Justice Hunter (10 page)
B
ack at Whitman, after finding no sign of an e-mail from Mancini anywhere, Hunter clicked over to the firm’s Intranet to pull Stephanie’s extension. Still pondering his next move with Mancini, he quickly keyed her numbers into the phone. She answered after the first ring.
“Stephanie Diaz.” She sounded slightly annoyed and obviously knew it was him. He was close to twenty minutes late. Strike two.
“Stephanie. It’s Hunter.” He decided to play it off. “I’ve got the whole file. I was thinking we could set up in one of the conference rooms on four?”
“Works for me,” she replied, all business.
“Good. See you down there in five.”
They met in front of the elevator bank on four and decided on the very first conference room they stumbled upon. Because it was Sunday, they could pretty much take their pick. The fourth floor was packed to the gills with conference rooms, most of them compact and intended for doc reviews and other labor-intensive projects. Several others were much grander and primarily used to impress potential clients and for the occasional deposition. The grandiosity of these tended to scare the shit out of other parties, plaintiffs’ lawyers included. There was art worthy of a MoMA exhibition, rows of modern metal and glass chandeliers bearing down on the occupants from the twenty-foot-high ceilings overhead, and cutting-edge technological accoutrements—all of which conveyed a powerful message: “We have unlimited resources at our fingertips and will fucking destroy you if necessary!”
Although he was preoccupied with Mancini, Hunter decided to delve right into the most-pressing issues. They couldn’t afford any further delay or distractions. He was already cutting it dangerously close.
“I think I can get something together by dinnertime,” responded Stephanie as she leafed through the ironclad and lengthy motion filed by Vito’s lawyers. Her expression was naturally sexy and confident. They were seated a professional distance apart, face to face, at a somewhat compact utilitarian yet modern oak table.
Frankly, Hunter wasn’t expecting her to take on such a Herculean task alone this early on in the process. Part of him questioned whether she underestimated her opposition, always a potentially fatal response. Harvard lawyer or not—Stephanie had finished at the top of her class there—it was a virtual impossibility she had the chops to put something cogent and effective together that swiftly. Most partners couldn’t pull it off without a team of senior associates. Until she volunteered it, the thought of a novice constructing arguably the most critical brief in the case hadn’t entered his mind. He intended on having her research the law and handle some of the drafting but was planning on bearing the brunt of the work. He had to ensure their case wasn’t tossed out altogether, without their even getting to trial. Plus the possibility that Mancini was setting him up and would play so loose and fast with his partnership bid weighed heavily on his mind.
“That’s all right. Take some time and sift through their brief with a fine-tooth comb. Let’s do it that way. That way we can vote on the approach together. Mark it up and put together an outline.” In the back of his mind, he also hadn’t eliminated the possibility that Stephanie had been brought in by Mancini to sabotage the case. He read her reaction closely.
“Whatever you say,” she responded in a cutesy “you’re the boss” sort of way. If she was disappointed, she certainly didn’t let on. To the contrary, she seemed relieved he planned on collaborating. Based upon her short-lived experience at Whitman, she was probably expecting him to take her up on her offer. She delved right into her assignment, and Hunter began to outline his case, knowing in the back of his mind he was jumping the gun.
He wrote the word “Opening” on a legal pad, resorting to his fallback technique. Typically, he’d digest the facts in his subconscious, give them a chance to marinate for a few days. By the time he put pen to paper for the actual trial preparation, a compelling and persuasive story would have come into relief in his mind’s eye. It was a litigator’s version of divine inspiration. But with his mind clogged with paranoid thoughts and the knowledge that he needed to meet the players in the case, a bolt of anxiety struck him.
My meds are definitely off.
How on earth did he expect to build a smart case without interviewing the man who allegedly was denied service, Ruben Hayek? Who was he? How did he get to the commission? Was there any truth to the affidavits of the witnesses claiming that he and the rest of the “posse” were there that night to start trouble, not eat?
He also needed to contact the chairman of the Human Relations Commission, Dr. Thaddeus Wilson, a former political adviser to the mayor and apparently still a close ally and confidante. Dr. Wilson was the one who actually swore off on both the original complaint and its amended counterpart, deciding to bring the case on the commission’s own initiative. So in addition to Ruben Hayek, he would be the other logical starting point for getting a stronger handle on the impetus for bringing the suit in such an unconventional manner as well as the timing. The case wasn’t commenced for many months after Vito Armani posted the sign at issue. Hunter knew he had to preempt the argument that there was much more to the timing than met the eye. The lag would be presented as firsthand evidence of the conspiracy. The filing was entirely arbitrary and coincided all too well with Vito’s refusal to cave to partisan politics.
