Justice Hunter (9 page)

S
EVENTEEN

T
he news of Andy’s attack spread like wildfire throughout the firm and the incestuous legal community. By the time Hunter arrived at the Whitman offices, where he went after stealing a couple more hours of sleep, he’d already received e-mails from friends at other firms inquiring about the circumstances surrounding Andy’s mugging. In addition to the hysteria these sorts of things tended to generate, leading to speculation among lawyers about whether they, too, had become targets, people also soaked up that perverse sense of excitement, the kind that came with somehow being part of the world of the victim, however many times removed.

Hunter had left the hospital just as Andy’s parents and Dillon arrived. He was reluctant to leave as soon as he did, but he figured he would return later that evening. He’d get some time alone with a hopefully more alert Andy. Not to mention there were mountains to be moved on the Vito’s case, with the first order of business being the motion due the very next day, the one he hadn’t even started to draft.

Luckily, Stephanie Diaz, his second in command on the case, was just as accessible Sunday morning as she appeared to be at the end of last week. Hunter e-mailed her as soon as he got to the office, and she replied almost immediately. Hunter started to conduct preliminary research for the motion but got sidetracked. Growing increasingly suspicious of Mancini’s motives, he couldn’t stop himself from checking up on Mancini, scouring the search engines for anything irregular. Aside from a few hundred results, most of which seemed to revolve around Mancini’s uberlawyer status and being a rainmaker extraordinaire, there was a surprising dearth of information about the man in the public domain. Certainly, it went without saying that Mancini wasn’t exactly your Facebook, Plaxo, or LinkedIn kind of guy. Inaccessibility and mystery, in fact, seemed more of the rule than the exception. He was downright elusive. An enigma.

In less than twenty minutes, Stephanie was politely knocking on his door.

“Hunter?”

“Yes. Stephanie.”

Hunter glanced at her professionally, doing his best to avoid seeming too stern or authoritative. Technically, she was working for him on the case, which essentially meant that he was her boss for a few days. He had to assure her from the very beginning, in order to give this thing a chance to work, that he wasn’t your run-of-the-mill power-hungry senior associate. Her smoky brown eyes gazed out inquisitively, asking, “What is this guy all about?” She was sizing him up in that very instant. She revealed a perfect smile and seemed willing to give him a shot at earning her trust.
A good sign
, thought Hunter. He stood and approached her, still nervous, though, that she would pick up on his angst and get the wrong impression.

“Thanks for rushing in like that,” he said once he got past his desk. He extended his hand, and she did the same. They shared an awkward moment as he concentrated on not squeezing too hard, yet hard enough so as not to seem sexist. Her hand was soft, and he noticed they were both paint-stained. “I see that I’ve dragged you away from something better suited for a Sunday than being stuck in the office.”

She looked confused and then she followed Hunter’s gaze to her hand. “Oh, that,” she recalled. “I was just messing around. Think of your request as saving me from myself.”

“House painting?”

“I wish,” she said and then smiled warmly. “I’m still trying to persuade myself I have an eye for Impressionism. I should’ve learned my lesson by now, but I guess you could say I’m a bit of a masochist,” she added self-deprecatingly.

Hunter was pleasantly surprised by Stephanie’s personality, which filled the drab room like a breath of fresh air. He caught himself admiring her for an instant. And he noticed her appearance up close for the first time as well. She had long, straight brown hair and pouty lips. With her big dark eyes, she reminded him of a young Penelope Cruz. She was wearing a form-fitting black top and stylish blue jeans, which accentuated her perfect shape, at the same time giving her an artsy, mysterious flair. “Independence Hall never looked so deplorable,” she joked.

Her vibrancy impressed Hunter, which he tried not to show. He was also immediately attracted to her, which he also tried not to show.

“All right, great.” Hunter abruptly shifted gears. “So why don’t we get started?” He would’ve actually preferred to converse a bit more. Take his mind off Andy. Truth be told, though, an immense amount of work had to be done in an extremely short period of time. Plus, the last thing he needed was to become the lead defendant in a bazillion-dollar sexual harassment lawsuit against the firm. He could tell she seemed tentative.

“Anyway,” she played it off. “I’m excited to get started. It seems like an intriguing case.”

“So you’ve looked at the file?” asked Hunter, feeling he was cross-examining her, something he didn’t mean to do. He’d hated when high-ranking associates did that to him when he first started—pretending to educate him on how to think, to have evidence for every point of view, opinion, conclusion. Yet it was really just hazing—retaliation for the way they were treated when they first came to the firm.

“No, no. Just from what I’ve heard in the media. I took a look at the ordinance, that sort of thing.”

