Wrongful Termination

by Mike Farris

  “She sure kept me in line.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t believe it when she said she was leaving the firm.”

  I sipped coffee and nodded. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

  “She doesn’t like to worry us, but she’s still our little girl. We’re very protective. She tells us you are, too. Thank you for that.”

  “She does all right on her own.”

  “She’s always been that way, since she was a kid. She always loved to argue. So logical. Mark and I always knew she’d grow up to be a lawyer.”

  “When did she know?”

  Rachel looked away, as if sorting through old memories. I thought for a minute she might cry.

  “She always wanted to, but she probably decided for sure in high school. They did a mock trial in her government class. She really got into it. She worked so hard preparing for the big trial. So focused, so organized. On top of everything. Wanting to do the right thing, to make sure justice got done, even in her own little high school.”

  I smiled as she described the lawyer I had known and worked with for almost a year.

  “What?” she said. “What are you laughing at?”

  “I’m not laughing. Just smiling.”

  “What did I say?”

  “It’s just that if I heard you give that description, without knowing who you were talking about, I would still have guessed it was Meg. You and your husband must be very proud of her.”

  Her eyes grew misty, her voice distant. “This is hard for us to deal with. This carjacking thing and now this…this lawsuit. I’m not sure how I’m going to tell Mark.”

  She emptied her cup and set it on the table. She made no move to refill, so I offered. She waved me off.

  “You care for her, don’t you?” she said.

  “Very much.”

  “And you try to take care of her.”

  “Not very well, apparently.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Where to begin? That was the real question.

  “Have you heard her speak of Tripp Malloy?” I asked.

  Her face darkened. “Not very favorably, I’m afraid.”

  I filled her in on Meg’s entire history at the firm, from my struggles with Tripp to share her working time, to the unnecessary work on the Patterson McBain file, to her accusations against Tripp, to the rumors Tripp had circulated, to her being fired, concluding with the lawsuit. Rachel listened carefully, not just to the words I said, but also to the nuances behind them. When I finished, we sat silently for a full thirty seconds. The only sound was the clock ticking on the oven.

  “These rumors you mentioned,” she said. “Are they true?”

  “The people spreading them don’t even believe they’re true.”

  “Truth is usually irrelevant to rumor-mongers.”

  “And often to lawyers.”

  She stood. “Come with me.”

  I followed her upstairs, where she led me to Meg’s desk angled across a corner of her bedroom, facing out. She grabbed a pile of papers on the front corner and flipped through it. Finding what she was looking for, she extracted a page and handed it to me. It had been printed from Meg’s computer. Neatly typed at the top were the words:

  SALARY-FIXING ISN’T THE REAL EVIL; THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL IS THE LOVE OF MONEY–BILLABLE HOURS, HOURS, HOURS.

  Beneath the note, in Meg’s handwriting, was the name and telephone number of Assistant U.S. Attorney Don Wallace, as well as the make and model of a car, plus its license plate number.

  “And then there’s this,” she said.

  She handed me a small stack of pages that I immediately recognized as copies of Tripp’s expense statements that had disappeared almost right before my very eyes in the still of the night. I also immediately recognized the bottom document in the stack, although I wasn’t prepared for it to be there. It was a copy of a Dallas Morning News article, dated the day after Tripp’s New York to Boston to Dallas trip, which bore the headline—Swantech Exec Killed Before Grand Jury.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Steve McGinnis had come a long way since our days in blue collar Pleasant Grove. Now comfortably dwelling in one of Highland Park’s mansions, he had left his youth of wearing hand-me-downs and living in a trailer park light years away.

  When he answered the door that night, he was clad in worn jeans and a West Point sweatshirt. He looked as if I had interrupted some household chore. With his tousled hair, for a brief moment he again looked like that kid I used to ride bikes and hunt frogs with. The illusion disappeared quickly when I noted the coldness of his tone.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “How much do you know about Tripp Malloy?” I asked.