And then there were the other witnesses, one of whom had to be an expert on race relations. Because illegal immigrants were not a protected class under the ordinance, he needed to present a credible nexus between race, national origin, and ancestry. In other words, Vito wasn’t really going after immigrants as much as singling out the types of people who tended to be illegals, primarily Mexicans. There had been a dramatic surge in South Philadelphia’s Mexican population. Hunter surmised that the Italian Americans, who were so embedded in that section of the city, were beginning to feel their territory was being threatened—that they were being forced out of their own neighborhood. Hunter had already done some preliminary research on the expert and had narrowed it down to two. Both were tenured professors, one at Temple University and the other at Penn. As it turns out, the scholar Hunter liked from Penn, Dr. Maya Sinclair, had been discussed in some preliminary correspondences in the file between the chairman and rest of the commission. As one of the nation’s foremost race-relations experts, Dr. Wilson firmly believed retaining her services would be vital to the success of its case.
Feeling like an immobilized private eye charged with the task of tailing his target, Hunter started to regret his committing to working with Stephanie in the office for the day. Sure, surviving the motion was a big deal. But without a case, surviving it didn’t matter. So late in the game, he had no choice but to take risks. This wasn’t a typical assignment on a manageable track. They were operating at what amounted to warp speed. So Hunter told himself that, at some point in the very near future, he’d have to take a leap of faith with Stephanie. As he turned his attention to the other pending motions in the case, ones that dealt with the defense’s attempts to get in what it wanted and keep out what it didn’t, Stephanie interrupted.
“Is it just me or are Vito’s lawyers suggesting some sort of political conspiracy?”
“Why do you say that?” Hunter loved conspiracy theories. JFK and Bobby Kennedy murdered for disgracing the White House by whoring around with Marilyn Monroe. How the landing on the moon was staged on a Hollywood set. Elvis faking his own death, last seen sipping a Mai Tai in French Polynesia reading Danielle Steel and looking like a beached whale. But Hunter didn’t have the time to get lost in them when it came to one of his cases.
“I don’t know.” Stephanie replied casually, sounding almost blasé. “It’s just that with their due process arguments, they keep referring to the critical nature of the testimony of the mayor and this councilwoman.” Stephanie ran a hand through her hair, concentrating on making sense of her theory. Hunter couldn’t ignore the way her dark, straight locks flowed sensually. “I wonder where they’re going with that. I mean, does it really matter anyway, as far our case is concerned?”
“Technically, no. I think it’s a red herring meant to distract the hearing panel from the key issues.” A red herring is legal jargon for a factual or legal issue irrelevant to the case at hand. Hunter grabbed a stack of papers and reached across the table, handing them to her. “Here. Take a look at these. They might give you some insight into what Vito’s lawyers are up to.” The papers were discovery motions filed by Vito’s defense team. Early on the team had requested document exchanges and depositions but was denied out of hand by the panel. There was a slight chance the panel committed reversible error, although Hunter was pretty sure they got it right. In point of fact, there was no legal authority directly addressing the issue of pre-hearing discovery in a case like this.
Stephanie curiously thumbed through the papers. “How could they not know they’re in an administrative setting? Typical trial rules don’t apply. Even I know that.”
“Exactly,” observed Hunter with a smile.
“So why?” But Stephanie cut herself off mid-question, having stumbled upon the answer herself. She nodded, impressed by the tactics of Vito’s legal team.
“Never underestimate your opponent.” As drained and unfocused as Hunter was, he was still a very good lawyer. Litigating had started to become second nature after so many years as an associate. Osmosis, learning the tricks of the trade, finally started to pay off.
Stephanie nodded. It was the first time Hunter showed her something, and he was clearly several steps ahead. She still wanted to make sure she had it right, though. It was her determination that had gotten her so far. “So it really is all about appearances?” she asked rhetorically, giving credence to an adage she’d picked up in her travels along the way. “His lawyers are just trying to create the semblance of unfairness.”
“Right. Let it register with the panel. And two of the three are lawyers, which is important to bear in mind. Lawyers more than anybody are hypersensitive to due process. It’s one of the first things we all learn in law school. Everyone, even the most vicious serial killer, gets a chance to tell his side of the story.”
