by Brad Meltzer
“I’m always bold.”
“Jared, the only reason you wear your slacks uncuffed is because your dad still does.”
“That has nothing to do with a lack of boldness. The uncuffed look is elegant. It’s flawless. It’s in.”
“No offense, dear, but you have no idea what’s in. And if it wasn’t for me, you’d be equal on all sides.”
“Are you calling me a square?”
“All I’m saying is, we’re no closer to solving the problem.”
Just then, Guff entered her office. “Who wants to save their job today?” he sang.
“Give me one second,” Sara said to Guff, putting her hand over the mouthpiece. “Jared, I really should run.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Hopefully,” she answered. “And by the way, thanks again for listening.”
“Are you kidding? That’s my pleasure.”
Sara put down the phone and looked up at her assistant.
“I asked a question, campers: Who wants to save their job?”
“What’re you doing here?” Sara asked. “I thought you had a doctor’s appointment.”
“I just heard Transportation’s letting three hundred people go, so I decided to cancel it. If this thing is moving as quick as I think it is, I couldn’t let you twist in the wind.”
“And how’d you know I wouldn’t be out at lunch?”
“Once again, I must thank that wicked queen I call deductive reasoning. I figured if you were serious about staying on board, you’d be back here, pulling your hair out. And judging by the redness of your eyes, I’m right.”
“You’re pretty smart for a suburban kid.”
“All life’s lessons can be learned at the mall. Now are you ready to start? I think I know how you can save your job.”
“You do?” Sara asked.
“We’ll never know if we sit here all day.”
Sara threw Monaghan’s memo in the garbage. “Guff, I really appreciate you canceling your appointment. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Listen, this morning you treated me like an equal, and that means a lot to me. Considering I usually get crapped on by most of the women I meet, that’s enough to keep me loyal for life. Now let’s get out of here.”
Sara followed Guff to the door. “Where are we going?”
“To the courthouse across the street. If you want to be an ADA, you have to get a case.”
Chapter 2
SITTING IN HIS IMMACULATE OFFICE, JARED STARED AT his state-of-the-art telephone. “C’mon, you bastard—ring already.”
“That’s not how it works,” his assistant, Kathleen, said as she walked into the room clutching a series of files. “It doesn’t ring until you look away from it.” Three weeks ago, Kathleen had turned thirty-five, although a face full of freckles and poker-straight hair down to her waist made her look at least five years younger. She had started working at Wayne & Portnoy almost seven years ago, when an aversion to the sight of blood forced her to rethink her career in nursing. For the past four years, she’d worked for Jared. And while Jared’s attention to neatness and organization made him a high-maintenance boss, Kathleen prided herself on being even more compulsive than he was. As the joke around the office went, Kathleen was so aggressively organized, she could alphabetize dust. Some thought her dedication to Jared was an expression of her own love of control, while others thought it was a clear indication of the small crush she had on her boss.
Jared’s office reflected the tastes of his living room at home—comfortably elegant, handsome, and filled with old movie memorabilia. Jared had developed his fascination with pop artifacts while majoring in history and minoring in film. Then, as a graduation gift, his parents bought him an original movie poster for Humphrey Bogart’s The Big Sleep. It was love at first sight. Today, two framed movie posters decorated his office walls: one of the Italian classic The Bicycle Thief and one of the French version of Woody Allen’s Manhattan. On the credenza behind his mahogany desk was an old trophy from his years on the Yale cross-country team. Always the competitor, Jared had been obsessed with running for as long as he could remember. He didn’t care about speed; he wasn’t a sprinter. He was far more concerned with the pacing and planning that were required for long-distance races.
He had won the trophy during his junior year in college, when he was invited to an international race sponsored by the University of Madrid. Of the three hundred American competitors, Jared was the only one who did research on the terrain. After a few well-placed phone calls and a trip to a travel agency, he realized that city planners, in an attempt to bring the Summer Olympics to Spain, had recently torn up a once-smooth section of downtown and replaced it with more authentic and tourist-friendly cobblestone streets. Jared and his teammates trained for months in the rougher-paved sections of New Haven, and the Yale team swept the long-distance events.
