by Mike Farris
A bell signaled the arrival of an elevator. The door opened, and Don Wallace led his team into the reception area. Several of the marshals pushed two-wheeled dollies with stacks of broken-down boxes. The blonde receptionist looked up, mouth opened slightly, as the parade positioned itself in front of her desk. Wallace stepped to the ledge.
“I need to see your managing partner,” he said.
“One minute please.” She dialed an extension then spoke into her headset. “There are some people here to see Mr. Peoples.” She listened for a moment then addressed Wallace. “May I have your name please?”
“Assistant United States Attorney Don Wallace.”
Scant moments later, Alvin Peoples, Steve McGinnis, Matt Cunningham, and Oscar Hamilton entered the reception area. Alvin led the way, with the others walking side-by-side behind him. He scowled when he saw the legion of marshals. The receptionist pointed out Wallace.
Wallace handed Alvin an official-looking document. “I have a federal court order signed by Judge Capps,” he said, “authorizing me to seize all your firm’s billing records…both hard copy and computer…for the past five years.”
Alvin grabbed the order, scanned it, then handed it to Oscar.
“That’s more than the subpoena called for,” Alvin said. “And the response isn’t due yet.”
“We believe there is an imminent threat that evidence may be destroyed. We have reason to believe some evidence has already been destroyed. Based on that, Judge Capps issued this emergency order.”
“This is bullshit!” Alvin said.
“Can you direct us to your accounting area, and show us the records?” Don asked.
“This is bullshit.”
“Mr. Peoples, if you’d like to take that up with Judge Capps, that’s your prerogative. But for now, I need someone to show us to the records.”
“This is bullshit.”
“Mr. Peoples?”
“Bullshit.”
“Mr. Peoples, do I need to place you under arrest?”
Alvin stood toe-to-toe with Wallace, seething. Steve, Matt, and Oscar stood at his shoulders, supporting their managing partner.
“I’ll take this up with Judge Capps,” Alvin said. “This cannot happen. You wait here until I get this straightened out.”
He whirled and almost ran down the hallway to his office.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Yet another partners’ meeting. For a firm that thrived on the billable hour, the waste of time ran into the hundreds of thousands of dollars. But I knew most of my brethren would make up for it with creative time entries, ironic in light of the fact that the current agenda was to discuss the Justice Department’s investigation into the firm’s dubious billing practices.
My partners were angry and confused. Befuddlement had been the facial expression of the day as we watched blue-jacketed marshals rifling through files, working on computers, and loading boxes. It looked like moving day, with dollies being wheeled to the elevators, loaded with cartons filled with our secrets. The thing that made the least sense to most partners—but perfect sense to me—was their bagging up trash and remnants from the shredders. The marshals hauled out at least ten green trash bags of shredded paper that afternoon.
I sat about a quarter of the way back, on the side by a speaker. In my coat pocket, I carried a hand-held recorder. The management committee, absent Oscar Hamilton, sat on the front row, along with Tripp.
Alvin approached the microphone and called the meeting to order. He almost had to shout to be heard over the angry roar of voices. When the noise finally subsided, he spoke into the microphone.
“By now, y’all know what happened today. Federal marshals showed up with a court order from Judge Capps and seized our billing records. These are the same records that were subpoenaed earlier in the week, and our response wasn’t even due yet. We don’t know why they did what they did or what they’re looking for, but we think we’ve got it under control now. This afternoon, late, we prepared a motion to quash the subpoena. Oscar Hamilton went down, personally, to the federal courthouse to file it. I also talked to the judge on the phone and told him we’d be filing a motion to reconsider his order. I told him we’ve got some constitutional and privilege issues to raise that we think he should consider. Most of y’all know I went to law school with Judge Capps, and I think he’ll listen to what I’ve got to say.”
“What the hell is going on?” someone called out. I recognized the voice as belonging to someone in real estate, but I didn’t know his name. He was a fairly new guy, lateral hire, with a big book of business. “I know that lawsuit by that associate we fired probably triggered the subpoena, but why this crap today?”
“Our best guess is that somebody called them and tipped them off to something, God knows what, but we don’t know why,” Alvin said.
“Somebody like Meg Kelly?” the real estate guy asked.
“Or someone inside the firm,” Matt Cunningham said.
“I heard that the order says we were destroying records,” Frieda Taylor, bankruptcy, said. “Is that true?”
“Well, that’s what the order said,” Alvin stated. “But—”
“Well,” Frieda demanded, “were we destroying records?”
“So what if we were?” Josh Froberg asked. “I mean, these are our records, right?”
Froberg was still on the campaign trail, notwithstanding his resounding defeat for management committee. Still spouting what he thought was the party line.
I turned on my recorder and set it on the floor, then stood and addressed his question. “Destroying records when they’ve been subpoenaed is called obstruction of justice.”
A sprinkling of partners, mostly female, voiced their agreement. Others—mostly male—tried to shout the concept down.
“Nobody has answered my question,” Frieda said. “Are we destroying records?”
“We’ve got to protect ourselves,” Alvin said.
