by Alan Hruska
“Not weird.”
“It’s what he does on the island,” Harvey says. “Sal and Phil were cousins, but they’re from different branches of the family—and different worlds. Phil’s branch came from Palermo. City people. Catholics. Sal’s branch is of and from that island. They’re not Catholics.”
“So what are they?”
“Throwbacks. Primitives. They believe in gods, plural. Of which Sal, self-styled, is one.”
“He thinks he’s a god?” Alec says.
“I’ve no idea what he thinks. But he acts like a god. Especially on that island. Where he’s also worshipped as one. Maintaining a small army probably helps this.”
“Is he deranged, or just indulging a fantasy to keep troops in line?”
“I can’t be sure. Probably a combination of both.”
“How many men?”
“The numbers shift,” Harvey says. “On the island itself, typically around fifty. Well trained. Employed, supposedly, in his business, but schooled more in savagery than mortgages. If there’s a difference.”
“His real business is what, drugs?”
“A sideline at most now. Old-fashioned. Like gambling, sex slavery, all the old rackets he controls here. And Sal does buy and sell buildings. Mainly, though, he deals in things that kill people fast. Like tanks and small missiles. Like poisonous gas. For which there is, not surprisingly, a huge market.”
“The feds know this, I assume. And are trying to prove it?”
“They may never prove it.”
“He must be worth billions,” Alec says.
“Multibillions.”
“Yet he’s fixated on Sarah’s inheritance.”
“That’s his sentimental side,” Harvey notes dryly.
“I’d like you to keep an eye on him for me.”
“Physically?”
“Paper record, Harvey. I’d rather not get you killed.”
“Oh, good,” Harvey says. “That’s where I thought this was going.”
ELEVEN
Another meeting at the courthouse is about to begin—this one also requested by Alec. And now there’s a new judge, Hal Richardson, greeting the lawyers one at a time: Professor Frederick Musselman, lead counsel for the plaintiff, Mid-Atlantic Power & Light; Karol Stash, second chair; Cadigan Breen, counsel for Edison; and Alec Brno, counsel for Allis-Benoit. All are wearing suits, as is appropriate for court; but the judge, disdaining judicial robes out of fellow feelings for his former compatriots, sports a bespoke shirt and an Hermès tie.
Normally, the longer a judge has been in office, the more fully furnished his chambers are. This has not been true, however, in the case of either judge associated with the heavy-electrical-equipment litigation: the recently recused Mark Porter and the newly assigned Hal Richardson. Porter’s space was devoid of any decoration whatsoever. He took the chambers first given him five years before and continued to use what was there without embellishment. Richardson, on the other hand, in office only two months, has assembled furnishings more suitable to a stately home. His desk, chairs, photographs, and art were carted over from his offices on Wall Street. The Oriental carpet is new—or at least newly purchased—and the judge, eyes darting downward every other moment, seems to expect praise, or at least some comment, for its acquisition.
Musselman gives him what he wants, and Richardson turns beamish. He knows all the lawyers at this meeting and welcomes them by name. First name. A slender man of medium height, his handshake is firm, his skin a bit weathered, as from a robust outdoor life, and his wavy gray hair groomed by an excellent barber. Yet as the judge returns to his Queen Anne desk and the lawyers sit around it, Alec notices a tremor in Hal’s hand that belies the firmness of that shake and suggests a more spirituous cause of his ruddy complexion.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Alec says, “for the opportunity to discuss this motion in chambers.”
“Well,” the judge says expansively, “when I looked at the names on these papers, I thought, ‘Whatta you know! I’ve tried cases with every single one of you guys.’ Sometimes on the same side, sometimes opposing. And, of course, sometimes it was hard to tell.” He gives a loud bark of a laugh, inviting everyone to join in, which they politely do. “Your first trial, Alec. Remember that? I wanted to get my man, J.J. Tierney, off the stand. You insisted on cross-examining. Tierney was the damn CEO. If you and I hadn’t won that case, that son of a bitch would have fired me.”
