Death Benefits (4 page)

Abbott & Windsor's arrival in St. Louis last summer merited a front-page story in the
St. Louis Business Journal
beneath the following headline:

MAJOR CHICAGO LAW FIRM INVADES ST LOUIS;
STODDARD ANDERSON TO HEAD
ABBOTT & WINDSOR BRANCH

The article mentioned Anderson three times in the first four paragraphs. He was a “legal powerhouse” with “annual billings reputed to be in the seven figures” whose “counsel was valued in the boardrooms of St. Louis corporations, the backrooms of City Hall, and the dining room of the Governor's mansion.”

Next in the pile of clippings was a stapled collection of Jerry Berger columns. Berger writes a society and gossip column for the
Post-Dispatch
. Over the past year alone, he had mentioned Anderson a half-dozen times—spotted at Cardwell's Restaurant “huddled in conversation with Apex Oil topper Tony Novelly,” at Busch's Grove “hosting a pouring with the glitterati” for a retiring in-house attorney (“mouthpiece,” in Bergerese) at Emerson Electric, in the “Monsanto skybox cheering on the Redbirds and sipping the host's brew with Mayor Vince and Parks Commish Barney Miniver,” spotted on “the 18th green at Norwood Hills C.C.” with “General Dynamics top veep Mitchell Shales and real estate sage Larry Lammert,” and playing tennis at “the Lah-de-due hacienda of Northwestern Hospital topper Eugene Reese and a gaggle of medicos.”

Another stapled set of news clippings opened with a surprising pair of op-ed pieces that had appeared in the
St. Louis Sun
. Surprising, that is, considering the source. Most corporate lawyers don't disclose any controversial political or moral views they may hold. Stoddard Anderson, however, had apparently been a veritable exhibitionist on the subject. The first op-ed column was an exhortation for support of the latest anti-abortion statute pending before the Missouri legislature. The second column was a lengthy diatribe against a recent court decision prohibiting the expulsion of a homosexual from the Navy band.

The latter op-ed piece stirred up precisely the sort of controversy that the
Sun
fed on during its brief existence. Two days after the article appeared, a gay rights organization staged a demonstration in front of Anderson's home in Clayton. The
Sun
was there to cover the event, and reported that Anderson had confronted the demonstrators on his front lawn, denouncing them as “Un-American deviants.”

I was repulsed by Anderson's actions and beliefs. But I knew I had come to St. Louis neither to praise nor to bury him. My job was far more mundane and lawyerly: to determine whether his widow could obtain an additional $1.4 million dollars in death benefits from a life insurance company.

Regardless of her dead husband's beliefs, Dottie Anderson already had my sympathies, and not only because of her recent widowhood. In reviewing Stoddard Anderson's medical history with Abbott & Windsor's health plan administrator earlier in the day in Chicago, I had learned about their two children. There was a son, Paul, born with Down's syndrome, who had died four years ago at the age of twenty-nine. And then there was a daughter, Rebecca, now thirty-one—almost my age. Rebecca had suffered severe brain damage as a result of an acute case of rheumatic fever when she was three. She had been institutionalized since she was five years old. Whenever I tried to conjure an image of Dottie Anderson—something I try to do before I meet my clients in person—all I could feel was the shattering pain she must have endured when she surrendered her little daughter to the white-coated authorities.

The next two clippings, dated June 22 and 23 of this summer, broke the story of Anderson's disappearance and then told the story of the discovery of his body in a hotel room bathtub, dead of “self-inflicted cuts on his wrists and neck.” According to the second article, Anderson had apparently withdrawn eight hundred dollars on the afternoon of his death. The police officer in charge of the suicide investigation was a Bridgeton cop named Mario Aloni. I circled his name.

The last clipping in the file was a Jerry Berger column that included a color photograph of Stoddard Anderson and—according to Berger—“his ever-loving wife, Dottie,” on their thirty-second wedding anniversary, which they celebrated at the Faust's in the Adams Mark Hotel with a long list of bold-typeface friends. I studied the photograph. Stoddard was a large man with a broad, beefy face, lots of white teeth, and a receding hairline. He looked healthy, well fed, and prosperous. Dottie looked like his mother—somewhat frumpy in a flower-print shirtwaist dress and bouffant hairdo. In the picture, he was beaming confidently, she was smiling shyly. They were standing side by side, not actually touching. I stared at my new client for a long time, and then I turned out the light.

Chapter Four

Clients assume that law firms have simple hierarchies: partners above, associates below. Associates grimly shake their heads at such naivete. Yes, it is partners above and associates below. But as a guide for survival, that truism is no more helpful than observing that the jungle is divided into plants and animals. Of course it is. But if you find yourself in the jungle and hope to survive, you sure better learn to tell the difference between a lemur and a lion.