“So the panel might’ve been constrained to do what they did, but sympathy has already been curried?”
“Not only that, they planted the seeds of doubt early on,” added Hunter. “They’re probably also figuring if they can collect enough Ls before the hearing, they might pull through with a W when they need it most. The panel can’t be thrilled about the prospect of an appeal.”
“You’re right. There’s no way the ordinance passes constitutional muster if it does get that far.”
“True. But we’ve got to work with what we’ve got.” Hunter was all in now. He even surprised himself when he listened to the words coming out of his mouth. “You’re still convinced the city’s got a case?” Hunter reminded her about her visceral response to the sign.
“I do. It’s just not gonna be as easy I originally thought.”
In a way Hunter was pleased that Stephanie had begun to appreciate the difficulty of the challenge at hand. He needed her to pay attention to the details, stay technical. With a jury, emotion was an invaluable commodity. Juries were known to disregard a judge’s instructions and vote with their hearts. A lawyer had to know his audience, though. Here it was a panel of three, and two of them would be getting technical, dissecting the law and the facts. “Can we survive the motion?”
“I think so.”
Hunter decided to hang around. Once they started drafting and their arguments were laid out, he’d feel much more comfortable taking off for a couple hours to get started on the fieldwork for the case. Maybe he’d have time to get some answers about his own predicament. He and Stephanie were finally starting to get into a rhythm, vital to a successful partnership, especially with so little time to spare. And as much as he hated to admit it, there was something about Stephanie that piqued his curiosity.
T
he compact conference table could barely contain the array of documents wildly strewn atop the luxurious blonde surface like Enron stock options. Crumpled brown Corner Bakery takeout bags consumed precious tabletop real estate, while two oversized Styrofoam soda cups sweated onto pleadings temporarily being used as oversized coasters. Hunter was alone in the room and quickly scanned a highlighted portion of a case. He was comparing it with a rough draft he held in the other hand. He took a red pen to the final page of Stephanie’s document and then set it all down, breathing a shallow sigh of relief.
Hunter looked over his shoulder as the door to the compact room opened, letting in the sound of a Sunday afternoon at Whitman. Associates chuckled and reminisced over their lackluster weekends. The day was only half-complete, and yet the short-lived respites, really quasi-weekends, had vanished anti-climatically, like the euphoria of getting a high-paying first-level associate position with one of the big firms. The conversation was occasionally peppered with shoptalk at this hour, affording a palatable transition into the workweek for the truly eager. It was a kind of foreplay with that supremely jealous mistress known as
The Law
. Talk about recent firm triumphs also worked well in the off-chance they ran into a real-life partner at a time primarily reserved for the undesirables of the firm, something this particular contingency of ring kissers secretly prayed for. Merely being in the building was homage to the gods of face time. The actual work didn’t commence until dinnertime, when sucking up to the partners became irrelevant. By then, the presence of every associate had become mandatory. That was when brilliant slackers like Dillon or partnership shoo-ins like Todd Stevens graced the others with their presence, left with no alternative but to complete the prior week’s assignments that had been deserted for weekend happy-hour festivities.
The heavy door clicked shut, immediately drowning out the noise. “So,” Stephanie said, standing tableside. “Did I pass the test, professor?” she asked confidently with a faint trace of the college-coed-with-the-hots-for-her-professor cadence to her voice. Stephanie had left him there about a half hour ago, claiming she needed a break, but Hunter suspected she refused to demoralize herself by hovering while he sized up her work product.
Hunter was amused by her efforts at banter. He decided to play along. “B plus.” She probably deserved an A, but he had to take the Whitman curve into account. An unyielding quest for perfection gave Whitman attorneys their competitive edge.
She feigned disappointment. “I don’t know if I can live with that.”
“Everything will be okay,” said Hunter apathetically, almost a warning to this newbie.
“Is that cynicism I’m detecting?” Calling him out was pretty ballsy. Hunter liked it.
“No, why? Did I sound bitter about…?” Hunter caught himself, though. He was tempted to open up, but it was still too early in the game to know if he could even trust her. “It’s just been a long day,” he said, intentionally offering up a generic, impersonal excuse.
“I get it,” Stephanie replied understandingly.
“Good.” Hunter’s eyes conveyed that it was nothing personal. Then he paused deliberately, signaling he was about to get them back on track. “So I made a few notes. Just some places where I think we should expound a bit, some other parts where we need to add authority. Overall, though, like I said, it’s a solid first effort.”
