave to partners. He cut into the white anthill with the black plastic card, narrowing three lines, carving up perfect bumps of white energy. He snorted the first two quickly, hoping it would wake him up from the fog of tranquilizers. His eyes felt bigger inside their sticky lids. He did the third line slowly, licked white residue off his desk like a stray dog.
He was screaming about being a rat in his cage when a knock came at his door. Raphael jumped up, knocking legal memoranda over the middle of his desk. Micah Grayson entered.
"Hey, ever heard of knocking? Jesus!"
"I did knock, Raph." Micah shut the door, glanced at the credit card in Raphael's hand. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing." Raphael slid the card in his pocket, sunk back into his chair. "Making the pain go away."
Micah cocked his head, listening to the blaring music.
Raphael turned the computer speakers down, noticed that Micah was wearing shorts and running shoes. "Where's your suit, dude? And your hair. Where's the Gordon Gekko grease?"
Micah shrugged, sat down in a guest chair.
"I called you like a hundred times this weekend," Raphael said, trying not to sound disappointed. "How come you didn't go to the party? It was so fucked up, it was insane."
"Yeah, I know. How you feeling, Raph? Are you okay?"
"Still a little rattled. Where were you?"
"Look, I'm real sorry I didn't call you back. I was kind of avoiding messages because of Hannah and Stu, and then I was upset about work… and Gabe. Everything. I just, I hope you understand, man, but I couldn't go to the party. What's happening about Gabe?"
"I don't know. It's weird. I think they're trying to keep the shit quiet. They've been telling everyone not to answer calls from the press and to direct them to our P.R. people." Raphael looked down at his hands moving spastically as if typing. "They didn't want me to come in today. Now they want me to have a one-on-one with those commando grief counselors."
"That might do you good. But don't you think you should take some time off though?" Micah leaned forward, rested his forearms on the desk. "You need a break."
"I can't," Raphael said, "too much shit going on."
Micah sighed. "You hear the other news?"
"Yeah, I made partner. Can you fucking believe it?"
"Congrats, Raph. I know you worked really hard for it, but that's not what I'm talking about." Micah tossed a newspaper on the desk. "Look."
"I worked my balls off for it." Raphael could feel the cocaine trampling through his brain. He could barely focus on the newspaper, the letters jumping up and down on the page, dancing for him. "What happened, what's with the paper?"
Micah poked at the newspaper. "Nick Mavros is missing. And I just saw something on TV. They were playing an edited clip of the video."
"What the fuck? On the news?" Raphael gripped his desk, like a spinning teacups ride, his eyes darting around the room, paranoid. "Did someone leak it? What if I get pulled into it? I just made Partner, I don't need that shit."
"I didn't tell anyone you saw it."
"You did it? Are you shitting me?"
"Gabe told me to send it to a reporter. It was the right call, Raph. We can't withhold evidence of a crime. Not even for a guy like Nick Mavros."
"We can't?" Raphael's head spun, trying to think what it all meant to his career. "Where do you think Nick Mavros is?"
"Probably as far away from here as possible."
"This is so fucked up," Raphael said. "Gabe was an amazing lawyer. I always thought that. He was the man." Raphael tried to think of something sincere to say. "You know, I never slept with his wife? I was just making shit up."
"I know, Raph."
Raphael looked sideways at the kid. "You do?"
"Yeah, she told me," Micah said. "Listen, there's something else I came to talk to you about. I gave it a lot of thought this weekend, and I haven't told anyone yet. I'm leaving. I just wanted to come shake your hand and say good-bye. I'm gonna miss you, pal."
"What the fuck is going on? Are you serious?"
Micah nodded. "This isn't for me, Raph. Friday night, Stu told me he'd fire me if I didn't take on a new case over the weekend and then Gabe's suicide… that was the last straw."
"Wait a minute. You're just picking up and bolting? Micah, when they find out you were the one who leaked that video, the Firm is going to crucify you. They'll blackball you, no firm anywhere is going to hire you."
"I don't care, Raph." Micah stood up, reached out for a handshake. "Besides, I've got some insurance. I don't think they'll take a risk over a single nobody like me. Not with what I've got on them."
"Don't do it, Mikey. You're committing professional suicide!" Raphael took a deep breath, felt his heart racing. He slumped forward on his desk. Reality set in. "Listen, you can still change your mind. You haven't even been here a year, and I just made Partner. You can work for me. I'll take care of you. I can protect you. Eventually I'll be a Senior Partner, then Head of Gen Lit, maybe even Managing Partner of the New York office."
"You're going to put yourself through another twenty years of this, Raph?" Micah came around the mass of papers and three-ring binders on the floor, circled the desk, and gave Raphael a hug, patting his back. "Take care of yourself, buddy."
Micah walked out of the office.
Raphael said to the empty doorway, "You're my only friend here."
