by Mike Farris
“Why was Meg Kelly fired?” she asked.
“She wasn’t fired…she resigned.”
“That’s not the way I heard it.”
I said nothing as we entered the room, where the meeting was just starting. Given the special interest in the subject matter, there was a higher than usual turnout. We slipped down the side aisle, almost to the front, and found seats on the end, just below a speaker hanging on the wall. Alvin and Steve stood behind the lectern as a buzz of voices floated through the air.
“You know anything about any of this?” Charlene asked.
“I’m as woefully uninformed on this as I am on most things around here.”
There was that smile again.
Alvin stuck his cigar in his mouth then thumped his hand against the microphone, clanging his heavy college ring against the receiver. The microphone shrieked, snarling the air.
When the sound finally subsided and the partners stopped talking, Alvin said, “I know there are all kinds of stories floating around about this subpoena we’ve gotten from the Justice Department, so we called this meeting to give you all the facts. We don’t want this thing to get out of hand. And we don’t want this thing to get out of the office. By that, I mean whatever is said here, stays here. I don’t want anyone talking outside the firm, or even to the associates and support staff. We’ll have a meeting with the associates and let them know what they need to know. But for now, this is just between the partners.
“First of all, we are not the target of a criminal investigation. We’ve consulted with outside counsel, who have made inquiries, and they assure us we have nothing to worry about.”
“Have we already produced the documents?” someone yelled.
“We’ve turned over our files,” Alvin said, “but there’s nothing in there to worry about. Still, it looks like we’ve got some hot-shot U.S. Attorney looking to make a name for himself, so we’ve got to be careful how we handle this.”
“We’ve talked with management at the other firms they’ve targeted, and they’re pretty much in agreement,” Steve McGinnis said. “We’ve got to squelch this thing before it gets off the ground.”
“Get this straight,” Alvin said. “No one talks to the media. Sooner or later this is going to leak to the press, and we don’t want anyone going off half-cocked and saying something stupid. This may be frivolous, but we’ve got to take it seriously. This guy with the U.S. Attorney’s office, this Don Wallace, if he wants to talk to any of you, you refer him to the Management Committee.”
“I’ve heard that they’re issuing subpoenas to individual lawyers on the different firms’ Recruiting Committees,” somebody said. I didn’t see who, nor did I recognize his voice.
Alvin pointed his cigar at the questioner. “If you get a subpoena, you bring it to us. We’ll file motions to quash.”
“On what grounds?”
“We’ll come up with something.”
“If we’re okay on this,” someone else said, “why should we worry about quashing subpoenas?”
“This guy Wallace doesn’t care,” Steve said. “He’s out to take someone down. He doesn’t care who it is, so long as it’s someone big and prominent. Like Black West and Merriam. We’re just trying to keep that from happening.”
“This is all a bunch of bullshit,” Alvin said. “I mean, come on. Anti-trust? Just because we don’t want salaries going off the top end of the scale? Give me a break.”
“So you’re saying there’s not anything to this?” The questioner was Will Statler, a real estate lawyer.
“What I’m saying is, we’re trying to protect ourselves,” Alvin said. “That’s all. Anything that could hurt us has already been taken care of.”
“I wonder how they took care of it,” Charlene whispered.
I thought I knew, but I held my tongue.
“The less you know,” Alvin said, as if reading my mind, “the less you have to say if you get subpoenaed.”
Oscar Hamilton bounced to his feet. “I move that we leave it to the Management Committee to deal with.”
“What are y’all holding out on us?” Phil Pierson, litigation, asked.
“Look,” Steve said, “we’ve gotten the subpoena, we’ve reviewed the files, and we’ve produced the documents. That’s all there is to it.”
“Like I said before, we’re just trying to protect ourselves,” Alvin said. “Now, a motion’s been made that we table this and leave it to the committee. Any seconds?”
Several voices, one of which I recognized as Tripp’s, seconded.
The motion passed easily.
Chapter Twenty
After that, things settled down for a while. The firm produced its sanitized recruiting records to the U.S. Attorney, and Oscar Hamilton said his sources had told him the investigation was cooling because Don Wallace could find no paper trail to justify a grand jury inquiry. The partners seemed satisfied that the fire had been snuffed.
Tripp’s threat to blackball Meg apparently went unfulfilled since she was offered, and accepted, a job with Holloway & Davis, another top firm in town. She went to work in their commercial litigation department, where I knew she would shine. She already had more experience than any of her peers in that firm, as well as most of those in the two or three classes ahead of her. I refrained from talking about suing the firm because I knew she wasn’t interested. I kept the copies I had made of Tripp’s billing records in a filing cabinet at home, not sure what to do with them but unwilling to throw them away.
Meg and I agreed to a regular lunch schedule to keep in touch, but that schedule fizzled almost immediately. We both expected that we might have to reschedule from time to time, but I wasn’t prepared for it to happen every time. Meg was always the one canceling, and I found myself questioning the reasons she offered.
