Subpoena Colada

by Mark Dawson

  COHEN’S INVITATION

  Since I’m feeling sorry for myself I step outside to get a coffee. The office is a little busier and Elizabeth has returned. She smiles as I greet her and then fixes me with a look of maternal concern. I must look as bad as I feel - and I feel awful. I hurry away.

  When I get back Cohen is rooting around for something at my end of the room.

  ‘Hole punch?’ he asks. He looks uncomfortable. I find the right drawer, take it out and hand it to him.

  ‘Listen, I don’t mean to be nosy, but do you really think you ought to have that in here?’ He points at the empty wine carton on the desk. ‘I don’t think the partners would be all that impressed.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I say, dropping it into the bin and then jamming it further down with my foot. ‘I just like a drink now and then.’ I suddenly feel defensive.

  ‘Listen,’ he says, perching on the edge of my desk. ‘Beth and I were wondering if you and Hannah would like to come over for dinner this week. We haven’t done that for a while, have we, and we thought it might be nice. Fancy it, then?’ His tone is cautious. I can’t think why.

  ‘Hannah’s pretty busy at the moment,’ I reply, still unable to come clean. ‘I’m not sure she can get away from work this week.’ Then I add by way of explanation, ‘They’re shooting at nights.’

  Cohen gives me a strange, almost pitying, look. ‘Then why don’t you come over on your own?’

  I’m not feeling much like socializing at the moment. I’d much rather avoid two hours of enforced jolliness. ‘Thanks, but I don’t know-’

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘We could even order in if you can’t stomach Beth’s cooking - which I’d understand. And there’s this great little Indian opened up down the road. We could have a Madras delivered, wash it down with a few beers.’

  This continues until I relent and accept his invitation.

  I agree to dinner at his place on Thursday.

  AN AUDIENCE WITH PHILLIP SCHOFIELD

  Elizabeth reminds me I have another appointment. Phillip Schofield is negotiating with British Airways to take over the pop channel on their in-flight radio. Small beer for him, small beer for us, but Hunter likes to keep Schofield sweet.

  But now I have to put up with him reminiscing about glove puppets and broom cupboards for thirty minutes.

  Another trip to the toilets, another slug of Jack, and I’m feeling ready for action again.

  VOICEMAIL

  It goes well. We ended by talking about how the quality of British broadcasting has gone down the pan. I tell Phillip I think he could be the man to herald its renaissance if he could just bring back the gopher. He’s happy with this and we part with big grins and firm handshakes - another happy punter. I go back to the office and my stuffed in-tray.

  I settle down at my desk, trying to find the energy to do some work. I check the phone. Someone tried to call, and left voicemail. I play it back over the speaker.

  ‘Daniel? Scott Dolan again. From the Guest List at Extravaganza. We spoke yesterday morning? Listen, Daniel, I was wondering if you’d had a chance to consider what we were talking about? I’m not looking for any major scoop or anything like that. Just a few quotes for background colour, that’s all I was wondering if you could, maybe, gimme a steer on how Brian’s bearing up under the strain of John French’s death, the police investigation, that kinda thing. What do you say? By the way, I’ve got information about Fey’s past that I’d like to put to you. Something I think you really ought to know about. Maybe you could give me a call and we could have a chat? Or if you’d prefer to speak face to face I can easily just come to you. Anyway, in case you’ve forgotten it here’s my number again.’

  He recites his number and signs off with a jolly farewell. I press erase.

  A SHOULDER TO CRY ON

  The coffee from the machine is worse than usual and I leave it half-finished. I wander outside to get fresh supplies from the Italian stall in the square. The air is taut with cold.

  I bump into Jonathan Williams.

  We end up sitting at a wooden table, watching the tourists drifting into Soho Square, both of us clutching hot lattes in polystyrene cups. Two of the Barron Knights walk past and head into the lobby.

