by Alan Hruska
“I’ve no doubt. In the ordinary case.”
“This will not be ordinary, of course,” DiBrazzi says, musingly. “Anwar’s daughter.”
“Right.”
“So the first rental?”
“Also no scars.”
“That,” says DiBrazzi, “drastically limits the market.”
“The market, Lou, is quite incidental to our purposes here.”
“I understand. You just want her broken.”
“Not in pieces,” Sal says. “Merely compliant.”
“I see.” DiBrazzi rubs his cheek. “Yes. I may have just the right man.”
Sal looks at his suddenly eager subordinate, who beams back at him.
Sal shakes his head, no.
“I can do this,” DiBrazzi says.
“Some other girl. Not this one.”
EIGHTEEN
Frederick Musselman pushes a distinguished old man in a wheelchair into Judge Richardson’s outer office. Alec recognizes this personage; so does Cadigan Breen. Karol Stash walks in Musselman’s train, preening like a cat with a mouse in its paws. It’s Stanley Fuld they’re now brandishing, former chief judge of the highest court in the state system, the New York Court of Appeals. Judge Fuld nods to those waiting—he knows them both—and Judge Richardson’s secretary announces that all have arrived.
They are ushered into chambers at once, word evidently having been communicated to Judge Richardson beforehand that the celebrated jurist would be joining them. Richardson is up immediately to greet him. Fuld says, “You’ll excuse my not rising. It’s the gout. Freddy has been good enough to push me about, and into your chambers.”
The meeting commences without further exchange. Everyone knows why they’ve been assembled. Caddy states the facts simply. Richardson acknowledges the call he made to the Edison Electric general counsel. “I was simply trying to do a friend a favor,” he says, and then shocks everyone by beginning to weep. “Of course I will recuse myself”—barely heard through the sobs.
It’s over almost before it begins.
The visitors make their way out of chambers, Frederick Musselman suppressing a smile, Alec and Caddy genuinely somber. Fuld hadn’t uttered a word on the merits. He didn’t have to. He’d done his job: Moses flashing the tablets. The plaintiff’s team goes off to celebrate. Alec and Caddy are left standing on the courthouse steps.
“You wanted this,” Breen says.
“I did.”
“And you thought that Freddy, with more time to think about it, would let Richardson off the hook.”
“Might have. You said it yourself. Freddy is smart, but not quick.”
“And maybe I’m the same,” Breen says. “Why is this good for us? Hal Richardson would have handed us the case.”
Alec’s in a rush, but he allows a Checker cab to drop passengers and leave. “After a trial, sure,” he says. “Temporarily. With an opinion full of holes, easily reversible. But I keep saying it, Caddy. We really don’t want to try this case. And we can’t settle it without paying off every other public utility. We want Donald Strand to drop it, walk away. And for that we probably need not only the counterclaim, but a good judge. One that Strand respects. Who’s willing to tell him not only that his main case sucks, but that he’s in trouble on the claim against him.”
“What’re the odds?” Breen says. “Getting a judge like that? Coming off the wheel? One in thirty?”
“We’re not on the wheel, Caddy. Two straight recusals in a conspicuous case like this? Looks bad. For the institution.”
“So we’re getting who? Eddie Weinfeld?”
“Too obvious,” Alec says.
“That we’re off the wheel.”
“Right.”
“So who?”
“Charlie Metzner. Most underrated judge on the court. No flamboyance. No reaching for headlines. Indifferent to limelight. Arrives every day, does his job, and basically does it better than most anyone.”
Breen searches Alec’s face. “You know something?”
“Same facts you do.”
“Then this is crazy, Alec. You’re reaching for a fucking inside straight.”
“Yeah. Right. That’s what we’re doing. Because”—and Alec opts to return it with Breen’s emphasis—“we have no fucking alternative.”
“So by now she loves you?” Sal asks.
“We love each other,” Tino says.
“That’s nice,” Sal responds, as if soothing someone of diminished capacity. “So when’s the wedding?”
