by Reece Hirsch
“Yes, I understand.”
“And if anyone, an agent from the SEC or anywhere else, asks you about what happened, you will have to tell them the truth about everything. If you don’t, you could go to jail for that, too.”
Katya crossed her arms on her chest, as if she were trying to muffle an explosion.
“Did Nikolai say anything about what he intended to do with the information?”
Katya pulled a pair of sunglasses out of her purse and put them on. “He let go of my wrist and smiled. Then he said, ‘I told Yuri that you were a worthless bitch, but perhaps you are not so worthless after all.’”
“That sounds pretty articulate for Nikolai.”
“He said it in Russian.”
“Was that it?”
“He wanted to know if that was everything I knew about Jupiter. Then he asked me if he needed to ‘hold my hand’ again. I said that I’d told him everything. He seemed satisfied and said that he’d get the rest of the information from you. That’s when he opened the door.”
Katya and Will walked slowly across the plaza to the busy thoroughfare of the Embarcadero. They crossed the Embarcadero in front of the Ferry Building and went past the hangarlike pier buildings. A family of tourists emerged from the shadows of a pier, fresh from their cruise ship, and huddled on the sidewalk with their roller bags, squinting at them from under baseball caps.
After walking in silence for a while, Will and Katya arrived at Pier 39, which had more to do with tourism than shipping. The wooden pier was jammed with T-shirt shops, ice cream stands, and video arcades. Will detested tourist traps, but it was comforting to be absorbed into the sneakered, T-shirted throng.
A rank, fishy smell grew stronger as they reached the end of the pier and the spot for viewing the sea lions. Dozens of them were lying on abandoned docks beside the pier. They came in every shade of brown, from the mud brown of the sleepers that scratched themselves with webbed flippers to the dark chocolate of the ones that emerged, dripping and indignant, from the water to bark and bump chests in territorial scuffles.
“You know,” Will said, “they’re all males.”
“This does not surprise me,” Katya replied.
“They should be off mating somewhere. But instead they come here for the food. It’s one big, stinky bachelor pad.”
“What is bachelor pad?”
“Never mind.”
Will studied Katya as she leaned on the wooden railing, surrounded by tourists snapping photos. She still wore her dark glasses, her face impassive.
It was likely that Katya was lying to him. There were still too many questions, too many of what the litigators at his firm would call “bad facts.” She had already admitted to dating, and accepting a job recommendation from, a would-be Russian gangster. If she was working with Yuri and Nikolai, then that would explain the appearance of the two thugs at her apartment that morning. It would also provide a plausible explanation for why she was so quick to volunteer the information about the Jupiter deal. And he still had to believe that Nikolai, Yuri, and perhaps Katya had some connection to Ben’s death, which had led them to him when he took over the Jupiter negotiations from Ben. On the other hand, if Katya was telling the truth about the pummeling she had received from Nikolai, then he felt like a jerk for doubting her.
Katya looked up at Will as she made room for two little girls crowding to the railing to get a better look at the sea lions. She extended her hand, and he took it.
Then Will lifted Katya’s hand and examined her wrist where Nikolai had grabbed her. There was no bruising, no marks at all. By itself, it was not decisive, but it was enough to tip the scales.
“I think you’ve been lying to me,” he said.
“Why would you say that?”
“There are no bruises on your wrist.”
“Maybe I don’t bruise so easy.”
“No, it’s not just that. It’s everything. I just don’t buy it. I think you’re working with Yuri and Nikolai. I think you knew they were coming to your apartment this morning. It was all an act for my benefit.”
“So it’s all about you, is it?” Katya said. “That sounds a little paranoid, doesn’t it?”
Will simply stared at her. Katya stared back at him from behind her sunglasses for a long moment.
“Okay, you’re right,” she finally said with a shrug of her shoulders. “I do work with Nikolai and Yuri. But everything that I told you about them is true.”
“Why should I believe a word that you say? You want me to be scared of them.”
“Obviously, it’s your decision, Will.”
Still adjusting to his newly revised vision of Katya, Will was silent.
“I may not be your friend, but I’m not your enemy, either,” Katya added. “Not really. I think you’re a sweet guy—and a good lay. I’ll try to help you if I can.” Katya turned and began to walk away.
Will grabbed her arm and turned her around. “Then I need you to tell me more. What do Nikolai and Yuri want from me?”
“Let go of my arm, Will. Yuri is following us, you know. Don’t make me call him over here.” She pointed down the pier to an ice cream stand, where Yuri was eating an ice cream cone. Displeased at being discovered, Yuri tossed his ice cream into a trash can.
Will released Katya’s arm, and she strode away through the crowd of tourists, leaving him standing at the railing as the sea lions filled the air with their groaning cries. Will realized that when Katya played with her bracelet, it had indeed been a tell, but not for nervousness. It meant she was lying.
Will’s cell phone rang. It was a law firm extension, so he answered.
“Will, where are you?” It was Don, sounding impatient.
“I went out to get some fresh air. I’m just a couple of blocks from the office.”
“Well, get back here right now, will you? There are some people here to see you. It’s important.”
Before Will could ask who the visitors were, Don hung up.