“It’s a criminal offense,” I said.
“So is fraudulent billing,” Tripp said.
“Are you admitting that’s the case?”
“No one’s admitting anything,” Alvin said. “That’s what the Justice Department has said we’ve done, and that’s why they’re after the records.”
“No one’s answered my question,” Frieda said.
“We’re doing what we have to do to save the firm,” Alvin said. “Not everyone seems to appreciate that. This Justice Department thing…this could bring us down.”
“Will Tripp still be here if it does?” Ellen Allbritton, tort litigation, asked. “Or is he leaving, like he threatens to every year at compensation time?”
Tripp jumped to his feet and glared at Ellen. She met his glare evenly and returned it.
“I’m protecting this firm, is what I’m doing,” Tripp said. “While all the rest of you sit back and watch, I’m out front trying to help us all.”
“So we are destroying records,” Charlene Nelson said. “I’m trying to read between the lines here since no one will answer a straight question. My God, what a jury would do with evasive witnesses like y’all.”
Tripp wagged a finger at Charlene. “Look, if Justice can go after my billing records with no reason other than what a fired associate says, they could go after everybody’s. Is that what we want? To be a target for every federal investigation into billing practices?”
“What made Justice think we were destroying records?” Frieda asked.
Tripp and Alvin both looked my way. “Why don’t you answer that, Muckleroy,” Alvin said. “That subpoena was awfully cozy with what your friends Robin Napoli and Meg Kelly sent the firm.”
Josh Froberg stood and looked at me. “Are you saying Bay is leaking information to the Justice Department about confidential activities at the firm?” Astonishment registered in his voice.
“Confidential activities like shredding evidence?” Charlene said.
“That’s not my point,” Froberg said. “Alvin, are you acc
using Bay of giving out secret information?”
“I’m saying he’s awfully close to Meg Kelly…really close, if you know what I mean…and she’s suing us. He’s also tight with the woman who happens to turn up as her lawyer. Then Justice decides to investigate the allegations in Kelly’s lawsuit, and they serve a remarkably similar subpoena on us.”
He paused, trying to create a real Hollywood moment. I had to admit it was working. I sat down and picked up my recorder. With all eyes on Alvin, I put it back in my pocket.
“And then,” Alvin continued, “he barges in on the management committee this morning and accuses Tripp of destroying documents. Coincidentally, this afternoon the marshals show up with a court order. Now read between the lines again, Charlene. What do you come up with?”
Froberg looked at me, his face suitably somber. He talked as if speaking only to me, though his words were meant for everybody’s ears. “Bay, if that’s true, that’s grounds for expulsion from the partnership.”
“Which brings us to the next topic on our agenda.” Alvin held up a piece of paper. “We’ve got a motion, signed by three partners, to expel Muckleroy from the partnership.”
“Who signed it?” Charlene asked.
Alvin read the signatures. “Oscar N. Hamilton, R. Tripp Malloy, and Matthew H. Cunningham.”
“On what basis?” Frieda asked.
“What Josh said,” Alvin answered. “There are some partners who think he’s been giving information to Meg Kelly’s lawyer. They also think he’s given information to the U.S. Attorney, and that’s what triggered their raid today.”
“Do you have anything to say to that, Bay?” Froberg said.
I stood again. “I think y’all have got to decide what kind of firm you’re going to be. If it’s okay to obstruct justice and overbill clients, then fine. So be it. If that’s your choice, then I’ll leave voluntarily.”
I looked at Charlene, Frieda, and Ellen.
“On the other hand,” I continued, “maybe that’s not the kind of firm you want to be. If so, maybe it’s time for some of you to take back control and turn this thing around.”
“I don’t hear you denying anything, Muckleroy,” Alvin said.
“And I didn’t hear Tripp deny destroying evidence,” I shot back.
“Right now you’re the issue, not me,” Tripp said.
“It’s all related,” Charlene said. “If any one of us is destroying evidence, then the rest of the partners have an ethical, legal, and moral duty to report that. If that’s what’s happened, and if that’s what Bay’s done, that’s not grounds for expulsion.”
“What about feeding information to Kelly’s lawyer to sue us?” Alvin asked.
Charlene looked at me, her lips pressed together. “That’s a different issue.”
“The partnership agreement says you’ve got to give five days’ notice before taking a vote on expulsion,” I said. “I object to a vote tonight.”
“Bay’s right,” Charlene said. “We can’t vote tonight.”
“Maybe we can’t vote,” Matt said, “but we can discuss it. We’ll set another meeting to vote.”
“Then I’ll leave now and let y’all have your discussion,” I said.
I stepped out and walked down the aisle to the rear door. I never looked back, but I felt over two hundred pairs of eyes on my back. In the hall, I reached in my pocket, pulled out the recorder, and pushed the stop button. I took out the cassette and put it in my shirt pocket, returned the recorder to my coat pocket, and left.
*
Meg eagerly awaited my arrival and my story telling. After all, I had quite a yarn to spin, and she knew I would spin it with glee. And so I did, telling a tale fit for the big screen, complete with court orders, U. S. Marshals, threats, judges, and angry lawyers. I spared no detail, added no embellishment. Just the plain, unvarnished truth—as I saw it.