Tino takes a seat on the sofa. He feels the colors in his uncle’s living room: variations of blue with highlights of pale gray. Cool, like Tino’s mood, the boy having been confronted after practice, and driven here, by a lurking hood named Lou DiBrazzi.
Tino forces a laugh. “We’re a few years away from that.”
“Yes?” Sal says. “How many years?”
It has the tone of a serious question, chilling Tino even more. “I have no doubt we will marry, Uncle. Probably when she graduates from college.”
“That’s what? Six years from now?”
“Should be, yes. Unless she goes to graduate school.”
“Graduate school! Wonderful! So much schooling. You need your wife to be so educated?”
“It’s not a question of what I need, Uncle. Women today—”
“Yes, yes.” Sal laughs good-naturedly. It’s all been a fine joke. “I know, dear boy, I know. Times have changed. I’m hopelessly old-fashioned. We’ll just deal with it.”
Will we? thinks Tino, who already resents the way he was brought here. And that condescending tone! For years, Tino realizes, while trying to please his uncle, he has felt like a swimmer enmeshed in weeds. And now, suddenly, he is streaming free. What has happened to him and, he thinks, to Sarah, is that they have thrown off the traces of childhood. Also, for the first time in his life, he has someone to protect. It’s a fierce sensation. And the man whom he once regarded as his surrogate father is mocking him. Is becoming his enemy. His worst and most fearful enemy. Because Sal’s evil is now pointed at Sarah. “Deal with what?” Tino says in a controlled voice.
“We’ll be patient,” Sal says. “It is, after all, no less than I expected. The long game. We’ll play the long game. Best for everyone, eh?”
“You’re referring to—”
“The restoring of her fortune to the family, yes,” Sal says.
“I’ve told you, Uncle, we are very much in love. What you want will happen naturally.”
“As I said. Let the natural come to pass. And now, dear boy, I’ve others to see. Lou will drive you home.”
“I’d rather walk, Uncle, but thank you.”
“As you wish, but take care of yourself. You are very important to me.”
Downstairs, blown by a sudden wind he barely notices, Tino lurches out of that building and struggles into the night. He needs to warm himself against the chilling implied threat of that meeting. He will say nothing of it to Sarah. But he will track down Alec as soon as he can.
Jesse is in Alec’s kitchen with the ingredients for an omelet spread out before her on the countertop next to the stove. She is not thinking about the omelet; she is thinking about Sarah and her surprising outburst the evening before last; she’s thinking about allowing herself, still, to be in this apartment; she’s thinking about Alec, which, for her, is like thinking about gravity. Which is close to insane! And all the more reason I should not allow myself to be in this apartment.
As she finally starts cooking the omelet, Alec walks in.
“You’re early,” she sings out.
“Eight thirty? I guess, yeah. Smells good.”
“Take it,” she says, pointing him to a seat at the kitchen island. “There are plenty of eggs. And there’s toast.” She shoves the place setting to him, lowers the plated omelet on it, and breaks another two eggs in the bowl.
“This is excellent,” he says. “What’s in it?”
“Herbs, a very good cheddar,
and parsley. Simple.”
She flips her omelet in the pan, gives it a few seconds, scoops it onto her own plate, and sits across from him at the island. They eat silently for a moment.
“Some wine?” she says.
“Sure.”
She retrieves from the fridge an uncorked bottle of sauvignon blanc and pours out two glasses.
“So,” she says, “tell me about your day.”
He laughs. “Our domestic routine.”
“No, I’d really like to know about your day. Why coming home at this hour is early. Why you hadn’t the time to eat dinner. Why you have no idea where your daughter is. Why—”
“Where is she?”
“Out with Tino.”
“He called my office,” Alec says.
“Oh, yes?”
“He wants to see me. I told him—at least my secretary did; I was on another call—to come by tomorrow.”
“Alec,” she says, with some impatience, “your daughter’s boyfriend calls you at the office. That’s very unusual. You couldn’t find a minute to see what he wanted?”