NINE
When Will returned to the office, he was greeted by Don, who was standing waiting for him in the lobby.
Will immediately suspected the worst. Was it possible that Nikolai had already purchased Jupiter stock and been linked to Will by the SEC? Or maybe Detective Kovach was waiting to escort him to a cell.
“There are some people in conference room C that I’d like you to meet.”
“Clients?”
“Something like that.”
Will followed Don down the hallway and past the reception desk. He noticed that the receptionist and office staff eyed them knowingly as they passed. Clearly, something was up.
Don held open the door to the conference room and motioned for Will to enter. Will put on his game face and stepped inside, ready for anything, even handcuffs.
In the conference room, the twenty-two San Francisco partners were clustered around the conference table, drinks in hand. A mild cheer went up, mingled with scattered exclamations of “Congratulations, partner!”
Will smiled with relief as a glass of champagne was thrust into his hand. “I could tell you bought it,” Don said, patting him on the back. “There’s a career in acting for me yet.”
Will lifted his glass to the room and was relieved to see that no speech was expected of him. Everyone promptly resumed their conversations.
The office’s other new partners were already there: Jay Spencer, his former classmate at Boalt Hall, UC Berkeley’s law school; Jill Lewis, a litigator; Marc Tucci, a copyright attorney; and Norm Reynolds, a corporate attorney and grandson of one of the firm’s venerable founders, Stewart Reynolds.
Will immediately realized that Rob Kramer, a senior associate in the technology group, was not among the new partners. Not so long ago, before the Internet bubble burst, he had appeared to be a shoo-in for partnership. During the dot-com mania, a kind of struggle had taken place for the soul of the law firm. Some partners wanted the firm to concentrate on the big money to be made taking Internet and te
ch companies public. Another faction felt that the firm was expanding too fast and ignoring its traditional mainstay practice areas, such as business litigation. Now that the technology sector had tanked, the old guard of the firm was once more in ascendancy, and the technology attorneys were like the zealots of a failed revolution, forced to bite their tongues and suffer the tired jokes about “dot bombs,” waiting until times changed or their penance was complete. Rob Kramer was a casualty of this internecine war, his principal sin that of being championed by the wrong people at the wrong time.
Will made a little small talk with Don about the Niners’ chances for next season, then turned to the subject that he was really interested in.
“Don, I don’t mean to spoil the party here, but I’ve got a question for you about Ben.”
Don’s expression darkened. “Okay, if you must. Ask.”
“Was there any indication that he was suicidal?” Will still believed that Ben had been murdered, but he was hoping that something interesting might have come to light now that everyone in the firm had spent two days scouring their memories for anything out of the ordinary.
“No, no one could see it coming, even in hindsight. I hope you aren’t thinking that there’s something that we could have done.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I was just wondering if anyone saw any signs, or if there was a reason. . . . ”
“There’s no understanding this thing with Ben, so you shouldn’t even try. But something one of the detectives said gave me pause. When they examined Ben’s body, there were burns on his chest and upper arms. Probably about a week or two old. Maybe it was some kinky sexual stuff, maybe someone tortured him. The police don’t know . . . and I don’t think I want to know.”
“Do the police have a theory?”
“How should I know?” Don snapped. “Take my advice, Will. Enjoy this moment. It’s a milestone. It only comes around once. Now, pardon me, but I’m going to go find out where they’re keeping the single malts around here.”
As Don walked away, Will speculated that the burns were probably administered by Yuri, Nikolai, or some other Russian thug—the same bunch that had now turned their attentions to him. But how did Katya know that he was the new lead attorney on the Jupiter merger? She must have been informed by someone at the firm, probably someone in the room at that moment. Will scanned the faces of the attorneys as they chattered over their drinks, trying to guess who might have betrayed him. Will’s thoughts were interrupted when he saw Jay Spencer making his way across the room toward him, wiseguy smile firmly in place.
Jay was tall and loose-limbed, with a tan and a smile both a few shades too vivid to be real. He resembled a young golf pro who had been cut from the tour and found his true calling hustling duffers at the country club. Jay had one of the most facile minds in their law school class, but he never became the attorney he might have been because his moral flexibility was always just a little too apparent.
Will and Jay had been competing ever since they both ran for editor-in-chief of the Boalt Law Review. Jay had won the election and never ceased to amaze Will with the creative ways he found to introduce that fact into conversation. As they raced neck and neck toward partnership, it was clear that their competition was not going to end anytime soon.
Jay extended his hand. “Congratulations, man. You earned it. Not as much as me, but you earned it.”
“I think I’ll take that as a compliment. Congratulations to you, too.”
Jay leaned in to examine the bandage on Will’s head. “That looks painful. Must have been some celebration.”
“Racquetball injury. Got smacked with a backhand.” Will had prepared his story in advance, concluding that a racquetball injury struck the proper note: suitably preppy and virile, but not too klutzy.
Jay put his arm conspiratorially around Will. “Come on, Will,” he said in a stage whisper. “That crack habit was okay when you were an associate, but now that you’re a partner, it’s time to lay down the pipe.”