“I remember, Judge.”
“And now you’re doing the same thing, more or less. You want to depose Donald Strand, the CEO of Mid-Atlantic Power & Light.”
“I do, Judge, yes.”
“It’s hard to understand why, Alec. He’s charging your client with price fixing. So the case isn’t about what his company did; it’s about what your client did—if anything—with Edison Electric. What in the world do you need Strand for?”
“Several reasons, actually. As you say, Your Honor, he’s charging us with fixing prices. We could sit back and say, you’ve got the burden, try to prove it; we don’t even need to put on a defense. But if Donald Strand knows for a fact we weren’t fixing prices, we have a right to find that out now. Before trial. Before wasting many thousands of hours of everyone’s time, including Your Honor’s.”
“You think he’s going to tell you that?” the judge asks with a wink at the opposition.
“Probably not in those words, but in substance—why not? It’s the truth.”
“He authorized a complaint claiming the opposite.”
“That’s a legal conclusion,” Alec says. “And it would obviously buttress our defense if he admits he has absolutely no evidence of price fixing.”
The judge smiles. “Freddy?” he says, calling on the portly, sleek Harvard professor Musselman.
“It’s a fishing expedition, Judge. And at this stage of the case, an obvious attempt to harass and annoy a very busy man.”
“Caddy?”
“I agree with Alec, Judge.”
“Yes, of course. Karol?”
“I’m with Freddy. Defendants are on a fishing expedition. It shouldn’t be allowed.”
Alec says, “I think both the professor and Your Honor have known me long enough to believe I wouldn’t be asking for this deposition if I thought we’d come up empty.”
“What’s he fishing for, Freddy?” the judge asks.
“The usual in a case like this. He knows he can’t win on the main claim, so he’s looking for a counterclaim. Something to bargain with in the hopes we’ll settle. But let me tell you this, Your Honor. There will be no settlement here. We want to bring this case to judgment. We want to bring these defendants to justice. Prison sentences didn’t stop them in the last go-around. We aim to stop them now. Bring an end to price-fixing in this industry. There’s a public purpose to this case, Your Honor. Not only for the customers of these manufacturers, but for our ratepayers.”
“Fine speech,” Alec says. “But I wonder whether Professor Musselman is willing to stipulate that Mr. Strand will never testify as a witness in this case?”
“Of course not,” Musselman exclaims. “I can’t possibly predict the future so early into this case.”
Alec shrugs. “That’s really all I need.”
The judge says, “I’m afraid that may be true, Freddy.”
“He hasn’t answered my question, judge,” says Musselman. “The federal rules do not allow pretrial discovery for the purpose of fishing for a claim or counterclaim. You either have the basis for pleading such a claim or you don’t. You can’t go fishing.”
“Actually,” Alec says, “if my deposition of Mr. Strand turns up evidence giving rise to a counterclaim, I’ll have a perfect right to file one and will certainly consider doing so. But all we need to know today is that there’s a chance—no doubt a good one—that Mr. Strand will be called by Mid-Atlantic as a witness at this trial. That, without more, gives me a right to depose him. And I don’t have to sit here and give his counsel a tutoria
l on what my questions might be.”
“I need no such instruction,” Professor Musselman says with disdain.
“Good,” Alec says, and looks to the judge.
After a momentary silence, Judge Richardson says, “Yes.” Then again, more profoundly, “Yes.” He cups his left hand over one eye, as if preventing distractions. “I do see both sides. But I’m afraid, Freddy, I must rule in favor of allowing this deposition.”
“Not necessarily, Judge,” Musselman says soothingly. “At least not now. What might be done is to defer the issue until we file our witness list for trial. If Mr. Strand is on it, then allow the deposition. If it’s not the defendants’ purpose to fish for a counterclaim, they should have no objection. And Judge, Mr. Strand is an extremely busy man, devoting his time to the job of furnishing energy to this country. His time should not be wasted on a wish-and-a-prayer deposition such as the one our learned friend is planning.”