“He was told I would, if it were urgent. He said it could wait.”
“Okay.”
He stops eating and looks at her. “You’re building a case?”
“No,” she says. “Really, no. I’d like to understand. I want to know what you do all day. Why it’s so pressured. Like today.”
“I think I know why Tino is calling. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Then I won’t.”
He puts down his fork. “What I do,” he says. “Today is typical. Planned one way, went another.”
“So tell me.”
“You know who’s the biggest computer company in the world?”
“U.S. Computer Corp.?”
“So you know the government is suing to break them up?”
“I didn’t know that, no.”
“Well, they are. One of my partners is handling the case. This morning he grabs me and tells me what’s going on. He needs me to help him. I don’t really have time. Then I run off to court. Judge on my case—another big antitrust case—recuses himself.”
“Why?” she asks. “What did he do?”
“Something stupid. Anyway, I get back, tell the client what happened. That plus the court conference eats up most of the morning. I try to get to some of the other fourteen cases I’m supposed to be handling when the phone rings, changes everything. You’ve heard of Telemarch News?”
“Of course.”
“But you probably didn’t know they own a book publishing company.”
“Do they?” she says, trying to show interest
“Or that that company published The French Connection—the book on which the movie was based.”
She shakes her head.
“Anyway, the call was from the general counsel. He says they’re being sued for libel by a guy named Henry Lowenberg. I say, ‘Who’s that?’ He says, ‘A criminal lawyer in town, and he’ll call you in ten minutes.’ Next thing I know, a copy of the complaint is delivered to my desk along with a copy of the book. I see that the author, Robin Moore, has written that Henry Lowenberg, during the course of a criminal trial, feigned a nervous breakdown to get a mistrial for his client. If that’s false, it’s defamatory. It accuses a lawyer of an unethical act. Damages could be substantial. Then the phone rings. It’s Lowenberg. He says, ‘I’m having my medical records sent to you from New York Presbyterian. Then we’ll talk.’ Medical records arrive. Seems that Lowenberg is an epileptic. And on the day in question—when, according to Robin Moore, he feigned a nervous breakdown—Lowenberg had a seizure and was taken from court to the hospital. So then I called Robin Moore. Said, ‘Where the hell did you get this story?’ He said, ‘From my researcher, who said he got it from the judge on the case in Brooklyn, Samuel Leibowitz.’ Who was once the most famous criminal defense lawyer in New York and is now a state Supreme Court judge. So I called Judge Leibowitz. He said he never met or talked to Robin Moore’s researcher, and that Henry Lowenberg was one of the finest lawyers of his acquaintance. ‘In fact,’ he added, ‘I know about his libel suit, and I plan to testify on Lowenberg’s behalf.’ So now it’s serious. I call my researcher, Harvey Grand, whom you’d probably call an investigator. He calls back end of day. ‘Lowenberg’s clean,’ he says. ‘I could dig deeper.’ I say, ‘Hold off.’ ”
“So what will you do?”
“Don’t know yet. I’m having lunch with Lowenberg tomorrow. Anyway, after all that—”
“It’s okay,” Jesse says. “I get it. You’re crazy busy.”
“Pays the rent.”
“I’m sure,” she says, and starts clearing dishes. “Let’s clean up and do something fun. Like watch television.”
“I have a television set?”
“Yes, Alec, you have a television set. It’s in the living room in a cabinet with doors, so you might not have noticed it.”
“I’m kidding, of course. I watch it almost every election night.”
“Meaning every four years?”
“Well, I’ve missed one or two.”
“Ed Sullivan?”
“Who’s he?”
“You represent a television network, and you don’t know who Ed Sullivan is?”
He shrugs.
She says, “You’re kidding again.”
“Yes. I am. And his show has been off the air for a year and a half. But tonight there’s a play on. Harvey. With Jimmy Stewart.”
“You know this?”
“I came home to see it. Hopefully with you.”
