by Mike Farris
“Can’t this wait?” Alvin asked.
“It might have a bearing on how I’ll vote.”
“I really don’t think this is the time for it,” Alvin said.
“I disagree,” Charlene replied.
“Let her ask the question,” a female voice said.
“Ask it.” A male voice this time.
“We’re going to be here late as it is,” Alvin said. “I think we’d be better suited to move on with the election and take up your question at another meeting.”
“I’d like to know what the candidates think before I vote,” Charlene said. I heard defiance in her voice.
“It’s not on the agenda,” Alvin said.
“I don’t care.”
I stood. “I’d like to hear the question,” I said.
All eyes turned to look at me. I kept my eyes on Alvin, who looked shocked. He bit his bottom lip and glared. Pure hatred shot my way, as if to say, “Haven’t you already caused enough trouble?”
“Then I’ve got a question of my own,” I added.
Charlene smiled at me and winked.
“All right,” Alvin said, exasperated. “Let’s hear the damn question.”
I sat down, turning the floor over to Charlene. She cleared her throat. The woman sitting next to her patted her on the back.
“I want to know if it’s true that one of our partners has been entertaining clients and attorneys at a strip bar and that the firm has been reimbursing him for expenses, and if so, who authorized that?”
A moment of stunned silence followed Charlene’s question, then came an explosion of voices as everyone talked at once. By now, we had all heard rumors that John Shaw routinely frequented one of the supposedly upscale gentlemen’s clubs in town. In fact, as Ellie had told me when I asked her about it, Shaw and his secretary had their own don’t ask, don’t tell policy when Shaw was out of the office. But what most partners didn’t know until Charlene raised the question was that the firm had subsidized it.
Alvin banged his ring against the microphone to get our attention. The sound reverberated through the auditorium. The buzz of voices gradually faded. Charlene remained standing, facing Alvin.
Alvin swayed, lips pressed together, eyes narrowed. “Yes, the firm reimbursed him. I authorized it.”
“How much?” Charlene asked.
“I don’t know.”
Charlene held up a file folder. “I didn’t think you would, so I checked. I had trouble getting this information…which I don’t understand since all partners are supposed to have access to financial information…but I finally got it. Did you know he submitted requests for reimbursement for expenses at Cabaret Velvet totaling forty-three thousand dollars last year and thirty-one thousand dollars so far this year?”
Charlene’s announcement of the figures touched off another explosion of voices. Alvin banged on the microphone, trying to regain control.
When the noise subsided again, Charlene said, “Over seventy thousand dollars of our money so John Shaw can get his rocks off at some strip bar. I’d rather pay to send him to a sex therapist. It would be cheaper and probably more effective.”
“Now, that’s not fair,” Alvin said. “John’s not here to defend himself.”
“This is not about John defending himself,” Charlene said. “If he wants to go to strip bars, that’s between him and his wife, assuming she knows. But I want to know why we’re paying for it. That affects me and that’s what this is about.”
Alvin’s face had turned pasty. “I made an executive decision that it was legitimate client development, so I authorized it. End of story.”
“I don’t think so.” Charlene’s voice rose. “I asked the firm’s charitable contributions committee to give five thousand dollars to the Dallas Bar Association’s Women’s Clinic and you told me that it wasn’t appropriate for the firm to do that. I also asked the firm to contribute five thousand to the AIDS Hospice. Turned down again. You said it wasn’t appropriate. But now I find out you think it is appropriate for the firm to put seventy thousand dollars into g-strings of dancing hookers. So that is not the end of the story, Alvin. Not by a long shot.”
“We’ve already told Shaw there will be no more reimbursements. Mea culpa, my fault. Now may we move on?”
“What was your rationale in the first place? What is the firm’s policy on what is appropriate client entertainment and what is appropriate for the firm to subsidize?”