  “Where the hell’d that come from?”

  “It’s a simple question, Steve. I’d appreciate a simple answer.”

  From inside, I heard Maggie McGinnis’s voice. “Who is it, babe?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Her smiling face appeared at Steve’s shoulder. Blonde hair and a dusting of freckles gave her a youthful appearance. Alyssa and I used to socialize with Steve and Maggie, but that practice had ended along with my marriage and my future with the firm.

  “Oh, hey, Bay.”

  “Maggie, how you doing?”

  “I’m doing great. You want to come in?”

  “No, thanks. I just needed to ask Steve a couple of questions. Business stuff, you know.”

  “Well, don’t be such a stranger.”

  With that, she disappeared back into the nether reaches of the house. Steve stepped outside and closed the door behind him, his face a hostile mask.

  “Actually, Bay, be a stranger.”

  “A simple question, Steve. How well do you know him?”

  “Well enough. Why?”

  I breathed deeply then dropped my bombshell. “Did you know he was in New York the day Jim Halloran got killed?”

  For a brief moment, the hostility vanished, replaced by surprise. Then it returned. “Just what the hell are you implying?”

  “You’re still having trouble with simple questions.”

  “Hell, yes, I knew he was in New York. I asked him to fly in and babysit the Swantech board while I took Halloran to the Grand Jury.”

  His answer took the wind out of my sails.

  “Just because he got crossways with your girlfriend doesn’t mean he’s killing my clients. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  He opened the door to go back in, then paused. Again, for the briefest of moments, he was my old childhood friend again. “I’m sorry about Meg.”

  All I could do was nod.

  Then he stepped inside and closed the door.

  *

  Once home, I took Rufus for a quick walk, then fed him. I fixed a quick supper of rice, hamburger steak, and salad, then quickly reviewed Tripp’s billing records. He had, indeed, billed Lacewell Industries for his trip to Chicago, and had also billed Lacewell for the days following. No mention of billing Swantech for babysitting its board. So what the hell was that all about?

  After dinner, I crashed. I put the cryptic message I’d found at Meg’s on my bedside table, still not sure what to do with it. Exhaustion took over and I was asleep within minutes, with the television still going. A rerun of All the President’s Men provided my lullaby.

  Just past midnight I awoke, an idea screaming in my head. I turned on the bedside light and picked up the sheet with Don Wallace’s phone number. Rufus whimpered his disapproval of the light then rolled to his other side and went back to sleep. I dialed the phone, spoke my message, and hung up.

  Forty-five minutes later, I stood in the shadows of a parking garage near the federal courthouse. I had unscrewed a few light bulbs to darken the shadows and parked my car several blocks away to escape detection. I waited, my back pressed against the heavy metal door that accessed the stairway between floors, covered in darkness. My heart raced and my mouth went dry.

  I stood alone in the d
ark, debating with myself. Was I doing this for Meg, finishing what she had started? Or was I doing this for myself? My rational side told me to go home and forget about it, but the emotional side told me to stick to it.

  Fifteen minutes later, as my inner debate still raged, I saw headlights approaching. I was committed.

  The car stopped in the darkness I had created. Its lights shut off then its engine went dead. After a few minutes, the door opened and Don Wallace got out. He was dressed as if he had thrown an outfit together in the dark—jeans, tee-shirt, windbreaker, loafers with tassels and no socks—much like I had dressed, though I had substituted running shoes for his more stylish footwear.

  Wallace stood beside his car, looking around. He seemed spooked, and who could blame him? I was scared to death, myself. I was surprised he had come. I wouldn’t have responded to the crazy request of an anonymous midnight caller. But I counted on the zeal of a government official anxious to pull down the temple on the big boys in private law firms. To Wallace, the midnight ring was a siren call.

  He moved a few steps toward his left, then stopped and listened.

  “Hello?” he called.