Will laughed in spite of himself. Jay was the Eddie Haskell of Reynolds Fincher. He adopted a serious, regular-guy persona with everyone else at the firm, but with Will, who had had his number since law school, Jay gave free and unapologetic rein to his inner Machiavelli.
“Excuse me,” Will said, removing Jay’s arm from around his shoulder. “But it’s that sulfur smell. It’s hell getting it out of the clothes.”
Jay smiled. “Hey, don’t be that way. You know, ten years from now, we’re going to be running this place, you and me.”
“What’s with this ‘we’ business? That doesn’t sound like you, Jay.”
“I’m using the word loosely . . . to mean ‘me.’”
“That’s the guy I know.” Tiring of the banter, Will changed the subject. “Have you heard anything more about Ben?”
Even Jay was sobered by this turn in the conversation. “The funeral service is Saturday.”
“Is anyone from the firm going to speak?”
“I don’t think so. I hear that the family somehow blames the firm for the suicide. What can you say? The guy just didn’t make the cut.”
Will shot Jay a disgusted look.
“You know, Will, you’ve gotta stop treating me like I’m the recruiting director for the forces of darkness. Look around. We’re on the same team.”
Before Will could field a retort, Jay headed off to join a group of corporate partners who were listening attentively as Don Rubinowski regaled them with tales of his last quail-hunting trip to Mexico. Will wondered how long he had to stay before he could slip out.
Just as Will inched toward the door, he spotted Richard Grogan approaching from across the room, a tumbler of scotch in hand. Richard, the co-chair of the firm’s corporate department, had a client list that included a host of publicly traded companies. With his immaculate gray suit and perfectly coiffed salt-and-pepper hair, he looked as if he had been genetically engineered to make board presentations.
Richard was the ultimate anal retentive; he even had a policy regarding the correct positioning of binder clips on documents. Jay Spencer was Richard’s right hand, sitting in the second chair on a number of transactions for Richard’s clients. It was widely known within the firm that he had taken up smoking just so that he would have an excuse to join Richard on his regular cigarette breaks outside the building. Will had never become one of Richard’s “team” of associates, not because he wasn’t talented enough, but because he was unwilling to join the cult of personality that Richard cultivated.
Will realized that his failure to suck up to Richard could have compromised his chances of making partner. Fortunately, he had found an ally in Sam Bowen, the other co-chair of the corporate department. Sam’s style could not have been more different from Richard’s. He seldom wore a suit, favoring khakis and rumpled button-down shirts. While Richard was five feet six and tightly wound, Sam was six feet two and gangly, with an unflappable calm. Although he could match Richard in his grasp of every facet of a transaction, Sam always treated his associates with respect, even when they made mistakes, and that was enough to inspire Will’s loyalty. Sam’s specialty was international mergers and acquisitions. He spoke five languages fluently and, Will suspected, with a north Florida drawl.
When Sam noticed that Richard was coming over to greet Will, he broke away from his group to perform a rescue.
“Congratulations, Will,” Richard said, extending a hand. Richard noted Will’s wrinkled suit and the bandage on his forehead with an arched eyebrow. “It’s great to have you in the partnership. You know, we haven’t worked together enough lately. When the Jupiter deal closes, you should come around and see me about tackling a project together.”
Will performed a rough translation of Richard’s statement. Richard had probably tried to sabotage his partnership candidacy because Will was not among his cadre of associates. Since that effort had clearly failed, Richard wanted to align Will with his faction within the corporate department.
“I’ll definitely do that, Richard. Right now Jupiter’s keeping me pretty busy. Taking over for Ben at a moment’s notice has been challenging, to say the least.”
Sam joined them and raised a bottle of beer. “Welcome to the old bastards club, Will.”
“Thanks, Sam, but I still like to think of myself as a young bastard.”
“I stand corrected.” Sam laughed. “You are a young and vigorous bastard. A bastard in the very prime of life. Richard, this young man is going to be the future of our department,” he proclaimed.
“Will has certainly done a great job here over the past few years,” Richard said coolly. Will knew that the quickest way to turn Richard against him was to be seen being chummy with Sam. As he sipped his champagne, Will took comfort in the thought that, as a partner, he no longer had to be as concerned about Richard’s temperament.
“Will, once again, congratulations,” Richard said. “See you at your first partnership meeting on Thursday. I’m afraid it’s going to be a tough one.”
Will nodded his thanks as Richard left, limboing through an obstacle course of wineglasses.
“What’s so tough about this meeting?” Will asked.
“We have a difficult personnel decision to make,” said Sam, looking uncharacteristically grim. “There’s some talk about reducing our associate leverage to increase profits per partner. In English, that means laying people off. But it looks like the process is going to start with a termination.”
“Who’s getting fired?”
“C’mon, it’s a party. You’ll hear about all of this soon enough.”
“Please, Sam. I really want to know. Who is it?”
“Claire Rowland.”
“Not Claire! She’s always done great work for me, and she really seems to have a handle on the Jupiter due diligence. . . .”
“Whoa, there. This is not my idea. She got on Richard’s bad side somehow. I don’t think there’s much we can do for her. . . .”