Like other carnivores, all partners are not created equal. That's the first law of survival for associates at large law firms. Every major law firm in America has the same partnership trinity: the finders, the minders, and the grinders. The finders (aka the rainmakers) bring in the big clients and big fees. The minders are the specialists who handle the clients' problems and supervise the grinders. The grinders (aka the junior partners) are the high-level grunts. And down there below the grinders are the great unwashed of the law firm pyramid: the associates. Among the younger partners at Abbott & Windsor, the associates are known as the grinning buttheads.

As any grinning butthead understands, spotting the finders is just the first step toward partnership. Scattered among the thirty to forty finders at Abbott & Windsor are the ten or so who really count. Identifying those ten megapartners is thus the next step. The few titles that do exist are not reliable signposts; nor is seniority a meaningful guide. The sixty-year-old tax partner may report to—indeed, grovel before—someone twenty years his junior, while the forty-year-old litigator may earn twice as much as the silver-haired chairman of his department. For the truly ambitious associate, the key is to somehow induce a megapartner to serve as your Chinaman during the perilous seven-year climb up the pyramid toward partnership.

While the finder/minder/grinder nomenclature has spread throughout the nation's law firms, the term for the mega-partners differs from firm to firm. At Reynolds & Price, they are known as the Gorillas (as in, “500-pound gorillas”) while at Ross, Charles & Peters they are the 500-pounders. The megapartners at Emerson, Rinaldi & Brown are “the Great Whites” (a double entendre, no doubt) while every megapartner at Drury & Anderson is a T-Rex (as in Tyrannosaurus). At Rimmel & Abrams, the offices of the eight megapartners are along the east side of the fifty-fifth floor, which is thus known as Embassy Row.

At Abbott & Windsor, the megapartners are known as BSDs. The acronym has been in use so long that—like SCUBA, AWOL, and RSVP—many use it in conversation, and use it correctly, without knowing what the three initials stand for. This ignorance has produced one marvelous irony: Amanda Berger, a former U.S. District Judge and now the megapartner who heads A & W's bankruptcy and reorganization practice, is one of the ten Big Swinging Dicks.

Stoddard Anderson, although located more than two hundred miles from the main offices of Abbott & Windsor, had been a BSD. Reed St. Germain, the acting managing partner of the St. Louis branch, was not. That was clear from his office alone. His secretary had placed me there a few minutes ago, explaining that Mr. St. Germain's breakfast meeting had run late.

“He just called me from his car phone, Miss Gold,” she explained. “He's on Highway 40 and should be here soon.”

Sipping a cup of black coffee, I looked around his office. Based on the visible evidence, Reed St. Germain was, at best, an MSD striving for BSD status. He had the mandatory framed photograph of himself standing next to George Bush, and another one of him standing next to Missouri Senator John Danforth. Both, however, were posed shots—obvious photo opportunities. If a true BSD were to display a photograph of himself with the President, the two would be casually attired and casually posed—out on the golf course, for example, or on lounge chairs by a pool.

St. Germain's office also had the mandatory framed photograph of the wife and two kids, posed stiffly against a painted scenic view. And the mandatory framed law school diploma. He was a graduate of the Washington University School of Law, where—according to yet another framed certificate—he had been articles editor of the
Law Quarterly
. Based on the date of his law school diploma, Reed St. Germain was in his mid-forties.

And finally, centered on the wall above the couch, the
pièce de résistance:
his admission certificate to the bar of the United States Supreme Court, framed in gold—guaranteed to impress unsophisticated clients and other credulous visitors to the office of the acting managing partner of Abbott & Windsor's St. Louis office. Only the rarest of clients will know that
any
attorney out of law school for at least three years who sends the completed application form to the Clerk of the U.S. Supreme Court along with a check for one hundred dollars payable to “Marshal, U.S. Supreme Court,” will receive, by return mail, his own certificate of admission. Throughout the nation there are thousands of Supreme Court certificates of admission, expensively framed, in the offices of lawyers who, like Reed St. Germain, have appeared before the Supreme Court, if at all, only once, in Bermuda shorts, on a tour of the building with their wives and kids.

I was standing by the window, gazing down at the Old Courthouse, when he arrived.

“Ahhh, you must be Rachel Gold.”

I turned and smiled, extending my hand. “And you must be Reed St. Germain.”

He was darker and shorter than I had imagined when I talked to him on the telephone yesterday. We stood at eye level. He had dark eyes and long dark eyelashes. With his strong nose and chin, he looked more like a Lebanese war chieftain than a St. Louis trusts and estates lawyer. His black, curly hair was cut short and flecked with gray.

“It's so nice to meet you, Rachel,” he said in a deep, smooth voice. He was a two-handed shaker, holding with the right while covering with the left. “I've heard wonderful things about you. We're just delighted that you were able to come down here.”