  Like me, Williams transferred here from one of the magic-circle firms in the City. He probably expected more civilized hours in exchange for a trimmed pay packet. The way he tells it, the partners waited until his probation period ended and his notice went up to six months, and then hit him with a massive disclosure exercise that’ll last until the summer. Now most of his time is spent in a muggy room in the basement going through six hundred boxes of royalty statements from a record company we’re defending in a fraud case. His job: to check every statement in case it’s relevant to the case and then list each one. Everyone knows disclosure is hell, but we’ve got limited sympathy for him. There but for the grace of God and all that.

  Williams slumps abjectly against the table. He has the unhealthy pallor of someone kept out of natural light for too long. His eyes are ringed with a red the colour of pomegranate juice. I know what he wants to talk about even before he opens his mouth.

  ‘Work getting you down?’

  ‘It’s just such a slog,’ he sighs. ‘It’d be better if someone else could help me out. Or even if I had someone to talk to. I’m going to go mad if I stay in that basement much longer.’

  ‘Keep your chin up,’ I say. ‘I’ve heard a rumour the case might be about to settle.’

  ‘Really?’ he says, brightening. ‘I haven’t heard that.’

  I’ve heard no such thing either. I’m just being nice. In for a penny, in for a pound. I say, ‘Another couple of weeks and that ought to be the end of your problems. Or so I heard.’

  BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP BLUE SEA

  Back at my desk again. I look at my list of things to do.

  I ignore the small pieces of research and correspondence that are still outstanding since no one has chased me for them. My policy: wait until the second chasing email before moving something up the list. If the partner can’t be bothered to chase, it can’t really be all that important.

  My eyes fall on the two bits of work Wilson wants from me for Monster Munch. The deadline is tomorrow morning. I haven’t started either of them yet. The contract is a serious piece of work, requiring original thought and a lot of hard graft. I’m not in the mood for it now. It’ll keep until tonight. I work best when the office is quiet. The marketing agreement should be easier, especially if I can manage to get a precedent from the Dork. Detesting the necessity of throwing myself upon his mercy, I walk around the perimeter of the building to his office.

  It couldn’t be more different to mine. He has a window, for a start, and he doesn’t share the room with anyone else. He also gives the impression this is somewhere he doesn’t mind spending the majority of his waking hours. His files are neatly stacked in alphabetical order on the shelves, with separate folders for precedents, legal authorities and internal correspondence. He’s managed to persuade the librarian to buy him a full set of statute books. The desk is otherwise empty except for a stylish banker’s lamp, a dictation machine and the pages of the document he is amending.

  The Dork has hung a framed photograph on the wall behind his chair. He’s mugging for the camera next to Tom Jones, one arm draped across the crooner’s shoulders. From the look on Tom’s face - wide-eyed with panic - Dawkins probably has an unseen pistol pressed against the kidneys of the greatest living Welshman.

  I nervously tap on the door. ‘Tate,’ he says.

  ‘Dawkins,’ I respond, as standard. ‘Not disturbing anything, am I?’

  ‘Not at all.’ He puts his pen down and takes off his glasses. ‘We don’t see you on this side of the office much.’

  ‘You know how it is. Busy, busy, busy.’

  ‘That’s the truth,’ he says. ‘I’ve just negotiated an end to the builders’ dispute at the opera house. Working on the settlement agreeme
nt now. Just one more thing that needs to be done, and the client wants it done yesterday.’

  ‘I’d offer to help…’ I leave the sentence hanging.

  ‘No, no, wouldn’t dream of it. Fulton’s new trainee’s helping me out.’ He lowers his voice to a lascivious whisper. ‘Have you seen her yet? She’s quite something, isn’t she?’

  My hackles rise. The Dork has always seemed a vaguely asexual creature. I’ve always found him damply effeminate. I let his comment about Rachel wash over me.

  He sweeps his hand across his desk. ‘I ought to be getting back to all this. What can I do for you?’

  I take a deep breath. God, this is embarrassing. Force the words out: ‘I need a favour. Japanese contract law? I heard you’ve had some experience?’

