The Inglorious Arts

by Alan Hruska

  “Will do.” Rilesman sits thinking again. “One more thing. The counterclaim against Mid-Atlantic Power & Light for monopsonization.”

  “I’ll have a draft for you tomorrow.”

  “Actually, I was thinking… that’s really a sideshow. And given how busy you guys are, maybe we should let Stevens, McKay & Rilesman handle that one.”

  “Your old firm in Akron,” Alec notes.

  “That’s right.”

  “Larry, let me say this. I’m probably too busy to find evidence to support a counterclaim. Probably too busy to prosecute one, even assuming we get the evidence to bring it. I’m probably too busy to handle your defense. But if you want me to handle your defense, it’s a mistake—potentially, a really bad mistake—to let another firm deal with the counterclaim. No matter how good they are, and I’m sure they’re fine.”

  “They’d take direction from you,” Rilesman says. “They’d argue nothing you hadn’t approved in advance.”

  “And how’s that supposed to work? Say, in the middle of an oral argument? Or even in the questioning of a witness? Look,” Alec says, “in litigation you want one voice. One captain and one voice. Otherwise, not only does it get confusing, it gets inconsistent. Particularly in a case like this. Mid-Atlantic is charging us with having monopolized the market in which we sell. Conspiring with Edison to do it, but still monopolization. We’re charging Mid-Atlantic with having monopsonized the market in which they buy. Or, in the alternative, attempting to monopsonize. There is, therefore, a terrific opportunity for what we say, especially on the law, to get mired in contradictions. Because a party alleging monopolization normally wants to argue a much different view of the law than does a party defending against a monopolization charge. You understand?”

  It’s apparent he doesn’t. “Listen,” Rilesman says, “you get the evidence, you draft the counterclaim. Just let them do the work on it. Probably it will be only drudge work, until we get to a trial,and then we’ll see. Actually, the plan is to never get to a trial, right?”

  “That’s the hope. But another lawyer talking in court? That will make it a pipe dream.”

  Rapid thought twitches across Rilesman’s face. “Don’t fight me on this, Alec. I am the client.”

  “No, Larry, you’re not,” Alec says. “The company is the client. Which ultimately means the stockholders, as represented by the board of directors.”

  “That’s philosophy. In reality—your reality—I’m the client, unless Bob Curtis, our CEO, intercedes.”

  “Tell you what,” Alec says, as if placating a child. “At the moment, the counterclaim is still an academic issue. Let’s talk about it again when we know we can file.”

  “Whatta you mean? I thought it was a slam dunk.”

  “Should work,” Alec says.

  “Should work?” says Rilesman, now getting excited. “I’ve taken a position with my board about this.”

  “Really?” Alec says with a laugh. “That was brave of you.”

  “You’re saying it’s questionable?”

  “Calm down, Larry. It just hasn’t happened yet.”

  “But you’ll get the proof we need? For the counterclaim?”

  “Probably,” Alec says.

  “Probably?”

  “Those are good odds.”

  “How will you get it?”

  “Like I said. From Donald Strand. Horse’s mouth. If we’re lucky.”

  “Lucky?” Rilesman says, pitch rising. “And isn’t it too early to be taking the deposition of their CEO?”

  “Not necessarily. The papers will be served tomorrow.”

  “They’ll allow this? The Mid-Atlantic lawyers?”

  “I seriously doubt it,” Alec says. “They’ll probably move for a protective order to stop it.”

  “We could lose that motion! Everyone will know we’re fishing for a counterclaim.”

  “We won’t lose,” Alec says.

  “That you know?”

  “I do.”

  “Mind telling me how?”

  “The new judge assigned,” Alec says. “Just happened. I got word five minutes before you walked in.”

  “And now you tell me?” Rilesman says. “Who is it?”

  “Hal Richardson. He was a partner at the Dewey firm.”

  “Friend of yours?”

  “Hardly,” Alec says. “We tried a case together years ago. I nearly got him disbarred. Long story.”

