by Jon Reisfeld
“Under the circumstances, it just doesn’t feel right,” he said. “Besides, I’ve got a motel room.”
Martin said goodnight to his friends and let himself out. He walked slowly to his car, bent over and mumbling to himself. He looked like a death row inmate, who had just learned that his desperate, eleventh-hour appeal had been denied.
Chapter 5
Early Tuesday morning, Martin met with Chester Swindell in the restored Victorian home that served as his law firm’s Olney office. The meeting did not go well.
Swindell, one of the area’s most noted divorce attorneys, sat behind his large mahogany desk in a cluttered office that smelled of equal parts freshly brewed coffee and stale cigar smoke. He shook his head from side to side as he reviewed Martin’s copy of the Temporary Restraining Order and petition.
As he read, Swindell repeatedly made the same “zzt, zzt, zzt” sound doctors often make when reviewing particularly disturbing test results. He wore a pained look on his face that Martin found appalling but that Swindell had discovered, over the years, to be particularly useful in preparing his clients for the gargantuan legal bills divorce matters he tried typically generated. At his $300-an-hour rate, litigation clearly wasn’t going to be a bargain.
Swindell, at sixty-eight, was a tall, aristocratic-looking man, whom nature had blessed with the constitution of a rhino and the face of a terminal lung-cancer patient. The combination gave him the good fortune of looking much older than his years—and far more sympathetic than his conduct usually warranted.
Swindell’s sole hint of vitality was the shock of gray hair he combed straight back from his forehead. Everything else about him suggested weariness and infirmity. His naturally loose olive skin, painstakingly weathered to a rawhide-like appearance under an endless succession of sun lamps, had the look, and feel, of a well-broken-in baseball mitt. His considerable jowls, darkened eye sockets, and droopy eyelids—all suggestive of long nights spent “burning the midnight oil” for his clients—were a convenient accident of birth. He was, in fact, the spitting image of his father, who had spent most of his adult life as an underemployed “gentleman” farmer.
Swindell came from an old Maryland family of tobacco farmers and horse breeders. His ancestors were distant relatives of the Lees, a family of pre-revolutionary war origins noted for two things: its extensive real estate holdings and its claim of direct lineage to General Robert E. Lee. This historic connection was a source of great pride for Swindell—so much so, in fact, that he affected a slight southern lilt whenever he spoke.
Swindell fancied himself to be a true “southern lawyer,” and he played the part to the hilt. His southern affectations made him seem like an anachronism in the progressive, increasingly cosmopolitan Maryland suburbs of Washington, DC.
“Your wife,” Swindell finally said, looking up from the papers and over the rims of his reading glasses, “appears determined to skin you alive and then keep your hide around as some sort of souvenir.”
“None of the charges are true,” Martin insisted.
“Of course, of course” Swindell replied, with what appeared to be a pained effort at a smile. “Unfortunately, Mahr-tin,” he said, “she has the court, if not the law, on her side.”
“How’s that?”
“You saw how easy it was for her to get a temporary restrainin’ order against you?” Swindell asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s because, in today’s ‘politically correct’ environment, no judge in his or her right mind ever wants to be accused of bein’ ‘insensitive’ to the plight of women who fear for their safety or for the safety of their children. They’d rather blindly issue a thousand of these TROs, as we call them—carte blanche—than risk denyin’ protection to even one woman in real physical peril.”
“But what about the truth?” Martin blurted out. “Doesn’t that matter anymore? And what about my civil rights? Don’t I have a right to ‘due process?’ Aren’t I supposed to be protected against unreasonable ‘searches and seizures’? And, more importantly, don’t I have a right to see my kids and to stay actively involved in their lives?”
Swindell cocked his head to one side and squinted. “Yes, sir, Mahr-tin, those are all fine principles—the bedrock of American society.”
“But—?”