“There is no hard and fast policy. There are general guidelines, and then the Management Committee decides on an ad hoc basis. The general guidelines are whether it will generate new business or enhance existing business. I deemed Shaw’s request to fit within those parameters and I acted accordingly. And, for your information, those clients generated several million dollars in business for this firm. So was that worth a thirty-five-thousand-dollar-per-year investment? The bottom line says yes. Would it perhaps have been better if we hadn’t done it? Arguably. Was it politically correct? No. But you can’t deny it enhanced business. And we are a business.”
“Are you telling us that the firm wouldn’t have gotten that business if Shaw hadn’t taken the clients to those places?”
“The volume of cases they sent us went up after he started.”
“I understand he also takes some of our associates with him.”
“Associates who worked for those clients. It was good for business for them to be there.”
Though I couldn’t see her face, I knew Charlene’s eyes must have been locked onto Alvin’s, riveting him to his spot.
“Just so the record is clear,” she said, “I object to any of my money going to strip bars, and I won’t vote for anyone who endorses it. It is not appropriate for this firm. It is not appropriate for any firm.”
Matt Cunningham joined Alvin by the microphone. “Other firms do it,” he said. “It’s not like Shaw is the only lawyer in town who entertains clients at gentlemen’s clubs.”
“There’s an oxymoron if ever I’ve heard one,” Charlene said. “Gentlemen don’t go to places like that. And I really don’t care what other firms do, Matt. I’m not a partner in other firms. I’m a partner in this firm, and I only care about what this firm does.”
“We compete with those other firms for the same business,” Alvin said. “So you’d better care what they do.”
“So if you make money for the firm, you can get away with anything? Is that the message?”
“We’re a business, Charlene,” Alvin said. “If we can’t compete, we’ll fail. That’s the bottom line.”
*
Rachel Kelly dozed in her chair, wearing a velour jogging suit and tennis shoes. A romance novel lay facedown in her lap. Mark Kelly read the latest Sports Illustrated, keeping up with college football’s top ten teams, one of which was his alma mater, Texas A&M. Between them, Meg slept. The respirator’s whooshing kept time with the metronome beat of the heart monitor, while IV bags fed her fluids, about twenty minutes away from needing to be changed.
The moon was already up, casting a shimmery glow on Meg’s face. The mini-blinds created a zebra’s coat of crisscross shadows on her body. She lay still, her outstretched hands at her sides.
An eyelash fluttered.
A thumb twitched.
Out of the corner of his eye, Mark saw movement. He put down his magazine and stared at Meg’s hand, daring the movement to repeat. For an agonizing sixty seconds he watched.
A twitch, then Meg curled her hand into a fist.
Mark looked at his daughter’s face.
An eyelid twitched, then both twitched. The eyelashes fluttered.
She opened her eyes.
Mark dropped his magazine on the floor. Rachel stirred at the sound. Mark stood and leaned over his daughter, looking into eyes that had not been open in weeks.
“Meg?” He spoke tenderly. “Baby?”
Her eyes looked past him, the pupils huge. Her gaze narrowed, focusing on her father.
“Baby?”
A crinkle around her eyes, smile lines spreading out. Ever so slightly, she nodded. Just an inch, but nothing escaped her father’s notice.
Not even the drop of water that splashed on her cheek. Mark brushed it away then wiped his eyes as another tear dropped.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“I guess it’s time for my question,” I said.
Matt and Alvin stood side by side at the microphone, but then Matt backed away and returned to his seat, as if to distance himself. Heads twisted as partners turned to look at me. “I think we need to move on with this election,” Alvin said.
“I’ve got another firm policy question, like Charlene’s.”
Alvin pulled a cigar from his inside coat pocket and stuck it into his mouth. He touched his forefinger to his forehead in a mock salute then pointed at me.
“What the hell,” he said. “Fire away.”
“What’s the policy on reporting to the partners on lawsuits against the firm?”
“I assume you’re talking about Meg Kelly’s suit?”
“For starters,” I said. “What’s the status?”