  “But now he’s going to rule in our favor?”

  “He doesn’t like me very much, Larry, but he’s a hardwired guy.”

  “Like Porter, but the other way?”

  “Even more so, the other way.”

  “So that’s what we want, isn’t it?”

  Alec considers how to explain this. “Friend of mine, man named Bill Piel, terrific trial lawyer, terrific guy, once said to me, ‘You know, sometimes it’s as dangerous to have a trial judge biased in your favor as it is having one biased against you. What you want, especially if you’ve got a good case, is what I call a judgey judge. Down the middle. Not a flaming idealogue. One who calls it like it is.’ ”

  “You think we have a good case?” Rilesman asks in a voice that implies the opposite.

  “Don’t know yet, Larry. Let’s do the transaction file project and find out.”

  Leaving school for the day, Sarah finds Tino waiting outside. “We hadn’t finished,” he says.

  Cissy, alongside her, starts shaking her hand, as if it were burning. “Wow, Tino! You here? Waiting for Sarah? Quite a statement! I’ll just be off, I will.”

  Sarah, carrying her bag from the prior night’s sleepover, watches her leave, then turns to Tino. Standing on the pavement, they part a river of girls. “So you have something to say?”

  His look is intent. “Elsewhere I do.”

  “I’m good here.”

  “Okay,” he says. “It’s simply this. Whatever my uncle wants from you, I’m on your side, not his.”

  She gazes up at him for a moment, girls still streaming by. Then hands him the bag and says, “I live a few blocks from here.”

  Maid’s day off. Sarah wonders, going up the elevator in her building, whether Tino knew that. The doormen said nothing. They’re under no instructions from Alec. She wants a boy in her apartment, that’s her business, unless her father directs otherwise. And he probably would, if he knew, Sarah realizes. Tino may be family, but it’s not a family she or Alec admires, although she, at least, is intrigued: by the family and the boy. And the risk of being alone with him is part of the fascination.

  Entering, looking around, Tino says, “Nice pad.”

  “This way,” she says, heading to her room.

  It’s a bedroom converted from two maids’ rooms in the rear of the apartment. She has never shown it before to any boy, and her allowing him entry is exhilarating.

  Tino says, “I saw a big bedroom in the front with a great view of the park.”

  “That’s Alec’s room,” she says, disappointed in his reaction. “You don’t call him Dad?”

  “He was introduced to me as Alec.”

  “When you were what? Five?”

  “Close,” Sarah says.

  “But he is your dad, he adopted you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I was also adopted,” he says offhandedly.

  “Yes, you did happen to mention that, Tino. And by whom. But that information, as I recall, was a little belated.”

  “My dad,” he says, ignoring her jibe, “who worked for the Angiapellos, was killed. Then my adoptive father, Uncle Sal’s brother, was also killed.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “Ancient history. But, you see, we’ve got a lot in common.”

  “A bloody family,” she says grimly. “A stupid family.”

  “Hey,” he says lightly, as if they were still talking about the apartment, “I love your room. But where’s you? No stuffed animals, no art, no posters?” He goes to her night table, picks up a p
hoto in a frame. “Is this your mom?”

  She takes the picture from his hands carefully and returns it to its place on the night table. “You want something to drink?”

  “You have some booze?”

  “I’m not giving you booze.”

  “Easy,” he says. “I’m kidding. I don’t drink. I’m an athlete.”

  “There’s soda and juice. I think.”

  “I’m good. Let’s not break the mood.”

  “We have a mood?” she says.

  “I’m kidding again. Sorry. Can we sit down? On the bed?”

  “Are you nervous?” she asks bluntly.

  “Why do you think I’m nervous?”

  “Because you’re acting like a jerk.”

  “What?” he says, offended.

  “It’s okay. I’m nervous too, but we’re not sitting on the bed.” She plunks down on the rug, her back to the bed, and points to the space next to her.

  He says, “You’re not ready to sit on a bed with me?”

  She points again.

  “If you patted the space, it might be more tempting.”