“What do you think will happen?” Meg asked when I had finished.
“I think the U.S. Attorney may be on slippery ground with the seizure unless the bags of shredded paper turn up the billing records. All they’ve got is an anonymous tip, but I think, with the challenge from the firm, the judge is going to require more.”
“What about your videotape?”
“I haven’t quite decided what to do with that. The problem with it, besides the poor video quality, is that you can’t tell what Tripp is shredding. You just know he’s shredding something.”
“What about you?” she asked. “I don’t like this vote to expel you.”
“It takes a seventy-five percent vote to kick me out. I’d like to think there are still at least twenty-five percent with some integrity. I’m pretty sure I’ve got all the women on my side.”
She stifled a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“Oh, just the mental image of you being protected by a bunch of women.”
“At least I’ve got them. But if I can’t get at least twenty-five percent, I don’t think I want to be a partner there, anyway.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and brushed her hair off her cheek with my fingers. Her natural color had returned, replacing the green and blue, and all swelling in her face had subsided. Only the scars remained.
“You’re looking good,” I said. “What’s the prognosis on going home?”
“The doctor says maybe a week. He doesn’t think the nerve damage to my spinal column is permanent, and I should eventually regain full use of my left foot and leg. He even thinks my face will heal and, when the time is right, plastic surgery should take care of the scars.”
“How much longer for physical therapy?”
“Twice a week for at least two months. Then he’ll reassess.”
“Are you going to be okay at home? You’ve got those stairs leading up to your bedroom.”
“I’ll just get my stuff moved downstairs. I can sleep on the couch.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “I’ve got an extra bedroom.”
She fell silent. I had thought she would jump on the offer, or at least I’d hoped she would.
Before I could press her, Robin walked in. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything here,” she said.
I jumped off the bed and stood. Robin tossed her coat on the foot of the bed then sat in a chair. I continued to stand, not sure what to do.
“Well, I met with Bill Patterson,” she said. “I think he’s got a good case.”
“Are you going to take it?” I asked.
“Yep. And I’ve got Malloy’s deposition lined up in Meg’s case for week after next, assuming Meg gets released by then. If not, we’ll reschedule. I want her there.”
I nodded. I wanted her there, too.
“And Meg,” she added, “until you can get around better, I’d like you to stay with me. I don’t have stairs, and you can have the run of the house.”
Meg hesitated only a second. “I’ll take you up on that.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Winter rolled in Friday afternoon, bringing freezing rain and arctic winds. Deep frost—early by Dallas standards—turned the streets into skating rinks. That, and the frost I felt in my heart, kept me home that night instead of at the hospital. A fire blazed in the fireplace, casting its heat throughout the den. I lay on the couch and watched college football. Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, I draped an afghan over my legs and sprawled for hours. Rufus dozed in front of the fire. We made a fine, lethargic pair.
I should have found something to occupy my mind, but I had no focus even to tackle the most mundane chore. Too much had happened, leaving me with a truckload of uncertainty. I felt sure that I would survive the expulsion vote, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to. It might make a statement to be martyred for ethics’ sake. But martyrdom and thirty-five cents would get me a phone call.
And what would I do if I were expelled? Would any other firm in town want me? If ethics were the same at all the other firms, would I want them? That thought troubled me the most
. I had no reason to think Black West & Merriam was any different from anywhere else. A Justice Department investigation into any other firm would likely turn up the same pattern of overbilling.
And an investigation into plaintiffs’ firms would turn up equal corruption, just of a different type. Where corporate law firms abused the system to defend their clients’ ways of doing business, plaintiffs’ firms imagined wrongs where they did not exist as a means of extorting money out of deep pockets. I certainly didn’t believe that all lawyers were corrupt—corrupted by power, ego, and greed—but I had started to question whether they now constituted the majority. If so, then this was a club in which I no longer wanted membership.
Other dark thoughts preyed on my mind as well. Like why did Meg reject my invitation to recuperate at my home? I had taken care to offer the spare bedroom, so as to make sure she understood I was making a benevolent offer, not just a personal one. Yet she took Robin’s offer with little hesitation.
As I allowed that to prey on my mind, I conjured up other doubts about our relationship. Since she had regained consciousness, I’d gone to see her every day and called her at other times. But she never initiated a phone call to me. I wondered why I, alone, had to put forth the effort. Was she trying to send a message by not calling and now by refusing my offer? Or was it just a matter of her knowing I would call, so she simply waited?
An incessant banging on the front door, followed by an urgent ringing of the doorbell, interrupted my thoughts. Rufus jumped to his feet, barking. I tossed the afghan on the floor, swung my feet off the couch, and stood. A wave of dizziness pulsed through me. I wobbled for a moment, putting my hand on the couch arm to steady myself.
The banging and ringing continued. With Rufus at my side, I opened the front door without first checking the peephole. My personal nightmare stood on the front porch, red-faced and trembling.