$ $ $
Micah exited the elevator on the top floor, marched down the hall. He could already hear her loud shrill voice, barking out orders to an associate on the phone. Without knocking, he entered Hannah Smythe's office and stood in front of her desk. She had her back to him, barely aware of anything around her but the subordinate on the other end of the phone line. She ranted for several seconds before her head rotated, eyes stabbing at Micah. She paused dramatically and hung up. Micah smiled and waited for her to lay into him.
She said, "Well? Do you have anything to say for yourself?" She couldn't wait, her mouth started flapping, "I've been getting chewed out by the client all weekend. Where the hell have you been? I can't believe you. Well? Let's hear it."
Micah sat down in Hannah's guest chair, on her Coach handbag. "I had better things to do this weekend."
/>
Her eyes were twitching as she screamed, "Oh my God! You are so dead! When are you going to realize that I'm a Partner now? Are you listening to me? You better wipe that smile off your face. Don't you dare come into my-"
"Hannah, why don't you cut the bullshit? Gabe Weiss shot himself Friday night, and all you care about is some trivial assignment? Really?"
Hannah's eyes looked like nail points. She picked up the phone. "This is insubordination. I'm calling Stu. Let's see your little flippant attitude with him."
"I figured you would. Go on then. Go ahead and call him."
Her mouth gaped. She punched the speakerphone button, knocked out Stu's extension in tantrum strokes. Glib, she nodded as his voice came over the speakerphone.
Stu said, "Hi, what's up?"
"Guess who I have in my office right now?" She glanced at her wristwatch. "Micah Grayson just strolled in. He said he had better things to do this weekend than work on our new case."
"What?" Stu said. "I'm coming right over."
She punched the speakerphone off and beamed with satisfaction.
Stu came rushing down the hall and burst into her office, dabbing at his weepy eye, clenching the porcelain veneers in his mouth.
"You better have the queen mother of good goddamn excuses."
"Stu," Micah said, "I have no excuse. I didn't work on a Friday night when I could have been at the Firm's anniversary party. And I didn't work over the weekend. And I don't work on Sundays either. Bottom line, I'm not taking your shit anymore."
Stu pointed a finger, his high-pitched voice slower. "You're this close to being persona non grata here. Now, you want to be a Sullivan & Adler associate, you want to act like an attorney, then it would be prudent to give me a long apologetic explanation for your going off the reservation."
Micah stood and squared up to Stu. "Remember when I first met you, when I came into your office the first time?"
Stu sighed. "No. What does that have to do with anything?"
"You taught me something very important. Rule Number 3. If I don't like working for you, Stu, there are a hundred kids out of law school who would love my job. You said so yourself. Remember?"
"You're done here," Stu hissed, "you think you'll ever have a job like this again? You won't even be allowed in a mail room, you insubordinate white trash bastard. And I'll report you to the Bar for that video, you hid it from us. We would have disclosed it sooner."
"That's a lie, and you know it. You were there when I turned it over to Gabe."
"And you've padded your time records, too." Stu sneered. "You think we don't audit our billing program? Especially when numbers jump up all in one day? You little shit. You're in over your head."
"Stu, you're not going to do shit. You know why?" Micah got into his face, stared into his one good eye. "Because I have a file. That's right, of Hot Docs. There's one from each of your favorite clients. That insurance company, the one with the vanishing premiums, I've got an email showing that they knew they were defrauding millions of customers. Oh, and that document review I did for the investment bank? There's a great email in there from one of their managing directors who jokes about selling junk mortgage securities to investors while shorting the trades on the other side of the desk. That sounds like securities fraud, doesn't it, Stu? Do you want me to go on?"
"You're a fucking fool," Hannah said behind him.
Micah ignored her, "If you so much as mention my name again, if anyone from this Firm does, if you interfere with me getting another job, I swear to God I'll send every single one of those Hot Docs to the U.S. Attorneys Office and the SEC. You understand me, Stuart?"
Stu's weepy eye twitched and oozed. "You son of a…"
"Just nod your damn head, so we all understand each other."
Stu stared at him for a minute and finally nodded.
Hannah jumped to her feet, shrieking, "Get the fuck out of my office! Leave!"
Micah whispered to Stu, "And I've got a great workplace discrimination case against your girlfriend there, if I were ever forced into a corner," and he exited.
$ $ $
It had been only five minutes since Micah left his office. Still, Raphael was hoping he'd come back and say it was all a joke. April Fools in August. Raphael heard the ping of a new message on his computer. It was an internal e-mail from "Micah Grayson" to all attorneys in the New York office, with the subject line: What does it profit a man to gain the world and lose his soul? Raphael eagerly read the message:
Today is my last day at the Firm. This decision was made somewhat difficult by the prestige heaped onto the Sullivan & Adler name and by the money offered to its associates. The decision was made easier, however, by the mind-numbing work, by the manner in which my mentor left this world, and by the Firm's handling of the death of one of its movable parts.