“But, they don’t amount to crap in these judges’ minds, at least compared to the thought of them bein’ ridiculed by the press for makin’ a mistake that leaves just one abused wife lyin’ face down in a ditch, beaten to death.
“They don’t want to be caught sippin’ coffee one mornin’ while the TV news reports that a woman they denied protection to a day earlier—someone like that poor Barnes woman—had been summarily executed, along with her two children, upon her return home from court.
“You see, Mahr-tin, it’s not really about justice or the law anymore. It’s all about protectin’ reputations: theirs, not yours. They want to position themselves for advancement, not embarrassment.”
“But my wife’s apparently been spreading lies about me to everyone we know, and now she can start using this TRO as some form of proof.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Swindell said, “unfortunate, but largely unavoidable.”
“Well, what about this hearing I’ve got in seven days. Can we expose her lies then? And where will that leave me?”
“Of course,” Swindell said, smiling to himself. “You should, and you shall, have your day in court. But please understand the position you’re in.”
“What position is that?” Martin asked, growing more and more exasperated.
“Well,” Swindell continued, “it’s hardly like you are goin’ in front of an impartial judge, now, is it?”
“You mean the judge already has made his mind up against me?”
“Well, what do you think? Hasn’t he put himself on record as believin’ you’re capable of violent, abusive acts?”
“Yes, but—”
“And won’t we be askin’ that same judge to now reverse that earlier decision?” Swindell continued.
“Well sure, but—”
“And, Mahr-tin, do you know anyone who likes to admit he’s wrong—and to do it publicly?”
“No, of course not. But the judge hasn’t even met me yet. If he’s received bad information from my wife and her attorney, if she has misled him, then certainly, she’s responsible, not him, right?”
“Well,” Swindell said, “he’s still the fool who believed her, isn’t he? I mean, isn’t that the essence of the point you want me to make?”
“OK, OK. I get it.”
“You see,” Swindell added, “all of this nonsense—and excuse me, I don’t mean to trivialize your situation, Mahr-tin—but all of this could have been avoided, if the judge had simply asked your wife or her attorney some probin’ questions at the ex-parte hearin’. Then, they would have gotten much nearer the truth. But judges in these cases don’t want to ask probin’ questions. They want to grant the petitions, so the less conflictin’ information they turn up, the better.
“I mean, why go out of your way to question the propriety of a course of action you prefer to take? Wouldn’t that be counter-productive?”
By now, Martin looked dumbstruck. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head and let out a mild snort.
“These judges don’t care if they fail to establish future grounds for perjury charges, either,” Swindell continued, “because they don’t consider what they’re askin’ you to sacrifice to be such a big deal, after all.”
“Are you crazy?” Martin said, with sudden fury. “I’ve been summarily thrown out of my house. My wife is dragging my name in the mud. My best friends doubt me. I’ve been denied access to my children, and now it looks like my entire case has been prejudiced, to boot.”
“Yes, but that is not the way they see it.”
“Well then, how do they see it?” Martin asked bitingly, throwing his hands up in the air.
“Since this is a ci
vil procedure, rather than a criminal one, they see themselves as temporarily inconveniencin’ you, but not doin’ you any real, long-term harm. No matter what happens at the hearin’, you won’t have a criminal record doggin’ you in the future. It will all soon be forgotten.”
“Not by me, it won’t.”
“Of course not,” Swindell said. “But they will be able to put this matter behind them. They will forget about your inconvenience a lot sooner than they’d forget about their own embarrassment and guilt, if anythin’ unfortunate happened to your wife or children.”
“So, what you’re saying is the whole system is rigged against me, because I’m a man—and all in the name of ‘political correctness?’ You’re saying that I’m being judged on stereotypes about men being more violent—and that most judges care more about their personal reputations and careers than they do about making sure justice is served?”