Jared’s approach to running was logical, rational, pragmatic—a physical activity he used as a means to hone his cerebral skills. That intellectual challenge was what kept him competing, and that intellectual challenge was what attracted him to the law. By the time he graduated from law school, the racetrack had become the partnership track.
“Can I ask you a question?” Jared said, his eyes still glued to the phone. “When it comes to bringing in new clients, am I not good at it, or is it just plain hard?”
“What did Sara tell you?” Kathleen asked.
“She said it’s hard.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think I’m not good at it.”
“That’s all I need to hear—I refuse to answer.”
Jared looked up. “Why do you always have to do that?”
“Jared, remember what happened last time I disagreed with you? You wanted to know what to buy your mom for her birthday—Sara and I said scented soaps and bubble bath; you said a bouquet of flowers. Then you drove us both completely insane by buying every women’s fashion magazine and spending at least a week trying to prove us wrong. And then, when you were finally convinced that you could even prove something as silly as what to buy someone for their birthday, you still kept pushing until we both converted to your conclusion.”
“I was right, though. Bubble bath was a passing fad. At least for that year.”
“This isn’t…” She stumbled. It wasn’t her place to scold him. After a moment, she added, “When it comes to work, and the law, and an important case, I love watching you get caught up in the research. But when it comes to my very own personal opinions, I don’t want to be on the receiving end of the inquisition.”
“So you agree Sara’s being—”
“Please, Jared, stop critiquing everyone’s advice. Sara’s good at facing hard problems. She knows what she’s doing and she knows you.”
“Okay, so that means you really think—”
“The only thing I really think is that your wife’s a smart woman. And since I’m no dummy myself, I see no reason to get involved. Now can we please move past this and get back to the case?”
“No, you’re right,” Jared said, eyeing the phone one more time.
“What time did he say he’d call?” Kathleen asked.
“Twenty minutes ago. I don’t care if he’s late—I just want to make sure I have the information before Hartley gets here.” Jerry Hartley was Jared’s opposing counsel in a lawsuit accusing Rose Microsystems of sexual discrimination. Rose was one of Jared’s biggest clients, and while Hartley’s case was pretty weak, Jared knew discrimination cases were always dangerous territory.
“So what’s the strategy?” Kathleen asked.
“In this situation, I do everything in my power to make sure the case never goes to trial. Negotiate or die.”
“What if Hartley won’t negotiate?”
“All lawyers negotiate. We just have to find Barrow.”
“He may be your favorite private investigator, but the guy has dropped off the face of the planet,” Kathleen said. “In the last fifteen minu
tes alone, I called him at the office, called him at home, called his cell phone, beeped him, and faxed him. I’d send out a carrier pigeon, but I need a destination first.” Kathleen opened the file folder that she was holding. “Maybe we should contact a different private eye. On my list alone, I have fourteen other detectives, six moonlighting cops, and three lowlife informants. All of them are up to the task.”
“Barrow’s already put in a week’s worth of work. Trust me, I know him—he’ll come through.”
Before Kathleen could respond, Jared’s phone rang.
“Jared Lynch,” he answered. “Yeah. No. Bring him up.” He hung up the phone and ran his hand through his neatly trimmed hair. “Ready or not, here comes Hartley.”
“And you don’t have jack,” Kathleen added.
“And I don’t have jack.”
As she headed next door to 100 Centre Street, Sara struggled to match Guff’s breakneck pace. Dodging through the stream of lawyers who regularly crisscrossed between the two buildings, Guff explained, “Not only is this where most of the courtrooms are, this is also the home of ECAB.”
“E-CAB?” Sara asked.