  ‘Japanese law,’ he ponders, pulling down a precedent file from the shelf. ‘I’ve done a couple of contracts over there. Let’s see - ah, here we are - "agreements incorporating Asian law". One of these ought to do the trick. There’s a selection of possible clauses depending on your circumstances. And at the back of the folder you’ll find some general information about their legal system - background stuff. Copy what you need and bring it back.’

  I take the folder and flick through it. A dozen precisely worded clauses listed with brief descriptions of their effect and judicial commentary on their application. I’m taken aback by his thoroughness. I can’t imagine ever being as diligent. Or is it anal? Whatever, it’s just what I need.

  ‘Which case is this?’ he asks. ‘Not Brian Fey?’

  ‘No, something else,’ I say. ‘Something for Victoria Wilson.’

  I regret this at once. He’ll craftily slip the information that he helped on this case into his next conversation with her. And no, I’m not being paranoid: he’s done it before. So now there’s no way I can claim the credit for it, plus she’ll think I’m more of a slacker than I really am.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘let me know if you need any of it explained.’

  I leave with my jaw, and my fists, clenched.

  EMAIL

  From: Delgardo, Rachel

  To: Tate, Daniel

  Subject: Re: I hope…

  I can’t believe you don’t remember (although maybe actually I can believe it… ) You walked/staggered off at about eleven saying you were going to find a late bar. I tried to persuade you to get a taxi but you ran off. I was going to pop down to see if you were OK today, but James and Oliver have kept me busy.

  Rachel

  From: Tate, Daniel

  To: Delgardo, Rachel

  Subject: Re: I hope…

  Ohmigod. I’m sooo embarrassed. Please tell me I didn’t do anything toooooooo humiliating.

  PS: Oliver = Dawkins?

  THE CRITICAL ESTABLISHMENT

  4.15 p.m, Brian calls. He sounds flustered.

  ‘I mean, why do I fucking bother? I put six months of my life into this and in six fucking sentences these, these - no, I’m not gonna say it - these, these critics dismiss it.’

  There’s no introduction to this rant. He launches right into it.

  ‘I just don’t understand how they can be so cruel. I mean, OK, they might not like it themselves - fair enough, I can take that. It’s not like we ever appealed to everybody anyway, not even in the old days. But when they fucking condemn my stuff like this, I just feel like packing it all in and pissing off somewhere in the middle of a desert or something and never coming back.’

  ‘Slow down. What’s the problem?’

  I can hear him taking deep breaths. ‘Listen to this, from today’s NME. I just got it. "Without the judgment of more accomplished musicians - let’s say the Black Dahlias - to keep him in check, Fey’s clumsy lyrics scale the heights of pure absurdity. He is trying to reinvent himself as some kind of tortured modem genius, misunderstood and under-appreciated, but the brutal fact is that John French had more creative ability in one painted fingernail than Brian Fey has in his entire skinny body." I mean, what is that? That’s not criticism - that’s an assassination.’

  Brian reads out another less than enthusiastic review, and then another. There’s no reassuring him. I get the impression he’s using me as a sponge to soak up his bile. After five minutes he says, ‘There’s something I have to do,’ and rings off abruptly.

  AN APPEAL TO HANNAH’S BETTER NATURE

  I check my inbox for email. I have a few newcomers, all of them work-related.

  Worrying: nothing back from Rachel yet.

  I imagine her working on a tactful reply that won’t upset me too much, Then I imagine her soaking up Dawkins’ bonhomie, working with him on the opera house settlement agreement, the two of them in his perfect office, the Dork leaning over her shoulder and looking down her dress as they read through a draft agreement. I picture them talking about me, sharing a joke. Maybe she’s told him about last night and the fool I made of myself.

  Bad thoughts! I force myself to skip through the messages.

  Nothing from Hannah either. Maybe she hasn’t received the legion of messages I’ve sent. I’ve been mailing regularly for the past month or so, ever since I took the decision not to passively accept her dumping me, and try and do something about it.