  I stepped forward to the edge of the shadows, where he could see the outline of my body but not my face. I did my best to disguise my voice, speaking in a hoarse whisper.

  “All the President’s Men was just on tonight,” I said.

  “I always thought Deep Throat was Alexander Haig.”

  “Now we know different.”

  “You the guy who put the note on my car?” he asked.

  His voice quivered. I must have looked huge in the shadows. He didn’t know who I was or what I wanted. I made no effort to put him at ease but remained quiet.

  “Look,” he said. “You said come, so I came. Now why am I here?”

  “You’re investigating salary-fixing at the law firms, aren’t you?”

  “Was. Past tense. There was nothing there.”

  “You never had much of a case,” I said. “The firms purged their files.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “I know one firm that did.”

  “That’s obstruction of justice,” he said. A note of righteous indignation tinged his voice.

  “But it’s not nearly as sexy as fraudulent billing.”

  He hesitated, and I knew I had him hooked. “You’re in John Grisham territory now.”

  “I’m not talking about the Mob. Just average lawyers gouging their clients. Billing for work that’s never been done. Billing for a full day’s work when the billing attorney spent that whole day in trial in another case. Systematic overbilling, institutional overbilling. Bills sent through the mail. What does that mean to you?”

  “Mail fraud.”

  “A pattern of activity. Conducting an enterprise…a law firm…through a pattern of fraudulent billings through the mails.”

  “RICO.”

  “Law firms call it economics. Some clients may simply call it the cost of doing business. But I’m betting the Justice Department calls it racketeering.”

  “Do you have proof?” he asked.

  “Check out a lawsuit in the 116th District Court. Meg Kelly versus Black West and Merriam. New case, just a few weeks old.”

  “Isn’t she the girl who got carjacked? The one Black West fired?”

  “See where it takes you.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Use your subpoena power. You might want to duplicate the plaintiff’s document request. Talk to her lawyer.”

  “What’s your interest in this?” he asked.

  I backed into the corner, deep in the shadows, opened the metal door, and disappeared into the stairwell, leaving one very excited young prosecutor behind.

  Chapter Thirty

  A process server stood patiently at the reception desk, waiting for Alvin Peoples. It was before nine o’clock and he was told Peoples had not yet arrived. He didn’t identify himself as a process server, so none of the firm’s lawyers paid him any mind as they came and went.

  At exactly nine o’clock, Alvin Peoples exited the elevator on Black West & Merriam’s anchor floor. With an unlit cigar clenched tightly in his teeth, he strode through reception toward his office. The process server stepped directly into his path.

  “Mr. Peoples?”

  Alvin considered the man who blocked his way. Suspicion narrowed his eyes. The man handed Alvin a sheaf of papers, and Alvin knew immediately what they were.

  “I assume you know what to do with that,” the man said.

  “If you’re not out of here in five seconds, I’m going to shove it up your ass.”

  The process server beat a hasty retreat. Alvin unfolded the papers and walked slowly down the hall, head down, scanning the pages.

  *

  In Highland Park, just a few blocks away from Steve McGinnis’s house, another process server sat in his car in front of an elegant, two-story brick home on posh Beverly Drive. The house was one of a slew of mansions that lined the wide street. Well-manicured lawns stretched from the street to deep-set houses surrounded by exquisite landscaping. Highland Park’s millionaires made sure their homes reflected their wealth, and Tripp Malloy was no exception.

  At exactly 9:07 a.m., Tripp Malloy backed out of his driveway in his black Mercedes. The process server, ever alert, got out of his car and met him where the driveway poured into the street.

  Tripp didn’t see the papers in the man’s hand. He stopped and rolled down his window. “What do you want?”

  “Mr. Malloy? Tripp Malloy?”

  Tripp glowered at the man. “Yes.”

  The man thrust the papers through the open window. Tripp recoiled, refusing to take them. The man dropped the papers into Tripp’s lap.

  “Consider yourself served.”