In addition, it seemed that she never initiated any phone calls to me, only rarely e-mailed me, and was slow to return my calls and e-mails. I worried that she was trying to distance herself from both the firm and me. Not that I blamed her. She had a new job at a new firm, and I wondered if, in her zeal to keep it separate from the ugly past at Black West, she had decided to cut all ties.
I struggled with my feelings. I missed seeing her, missed talking to her twenty times a day. I missed eating with her, working with her, and playing tennis with her. She consumed my every waking thought and even cropped up in my dreams. Pining for her affected my appetite—whenever she canceled a lunch, I didn’t eat that day. I decided that exercise might occupy my mind, so I worked out in my free time. My runs with Rufus increased in distance and frequency, and my sessions in the weight room intensified.
But after a month had passed, besides being trimmer, fitter, and stronger, I finally had to admit what I already knew—I was in love with her.
*
Eyes closed, fifty-eight-year-old Jamey Newton stretched out on a beach towel on a deserted area of beach near the famed Banzai Pipeline on Oahu’s north shore. Just white sand, palm trees, and thousands of miles of blue ocean. The crowds were at the Pipeline, a half-mile away, watching a group of fools fight the waves, but Jamey had sought seclusion and found it here, just beyond a low cliff, out of view of the nearby road. He had been relentlessly hounded over the past few weeks by both the press and his former co-workers at the Department of the Navy, where he had worked for twenty years as a civilian accountant overseeing various types of government acquisitions, from weapons to construction equipment. In the wake of scandal after scandal in the private sector, from Enron on down the line, he had finally worked up the nerve to blow a whistle of his own. Now freshly unemployed—retaliatory discharge, his lawyers called it—he and Ada, his wife of nearly four decades, were taking their first vacation in almost three years.
Ada was back at the hotel, napping after a morning of shopping, but Jamey had come to the beach to relax and to let his thoughts settle in his mind. Thoughts that he would have to organize and then articulate next week at a federal grand jury convened in
Washington, D.C. But that was next week. This week, his time was his. If nothing else, he would sport a tan when he walked into the grand jury room.
Even with his eyes closed, Jamey could tell that something suddenly blotted out the sun. His first thought was that a cloud had drifted by, but then he remembered the sky had been completely cloud-free just moments ago. He opened his eyes and looked up—
At a towel plunging toward him. The hands holding it clasped it tight around his face. He felt the hard imprint of a knee press on his nose. He gasped for breath, but to no avail.
Then he had a vague sense of movement, his senses foggy. Sure enough, he was being dragged by the towel, which was wrapped completely around his head. He kicked with his feet and tried to dig his heels into the sand. He heard the splash of waves draw near, and he instantly knew what was about to happen. He redoubled his efforts to kick free, but his struggles were pointless, his screams muffled by the towel.
He felt water on his back, then on his legs. It was unusually cold, but he knew the temperature had been lowered by his own fear. He was dragged deeper into the surf, helpless to stop the move. When water covered all but his head, his assailant forced it under. Jamey again felt the hardness of a knee on his face, driving the back of his head into the wet sand.
Then he felt nothing.
Ever again.
Chapter Twenty-One
Tripp Malloy watched while Bill Patterson sorted through computer-printouts of billing records in a small conference room down the hall from Patterson’s office. He fought to keep the smile off his face. He knew the documents would pass muster no matter how closely scrutinized.
“By the way,” Tripp said. “Muckleroy begged off on your case a few weeks ago.”
Patterson frowned. “Why?”
“I guess he’s pretty swamped right now. He said he didn’t think he could give it the time it deserved. I didn’t have any choice but to agree. He knows his own schedule better than I do.”
Patterson sighed. “If he has any free time, I want you to use him whenever you can.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’m sorry Meg left, too. But it sounds like she’s pretty happy at her new firm. She says she’s got some interesting cases to work on.”
Tripp sat up straight, his smile gone. “You’ve talked to her?”
“We got to know each other pretty well during the Austin case. We stay in touch.”
“Did she tell you why she left?” Tripp asked.
“She just said it was a good opportunity that sorta dropped in her lap, and she couldn’t pass it up. I was kinda surprised, though. I always thought she liked working with Bay.”
“That’s not all she liked to do with Muckleroy.”
Patterson held his hand behind his ear, as if he hadn’t heard. “What was that again?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
Patterson nodded then turned back to the printouts. “Anyway, I sent her a couple of small cases to work on. It’ll look good for her to bring in business at her new place.”
“You did what?” Tripp’s voice was icy.
Patterson looked at Tripp, who sat red-faced. “They were just a couple of small cases. You would have assigned them to a young associate, anyway.”
“I thought I was your lawyer,” Tripp said.
“They were small cases. You’ll still get the big stuff.”
Tripp silently fumed while Patterson continued his document review. At last Patterson shuffled the papers together into a stack. “Okay. We’ll get this to our CPA team,” he said, “but, at least on the surface, everything looks in order.”
“Of course it does,” Tripp said, an edge still in his voice. “I don’t know what you expected.”
“Look, I’m sorry about this, but the board’s been screaming about costs getting out of control and profits going down. An audit was probably coming, anyway.”