Hunter was tempted to ask her if Mancini had briefed her personally, one of many things he assuredly wanted to do to her now that he’d gotten a closer look at her. But he resisted the urge. He had his instincts, but there was no reason to think he could trust her at this point. She might even be a mole, working for Mancini, for all he knew. “Do you think the city has a case?”

“I do. In fact, I don’t even think it’s a close call.” Hunter couldn’t tell if she was super naïve or super confident. “That sign is reprehensible, no matter how you slice it or dice it. Excuse the corny pun.”

“Excused.” Hunter replied. “So the first thing we need to do is get you a copy of everything.” As Hunter turned to look at his desk, he realized the entire file was at his apartment. “Which I forgot to bring with me,” he added with levity, yet feeling foolish. He felt his face go flush with embarrassment. This was a sign. The motion was already shaping up to be an all-nighter. He dreaded the thought, knowing that he needed to recharge his batteries before the workweek officially kicked off. “I rushed out this morning and…”

“No problem,” interrupted Stephanie, understandingly. He considered telling her about Andy but quickly decided against it. She probably didn’t even know Andy. Plus, Hunter wasn’t exactly the type to make excuses for himself. There was no getting around the simple fact that he was thoroughly unprepared. He should’ve made sure his ducks were in a row before he commanded that Stephanie rush into the office bright and early on a precious Sunday morning. He would’ve gone berserk had a senior associate ever done that to him. “I don’t mind hanging around for a while if you need to grab it. Trust me, I’ve got plenty of work just screaming my name.” She dramatically cocked her neck, pretending to hear something outside the office. “There. I can hear it beckoning even as I speak.”

“Thanks,” said Hunter. “Just give me about an hour.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got nine-ten now. Shall we say ten?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll call you?” asked Hunter, who immediately realized his question sounded more social than business.

Stephanie gave a formal nod and then walked away. Hunter stood there momentarily, reflecting upon his interaction with Stephanie.
Why did Mancini assign her to the case?
He already knew she was too inexperienced, even if she did come across as highly intelligent. She was extremely understanding—almost too understanding. And of course, there were her looks. She was attractive, striking even. There was just no way a typical heterosexual male such as himself wouldn’t see it, spoken for or not. Acting upon it, of course, was a totally different matter. If Mancini did in fact know about him and Sheila, which he suspected he did, then it wasn’t altogether inconceivable that Stephanie was part of a master plan to get Sheila back. And what better revenge could there be for a scorned lover? What did Shakespeare say about jealousy again? It’s the green-eyed monster that doth mocketh the meat it feedeth upon? First knock Hunter out of the picture romantically and then watch him crash and burn on a high-profile case. Hunter vowed to defeat Mancini on both fronts and watch Mancini be devoured like a medium-rare filet at The Palm. Hunter just needed to figure out how to ensure Mancini wouldn’t get the credit for a surprise victory on the Vito’s case.

E
IGHTEEN

B
y the time Hunter hit Rittenhouse Square, he’d already looked over his shoulder three or four times, sensing he was being followed from the office. Each time, there was no one suspicious. The park was already packed with families and locals eager to squeeze in another beautiful day before the monotony of daily life re-entered the equation. It was probably more humid than the day before, too. Hunter felt the thin layer of sweat covering his skin as he walked. He tried to mask the paranoia as he scanned the faces of the park’s occupants. He didn’t know exactly whom he was looking for, although his mind kept meandering back to the image of the tough-looking guy from the restaurant. Hunter kept his iPod off. He wanted to hear everything.

Sheila had left a note on the table by the door back at his apartment. As he picked it up, he looked over at Sam on his favorite chair, who opened one eye and arched a brow as if to say, “You’re so sappy. It’s really a bore.” The note, scribbled on a random napkin from one of his countless late-night dinner deliveries, read:

Hunter,

Great time last night. Or shall I say
very good
time? Anyway, I left a message for the DA. Will keep you in the loop. I’m entering an order—don’t let that case get the best of you.

PS, the bed was almost warm, strike that, hot when you returned. You have the drunken dialer from this morning to thank.

Your main squeeze,

S.

Hunter smiled at Sheila’s playfulness and considered her admonition.
Don’t let the case get the best of me?
What exactly did she mean by that? Was she saying that he shouldn’t put everything he had into it in the way of preparation? Or ignore the possible link between the Vito’s case and the other recent events like the mysterious bullet or the incident in Chinatown the night before? She couldn’t have been referring to Andy’s attack because presumably she couldn’t have known about it yet. He hadn’t spoken to her since last night.