“You are human,” she says.
“Sometimes.”
NINETEEN
Alec calls in his team. When a small group of people meet often in the same room, they generally arrange themselves in the same places. Three chairs face Alec’s desk. Trevor Joffrey, the senior associate, camps in the middle. Next senior, Stanley Woolscraft, flanks to his right; and the junior, Rick Smollet, drapes himself in the third chair, pulled back a bit from the arc.
Alec says, “We need an economics expert.”
“Now?” It’s Stanley Woolscraft, who tends to be cautious.
“I assume you don’t mean as a witness,” Trevor Joffrey says. “Assuming we still have the plan to try to end the case before it goes to trial.”
“Still the plan,” Alec says. “And this is in aid of it. If we find an economist who can help.”
“You mean to worry them—Musselman and Strand?”
“Why not?” Alec says. “And there’s one economist I know of who can do that. George Stigler. Nobel Prize winner. From your school, University of Chicago.”
Rick Smollet chimes in. “I know Stigler. He was visiting at Princeton when I was there. He hates litigation. Makes a point of avoiding it. Absolutely refuses to participate.”
“A well-known fact, yes. Up to now. Which is why he’d worry Musselman if he signed on with us, and additionally why we should want him. You say you know him, Rick?”
“Sorry. Know of him.”
Trevor says, “I took his class. Not sure he’d remember me.”
“Seminar?
“It was, yes.”
“He’ll remember you.” Alec picks up the phone. Says to his secretary, “George Stigler, professor of economics, University of Chicago.”
While they’re waiting, Trevor says, “You’ve given her the number?”
“She’ll find it.”
“He’ll take your call?”
“We’re about to find out,” Alec says.
In another two minutes, his secretary’s voice on the box, “Professor Stigler on one.”
Alec pushes that button. “Professor Stigler, this is Alec Brno from a law firm in New York called Kendall, Blake, Steele & Braddock. I’m sitting here with a former student of yours, Trevor Joffrey, who thinks you won’t remember him.”
“I remember him,” Stigler says. “I’m not entirely addled… yet. Besides, I gave him an A.”
“You remember your A students?”
“Naturally.”
Trevor says, “Hi, professor. Good to hear your voice.”
“Hi to you, Trevor. I even remember voices. So what can I do for you?”
Alec says, “Trevor and I are representing Allis-Benoit in an antitrust case brought against them by Mid-Atlantic Power & Light.”
“I know the case, yes. You want me to testify. Answer’s no, sorry.”
“Sounds like I’m not the first one to have called you.”
“And I gave them the same answer.”
Alec says, “I’m actually sorry you did. You are the authority on the issues we’re litigating.”
“So you’re simply a seeker of truth?”
“Truth, in this case, will end it. Before there’s even a trial.”
“Sorry, boys. Good luck to you.”
“May we come out to see you, professor? I’d be grateful for ten minutes. For the chance to explain why you would want to state your opinion in this case.”
“You’d like to make me a rich man.”
“I’m not talking about the fee. The fee will be what you say it is. I’m talking about the preservation of more than 60,000 jobs. I’m talking about the national interests involved in not limiting this country to a single domestic manufacturer of heavy electrical equipment. And I’m talking about stopping this case with an affidavit that will say nothing more than you’ve already written in two of your more famous papers.”
After a pause, Stigler says, “You’ll be wasting your time, but I have an opening this Friday at 2:30. My office at the university.”
“Thank you,” Alec says. “We’ll be there.” Hanging up, he turns to Rick Smollet. “Whatta you think?”
“He won’t do it,” Rick says.
“Stanley?”
The young man grimaces. “I’m not sure.”
“Trevor?”
“I think you got him.”
“He said we’ll be wasting our time,” Alec notes.
“He said a lot of things. What matters is he’s letting us come to his office. Freddy Musselman—I’ll bet anything—never got close.”
“Yeah,” Alec says with a laugh. “That’s how I see it. But Rick may be the only hard head in the room.”