“I'm glad you could arrange this visit on such short notice,” I said.

“It was my pleasure. And most important, Rachel,” he said, and then paused, tilting his head as his expression became serious, “we're here to cooperate in your inquiry into this tragic event.” He reminded me of one of those disc jockeys on an adult lite-rock radio station.

St. Germain made the usual polite inquiries about my trip, which I answered in kind as I studied him, trying to bring the picture into focus. He was wearing a Brooks Brothers three-button gray suit, a crisp white shirt with extra starch, and engraved gold cuff links. His suspenders, tie, and breastpocket handkerchief were all in matching yellow with red dots. His cordovan Weejuns were polished to a high buff.

Although his outfit, modulated voice, and expensive haircut said
Wall Street Journal
and
Town and Country
, his gnawed fingernails suggested otherwise.

As we continued to talk, I saw him glance at my outfit. I had come prepared for first impressions—as any prudent woman lawyer would. I had on my “boardroom” outfit: a traditional navy suit with jade pinstripes. Under the jacket I was wearing a white cotton blouse with pleated front and a scalloped standup collar.

As St. Germain continued to chat, I noticed that he seemed to work my name into the beginning or end of every other sentence. Maybe it's something they teach at the Acting Managing Partner Seminar.

“Could I see Stoddard Anderson's office?” I asked, trying to move the conversation toward the purpose of my visit.

Reed St. Germain gave me a puzzled look. “His office?”

“I'd like to get a feel for where he worked.”

“Well, that may be difficult, Rachel. You see,
this
was Stoddard's office. I moved in a few weeks ago.”

“Where are his things?”

“The police took temporary custody of the contents of his office. They returned most of the stuff about a week ago. We had it packed in boxes and moved to one of our storage facilities. We had planned on keeping them in storage until Dottie—his widow, your client—is ready to take them.”

As he talked I noticed he had a slight nervous tic that caused him to move his head down and to the right, as if he had a minor crick in his neck.

“Is his secretary still here?”

“Oh, yes. Nancy is still with us.”

“I'll need to talk to her.”

“Certainly,” he said, standing up. “In fact, let me give you a brief tour of our offices. I'll introduce you to Nancy on the way, and I can show you the office we have for you to work in while you're here.”

The firm occupied one entire floor of the Boatmen's Tower. The tour confirmed that St. Louis law offices have two things in common with their Chicago counterparts. First, both are great repositories of impressive picture frames, the cost of which apparently used up most of the art budget. Second, the design architects for both seem to have been heavily influenced by Daedalus' blueprints for the Minotaur's labyrinth. The confusing layout was exacerbated by my (non)sense of direction and inability to read maps. (Why is North always at the top when you so rarely are heading in that direction?) I stared wistfully as we passed key landmarks—the coffee machine, the women's restroom, the soda machine—wishing I had a skein of thread to unwind as I followed St. Germain through the maze.

Our tour ended at a small office six doors down the hall from Reed St. Germain's corner office. He flicked on the light and beckoned me in. I got a waft of Polo cologne as I passed him into the office.

“This can be your office while you're down here, Rachel,” he said magnanimously. “You're welcome to use it for as long as you need.”

“Thanks, Reed.”

“Quite frankly, Rachel, I shouldn't think this investigation will take much time to wrap up. I can assure you that Stoddard Anderson was as sane as the day is long.”

“Perhaps you're right.”

“I know I'm right.” There was an edge to his voice, which he quickly recovered. “Rachel, my job here is to make sure you have what you feel you need. I mean that. If there is anything you want, anything at all, why you just let me know.”

“Good,” I said, deciding it was time to play my trump card. “Ishmael Richardson assured me that you would fully cooperate in every way.”

“I certainly shall.”

“Here.” I handed him a yellow legal pad. “I'll need a few things to get started.”

He uncapped his Mont Blanc fountain pen. “Shoot.”

“I'll need all of Anderson's time sheets for the past twelve months. I'll also need his correspondence files for that period. I want to see all travel expense reports filed for the six months before his death, and all phone messages for the three months before his death.” St. Germain was scribbling madly. “Finally, I want to see the contents of his office—the stuff you sent to storage.” I waited until he caught up. “And while your people are gathering those materials, I'd like to talk to his secretary. Okay?” I concluded with a smile.

“Fine,” he said, his nervous tic acting up. “I'll send Nancy in, and then I'll start in on your list.”

As he turned to go I said, “So where was he those last four days?”

Reed looked back, his eyes narrowing. “In that hotel room, I suppose.”

“Doing what?”

He shrugged, putting on his world-weary mask. “Whatever it is that sad men do before they kill themselves.”

“What was he sad about?”

The mask dropped away. “I have no idea,” he said curtly. “I'll send in Nancy.”