The Album: Book One (16 page)

Adam Ford
7/7/03
Re: Hookers and drugs

M
ONDAY MORNINGS FOLLOWING
a holiday weekend are manageable when being met with Diane’s smiling face. “How was your weekend, Adam?”

My secretary Diane is the sweetest lady I’ve ever met. It’s customary for a firm to have several associates share the secretarial and paralegal staff, and since I’m a measly associate, I share Diane with two other attorneys – but I know I’m her favorite. In the six months I’ve been at Jenkins, Shaw and Davis, I’ve made two real friends: my secretary and my paralegal, both crucial in succeeding in a large firm.

Diane recently became a grandmother, so I surprised her with a digital frame for her desk. I go out of my way to comment on new pictures of her grandson and always give her the utmost respect in the office. Fiona, my paralegal, is also assigned to three attorneys. She appears to be a ditzy blonde, but she’s remarkably intelligent and very good at her job – I give her the utmost respect in bed.

I pick up the frame on her desk and scroll through the pictures. “Good morning, Diane. I had a great weekend. How was your Fourth on Long Island?”

Thrilled that I always remember every insignificant thing she mentions, she beams proudly. “Oh, wonderful! We went to Jones Beach to watch the fireworks with the kids and then spent the rest of the weekend tending to our vegetable garden. Adam, do you like tomatoes? You probably eat chips and drink beer – you need some Vitamin C!” Diane hands me a stack of files and follows me to my office.

We spend every weekday morning discussing my client appointments and arguing over my eating habits. I jokingly complain about my caseload and she tells me stories about her family – it’s strangely my favorite part of the day.

I situate myself at my desk and switch on my computer. “Diane, I would love to try your vegetables. But have you thought about bringing them to a farming co-op?” I glance over my emails as Diane waters my plants in the window.

“Great idea, Adam. Ready?” she asks. Diane places the water pitcher in my bookcase and then sits across from me with the agenda in her lap.

“Shoot,” I say.

“July seventh at ten a.m., new client – Raymond Parker. You have a lunch appointment with existing client Drake and a preliminary hearing with client Delgado at three p.m.” Diane rustles uncomfortably in her chair.

Concerned, I ask, “Diane, what’s wrong?”

“Adam, you’re the most respectful young man I have ever worked for. You are gracious and encouraging and I know you will do big things!” Diane’s eyes water – crap. I don’t like anyone to feel pain, especially women.

“Diane, are you leaving or am I?” I smile, trying to comfort her.

“Oh Adam, see, even your sarcasm is charming.” She dabs her eyes with a tissue and exhales. “I’m retiring in two weeks. I’ve worked here for thirty years and I want to be home with my grandson. My daughter is returning to work next month and I need to help her with Jack.”

I nod in agreement. “Diane, you’re an incredible secretary, but that’s your job, not who you are. You’re a kind friend, a wonderful mother and you will be the
best
grandmother. Congratulations on your new adventure.”

I stand up to walk around to her side of the desk and give her a warm embrace. “Can you promise me one thing?”

“Of course, Adam.”

“Can your replacement be incredibly gorgeous?”

Diane nudges me in the ribs and giggles. She takes my agenda back to her desk, smiling and laughing. After she closes my door, I sit back at my desk, roll up my sleeves and immerse myself in work.

Most of my clients’ cases revolve around money: fraud, theft, or misallocation. I worked for the District Attorney’s office for six months prosecuting such criminals, but now I get the pleasure of defending their heinous and greedy crimes.

Every defense attorney at some point suffers from judicial guilt and I’m no different. This is the very reason why I created
Adam Ford’s School of Acting
. Basically, I tell my clients to shut up and let me do all the talking. Then I work my ass off to get the case in front of a jury. The next step is the easiest, legal poker – calling bluffs and creating misperception. Perception is never truth.