“Were you persuaded, though?”
Hunter considered the question. “Yeah,” he said with a nod. “I think I was.”
“Good.” She seemed a tad relieved. Hunter was impressed by the pride she seemed to exhibit in her work. “I was afraid of my own personal views taking over.”
Hunter considered the point to ensure he didn’t miss something. “Not at all. In fact, you addressed their constitutional arguments well, reminding the panel of their duty to apply the ordinance. Bottom line is they’d be usurping a court’s authority if they started making constitutional pronouncements.”
“Exactly.” She was visibly excited when Hunter concurred in her analysis. “Those few state supreme court cases where panels in the past were
sanctioned
for overstepping were lucky finds. I have to admit.”
The word
sanction
sliced into him like an attacker’s knife, catching him entirely off guard. With his world in its increasingly chaotic state, Hunter wondered whether keeping his eyes closed to Russo’s sanctions order was still the wisest thing to do. If Dillon didn’t make good on his promise, he’d have to seriously consider involving a partner. And pronto.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” replied Hunter defensively, struggling to feign composure.
Stephanie decided to leave it alone, although her perceptive stare said it all. “There is one more thing, and I’m kind of at a loss about how to address it.”
“Shoot.”
“They make a pretty big deal about what they refer to as the ‘highly anomalistic nature of the case.’” Stephanie rolled her eyes dismissively, revealing her aversion to the sensationalized style of their opposition’s writing.
“Sounds like their conspiracy theory to me.”
“Obviously, I think we need to get to the bottom of it before Thursday. Anything you can tell me about it now? There’s nothing but insinuation in the brief.”
“I don’t know much more than you do right now.” Hunter recalled that Dillon had alluded to the subject the other night at The Blarney. He decided to share what he knew. “Rumor has it that Vito rubbed a couple politicians the wrong way. Real shocker, huh?”
“Not surprised.” Vito’s abrasive personality permeated every interview he’d ever given.
“Anyway, one just so happened to be the mayor.”
“Mayor Valentine?” Jimmy Lee Valentine was an African American attorney in his early sixties and Philadelphia’s embattled mayor du jour. The smooth-talking politician was seeking reelection despite the corruption scandals, federal probes, and indictments plaguing his office. His bid for a second term was reminiscent of Marion Barry’s brazen political maneuvering after being arrested for getting high on crack cocaine. “Color me stupid, but Mayor Valentine’s own moral compass doesn’t seem very well calibrated.”
“Maybe so. But isn’t every beleaguered politician always searching for an opportunity to turn things around?”
“I suppose. Does he even have any constituents at this point, though?”
“Never underestimate the intoxicating effects of charisma mixed with false hope.”
“Maybe I’m just not used to
your
city’s style of politics,” she said, tongue-in-cheek.
“
My
city’s?”
“You’ve been here the better part of your adult life. I’d say that qualifies.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Don’t worry. I’m not a stalker. I just like to know who I’m spending my weekends with these days. You never know. You were raised in the West Ridge section of Chicago,” she observed. “Hand-picked to play soccer at Temple. Temple for law after being sidelined by a career-ending injury.”
“Pretty impressive.”
“Thanks.”
“How about you?” Hunter had already reviewed her profile on the firm’s site. She had been an art history major at Vassar College and had finished in the top of her class at Harvard Law. Law review, moot court champion, magna cum laude.
“You really don’t know? I was warned before I ever came here I’d have a target on my back just because of where I got my JD. Harvard,” she said humbly. “I know. I was, actually, am still a nerd. I guess.”
“Sound advice, actually. It definitely gives you an edge. Makes you a threat. Think of it more as a crimson letter. Lucky for you, I’m not one of your rivals,” added Hunter in jest.
“Doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Not supposed to. If you really want this, get used to it. The competition’s fierce, and only the strongest survive, as they say.”
“You must not be doing too badly yourself. First chair on a case like this is a pretty big deal, I would think. Someone high up must have a lot of faith in you.”
“I sure hope you’re right.”
“My instincts are usually reliable,” said Stephanie.
“Good. Then where do they lead you on this conspiracy angle?” asked Hunter.
“Too soon to say. I mean the part about the controversial mayor trying to curry favor among the minority vote sounds good. Yet something tells me there’s much more to the story.” Hunter concentrated on alternate theories but came up empty-handed. “I think we need to start with Ruben Hayek. There’s no dispute about whether he was ever at Vito’s. Just about what transpired while he was there.”
