by Stuart Woods
“Hello?” Dino said. He had obviously been asleep.
“Dino, it’s Stone; I want you to give Leary a message for me.”
“What?” He was waking up now.
“Tell him I found the phone tap, and it’s now in several pieces, so there’s no need to come back for it.”
“Stone, what are you talking-”
“Also tell him” – Stone glanced at the bedside clock – “that it’s nine forty-five now, and at ten o’clock I’m going to go downstairs and look up and down the street. If the police car is still sitting out there – or if I ever see any cops taking an interest in me again at any time – I’m going to take a fullpage ad in the New York Times and publish my complete memoirs. Did you get that?”
“Yeah, but-”
Stone hung up the phone and put his face in his hands.
Cary sat up and began massaging his shoulders. “Just take it easy now; you told them off, and that’s it. They won’t bother you again, and none of this is your fault.”
“You don’t understand,” Stone said.
“Understand what? It’s not your fault.”
Stone could not look at her, but he told her what he had been telling himself over and over again. “I would have gone along with it,” he said. “If they had let me stay on the force, I would have stood by and let them pillory Hank Morgan. I would have done anything to keep my job.”
Cary put her cheek against his back. “Oh, baby,” she said. “Oh, my poor, sweet baby.”
Chapter 31
Stone filed into the huge room with at least three hundred other aspirants to the bar of New York State, burdened like the rest with course materials, his bank account lighter by the substantial tuition. For eight hours, with a one-hour break for lunch, the instructor drilled the class, and Stone found the lectures to be well organized, to the point, with the fat trimmed away. The volume of material was daunting; when the day ended, he felt as if he’d been beaten up.
Back at home, he called Cary. “I’m near death,” he said, “but my incipient corpse is yours for the evening, if you want it.”
“I’d love to have it, but I’m stuck again,” she replied. “Friday night’s ratings were terrific, for a documentary, and we’re brainstorming after hours all week to come up with ideas for six more specials.”
“Shit.”
“I know, but you should be concentrating on passing the bar instead of lusting after me. You can lust after me on Saturday, though. Around here, not even Barron Harkness works on a Saturday.”
“You’re on. I wish I didn’t have to wait so long.”
“The law is a jealous mistress, remember?”
“Thank you, Madame Justice Hilliard.”
“Until Saturday.”
“You’d better get ready for this,” he said. “On Saturday, I’m going to tell you I love you.” He could hear the smile in her reply.
“It’s beginning to sound like a perfect weekend.”
Stone hung up, then checked the messages on his machine.
“It’s Dino, Stone. I didn’t know anything about that stuff that was going on. It was Leary’s doing, maybe at the suggestion of somebody upstairs. I just wanted you to know that. Take care of yourself.”
“Stone, this is Bill Eggers. I’m stuck in LA for at least another ten days – unforeseen circumstances, I believe the term is. It means all hell has broken loose on my case, and I’m going to be putting out fires until pretty near the end of next week, so we’ll have to postpone dinner. You impressed Woodman at dinner the other night, and he isn’t easily impressed. I’ll call you in a couple of weeks.”
“This is Abbott Wheeling, Stone. I enjoyed our conversation at dinner the other night. It occurred to me that, in light of subsequent events, you might be willing to talk about the Nijinsky case for publication. Should you feel that way, either now or at any time in the future, I’d be grateful if you’d call me at the Times. I can promise you that your views on the case will get the sort of serious public attention that only this newspaper can command. I won’t pester you about this, but please be assured of my continuing interest.”
Stone endured a moment’s temptation to call Wheeling and tell him everything, but the moment passed, and he returned to putting as much emotional distance as possible between himself and the Nijinsky case and the suicide of Hank Morgan.
He made himself some supper and resumed his varnishing of the bookshelves, trying to let his mind run over the day’s lecture. He was surprised at the familiarity of the material after so many years, and he was encouraged to think he might pass the bar exam after all.
On Saturday night Elaine gave Stone and Cary a table next to the piano. Stone liked piano music, and he was particularly enjoying the way Lauren was playing Rodgers and Hart. When they had finished dinner, Elaine joined them.
“Remember that guy, Doc? At the bar awhile back? The diagnostician?”
“Yeah. In fact, I saw a lot of him during the Nijinsky thing.”
“We had a weird thing in here with him last night. He was playing doctor with some little girl at the bar, and they left together, and, a minute later, she’s back in here, nearly hysterical. She said Doc had tried to muscle her into a van, and she was scared to death.”
“Did you call the precinct?”
“Nah, it didn’t seem as serious as that. I gave her a brandy and calmed her down; she didn’t want to take it any farther. I’m going to throw the bum out the next time he walks in here, though.”
“He wrote Sasha Nijinsky a thousand or so letters over the past couple of years.”
“No kidding?”
“It didn’t get in the papers, but we had a look at his place and where he works. He’s an embalmer for a funeral parlor, you know.”
“He’s not a doctor?”