I can rest easy at night with my role in the judicial system because of one discernible fact – the assholes got caught in the first place. I’m always courteous to clients during trial, but at the end, when they’re humbly shaking my hand in gratitude, I give them a necessitating stare of
do not fuck this
up
. Most of the time, the clients are scared so shitless that they never commit another wrongdoing again. I can think of some Hollywood actors that would benefit from my acting techniques.

My new client, Franco Delgado, is a total sleaze. He’s a real estate tycoon from Miami that recently started a property management company in Manhattan. Not only is he accused of pilfering funds from his business, but he used this money to pay for a string of escorts and presumably, cocaine. Men like this never understand the importance of self-control, thinking everything is theirs for the taking, and men like this are my least favorite.

Yesterday’s preliminary hearing went according to plan and the Delgado case will be going to trial. I have two days to go through all the discovery files and prepare for the jury selection. This is the first time I actually feel nervous about strategizing for an obviously guilty man. Shit, I need to focus and relax.

“Diane, can you please have Ms. Dawson meet me in the conference room at three?” I release the intercom button and wait for Diane’s reply.

“Sure, Adam. Would you like the Delgado files moved to the conference room?”

“Yes. Also, my standard survival kit.” Diane chuckles at my request. I’m really going to miss her.

“Gotcha. Post-it notes, six highlighters, paperclips, your iPod and Mountain Dew.”

I finish an email to my brother David, make a few phone calls and then google Franco Delgado.

A little after three, I head to the conference rooms with my laptop and glasses. Glasses are a recent addition to my workday – a solution for the migraines I used to get. But I can rock the specs, and it’s better than constantly thinking I have a brain tumor.

Fiona is busy hanging photos and documents on a white board, so I close the door to Conference Room Four and curse the three boxes of discovery. “Ah shit – paper trails,” I mumble. “Hey, Fiona. Your ass looks nice in that skirt.” I sit down at the long table, attach my iPod to my laptop and select the
Discovery Playlist
.

Fiona spins around to face me and flirtatiously smiles. “My ass always looks nice. Adam, you have me until seven.”

“What happens at seven?” I ask, putting on my glasses.

“I’m meeting my girlfriends at a new restaurant in SoHo. Asian Fusion. We’ve had reservations for weeks.” Fiona’s smile is very straight, never turning up at the corners, but I’ve learned to decipher her levels of enthusiasm.

“Then let’s get started. I printed out everything I could find on Google about Delgado, and the guy’s a real dick.”

“I figured. You’re unbelievably sexy in those glasses – a nerdy girl’s fantasy. Are we using the checklist?”

“Checklist. Fantasy? Tell me more.” I lean back in my chair to watch her move around the conference room.

Fiona’s a cute girl accessorized by physical enhancements. She’s told me on many occasions that she was a geeky tomboy in high school, so after college she opted to improve her outward appearance. She’s smart and funny, but there’s no doubt men can’t get past her Baywatch boobs and blond hair. But I can – and her consistent, non-attached personality is exactly why we have great sex.

Our casual relationship is built on trust and sexual need. Technically, we’re fuck buddies, and although I know she’s used this term on several occasions, I’m very respectful of our arrangement. I took her out for pizza a few months ago to thank her for her hard work on a particular case, but my innocent gesture quickly turned into weekly sleepovers at my place.

The firm has a strict no dating policy, but we don’t
date
and our private time has remained completely undetected. We even developed a code phrase for our meetings, something specific, but nothing that would seem out of place in public conversation . . .
Who Wants to be a Millionaire?
Fiona’s my fuck-a-friend.

I approach the whiteboard to examine the photos of Delgado’s black Ferrari. “Can you believe this guy? Why in the hell would you destroy a Ferrari on the FDR Drive?”

“Because he can. Are you jealous, Adam?” Fiona laughs as she moves next to me. Even with her heels she’s like ten inches shorter than I am.

“Why would I be jealous? It’s pretentious and unnecessary.” I stare at the license plate, thinking how awesome it would be to have a car like that. Actually no, I’d rather have a McLaren, extremely fast yet graceful with the charm of a British spy. Cruising along the LIE to the Hamptons . . .