“I just hope this settles everybody down.” Tripp pointed his finger at Patterson. “And when it’s over, I’ll expect an apology. In all my years of law practice, I’ve never been put through this by anyone. And I won’t take it lying down.”
“I’m sure this will take care of it. And if we owe you an apology, you’ll get one.”
“Good.” Tripp stood. “If that’s it, then I guess I’ll go. I’ve got other clients, too. Ones that don’t question how I practice law.” He pointed to the stack of printouts. “If you have any problems with anything in there, give me a call. I wouldn’t want you to have any unanswered questions.” He made no effort to disguise the sarcasm.
Patterson walked Tripp to the elevator, passing silently through the reception area. Tripp pushed the button to call an elevator.
“One other thing,” Patterson said. “Can we get a copy of your calendars, too?”
“What the hell for?”
“I just need to check some things. You know, we’ll just spot-check it against the bills.”
Tripp walked to the opposite end of the elevator lobby and back. His leather soles made loud tapping sounds on the granite floor.
“Have I ever done anything to cause you not to trust me?” Tripp asked.
“Well, no.”
“Are you unhappy with my legal services? Huh? Is that why you’re sending business to Meg? Have I ever gotten anything but the best results for you guys?”
“No.”
“Do you want another lawyer? Do you want a first-year associate like Meg taking over all your legal work?”
“No.”
“Then why the hell are you questioning me?”
Patterson grabbed Tripp’s arm and tried to calm him. “Tripp, you’ve got to understand. This isn’t my own private company. I’ve got a duty to my directors and to my shareholders. When costs skyrocket, I’ve got an obligation to get them under control. And when someone makes an allegation, I’ve got an obligation to look into it. If I don’t, I’m not doing my job.”
“This goes way beyond just checking things out. You did that when you asked me about it, and I told you it was bullshit.”
Patterson shuffled his feet and scratched his head. He looked everywhere but in his lawyer’s eyes.
“You asked me for the billing back-up,” Tripp said, “and I gave it to you. I’m not giving you my calendars.”
Patterson continued to look around, his eyes taking in every detail of the elevator lobby. At last they settled on Tripp.
“All right,” Patterson said. “Forget I even asked.”
The elevator arrived and the door opened.
“Damn straight,” Tripp said.
He stepped on without looking at his client. The doors closed, leaving a shaken Bill Patterson behind.
Tripp rode to the ground floor then changed elevators for the parking garage. He clenched his teeth tightly, veins throbbing at his temples. He reached his car, unlocked and opened the door, and got behind the wheel.
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed his office but got no service. It dawned on him that he was still in a basement parking garage.
He fired up his car and peeled out of his parking space. When he reached the ramp to the street, he re-opened his cell. He punched in the speed dial number again, jabbing at the phone with his fingertip as if delivering karate chops. His secretary answered on the second ring.
“I need the phone number of the managing partner at Holloway and Davis,” he said.
*
I stood in line to buy frozen yogurt in the middle of the afternoon. Meg’s secretary had called to cancel lunch, with no explanation, so I didn’t eat. I opted, instead, for an afternoon snack to ward off the inevitable headache that came with missing a meal. I had just placed my order when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning around, I found myself face-to-face with Charlene Nelson.
“Did you hear?” she said.
“Hear what?”
“Medium chocolate with sprinkles,” she said to the girl behind the counter, then turned back to me. “Jake Goldblatt resigned from the M
anagement Committee.”
“I’ve got both of these,” I told the cashier, gesturing to Charlene’s order as well.
I paid then we took our yogurt out to the mall and found a vacant table.
“His doctors have officially diagnosed him with Alzheimer’s. He doesn’t have to retire, but they recommended that he slow down.”
“You know, he’s been slipping for the past year or so. I hate to hear it, but it’s probably better for him…and for the firm.”
She licked a trail of chocolate running down the side of the cup. “The partnership agreement says we have to hold a special election to fill his seat. Then, when his regular term is up, the new person stands for re-election. What do you think about running for the spot on the Management Committee?”
“I think you’d be great.”
“I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about you.”
She watched me carefully, waiting for my answer.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” I said.
“You don’t think I just happened to run into you down here, do you? Your secretary told me you were here. I’ve already talked to some of the other women partners. None of us can get elected, but you’re perfect.”
“I don’t know, Charlene. I’m not exactly the class favorite these days.”
“You did the right thing, Bay. A lot of people respect you for that.”
“I’m liable to get respected right out of the firm,” I said.
“Just don’t say no until you think about it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Meg’s secretary said she had gone home early, so I tried her at home but got her answering machine. On a hunch, I swung by her apartment that evening. I parked in front and walked up the steps to the front door. Behind me came the loud whump whump whump of the bass on a too-loud car stereo. A red Cadillac deVille with flames on the side passed slowly by. I’d seen that car before. Its driver, a Hispanic kid about eighteen, with a blue bandanna tied on top of his head, glared at me. I looked at him just long enough to get scared then turned and rang the doorbell.