He crumbled the note and headed to the office, thinking about her referring to herself as his
main squeeze.
In her e-mails, Sheila never used a phrase to sign off. It was always just “S” for her name. This was the first time he recalled her using a term of endearment.
Main squeeze?
And although it was chock-full of sexual innuendo, it was also a subtle acknowledgment that she was beginning to consider their whatever-you-want-to-call-it as something more than just an inconsequential fling. Hunter was intrigued by the possibility that Sheila might just be willing to give love another shot with the likes of him. That was a big deal.

The various pleadings, motions, and miscellaneous papers sat atop his glass desk in a relative state of disarray. He quickly gathered them up and held the receiver of the beige phone to his ear. It was one of those cheap phones, the outdated standard-issue-looking ones with a long, arched receiver that rested atop the base. A tangled cord dangled next to his ear as he continued to stuff the documents into the redwell folder while he listened for the message.

When he heard Mancini’s voice, he immediately froze.
How the hell did Mancini get this number?
Then he remembered that he must’ve provided it to Whitman’s HR Department at some point, probably when he still romanticized his job and pictured himself being awoken in the middle of the night by a frantic partner with a crisis. And of course, the only one in the firm with the superpowers to solve it would’ve been the most revered associate himself, Hunter Gray. These days, Hunter was far too jaded to be seduced by such a wet-behind-the-ears and eager-to-please associate fantasy. The law, despite the rhetoric spewed by the most eloquent equity partners, with a couple minor exceptions, was all part of a flawlessly executed business plan. The more the associates chased their idealistic dreams, the more money the firms generated in billable hours. Years could go by before an associate stopped to survey the landscape of his progression or more fittingly, lack of progression. Yet, by that time, it was too late to alter one’s course. Then it just became a matter of making equity partner, a virtual impossibility, or taking his nonportable, nonexistent book of business and legal acumen to a lesser-caliber firm, enticed by the promise of partnership status elsewhere. Yet everyone there would always know the truth about that Whitman or Kruger associate—he just wasn’t big firm material.

At a moment like this, Hunter regretted ever having provided his home number in the first place. Mancini’s message was brief, and he sounded pissed. He claimed to have e-mailed Hunter’s work account “not once but twice” within the past few days, once late Friday afternoon and again Saturday mid-day.
How is that possible?
Admittedly, Hunter wasn’t the greatest when it came to checking e-mail over the weekend. But this weekend he had forced himself to do it, and there was certainly nothing from Mancini. There was not a snowball’s chance in hell he would’ve missed something like that, either. Not replying to a Mancini e-mail was tantamount to career suicide. On the message, Mancini urged him to return the call before day’s end to discuss the Vito’s case. Apparently there was a new development Mancini wanted to be sure Hunter was aware of.

Hunter couldn’t believe he was in this predicament. Even the truth—that he never got the e-mails—would come off as bullshit. In Mancini’s mind, Hunter must have been avoiding him, unprepared to discuss the case cogently, although it was merely days away. And even if he somehow managed to persuade Mancini otherwise, the damage had already been done. The mere fact that Mancini had to find his home number to place a frustrated call on a Sunday morning would stick in his craw for a very long time. Hunter’s chances at making partner had just gotten a little bit slimmer.

He considered waiting until he returned to the office before logging onto his work e-mail account. But he couldn’t wait that long. He obviously needed to search through his “Spam” and “Deleted” folders to see whether Mancini’s e-mails had somehow inadvertently been diverted there. He told himself it was possible. It wasn’t as if he was receiving e-mails from Mancini routinely.
Maybe the server just mislabeled it as spam.
That didn’t make sense, though. He was certainly no computer genius, but he was almost positive the system would guarantee safe passage to any communications bearing the
WhitmanPacker.com
domain.

He could log on to the system from his laptop in the other room, which was exactly what he decided to do. He checked his watch and was still okay for time. At worst, he’d keep Stephanie waiting just a couple minutes. He got on without incident and quickly pulled up his account. He moused over to the “Spam” folder first and scanned by date. Mancini’s voicemail said late Friday afternoon and Saturday, mid-day. Nothing in “Spam.” He clicked onto the “Deleted” folder and began scrolling. Just as he got to Friday, though, his screen momentarily froze, and he was booted off the Whitman system. Once in a blue moon the connection between his home computer and desktop failed, some sort of glitch in the software. When it happened, he just logged back in. This time he couldn’t, though. Something was wrong with his computer. He opened a browser in another window, but the default URL,
espn.com
, didn’t come up. He quickly typed in
philly.com
, the local online news source, and again the URL couldn’t be found. Realizing his Internet connection was down, he slammed his fist in frustration and got to his feet. Now he had no choice but to resume his search at the office, which only meant even further delay until he got back to Mancini.