“Well, everything’s been on hold since her accident. If she doesn’t pull through, we figure there’s a good chance it’ll just go away.”
“Is the firm investigating to determine whether the allegations are true?” I asked. “Did we check before leaking defamatory information about Meg to the press?”
“The allegations in the lawsuit are false. Meg created her own problems, and now she’s having to deal with them.”
“How can she deal with them when she’s in a coma? Is that really fair?”
“This is not about being fair.”
“It damn sure is,” I snapped back.
“Look, I don’t think this is the place to discuss the litigation.”
“What better place to discuss something that affects all of the partners than at a partners’ meeting?” Charlene asked.
“Let me just say that it’s a bunch of crap for her to accuse Tripp of overbilling,” Alvin said. “Overbilling is not a problem here.”
“Isn’t it?” Charlene said. “I looked at the time summaries last night. Did you know that we’ve got thirty-two partners who average billing two hundred sixty-five hours a month?”
“We work hard here,” Alvin said. “We always have. Our partners work just as hard, or harder, than our associates.”
“Why was Meg asked to leave?” I asked.
“Her work product was not acceptable. And when she decided to slander a partner, we had no choice.”
I looked around the room. “A lot of us have worked with Meg. Is there anybody in here who thought her work product was anything less than excellent?”
Tripp stood. “Her work for Patterson McBain was not acceptable.”
“Bill Patterson sent work to her at her new firm,” I shot back. “Why would he do that if her work was unacceptable?”
A murmur swept the room. Obviously very few people knew that fact.
“She worked with me,” Charlene said. “She did some of the best work I’ve ever seen from an associate. Ever.”
“Same here,” said Ernest Walters. “I’d use her again in a heartbeat.”
“Anybody unhappy with her work?” I asked. I pointed at Tripp. “Besides the defendant.”
Nobody said anything.
“Who was happy with her work?”
Hands went up all across the auditorium, including mine. I counted, making a mental note of who had raised them.
“I think I can predict at least seventeen depositions,” I said. “How are we going to defend firing her based on alleged subpar work performance? And how are we going to defend leaks to the press that she was a bad lawyer? We’ll have to defend those, you know, when her lawyer adds another defamation claim to the lawsuit.”
“We’ve got Tripp,” Alvin said.
“That makes it seventeen to one, based on the show of hands,” I said.
“Don’t forget she slandered me,” Tripp said. “And then there’s her extra-curricular activity behind closed doors.”
“Assuming that’s true,” I said, struggling with my temper, “and assuming it’s a firing offense—”
“Assuming what’s true?” Charlene said. She turned around and looked at me, then back at Alvin. “The rumors about Bay and Meg?”
Alvin stood mute at the microphone, cigar clenched tightly.
“I’ve known Bay long enough to know that’s bullshit,” she said. “But quite frankly, I don’t care. We’ve never interfered in our lawyers’ private lives. And surely we don’t fire lawyers based on rumor and innuendo.”
“No, we fire associates when they dare to complain,” I said. “And we think going to strip clubs is a firm-sponsored field trip.”
“These are legitimate questions, Alvin,” Charlene said. “Have we got a problem defending against Meg’s lawsuit? Should we be thinking about settling?”
“And what about the suit by Horace Swanson?” I asked.
“What suit by Swanson?” Rob Nellis in real estate asked. “I do work for Horace Swanson.”
“It’s a misunderstanding,” Alvin said.
“Sued for what?” Nellis asked.
“Fraud,” I said.
“Fraud!”
“We’re already talking to Horace,” Alvin said. “We’re going to work it out.”
“How?” Nellis asked.
“We’re not prepared to discuss it right now.”
“Will we be paying him money to settle?” Nellis asked.
“Look,” Tripp said, “Swanson is my client, and we’ve got it under control. That’s all that really needs to be said on the issue.”
“Tell ’em what the fraud allegation is, Tripp,” I said.