“Don’t worry, you’ll see.” Guff walked in the front entrance of the building. Once past security, they headed straight for the elevators. The elevator doors were about to close when someone jammed an arm between them. The doors opened wide and a tall man with pepper-gray hair and a military-style crew cut gave Sara a cursory glance and stepped inside.
“Good to see you, Victor,” Guff said.
“Mmm,” Victor said coldly. With a freshly pressed dark-blue suit and a perfectly knotted red-and-navy Hermès tie, Victor cut an imposing figure.
Hoping to break the tension, Guff tried again. “Victor, I want you to meet Sara Tate. Sara—this is Victor Stockwell.” Sara and Victor nodded to each other. “Sara just started with us. I’m taking her to ECAB to show her the ropes.”
“Better show them quick,” Victor said. “As of now, they’re letting sixty people go.”
“Sixty?” Sara asked as the elevator doors opened on the second floor.
Sara and Guff followed Victor out of the elevator and into the middle of the hallway. “Where’d you get that number?” Guff asked.
“From Elaine,” Victor said, referring to the district attorney’s secretary. “Although that includes all staff, not just lawyers.” He looked at Sara. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t unpack my boxes just yet. Rookies die first.”
“Thanks,” Sara said, unnerved by Victor’s warning.
“There’s no way to sugarcoat it,” Victor said. As he headed up the hallway, he added, “See you in there later.”
When Victor was out of earshot, Sara said, “How long has he been captain of the cheerleaders?”
“Don’t take it personally—that’s just the way he is,” Guff said. “He’s a former marine, so he’s always hard on the new recruits. It makes him feel like he’s still in the military.”
“Any chance he’ll be fired instead of me?” Sara asked.
“Not one in a grillion. Victor’s probably the best prosecutor in our office, if not the entire state.”
“Mr. Tough Guy with the dark eyes? Juries buy it from him?”
“He may be a stone-cold hard-ass, but they adore him in the courtroom,” Guff said. “Juries love him, witnesses love him, judges eat out of his hands. It’s really incredible.”
“Why?”
“He’s brutally honest,” Guff said flatly. “Too many lawyers bullshit around, throwing everything at the wall just to see what sticks. Victor barrels forward only with the evidence he has—nothing more, nothing less. If he hasn’t proven a point, he admits it immediately; if he has proven something, he doesn’t rub your face in it. People are so shocked by the honesty, they fall in love. He may be rough around the edges, but for almost twenty years he’s been a master at his game.”
“Really that good, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, he’s the best,” Guff said. He opened the door marked ECAB. “Welcome to the Early Case Assessment Bureau,” Guff said as they walked through a reception area. Waving hello to the secretary, Guff headed into one of the many offices in the back of the room. He led Sara in, then closed the door behind them.
“So this is where everyone gets their cases?” Sara asked.
“Exactly,” Guff said, taking a seat behind the desk. “Although no one’s ever heard of it, this is the heart of the entire district attorney’s office. Almost every crime in the city—125,000 cases a year—comes through this office. When an arrest is made, the officer fills out a booking sheet explaining why he arrested the defendant. Every day, those sheets are sent here, where the ECAB supervisor—one of the senior ADAs—assigns those cases to you and the rest of the ADAs.
“He doesn’t assign them randomly, though. It’s done by experience—the more experience you have, the better the cases you get. But if this is your first week on the job, you’ll probably get a boring little case no one cares about.”
“At least I’ll have a case,” Sara said. “That’s a start.”
“But it’s not enough,” Guff said. “Anyone can get a case. In New York City, there’s so much shit going on, finding a crime is like finding a woman: They’re on every block in town, but you have to work hard to find one that’s worthwhile.”
“So how do I get a good case?”
“That’s the magic question. And quite honestly, it’s one of the best-kept secrets of the office,” Guff explained, as Sara listened intently. “To do it, you have to sidestep ECAB and find someone who’ll trust you with a case before it gets to this office.”