“Oh, my,” says Judge Richardson. “‘ Our learned friend?’Freddy, you’ve seen too many English movies.” He laughs at his own joke and invites Musselman to join him, which is greeted with a facial contortion resembling a sneer. Treating it as bonhomie, Richardson goes on. “So what about that, Alec?”
“I suggest we get real, Your Honor. The opposition here has nothing to do with sparing anyone time. Donald Strand is the most litigious man in America. He is constantly testifying all over the country—in the depositions and trials of cases, like this one, that he brought. He is also a well-known micromanager. He admits it. He even boasts about it to the press. I have in my briefcase more than twenty media profiles of this man in which he’s quoted as saying exactly that. No one in his company dares to buy as much as a pencil without his approval. I have little chance of learning what this plaintiff is really about, and what its vision of the market is, without deposing Donald Strand. Doing it now could end this case or at least shape my defense of it. Denying the deposition—or even postponing it to the eve of trial, when everyone is consumed with other trial preparation—would be highly prejudicial; even, possibly, reversible error.”
Judge Richardson sits back. It’s plainly decision time, which induces in the jurist pressed lips, thoughtful nods, and a jutting jaw. “Okay,” he says. “Here’s my ruling. You can have two days, Alec. If at the end of two days, Freddy, you think it’s going nowhere, a waste of time, you can move for a protective order to stop it.”
“But I always have that right, Your Honor,” Musselman protests.
“Quite so,” says the judge, rising.
It’s a command for counsel to do the same, and to leave—one side confused, Alec and Caddy smiling. They hold back, letting the others take the first elevator so they can talk in the hall.
Caddy says, “Porter would never have let you take that deposition. Not now, at least.”
“I know.”
“He likes whole schedules agreed to first, or hammered out before a magistrate.”
“That he does,” Alec agrees.
Caddy Breen spends a moment studying the younger man’s face. “So whatta you got going, Alec? Monopsonization claim?”
“Yeah,” Alec says. “Like to join? You’re more than welcome.”
“We’ve been thinking about it.”
“And?”
“It’s a hundred-to-one shot. At best. And trying to prove it out of Donald Strand’s mouth—you could look pretty foolish. The man eats lawyers for breakfast. Crunchy food.”
Alec smiles. “So I guess you’ve no problem with my leading off.”
“Problem? Ha! I keep saying—this is gonna be fun.”
TWELVE
It’s a bit awkward at Alec’s front door.
Tino arrives first—jamming the door frame with his six-foot, two-inch frame.
Sarah says, “Dad, this is Tino; Tino, my dad”—surprising Alec, who’s not used to hearing her address him as such, and Tino, who hadn’t before seen her so tight.
Tino says, “Thank you, sir, for inviting me.”
Alec winces at “sir.”
The elevator door opens immediately on Jesse’s fair smile, making another embarrassment clear: Tino must have been hovering over the doorbell before ringing it, because the elevator could not otherwise have returned so quickly with Jesse.
“You must be Tino. I’m Jesse, Sarah’s aunt.”
“I know,” Tino says. “Pleased to meet you.”
And they all stand there a moment, wondering what else they might possibly say.
Alec then says, “Why don’t we all go into the living room?”
So they troupe down the hall as directed, where Sarah has laid out on the coffee table a bottle of white wine, presumably for Alec and Jesse, and some soda bottles for Tino and herself. As Alec pours wine for Jesse, he says to Sarah, “Listen. Maybe you and Jess should start on the dinner. I’d like to have a minute with Tino.”
“Sure,” Jesse responds, taking her glass and leading a reluctant Sarah toward the kitchen.
Tino settles on the sofa with a bottle of soda, Alec to the right of him on an upholstered chair. The younger man wears a sport jacket, which he unbuttons.
“We don’t know each other,” Alec begins. “I gather you and Sarah hardly know each other. But—”
“I think we do, actually,” Tino says, interrupting.
“Oh, yes? You and Sarah?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Tino says.
“Do you?” Alec says. “Perhaps you should tell me, then.”