  Dumbfounded, Tripp unfolded the pages and looked at the style of the lawsuit:

  HORACE SWANSON AND SWANSON INDUSTRIES, INC. VS. BLACK WEST & MERRIAM AND TRIPP MALLOY.

  He flipped through the pages to the end. Attached, as Exhibit Number One, was a legal memorandum from Meg Kelly to Tripp Malloy, outlining the advice Tripp had given to Horace Swanson and stating, in bold print, the illegality of that advice.

  *

  I sat alone by Meg’s bedside, holding her hand. For the past two weeks, I’d spent my mornings and evenings there, leaving only to eat and sleep. Rachel and Mark cared for her during the days while I tried to practice law. Rachel then returned at night, sleeping in a chair beside her daughter’s bed. Most nights, when I inevitably awoke at 2:27 a.m.—eerie in its consistency—I showered, dressed for work, and drove thirty minutes to the hospital. Rachel was usually asleep at her daughter’s side when I arrived. I don’t know if she ever knew how early I arrived each morning. She only knew that when she typically woke around six o’clock, I was already there.

  The doctors seemed confident that, given the damage done by the bullet, a coma of this duration was to be expected. They now believed that she would live, but that offered little comfort if she was to spend the rest of her life in a vegetative state. The questions of brain damage and partial paralysis would remain unanswered until she woke up.

  I had slipped away from the office early that afternoon, needing a break before the evening’s partners’ meeting to fill Jake Goldblatt’s seat on the Management Committee. The firm had still not filed its answer to Meg’s lawsuit, but its propaganda machine continued to crank out lies, painting Meg as a sex-happy, malcontented troublemaker. Robin was remarkably restrained, documenting the source and timing of the leaks to the press. She planned to let the firm run its course before firing her first salvo—an amended petition bringing in new defendants…individual partners…and new claims for defamation. Then she would launch a PR blitzkrieg of her own. Knowing Robin as I did, I pitied the firm already.

  I sent Rachel and Mark to Meg’s apartment to rest, promising to call before I left for the meeting. So I sat alone, holding Meg’s hand, stroking her face, and brus
hing her hair.

  Most of the bandages had been removed two days earlier. The only ones remaining covered her left cheek, which was still swollen. Blue and green bruises painted her cheek and jaw, and surrounded her eye, like a mad artist’s canvas. The other side of her face was unmarred. To sit on the right side of the bed was to see the same Meg who existed before that fateful night. That was the side I always sat on, waiting for the day when both sides of her face again matched—assuming no nerve or muscle damage. But either way, in my eyes, she was still the most beautiful woman in the world.

  At last it was time to go. I called Meg’s parents then kissed her gently on the forehead.

  “Wake up soon,” I said. “I miss you.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  By the time I reached the auditorium, the room was nearly full. Voices buzzed as partners shared eleventh-hour opinions. The race to fill the Goldblatt seat had taken on a life of its own and interest was high. Higher even than interest in what was happening to us as lawyers. God forbid that something as boring as integrity should be a campaign issue when there were more important things—like money—to consider. Alvin approached the microphone, so I took a seat on the back row.

  “All right, let’s get started,” he said. “You know how this works. Every partner is technically on the ballot unless he opts out. So I’m going to read down the roster and you answer either by saying ‘in’ or ‘out.’ If you’re not here, or if you don’t answer, you’re in. Everyone that stays in will get a chance to make a short…let me emphasize the word short…speech and then we’ll vote.”

  In the middle of the auditorium, Charlene Nelson stood. “Excuse me, Alvin,” she said, “but I’d like to have a question answered before we get started.”

  Alvin looked at her with disdain. I saw by the look on his face that he knew what the question was and didn’t want to answer it. Not publicly. It was only then that I noticed that Charlene stood in the middle of a line of female partners sitting in a block. I wondered whether this was a conscious display of female solidarity. I am woman, hear me roar. I smiled at Alvin’s obvious discomfort. This could be fun.