“Who’s going to trust a new recruit with a case?” Sara asked.
“Therein lies the problem,” Guff admitted. “Sometimes, if the arresting officer really cares about the case—for example, if his partner was injured by the criminal—he’ll avoid ECAB and deliver the case personally to the ADA of his choice. Or a judge might see a case he likes and handpick an ADA for it.”
“And that’s completely legal?”
“It’s the office’s greatest conspiracy, but it’s also the way the system has to operate. Winning the biggest cases is what keeps people’s faith in the system. And that faith is the best deterrent to crime.”
“That’s a stirring speech, but where am I going to find a cop or a judge who’ll give me a case?”
“You won’t,” Guff said. “At your level, the only person who’ll help you is the ECAB receptionist—the queen bee herself. She gets all the booking sheets from the precincts. Then she takes each sheet, staples it to the requisite DA’s office form, and delivers those to the ECAB supervisor. But, as only a few people know, if you’re really nice to her, she may pull out one of the good cases before it goes to the supervisor.”
“Is that kosher?” Sara asked.
“I don’t know if it’s Hebrew National, but that’s the way it works.”
“So you think that’s my best option?”
“Without a doubt. If you can get a case and take it to trial, the higher-ups will know you’re not here to play around. And while I’m too low on the totem pole to get a judge or a detective to trust you with a case, I can show you how to get a winner through ECAB. Sweet-talk the receptionist and she’ll slip you a case. Then all you have to do is win it.”
A slow grin crept up Sara’s cheeks.
“Seven hundred thousand dollars?” Jared asked in disbelief. “Where do you come up with a number like that?” Although he had known Hartley was going to ask for a large dollar amount to settle the case, he’d never expected it to be that high. Even if Hartley was overreaching in the hope that the settlement would come out at half that amount, three hundred fifty thousand was still almost double what Jared’s client was willing to pay.
“C’mon,” Hartley said, brushing his hand over his thin, graying hair. “That number’s not completely ridiculous.”
“Hartley, if I bring back a number like that, they’ll slaughter me. Even
you know that’s an absurd amount.”
“What can I say? We have a strong case here. If our number’s so crazy, make me a counteroffer.”
Although Jared was authorized to settle the case for two hundred thousand, he was hoping for a far smaller number. And with the right information, he knew he could bring it down to fifty thousand. The only problem was, he still didn’t have the information he needed. “I don’t know,” Jared hedged, hoping to stall. “Maybe we should just go to trial. You and I both know your client completely overreacted.”
“So what if she did? You guys still better think long and hard about going to trial. These kinds of cases bring lots of bad press with them.”
Jared’s eyes narrowed and he shot a cold stare at his opponent. “Y’know, Hartley, you just revealed a whole new side of yourself. You don’t think there’s a case here—you agreed to represent this nut because you know discrimination cases lead to easy money.”
“Don’t judge me, son. You have to feed your family; I have to feed mine.”
“I’m not your son, and I’m certainly not coming close to seven hundred thousand. So pick another number.”
“Do I look nervous?” Sara asked, wiping her hands on her blue pantsuit.
“Nervous isn’t the right word,” Guff responded. “I’d say ‘outwardly calm, but internally terrified’ is the best description.”
“What do you expect? My job’s on the line here.”
“Don’t think about the job. Now, do you remember our plan?”
“Absolutely. You introduce me; I schmooze; she hands over the case.”
“Perfect.” Guff opened the office door and stepped into the hallway. “Here we go.”
Sitting behind a small oak desk in the reception area, Evelyn Katz was up to her elbows in paperwork. Knowing that the ADAs usually got back from lunch at about two o’clock, she moved as fast as she could—logging in the newest booking sheets and preparing them for distribution.
“Hi, Evelyn,” Guff said as he approached her desk. “How’s everything today?”
“Do I know you?” Evelyn asked.
