Running from the Law (8 page)

“The
Sullivan
case is over. The plaintiff is dead.”

“The judge called me last night, Rita. He was very disappointed. Said he expects us to stand behind him if he’s charged with murder.”

“Judge Hamilton called you at home?” Fiske was making all the right moves, and I was the sacrificial pawn. “What time did he call?”

“What’s the difference? He’s a friend.”

“Of yours? Since when?”

“Since last night.” Mack laughed abruptly. “Judge Hamilton is one of the most prominent members of the federal bench. He wasn’t happy that our firm would leave him in the lurch.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“I’m not happy when he’s not happy. I’m not happy when any federal judge is unhappy, especially in our district. Don’t you want to make me happy?” He spoke in the subdued tone of someone who expected an affirmative answer.

“No.”

“You wound me.”

“You’ll get over it, too.”

Mack gazed past me through one of three large, smoked-glass windows, which overlooked the offices of the law firm he had just left. He’d demanded this view because he wanted his old firm to see him making money for someone else. “So,” he said, “I told the judge that he could rest assured that Averback, Shore & Macklin was his counsel at the beginning and we were going to remain his counsel to the end. Got it?”

“What’s this?
Muscle?
”

He smiled, not unpleasantly. “I’m flexing. You like?”

“Be still my heart.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.” He grinned like he wasn’t kidding. I felt my temper rise.

“Not exactly, Mack. It’s my practice. I’ll run it the way I want.”

“The judge is a client of this firm.”

“No, the judge is a client of mine. He didn’t hire the firm, he hired me. I was his lawyer, now I’m not. As of today.”

He eased back into his desk chair. The gesture looked like resignation, but I knew better. Mack always recoiled before he struck, like a cobra. “You’re right, Rita. It’s your practice. You can run it any way you like. I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. But you know the Committee was delighted when the Hamilton matter came to you.”

“I remember.” A collective rubbing of soft, pasty hands.

“I don’t have to tell you how disappointed they’d be if I had to report on your withdrawal.”

I was breaking hearts everywhere. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

“You know, the Committee has been discussing the possibility of a midcourse correction in the partnership contracts. Were you aware of that?”

Firm politics was not my strong suit. The courtroom was where the action was, not the conference room. “Midcourse correction?”

“A couple of us have noted that the current distributions aren’t adequately reflecting our contributions.”

“You mean you’re not making enough money, Mack?”

“In a word? Absofuckinglutely.”

We both laughed, without mirth.

“It would affect all of our contracts,” he said. “But your name was the only one from your class that came up for an increase. I could make it happen, Rita. You stand to skip two classes. Serious money.”

A lawyer’s trick; whenever possible, wave a check. Since I grew up without money, I was almost impervious to this temptation. Almost. “You mean if I drop Judge Hamilton, I can kiss my raise good-bye?”

“In a word?”

Prick. “Very funny.”

“Look, Rita, this whole situation is in your control. As I said, I can’t make you do anything.”

“Fine. No raise. I’m happy with my draw now.”

Mack made a sturdy tent with his fingers. “Well, then, consider that your partnership draw may not stay as high as it is. If there’s a midcourse correction, some of us will go up. But some will go down.”

My mouth tasted bitter. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. If I don’t represent the judge, my draw will go down? In a word?”

He opened his hands. “I don’t control the Committee.”

“Who are you kidding, Mack? They don’t take a dump without asking you.”

“Rita—”

It pissed me off. “What you’re saying is if I give up the representation, the Committee will recut the pie. And after they get done with my piece, I’ll have to put the ice cream on the side. Think I’ll be able to balance even a spoonful on my sliver?”

“You’re overreacting. The whole thing is in your control.”

“Then why am I feeling so controlled?”

“I have no idea. Big piece or little piece? The choice is up to you.”

I folded my arms, looking no tougher than a petulant teenager. “Okay, I’m dieting.”

He rocked back in his chair and stared at the ceiling lights, discreetly recessed. After a minute he said, “You’re being stubborn about this and I’m entitled to know why.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Look, this isn’t a game. This is serious.”

“Games are serious, Mack. You know that.” Mack played big-time blackjack in Atlantic City and Vegas, to stay in shape for managing my law firm.