Tino responds with a firm chin and a nod, ignoring the irony. “This guy—me,” he says, pointing to himself, “I’m still in high school, so how can I know anything? Sarah? She’s the same, maybe worse, ’cause she’s even younger. And we’ve only just met, really. So how did this get so serious so fast?”
“Is it serious?”
“Yeah,” Tino says. “In part because of my uncle. When Uncle Sal has an interest, it’s serious.”
“What’s the other part?”
“Just Sarah and me. We met; we know.”
Alec gives him a questioning look. “What, exactly?”
“That we like each other,” Tino says, obviously meaning more. Then adds, “A lot.”
“Sarah has said this?”
“Not in so many words,” Tino admits.
“What’s your uncle’s interest?” Alec asks.
“I told Sarah. I’m sure she told you.”
“You tell me.”
“Okay,” Tino says. His eyes slit with the effort of finding the words. “You have to know Uncle Sal.”
“Haven’t had the pleasure.”
“It is a pleasure. For me. He’s been like my father. I doubt you’d like it that much, though. I mean, meeting him.”
“Not a genial man,” Alec says.
Tino laughs. “He’s not what you’d call genial, that’s for sure.”
“So what’s his interest?”
“I’m sure he has no reason to hurt her.”
“That’s a relief,” Alec says sarcastically. “Because otherwise he would?”
“I think it’s like—” Tino stammers, “what he has in mind… you know, an arranged marriage.”
“Sarah and you?”
“I know,” Tino says, trying to make light of it. “It sounds ridiculous. Marriage? At our age? No matter how we feel about each other? But Uncle Sal—he’s still old country. Marriages were arranged for kids there all the time.”
“And he’d like Sarah’s inheritance to be in the family.”
“Yes. That’s his… motivation. But not mine.”
“Okay,” Alec says. “What’s yours?”
“Me? I’m eighteen. What were your motivations at eighteen?”
“I was a Depression baby, Tino. My motivations were probably a bit different from kids’ now. But you’re saying, at this stage you’d just like to have fun.”
“That sounds frivolous?”
“No. Sounds fine. Honest. Stay with that plan.”
Tino nods, finally opens his soda, and sips from the bottle.
Alec says, “Sarah tells me that, if Uncle Sal asks you to do anything specific with regard to her, you will tell her, even if Sal has instructed you not to. Is that right?”
Tino nods again, even more deliberately. “Yes.”
“You’d be loyal to Sarah and not to your uncle?”
“Yes.” His response is immediate.
“Would you mind telling me why?”
“Because Uncle Sal cannot understand. I wouldn’t really be disloyal to him. Not if he could understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Who Sarah is. Who I am. How things are done here… by people like us. Who like each other.”
“I see.”
“I mean it.”
“Yes. I believe you do. Now.”
“I won’t change about this,” Tino says.
“I’m sure you mean that too. But Tino, now you’re under no pressure, except to say what you just said. Later you may be under considerable pressure—you may be under a threat—to do what your uncle wants and to keep silent.”
“He’d never threaten me like that. Not a life threat.”
Alec gives a look of dubiety.
“If you knew him—”
“I knew Phil,” Alec says.
“Yes, I’ve heard,” Tino says solemnly.
“He wasn’t very genial either.”
“But Mr. Brno—”
“Call me Alec. Sarah does normally.”
“It wouldn’t matter—threats wouldn’t. Not where Sarah’s concerned.”
“Look,” Alec says. “As a practical matter, I can’t stop Sarah from seeing you, if that’s what she wants. But I can hold you responsible. Fully responsible to prevent any harm to her. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do you, Tino?”
“Yes. I understand that you have made a threat. I understand why. And I respect it. I also know that you are the man who ended Phil Anwar’s life.”
“So,” Alec says with a smile he tries to make genial, “shall we see what the young women are getting up to in the kitchen?”
“It’s risotto.”
Alec gives him a questioning look.
“I saw the package,” Tino says. “Jesse’s. When she came out of the elevator.”