  She whacks it with the flat of her hand. “Tino!”

  He joins her, laughing. “At least it’s a good-quality Persian,” he says. “Soft.”

  “So now you’re an expert on rugs?”

  He tries to engage her in a smile. “Let’s stop, Sarah. The kidding around. I’m serious about you. I want us to be friends.”

  “Serious?” she says, pulling down on her school-uniform skirt. “We’ve met twice, and you’re serious?”

  “Yes,” he says flatly.

  “Okay,” she says. “Then open up.”

  “I just did.”

  “Not that. Tell me about this creepy uncle of yours.”

  “We should talk about us,” he says.

  “There is no ‘us’ yet, Tino.”

  “Yet?” he says, as if that prospect were hopeful.

  “Yet,” she repeats, as if such a hope were unfounded. “Your uncle, your adoptive uncle, whatever. Tell me about him.”

  Tino turns one hand in a gesture of impatience. “Uncle Sal. He’s a boss. A capo. Like your birth father was, only more powerful, because he’s taken over Phil’s territory in New York and Jersey as well as his own in Connecticut.”

  “What’s his interest in me?”

  “I told you.”

  “Tino! What did he say? The words!”

  The implications of honestly answering that question furrow Tino’s young brow. “He said you inherited a lot of money from your father.”

  “And?”

  “And he thought the money should stay in the family.”

  “Ah,” she says. “It’s that simple.”

  “Not to me. I’m not sure exactly what he meant.”

  “Oh, really? You may be dim, Tino, but not that dim.”

  He makes a hurt face, which turns into another smile. “You think I’m dim?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know what you are. Aside from vain. You’re like that Carly Simon song.”

  “I hate that song!”

  “Because you probably think that song is about you!” she sings, delighted with the fit.

  “One thing I’m not,” he says, with all the gravity he can muster, “is someone willing to take advantage of you. No matter what my uncle said or meant.”

  “That’s great,” she says. “So how am I supposed to trust that?”

  “You want proof of trust?”

  “Yes,” she says. “That’s what I want.”

  He leans over to kiss her, but she pulls away. “You’re going to prove I can trust you by making out with me?”

  “No, I’m going to make out with you because I want to. And so do you. And because there’s too much ice in this room. It’s very hard to get trust with all this ice in the way.”

  “Okay, Tino,” she says, getting to her feet. “Enough bullshit.”

  He shoots upward to face her. “Every word was sincere.”

  “Now you’re making it worse.”

  He rubs his face. “I know we started out bad,” he says. “And I know that was my fault. And that I can act like a wiseass. But I’m really not a bad person. And I really like you. A lot. I don’t even know why. You’re very beautiful—which I’m sure you know—but it’s more than that.”

  She gives him a smirk.

  He says, “How old did you say you were?”

  “I think we’re done here.”

  “Easy,” he says. “I’m just learning who you are.”

  She starts moving down the hall.

  “Look,” he says, following. “Whatever my uncle has in mind, he’ll tell me.”

  “You know this?”

  “Yes, because he sees me as the guy who will carry out his plan.”

  “And then you’ll tell me, you’re saying?”

  “Yes.”

  She stops in the front hallway. “That’s a pretty good test,” she says.

  “Not honoring my uncle? Yeah.” He lets out a sad laugh. “You couldn’t know.”

  “And you’ll do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” she says, looking right at him.

  “Because,” he says, returning her stare, “hurting you is not anything I could ever do.”

  “Okay,” she says and turns away with a faint smile. “I’ve decided to trust you, but we’ll see.” She opens the front door.

  “You’re still throwing me out?”

  “Only out of my apartment, Tino. Not out of my life. Yet.”

  NINE

  Jack Stamper was a law school classmate of Alec’s, although he’s five years older, having served in Korea as a Marine captain right after graduation from college. In mufti, he’s still a Marine—from the rod up his spine to the clip in his speech, and the manner in which he pulverizes opponents. The term “scorched earth” was coined to describe Jack Stamper’s style of conducting litigation.