“Rita, this is a terrible decision you’re making. The judge is your client, he needs you now. You’re a terrific lawyer, a creative lawyer. That result last week at City Hall—”

“Oh, are you kissing my ass now? Because I like it a little to the left.”

A buzzer sounded on the phone and Mack snatched up the receiver. “What? Send him in.” The receiver clattered to the hook and he eased back again. “I called in reinforcements.”

“Who?”

The door opened and in came a gray Armani suit, a silk paisley tie that ended in a knifepoint, and blue-black hair pulled back into a short ponytail, of all things. It was Jake Tobin, firm womanizer. His dark eyes looked faintly amused.

“You know Jake, don’t you?” Mack said.

“Only by reputation.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Tobin said with an easy laugh, then closed the door behind him.

Mack said, “I asked Jake to join us because he’s done extensive criminal work. He was a public defender before he joined us. Right, Jake?”

“For fifteen years,” Tobin said. He leaned against the credenza and glanced enviously at the PowerBook. I was guessing he knew how to use it.

Mack said, “Jake, I was just telling Rita here that you’ve tried a lot of murder cases.”

“About fifty jury trials, give or take some major scum. Most of them got out of jail free.”

A career to be proud of. “I’m impressed. You want to represent Judge Hamilton? I hear he needs somebody like you.”

Mack shook his head. “No, Rita. Wrong. My idea was that Jake could backstop you on the case. Judge Hamilton told me it’s you or he goes to Goldberg’s firm.”

Tobin nodded. “Now
I’m
impressed.”

“Don’t be, I quit,” I said.

Mack sighed. “Rita, I’ve had reporters calling from the
American Lawyer
and the
National Law Journal.
Joanne told me there were almost forty calls yesterday. And that plaintiffs lawyer, Julicher, he’s all over the news.”

“Julicher?” Tobin asked. “I never heard of him.”

“I had his bio checked, wait a minute.” Mack thumbed through a neat stack of papers to the side of his desk, pulled a sheet out, and skimmed it. “He’s from New York, but not from any of the top-tier firms. A nobody. Graduated from a state university, then Fordham Law School, Class of ‘77, blah, blah, blah, blah. He’s a slip-and-fall guy, does workmen’s comp cases. A scrapper, a
nothing
, and he’s on the tube all night last night.”

“He’s hustling referral business, Mack.”

“Is he a good lawyer?” Tobin asked, looking at me.

“He’s no scholar, but he’s a fighter. If he still had a harassment case, he would’ve given me a run for my money.”

Mack tossed the bio aside and stood up. “But it’s a murder case now, it’s getting everybody’s attention. Everybody’s watching. If you withdraw now, they’ll all know about it. It’ll make Judge Hamilton look guilty.”

What if he is? “No, it won’t.”

“Well, I, for one, won’t hang a federal judge out to dry. The networks are all over the story, so are the newspapers. Rita, we go back a long time. I’m asking you as a personal favor to keep the case.”

“Why?”

“For the publicity, dopey,” Tobin said.

I looked at Mack for confirmation, and his smile was already broadening. “I told you, I had forty calls yesterday. Forty—count ’em—
forty
. One was from
Good Morning America
. Federal judge kills secretary? We’re talking national exposure here!”

“
Allegedly
kills secretary,” Tobin added.

Mack laughed. “We’re on a roll with this, Rita. I even hired a public relations firm to manage it. It’s a gold mine.”

Wait a minute. The unsayable needed saying. “But what if Fiske really is the killer?”

They both looked at me blankly. “So what?” Tobin said, and Mack nodded.

I was dumbfounded. “It cuts both ways, boys. It could be bad publicity.”

Mack laughed. “Ain’t no such thing, kid.”

“I second that emotion,” Tobin said.

I looked at them and realized that as long as lawyers like this were around, I would always be second-best.

And I’d never even been to Cincinnati.

10

T
he tiny, cluttered kitchenette in back of the butcher shop filled with the smell of cholesterol as my father shook a crackling pan of homemade sausage. He was wearing his I’M ITALIAN AND YOU’RE NOT apron, but I couldn’t read the front. All I could see was his thick back, which ended in a white ribbon tied over baggy white pants. The silent treatment again.