Ruben Hayek was the one the commission named in its amended filing. The original case omitted him altogether, despite the fact that the city’s timeline placed him at Vito’s prior to that first filing. Of course, that only raised the question of why he was never mentioned. The city claimed it was a simple clerical oversight. Apparently the secretary who typed up the suit for the first time forgot to add him.
“I think that’s right.” Hunter knew that Ruben potentially held the answers to at least a few of their questions. “Assuming, of course, we can track him down.”
“You’re thinking he’ll make himself unavailable,” she said.
“There’s a very good chance.”
“Why, though?” she asked. “If he agreed to be named in the suit in the first place.” The real reason was that Ruben had probably refrained from personally initiating the claim against Vito’s to avoid pissing off the wrong people. If Vito was connected, then bringing suit could’ve easily put him and the rest of his family in harm’s way. And that probably wasn’t worth it to him.
“I’m not so sure that he did.” The wheels of thought were turning. “We’ve got to ask why he never came forward on his own accord.”
“Which is precisely the question the Vito’s camp poses in their brief,” said Stephanie.
“There’s no doubt it’s valid. I just don’t know if that gets us to conspiracy. It seems too pat. The truth is that Ruben was never turned away. He was just cruising for trouble with his buddies and probably had one too many Dos Equis that night. Yet the debate touched upon the right political issues, and suddenly Ruben became a pawn—a pawn in the theatrics of the mayor and any politician who decided to jump on the bandwagon.” The crude pieces of a theory began to crystallize like the riffing of detectives attempting to reconstruct a serial killer’s plot with very little direct evidence to go on.
“That doesn’t add up, though,” she replied. “If he was tough enough to be looking for a fight at Vito’s late at night, like their witnesses claim he was, then he doesn’t strike me as the timid kind. Is it a possibility he just didn’t know how to go about it? Didn’t know where to turn for answers?”
“Everyone knows someone who knows where to go. It’s more likely he was just afraid,” he said.
“Of what? His immigration status biting him in the butt?”
“Maybe.” Hunter was thinking about the repercussions of inciting the Mafia. The image of a rabid band of brothers avenging the murder of their sibling popped into Hunter’s mind.
“Why? What else were you thinking?” Hunter had already decided it was premature to speculate about the Mafia’s interest in the case. The last thing he wanted was to unnerve Stephanie without any concrete proof. Plus, the truth was that he needed someone to help with the heavy lifting. He just couldn’t afford to lose somebody like Stephanie at this stage. Every second mattered.
“I’m really not sure,” he equivocated.
“There’s no doubt we need a better handle on who Ruben is. When can
we
go interview him? It might help me put the finishing touches on the brief.” Stephanie’s adventurous streak emerged like a weasel at a circus game. And he needed to clobber it to score points, which in this case translated into keeping this idealistic first-year out of harm’s way. Not to mention that Hunter intended on doing a little digging of his own at the first opportunity. “I came across his address in the file. It turns out he doesn’t live too far from Vito’s.”
“I was thinking I would take care of that alone.” Hunter tried to be authoritative without raising suspicions. “In fact, if you’re comfortable with the brief, why don’t you finish it up by tonight?”
“Sure thing.” Hunter couldn’t tell if she was disappointed. “Not a problem.”
“Good.” Hunter stood and scribbled his number onto a legal pad. “Here. It’s my cell just in case anything comes up.”
“Thanks,” she said as she leaned toward him to accept. “No frolic and detour. Got that?”
“Right.” Hunter smirked, pretending not to have a care in the world.
If only you knew all the other shit I’ve got going on.
Hunter, shoulder bag in tow and sipping on the caffeinated sofa for a fresh burst of energy, was already formulating questions for Ruben by the time he hit the bank of elevators. Although Hunter wanted to believe this would be as easy as going to Ruben’s home and getting the answers he so desperately needed, something told him they were getting to Ruben way too late in the game. Chances were good that Vito’s people had already beaten them to it. So at this point he was just hoping the mob hadn’t made speaking, let alone testifying, a physical impossibility for the city’s star witness. As he stepped into the elevator, Hunter scanned the inbox of his BlackBerry for anything from Mancini. He would have to place that dreaded call from the road. He never had tracked down those mystery e-mails, either.