Alvin slammed his hand on the lectern. “That’s enough, goddammit. I am not going to let this degenerate into a pissing contest between you two. If anybody’s got questions about the lawsuits and how we’re handling them, come see me tomorrow. We don’t have any secrets.” He paused. “Am I understood? Now, we’re going to have this vote whether you like it or not. End of discussion.”
A grumbling of dissent went up, but Alvin ignored it.
“I’m going to read through the roster,” he said. “When I read your name, you answer either in or out. Remember, in means you want your name on the ballot, out means you don’t.”
He began reading at a rapid clip. Partner after partner answered “out.” The first “in” came from Josh Froberg. Another from Oscar Hamilton. We didn’t hear another “in” until Alvin read “Muckleroy.”
“In,” I said.
He stopped and looked up. I let a smile play at my lips. If elected, I would be his worst nightmare—an honest man on the committee.
“Did you say ‘in?’” he asked.
“I’m in.”
*
Doctors and nurses bustled around Meg’s bed. Mark and Rachel stood off to the side, staying out of the way. Meg blinked, bright-eyed, taking it all in. Every few minutes she sought out her parents and smiled.
“I’m going to take out your breathing tube,” the doctor said.
She nodded vigorously.
“Your throat is going to be sore because it’s been in for so long, so be prepared for that.”
She nodded again.
“I don’t want you to try to talk.”
She nodded again.
He unhooked the tube from the respirator and grasped the plastic where it extended from her mouth.
“Now,” he said, “on the count of three, I want you to blow hard. You ready?”
Another nod.
“One…two…three.”
He grasped tightly and pulled. The long plastic tube slid up through her windpipe until it had cleared her lips. Meg gagged then coughed. A nurse handed her a glass of water with a straw. Meg took a few sips, her lips locked on the straw. Then she released and let go. She held up her hand and mimed writing on her palm. Another nurse handed her
a pencil and a notepad. She took the pencil and scribbled on the pad, then held it up to her parents.
I LOVE YOU
Mark put his arm around Rachel, and they approached the bed. “We love you, too, baby,” he said. He bent over and kissed his daughter’s cheek.
She wrote again on the pad, then held it up.
BAY?
Chapter Thirty-Three
“All right, let’s go in alphabetical order,” Alvin said. “Josh, you go first, then Oscar, then Muckleroy.”
I noticed that Alvin chose to exclude me from the first-name club. A subliminal message to the voters, perhaps?
Pear-shaped Josh Froberg popped to his feet and prissed down the aisle to the front. He stood behind the lectern, grabbed both sides with his hands, and leaned into the microphone. He bore a remarkable resemblance to an overgrown monkey—long arms, protruding brow, and prominent jaw. Just what we needed on the committee—someone else to carry a tin cup for Tripp and the other organ grinders.
“You all know me. I’m Josh Froberg and I’m a tax partner. I’ve been with this firm for ten years. Before that, I was with one of the Big Eight accounting firms for fifteen years where I was managing partner of the Fort Worth office. I say that because I want you to see that I have experience managing a large firm like this one.
“I also want to tell you my vision for the future of this firm. We are already one of the biggest and most prestigious law firms in this city, but we’re not the most profitable. Our per-partner profits don’t measure up to our same-size competitors. Now, I think one of the reasons is that our corporate section is too small. I’m committed to growing the corporate area. I think we’ve been neglected too long by management, and I aim to change that.
“Another reason our per-partner profits don’t measure up is because we don’t work enough hours. On any given day in our parking garage, twenty to thirty percent of the partners’ cars are gone. Those partners should be in their offices billing, but instead they’re out somewhere. If we’re all going to make more money, we’ve all got to work harder. And I’m talking about partners.”
Those missing cars probably belonged to litigators, I thought. Litigators who often spent more time out of the office—at the courthouse, at depositions, at document productions, at accident sites, at clients’ offices—than in the office. But I guess I couldn’t expect Josh to understand that. After all, he was a tax lawyer.