Although I have great respect for the quality of some of the Firm's lawyers and although I have made some sincere friendships here, I have decided that it's not in my best interest to work for a group of partners largely populated by shallow, corporate-ladder-climbing backstabbers and Napoleonic personalities. And while other lawyers here are literally killing themselves on the altar of billable hours, I have been criticized and marginalized for practicing my own beliefs. I find it ironic that a legal powerhouse would allow such illegal conduct to occur in its own workplace.
I wish the partners continued success in their goals to turn vibrant, dedicated associates into an aimless, shambling group of dry, lifeless husks.
Respectfully, Micah Grayson
Raphael jammed his eyes closed, shook his head hard. "Jesus, that blow is making me nuts." He slowly opened his eyes, read the email again, and smiled. "You got balls, Mikey."
Raphael stood up from his desk, laughing at first, but quickly turning paranoid, terrified that somehow he would be blamed for Grayson's email, for the Mavros case, for the leaked video. He ripped open his drawer, grabbed the small glass vial. No more magic powder. He suddenly felt the urge to go to the bathroom. Anxiety, two cups of office coffee, and cocaine had surged through him, and his bladder was heaving like an accordion, his intestines loosening.
"I didn't have anything to do with this," Raphael said as he grabbed his suit jacket, flinging one arm into a sleeve, running to the elevator.
On the top floor, he stood outside the large ceremonial conference room where the Gen Lit partners met and counted their billable hours and sent young associates into litigation battle like army generals drunk with power. This was the place he had always broken into, picking the lock with a paper clip, and reveling in using their toilet. But he was one of them now. The Firm had given him a Gen Lit partner's key with his initials engraved on one side, RB.
When he turned the new key, he smelled a terrible stink inside. It was an odor he couldn't identify or explain. He frowned, wondering if someone had already used the bathroom this morning. He waved off a metallic blue fly, opened the heavy mahogany door.
"Must've been Max Goldberg," he mumbled. He held his nose at the grotesque smell, slipped into the conference room. It was dim and immaculate, no sign of anyone.
He moved around the long conference table, past the fat leather chairs, the walls adorned with framed photos and oil paintings of dead partners' smiling alabaster faces. To the corner of the room where the bathroom door was shut. He heard the low hum of the fan and saw light glowing under the bathroom door. Artificial lemon deodorizer wafted with the stink in the air.
He sighed thinking that another Gen Lit partner was sitting there silently on the toilet. Raphael knocked gently on the bathroom door.
"Hello. Anybody in there?" Raphael felt nauseous from the smell. "Max, is that you? It's Raphael Bianco. I really have to use the bathroom."
No answer. Raphael waved at the buzzing and flitting of wings in his ears. For the first time, he noticed the framed document was crooked on the bathroom door. It was the Statement of Client's Rights. The glass was broken out of it, and one of the lines was underl
ined in red ink. He squinted at the document, gagging and reading Number 1 of the Client's Rights.
You are entitled to be treated with courtesy and consideration at all times by your lawyer and the other lawyers and personnel in your lawyer's office.
He couldn't read anymore because his eyes were watering. He pinched his nose, knocked on the door again, trying the handle. "Hello?" The bathroom door opened, air fresheners plugged into every socket, the fan humming. Propped up on the toilet seat was Nick Mavros's naked body with an oozing hole in his green chest and maggots spilling out.
38 The Beginning
* * *
Micah had packed up his things quickly, taking just his pictures and his books. The security guards wouldn't let him take anything else. Not even a pen. He had already sent himself e-mails and taken a Redweld of Hot Docs from every document review he'd ever done for Hannah and Stu. He'd taken them home after Gabe had wisely told him to protect himself.
The pair of security guards escorted Micah as he walked down the hall of his floor and tried to say good-bye to the secretaries. He passed each associate's office and listened to the distinctive ping of a new e-mail message from their computers. His resignation letter was circulating through Sullivan & Adler. He wanted to get out of the building quickly, worried but long past regret. If anyone ever came after him, he had the kind of incriminating documents that prosecutors and regulatory agencies salivated over.
No, he told himself, they'd never come after me. If they did that, they'd be taking their clients down with me.
He rode the five hundred feet down the elevator back to earth and headed for the exit of the Sullivan & Adler office tower. He took a deep breath, listening to the sound of his running shoes squeaking across the expensive marble floor, the security guards trailing him all the way.
At the revolving door, he saw Lenore Spetzel, the S & A Recruiting Director, escorting a young fresh associate through the lobby. And Micah Grayson smiled as he heard her say to the new lawyer, "People say we used to be a sweatshop in the '80s, but not anymore. We encourage associates to do pro bono work, and we pay one of the highest salaries in the city. You're going to love working here."
PLUMMET: A Novel Page 26