  I try again:

  From: daniel.tate@whitehunter.com

  To: wildeh@hotmail.com

  Subject: Hello stranger

  Just a quick message to see how you are. You haven’t been answering my mails… is everything OK? I was wondering whether you’d like to meet up for a drink one evening? Or a meal? Nothing heavy, just some issues we need to sort. Miss you! Mail me?

  I mull over the ‘Miss you!’ Is this a sign of weakness?

  I don’t want to give the impression of desperation. I think about it for five minutes, add an extra exclamation mark, delete it, add it, delete it, send it anyway. Three times over. And with multiple delivery and read receipts.

  WORK: THE CURSE OF THE DRINKING CLASSES

  After looking through Dawkins’ precedent, I decide to revise my plan of attack. The facts on which his example is based are almost analogous to the vague facts Wilson’s note described. This is lucky; the job should only take me half an hour. I can do it later. I decide to take advantage of this modest upswell of enthusiasm and harness it to the larger and more difficult task of drafting Monster Munch’s recording contract. I should’ve finished it ages ago.

  I’m out of wine and I don’t have time to go and buy a replacement bottle. Another refill of weak coffee and I fumble around until I find a sample contract from the firm’s store of precedents. I scribble out the title of the recording deal on the precedent and insert the title of Monster Munch’s eponymous debut. I place my pencil on the desk in satisfaction. A good start.

  RELIEF

  From: Delgardo, Rachel

  To: Tate, Daniel

  Subject: Re: I hope…

  You were fine, just a little drunk maybe. Don’t worry - I’m not offended. I’ve seen much worse.

  PS: Yes, Oliver = Dawkins!

  BRIAN IN A BRIGHTER MOOD

  Before I can get back into the drafting the telephone rings again.

  ‘It’s me,’ Brian says.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I ask.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ he says. ‘Sorry about earlier. I was upset. I’ve put the reviews behind me. I’m gonna ignore them from now on. You either like my stuff or you don’t. He didn’t. Live and let live.’

  ‘His loss,’ I agree.

  ‘That’s what I said to him.’

  ‘You spoke to him?’

  ‘Yeah. I went down to his office to have it out with him.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘We had - how would you put it? - "a vigorous exchange of views".’

  ‘Nothing too vigorous, I hope?’ Why am I suddenly uneasy? Reason: stories I’ve heard from Brian’s past.

  ‘I think he came around to my point of view in the end.’

  Ignore it and hope. ‘Um - OK.’

  Brian changes
the subject. ‘Look, I wasn’t calling about that. I’ve got a proposition. What are you doing tonight?’ I’m about to tell him I’m busy but he interrupts. ‘And don’t say you’re busy. You need a break. You looked pretty wiped out in court this morning.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Brian, I-’

  ‘Relax, man. It’s no sweat.’

  I’ve completely lost control of this conversation.

  ‘Guess what? We’re going out. You need some R and R and I’ve still got blow and stuff and I thought maybe we could take it into town and get a table somewhere? Oh, and don’t tell your woman, OK? What she doesn’t know, et cetera, et cetera.’

  A REMINDER FROM WILSON

  From: Wilson, Victoria

  To: Tate, Daniel

  Subject: Tomorrow

  By way of reminder:

  1. Briefing note by 8 a.m. 2. Marketing agreement by 8 a.m. 3. Draft recording contract by 8 a.m. Without fail.

  The fact Wilson has gone to the effort of dragging her mouse across the final two words and then clicking underline is evidence that she is taking this very, very seriously.

  NOSE TO GRINDSTONE

  I spread out the precedent recording contract and begin afresh, striking out previous details and inserting new ones.

  I make good progress but it’s heavy going. I struggle on until I eventually conclude nothing else is going to happen tonight. The spark has gone out. My eyes are heavy. I check the clock: 5.2.0. Perhaps a change of scenery will give me second wind. A short nap, perhaps. I scrabble the papers into a pile and jam them into my briefcase. I give Elizabeth the cheeriest smile I can muster and head for the tube.