  This morning, Saturday, he stands before the heads of the various departments of Kendall, Blake, Steele & Braddock. They’re in the basement of Ben Braddock’s co-op on Park Avenue, where a conference table has been jerry-rigged to accommodate them. Jack is giving a tutorial on the government monopolization case against U.S. Computer Corp. A small bull of a man nearing forty, square headed, small eyed, and pale skinned, he has the drained look of someone having worked too many weekends of his life. Nonetheless, he generates an energy that commands attention.

  “The case was filed,” he says, “on the last day of the Johnson administration. It was an old complaint that had been kicking around the Justice Department without support for several years. The attorney general then was Ramsey Clark, who knew little about the antitrust laws and less about the facts. He didn’t have to. Antitrust was not the purpose of the pleading he signed. It was meant to embarrass the Nixon administration with the most enormous and spectacular civil action ever brought—one that had to be prosecuted but couldn’t be won. Right now it’s a tar baby for both sides. But what’s helping the government and hounding us is that the judge trying it, Eustace Ettinger, is a lunatic.”

  Jack pauses to look around the table, his glance lingering on Alec, who nods. He knows the charge to have ample license. He had another case before that judge.

  He and Jack were moot court opponents first year of law school. They hammered each other and emerged as friends. Alec, who had already accepted Kendall, Blake, recruited Jack to join him. Had Jack returned to St. Louis, his hometown, he’d probably already be governor of Missouri on his way to a bid for the White House.

  When the two of them became partners, Ben Braddock invited both to lunch. During the main course, Braddock casually announced, “Jack, you’re to take over U.S. Computer Corp.; Alec, your job is U.S. Safety Vault & Maritime, all our banking clients, and Telemarch News.” “Okay,” Alec said; Jack just smiled; and both went on with the meal. As if nothing important had happened. In fact, what had happened was that Ben Braddock had just divided his e
mpire. Even then, senior partners did not relinquish huge clients, unless their next breaths were certifiably their last—the certification having been issued by a medical board. But to Ben Braddock, it was simply the obvious next step in the firm’s best interests: splitting up the work of the office and “bringing young partners along.”

  Jack flourished at U.S. Computer. They ran the company much like the Marine Corps, and he fit right in. He squashed the opponent in every case, until the government antitrust suit began. Almost fifty motions were made; the government won every one of them. Which severely damaged Computer Corp.’s ability to mount a defense. Which was Judge Ettinger’s obvious agenda.

  The judge knew he was despised by the bar and most members of his own court. But the government suit against Computer Corp. presented him with a unique opportunity: to go down in history as the jurist who broke up the most successful computer company in the world. This, he believed, would redeem his reputation. One built, it should be noted, on failing the bar exam three times, mangling virtually every case ever assigned to him, and leaving most lawyers who practiced before him questioning a system that could put this man in robes rather than an asylum.

  Once the trial started, stranger things occurred. The government offered in evidence portions of the pretrial depositions that they designated as relevant, and Jack offered his counter-designations. This is the normal practice in a bench trial. Only in a jury trial are the designated passages read aloud, which is done, obviously, so that the jury might hear them. Judge Ettinger, however, ruled that any deposition testimony that either side wished to use must be read into the trial record. There then ensued one of the most bizarre procedures in the history of American jurisprudence. Lawyers for both sides sat in court and read deposition testimony aloud to one other and, of course, to a court reporter. In effect, one transcript was being read, and typed, into another. For months. It wasn’t done for the judge’s edification. He decided being present would be a total waste of his time.

  “It didn’t take long to figure out the reason for this madness,” Jack says. “The judiciary receives a monthly report showing the number of trial days for each judge. So for months and months lawyers droned on to court reporters in a vast, otherwise empty, ceremonial courtroom so that Judge Eustace Ettinger could get credit for work he wasn’t doing—and, ironically, everyone knew he wasn’t doing, because this ridiculous charade soon became the talk of bench and bar—yet no one could put a stop to it.”