“Yes,” Swindell nodded, “that’s it—precisely. But don’t you dare go around quotin’ me on that. I’ll deny it, because I have to work with these judges. My livin’ largely depends on my ability to influence them. And remember, Mahr-tin, filin’ false petitions still is a drastic, risky, nasty, despicable act. Yes, women do it all the time, more and more. But it remains slightly more the exception than the rule. Unfortunately, your wife and her attorney appear more than willin’ to make this a very dirty fight.” (Swindell tried hard to let his smile shine only on the inside.)
“So what are my odds of getting this TRO, as you call it, reversed next Monday?” Martin asked.
“Dependin’ on the evidence we can produce, probably somewhere in the range of fifty-fifty, but if you’re lookin’ for justice, or to give your wife her comeuppance for subjectin’ you to this, I think that’s a real stretch.
“Right now, your wife has everythin’ she wants,” Swindell explained. “She’s got your kids, she’s got your attention and she’s got the court’s sympathy. I would expect an offer to be tendered soon.”
“You mean, like a settlement offer?” Martin gasped, looking dumbstruck.
“Somethin’ like that.”
“Well, she can forget it!” he said, slamming his fist down on Swindell’s desk. “I’d rather lose everything I have in a court fight than let her take what she wants from me in this manner.”
“I understand, Mr. Silkwood,” Swindell replied, growing all warm and mushy on the inside. “You want your day in court, and I’m goin’ to see that you get it.”
“Damned straight,” Martin said.
Swindell shook his new client’s hand, promising to be in touch.
Chapter 6
It was almost eleven o’clock when Martin stepped off the elevator and into Findley, Feldman and Santori’s stately reception area on the fourteenth floor of the Washington Square building, in downtown D.C. He glanced past the Chippendale sofas and chairs and waved ‘hello’ to Monique, who was sorting mail behind the reception desk.
Young, slim, attractive and impeccably dressed and coiffed, Monique—the temporary agency’s ‘flavor of the month’—exuded a Vogue-like, left-bank sophistication that Martin initially found somewhat intimidating. She was of a type: an aesthetic, actually. All the full-time receptionist candidates that the agency had been auditioning for hire of late—whether male, female, African, Asian or European—looked like they had just stepped out of a fashion spread for Elle or GQ.
They all also came well-schooled in high-end client greeting and phone-answering etiquette. They never asked a guest to choose between generic “bottled water” and “coffee,” for instance. Instead, they inquired as to whether the visitor would prefer ‘an Evian’ or ‘a Keurig?’ They excelled as office furniture, complementing the reception area’s bespoke décor of parquet floors and fine antiques. But their luster faded rapidly whenever they had to navigate even the most mundane, unscripted conversation.
“Any messages?” Martin asked.
“Oh, yes!” Monique beamed.
Martin stepped forward and extended his upturned hand, as Monique’s face suddenly blushed crimson.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Silkwood. They weren’t for you.”
“Of course.” Martin smiled and sighed. Then, without missing a beat, he turned right and began the long walk down the corridor toward Joe Santori’s office at the southern end of the building.
“Is Mr. Santori in?” he asked her over his shoulder.
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you let him know I’ll be stopping by?”
“Certainly.”
“Thanks.”
Such minor, daily annoyances were a byproduct of David Feldman’s endless cost-cutting efforts. Feldman, the firm’s managing partner and fiscal hawk, kept this revolving door of ‘fetching incompetents’ turning, in order to avoid hiring a permanent receptionist and causing the firm to incur the one-time placement fee that would equal twenty-five percent of the new hire’s annual starting salary.
Feldman further greased the wheels of ineptitude by refusing to provide the temporary placement firm with any meaningful feedback on why he chose to reject its candidates.
Feldman’s penny-pinching behavior had intensified in the past year, as the now sixty-four-year-old partner rapidly approached the firm’s mandatory retirement age of sixty-five. (His buyout would depend on the strength of the current year’s P & L statement.) He was becoming more tight-fisted and risk averse with each passing month.