“So, Dad, explain this to me. You’re pissed when I decide to represent the judge, then you’re pissed when I want out? What is it? My aftershave?”

LeVonne, who had been rocking his fork by pressing on the tines, laughed softly. He ate with my father every morning at this ancient white drop-leaf, where they both pretended that LeVonne had eaten already and was just keeping my father company.

“You laughin’, Professor?” my father said, without turning around. “I hope not, because it’s not funny. Everything’s a big joke with her.”

“Who, me? Aren’t you going to call me Miss Fresh?”

The only response was the sausage’s. It sputtered, releasing an aromatic smoke of olive oil, fresh garlic, and green pepper.

“Come on, Dad, I like it when you call me Miss Fresh. Then I know it’s you and not some Vito impersonator.” I turned to LeVonne. “LeVonne, what do you think? Is it really him? It must be, who else would wear that apron?”

LeVonne’s smooth lips tightened to hold back his smile. He looked fresh this morning in an oversized T-shirt with a faded picture of Kriss Kross on it. A gentle crease between the twins told me the shirt had been ironed. I wondered who had ironed it, for his parents were long gone and it was all his grandmother could do to get him to my father’s. It occurred to me there was a lot I didn’t know about LeVonne.

“LeVonne, will
you
talk to me at least? What grade are you in now? Tenth?”

He nodded and looked down at his heavy white plate. Being totally empty, the plate couldn’t have held his interest for more than a moment, but he stared at it, saying nothing, while the sausage sizzled along with my father.

“You like school, LeVonne?”

He shrugged.

“Are you going to take a language next year?”

He shook his head.

I’m usually a better conversationalist than this. “LeVonne, I’ve been meaning to tell you I like your … uh, what do you call that, a beard? Are you growing a beard?”

He touched his chin, self-conscious.

“Do you call it a beard? Or what?” Just to see if he’d talk.

“S’whatever,” LeVonne said.

“It’s a goatee,” snapped my father. “A beard goes all the way around.”

Thanks, Dad. “Well, whatever it’s called, I like it.”

LeVonne hung his head even farther, until his chin was practically buried between Kriss Kross’s steam-ironed, backward baseball caps.

“I like it, too,” my father said.

“I said it first, Pop. So that makes me a nicer person than you.”

“Hmph.” He jiggled the pan.

“In fact, I’m such a good person that when I have a guest to breakfast I do not turn my back on them until I get my own way.” The sausage popped loudly. “Hear that, Dad? The meat gods agree.”

LeVonne laughed, almost a child’s giggle. He covered his mouth but the giggle persisted. My father pivoted and speared the air between us with the tines of the cooking fork. “It’s not my own way, it’s the
right
way.”

“What’s the
right
way?”

“The right way is you finish what you started. The judge could be charged with murder. You told him you’d defend him, you defend him.”

“I said I’d defend him against sexual harassment, not murder.”

He punched up his glasses with his wrist. “You said you’d be his lawyer, you’re his lawyer. Finish what you started.”

“But what if I shouldn’t have started it? What if he was using me, like you said?”

“It don’t matter.”

“Can’t I change my mind? Maybe you were right in the first place, Dad.”

He straightened himself to his full height, which was five foot five. “I
was
right. I was right the first time and I’m right the second time, too. You don’t quit just because it’s tougher than you thought.” He drew a horizontal line in the air with the fork. I had no idea what this meant, except maybe it was the thirty-eighth parallel and I was North Korea and he was South.

“It’s not that simple, Dad.”

“No? Why not?”

“It’s not getting tougher, it’s getting different.”

He turned to LeVonne and pointed to him with the fork. “Do you understand what that means, Mr. President?”

LeVonne shook his head.

“It means it’s not what I bargained for, Dad. I’m not a criminal lawyer. What’s the matter with getting the judge a good criminal lawyer?”

“It’s wrong!”

“Why?”

“General principles.”

“General principles?” I smacked myself in the forehead. “How could I forget about general principles?”

“Go ahead, make fun.”

“You should write the general principles down somewhere, Dad, like they do with the United States Code. This way we could all look them up and know how to live. We wouldn’t have to come to Ninth Street every time we had a question. Think of the time it would save us!”