“Nope. He did graduate from medical school, but he was never licensed. I thought the guy was harmless, but when he starts trying to drag girls into vans, well…”
“He’s never setting foot in here again,” Elaine said emphatically.
In bed, Cary seemed tired and distracted, and their lovemaking was brief and perfunctory, something that had never happened before. The extra work seemed to be getting her down, and, God knew, Stone was tired himself. Eight hours a day of class and another four of varnishing was wearing him down.
On Sunday morning, Cary ate her breakfast listlessly. “Are you as zonked as I am?” she asked.
“Yeah. It’s okay; we’re both under the gun at the moment.”
“Thanks for understanding. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all week, and now I’m a wreck.”
“It’s okay, really it is.”
“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go home and try to get some sleep this afternoon.”
He did his best to hide his disappointment. “Next Saturday?”
“Absolutely.”
The next Saturday was much the same.
Another letter came from the bank, this time a flat-out demand. Stone, his back against the wall now, called a real estate agent.
“I think it’s wonderful what you’re aiming at for the place,” she said, “but I guess you know what the New York residential property market is like right now. In good times, with the place finished and ready to move into, we might get three, three and a half million for this house. Right now, for an immediate sale, we might be lucky to get three hundred thousand.”
Stone was shocked. “Is the market that bad?”
“It is. Listen, you’re lucky; at least you’d get something out of a sale. I’ve got clients with perfectly beautiful town houses who are being forced to sell for far less than they paid, and they’re having to pay off the rest of the mortgage out of savings.”
Bright and early on a Monday morning, Stone presented himself to be examined for admission to the bar of New York State, along with about fifteen hundred others. Like everyone else, he labored over the questions. There were occasional gaps in his knowledge, but, on the whole, he tho
ught he did well; certainly, he aced the questions on criminal law. Now there was only the waiting.
He got home feeling enormously relieved. He had finished his study for the bar and the varnishing of the library at the same time. Now, if Cary could just get a break in her work schedule, maybe they could…
The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Bill Eggers.”
“Hi, Bill.”
“How’d you do today?”
“How’d you know?”
“I have spies everywhere.”
“Well, I did okay on criminal law, at least.”
“Good. How about dinner tomorrow night?”
“Fine.”
“The Four Seasons, at eight thirty?”
“Sounds good.”
“Don’t bring anybody. It’s just you and me.”
“If you promise not to put your hand on my knee.”
“Don’t worry, you’re not cute enough. By the way, I might have some news for you.”
“What sort of news?”
“Let’s wait and see.”
Chapter 32
The Four Seasons was busy, as always. The hum of voices from the Pool Room echoed enjoyment of the surroundings and the food, but Bill Eggers had a table in the Grill, next to the bar.
“It’s quieter here,” Eggers said. “It’s crazy at lunch, but at dinner everybody wants to be in the Pool Room. Here, we can talk.”
Stone wondered exactly what they would be talking about. This felt something like a job interview, but he couldn’t see Woodman amp; Weld hiring a thirty-eight-year-old novice as an associate.
They had a drink and dawdled over the menu. Eggers seemed in an expansive mood, relieved over the resolution of his Los Angeles case. “It was a bastard,” he said. “A bicoastal divorce case of one of our biggest clients. He was claiming New York residence, and she claimed they lived in California – she wanted community property.”
“Who won?”
“I did. The LA office is mostly into entertainment work, so I did the dog work while they fronted for me in court. Don’t worry about the lady; she’s doing very well out of this, but she’s not getting the thirty million that community property division would have given her. She’s pissed off now, but she’ll get used to living on the income from six million.”
“You do a lot of divorce work?”
“I’m sort of the firm general practitioner. I have a lot of clients whose personal legal work I handle, and that often leads to divorce work. It’s nasty sometimes, but, if you can keep a certain detachment, you can live with it.”
“Must be lucrative.”
“Not all that much. We only do divorce work for the firm’s existing clients, and we don’t charge them the earth. In the case of the men, when they see what the wife’s lawyer is demanding, they’re grateful to us for not taking them to the cleaners; in the case of the women, they’re grateful to us for not demanding high fees. That builds client loyalty.”
“I should think so.”
They ordered their food, and Eggers chose what Stone thought must be the most expensive bottle of wine on a very expensive list. If Stone had been interested before in what Bill Eggers had to say, now he was really interested.
Eggers tasted the wine and nodded to the sommelier. When the man had gone, he turned to Stone. “What do you know about Woodman amp; Weld?”
“Not very much,” Stone admitted. “I get the impression that it’s a prestigious firm, from what I read in the papers, but I’m not very clear on why it might be so.”
“Good. That’s pretty much the impression we like to convey. We see that the people who might need us know a lot more, but we keep a fairly low public profile.”
Stone sipped the wine; he thought he had never tasted anything so good. “It’s a lovely burgundy,” he said to Eggers. “Thank you.”