In his prime, Feldman had focused on creating value, rather than on squeezing it out of niggling operational decisions. His farsighted, strategic thinking had allowed the firm gradually to take over the top three floors of this landmark office building, at the corner of Connecticut Avenue and K Street, without ever paying a rental premium. Feldman accomplished this feat by negotiating a ‘right of first refusal’ clause into the firm’s original lease. That clause allowed FF&S to exchange office space it let elsewhere in the building, at par value, for comparable space on the top three floors the moment it became available.
Martin preferred to meet privately with Santori when he had anything ‘delicate’ to discuss. The less pleasant and more personally painful the topic, the more he felt compelled to seek out Santori and to dodge Feldman altogether—if possible. These two men not only occupied identical, glass-enclosed octagonal office suites at opposite ends of the fourteenth floor, they also represented polar extremes in temperament.
Feldman was a true “inside man:” obsessive, detail oriented and brash, if not downright blunt. A slight, thin man, with a black comb over and bushy eyebrows, he looked significantly older, and frailer, than his sixty-four years would suggest. Feldman had a temper, too, and when agitated, he would hurl invectives at the targets of his displeasure. At such times, it seemed that Feldman’s shrill voice could cut through thick safety glass, insulated sheet rock and steel support beams with the ease of a high-powered laser.
Santori, on the other hand, was the firm’s “outside guy” and its primary rainmaker. Big, tan, affable, athletic, extroverted and upbeat, he exuded an off-the-charts self-confidence and likability. At six-foot-two and 205 pounds, with a thick head of curly gray hair, Santori looked like a former college linebacker. He had developed a slight gut in recent years, but that seemed more related to a naturally slowing metabolism than to any reduction in physical activity. In fact, the fifty-nine-year-old kept on the go seven days a week. He played tennis Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, completed eighteen holes of golf every weekend and had recently started attending a spinning class with thirty-eight-year-old wife number three.
What Martin admired most about Santori was that he knew his strengths and his passions—and he led with them. In fact, Santori successfully arranged his business and personal life to accommodate his interests.
He blocked out his competitive sporting activities on his calendar each week as “networking time,” which they were. He split the rest of his time between providing financial advice to the firm’s top clients and serving on the boards of at
least a dozen non-profit trade groups, whose membership just happened to represent key FF&S target markets. At those board meetings, Santori used his no-nonsense, creative approach to business problem solving to impress his peers and elicit referrals. He was a consummate politician, plying his trade in the most politically vital city on earth. Each day, he brought new business contacts together for their mutual benefit...and frequently, for the firm’s eventual profit.
Santori’s door stood slightly ajar, so Martin rapped on it gently and then poked his head inside. He found Santori standing in the middle of the room, sans business jacket, in his custom-tailored, pinstriped shirt, silk tie, silk suspenders and slacks, practicing his putting swing on the office’s forest-green carpet. Santori had just tapped a ball in the direction of an aluminum putting cup, which stood about eight feet away from him, and Martin watched the ball rapidly close in on, and find, its target.
“Nice shot,” he said.
“All in a day’s work, my boy,” Santori said. He smiled and waved Martin in, while he began queuing up another ball. His eyes never left the carpet.
“Wanna make this interesting, Dave?” he asked Feldman, whom Martin now saw was seated on a couch at his far left. “Say, a Hamilton or two?”
“Not while you’re in your kill zone, Joe—unless, you want to play left-handed?”
Santori ignored him, lined up the putter and hit the ball firmly. This time, it looked like a repeat of the previous shot, until the very end, when the ball suddenly trailed off to the right.
“Damn!” Feldman whelped.
Santori shook his head. “Woulda, coulda, shoulda.” He winked at Martin and smiled wryly at the older man as he parked the putter against his desk and came over to join them.
“You did that on purpose—to spite me,” Feldman complained.
“I’m not that good.”
“Oh, yes, you are!”
Santori stepped forward, gave Martin a firm handshake and guided him to a seat by Feldman, who was studying his wristwatch.