Eggers nodded, pleased that his largess had been noted. “Let me give you the scoop on us. We’ve got eighteen partners at the moment, and thirty-six associates. That’s certainly not big by Manhattan standards, but it’s big enough for us to be able to cover a lot of bases. There are seven corporate specialists – we tend to attract companies somewhat below the Fortune Five Hundred level, outfits that don’t have huge legal departments; we have four estate planners – that’s very important to wealthy individuals – and, just as important, four tax specialists, all Jewish. Nobody seems to take a tax lawyer seriously who isn’t Jewish. We’re something of a polyglot firm – blacks, women, Irish, Jews, Italians – not unlike the New York Police Department, I expect. That’s important to us, because the firm is active in liberal Democratic causes – you’d be surprised how much business comes in that way. Finally, there are three generalists – two of them Woodman and me.”
“I liked Woodman when I met him.”
“Woodman is a genius, as far as I’m concerned. He’s a client man, first and last; he inspires trust. Also, he has a facility for going into a meeting – corporate, tax, whatever – and immediately grasping the issues involved. Clients think he knows everything, which isn’t exactly true, but he can give that impression effortlessly. I’d be willing to bet that he could engage you in conversation about a homicide investigation and make you think he was an ex-cop.”
Their first course arrived, and they dug in.
“You didn’t mention any criminal lawyers,” Stone said between bites.
“We don’t have a criminal lawyer as such, although you’d be surprised at how much criminal work comes our way. Nowadays, it’s the corporate executive or stockbroker who’s stepped over the line; also, our clients’ kids get into trouble – drugs, rape, sometimes even murder.”
“How do you handle that?”
“In different ways. If it’s something big, we refer to a hotshot mouthpiece; more often, we bring in a consultant and handle it internally. A client likes it when his own lawyer seems to be in charge. Of course, there’s a fine line there; we have to make the judgment on when an outsider best serves the client’s needs. We can’t afford to make a mistake and underrepresent a client. We’re very, very careful in the matter of malpractice, and we’ve never had a suit against us.”
“That seems a good area to be careful in.”
“In short, Stone, we’re a class act. Every single partner is as good as any lawyer in town at what he does and better than ninety-nine percent of the field. We’re low profile, highly ethical, and extremely profitable. I will tell you, in confidence, that no partner in our firm is taking home less than half a million a year, and that’s the low end. I made a million two last year, and it wasn’t my best year.”
Stone sucked in a breath at the thought of so much money and what he could do with it.
“Now that I’ve stunned you,” Eggers said, noting Stone’s expression, “let me tell you why we’re interested in you.”
Somehow, Stone didn’t think that he was here to be offered a partnership and half a million dollars a year.
“As I’ve said, we’re taking on more and more criminal and domestic work, without even trying. We’ve handled some ourselves, farmed out some, and brought in consultants on others, but we’re still spread thin. Sometimes we need investigative work done, and we’re troubled by the quality of the people available to do that sort of thing. There are some high-class people around, but they charge more than a good lawyer gets; generally, what we see in the investigative area is sleaze – the worst sort of ex-cop, the ones who got the boot.”
“You might say I got the boot,” Stone said.
“But for all the right reasons,” Eggers replied. “We have a pretty good idea of why you were pensioned off.” He took a deep breath. “Another thing about investigators, they have a tendency to look wrong for some of the work we give them. They dress badly, drink too much, and sprinkle a lot of ’dems, deezes, and dozes’ around their conversation. You, on the other hand, look right and sound right.”
Stone shrugged. Eggers was looking for a private d
etective, and the thought didn’t interest him much.
Eggers must have read his mind. “Don’t get me wrong, we’re not looking for somebody to just kick down bedroom doors, although I wouldn’t rule that out. What’s interesting about you is a combination of things: you understand how the police department and the DA’s office work; you have a fine grasp of criminal justice procedure; you are a highly experienced investigator; and, unusually with all that, you have the background, education, demeanor, and the language skills that will let you fit easily into any upper-level social situation. In short, a client would be perfectly comfortable explaining his problem to you.”
“What exactly do you have in mind, Bill?”
“You could be very useful to us; let me give you some typical examples. One: a client’s son and heir, who has a three-hundred-dollar-a-week allowance, is, inexplicably, caught selling an ounce of cocaine on his college campus. We need somebody who can show up at the station house, talk to the cop in charge, deal with the DA, and get the charges dropped or reduced to a misdemeanor that the kid can plead to as a youthful offender and that will, in time, be expunged from his record. Two: the kid does something really bad – rapes his date, batters, maybe even murders her. We’ll need our own investigation into the events, and we’ll need to know how the cops and the DA are thinking. A third: A client suspects his wife of having an affair; we need to know for sure, before we can proceed for him. That’s not the whole range of problems that might arise, but it’s a good sampling.”
“I see.” This sounded better than hanging around the criminal courts, picking up burglary and drunk-driving cases.
“Let me lay it out for you. We don’t want you to join the firm, as such. Not yet, anyway. What we’d like you to do is set up your own practice, a professional corporation, which would be associated with us.”
“You realize I haven’t even passed the bar yet.”