Huh. Delgado’s license plate is distracting me from my sports car daydream – holy
shit,
I know why. “Fiona, get me the search warrant for the Ferrari.”

She scurries to the table and fishes through the first stack of papers. “Here.” Fiona shoves it at my chest and bites the corner of her lip.

I place the warrant next to the enlarged photo of Delgado’s license plate and wait for her response. Her eyes move from the photo to the sheet of paper and back to the photo. “Jesus, Adam. The warrant has the wrong plate number. Do you have photographic memory or something?”

“Something like that.”

“Weird.” Fiona shakes her head in disbelief as she writes the plate number on the whiteboard. “Well, I’d hate to be the poor asshole who filed the paperwork.”

“Everyone makes mistakes. Okay, we need to move quickly. Call Bryant at the DA’s office and alert him of our finding – the drug charges will most definitely be thrown out before we start trial.”

I sit down at the table and thumb through my iTunes playlist, stopping at the Beastie Boys. Even though this warrant fuckup is great news, there’s still the undeniable fact that Delgado’s case is impossible to win.

“This is good, Adam. That only leaves the hookers and the missing money.” Fiona grabs her bag and heads out the glass door to her desk.

I raise the volume on my iPod and look over the files of the accused escorts. Hookers and drugs . . . the legal career of my dreams.

Adam Ford
7/22/03
Re: 10:2

I
LIE ON
the bed admiring Fiona’s perfectly purchased tits. “That bra is hot.”

Fiona clasps her lacy bra and smiles. “Thanks – you bought it.”

I’m puzzled. Does she have so many fuck buddies that she can’t keep us straight? “I’ve never bought you anything – aside from coffee and pizza.” Worry sets in as I anticipate an uncomfortable discussion about the future of our friendly arrangement.

“Oh my god, Adam! Relax.” She rolls her eyes and continues dressing. “Technically, you didn’t buy it, but you gave me fifty dollars for gas money to drive to the Bronx for a case. I submitted the receipts for reimbursement with the firm, and I spent your money on some other things.” She smiles and playfully pinches my waist, but I’m completely annoyed – I also submitted expense receipts last week.

Irritated, I stand and put on my boxers. She frowns as I cross my arms . . . however she brings up an interesting point. I drop my arms and say, “What if I give you fifty bucks to come over here and have sex?”

Fiona’s mouth drops in horror – but now that I have her full attention I can continue. “Or how about we have consensual sex and I give you fifty bucks for gas money. Let’s call it an arrangement. One in which I offer to pay for your expenses. Besides a bra, what would you spend the money on?”

Angry, Fiona takes a step back and put her hands on her hips. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at Adam, but you’re violently pissing me off.”

I laugh and pull her down to the bed with me. “Hear me out. Delgado’s hookers are part of a high-end escort service, but there’s no evidence that he paid for sex. Now, I don’t need to prove whether or not he had sex with these women, he’s single and the sex was consensual – details are irrelevant. But I need to show that the money exchanged was used for things – expenses and gifts or whatever.”

At this very moment, she thinks I’m a sexist asshole, but I really need her support in attempting this idea in court. “Fiona, as a woman, you got defensive when I mentioned paying you for sex, but you have no problem accepting money for expenses or gifts, right?”

“I guess, but I’m not an escort and I really don’t like being compared to one.”

“I’m not comparing you to a hooker, I’m merely trying to find an angle of empathy. You said that one of the hookers used the money to go back to school.”

“Business school. Adam, I understand your point, but Delgado did in fact steal the money from his company.”

“Fiona,” I sigh. “You submitted an expense request and so did I. Technically, we just stole money from the firm. Mistakes happen all the time – and that’s what I’m going to prove. The argument will rely on separating the money from the sexual act – the dollar amount will be glossed over.”

Her body relaxes but her eyes narrow into a
whatyoutalkinboutWillis
scowl. “Fine, but how are you going to get a jury to empathize with prostitutes and a scumbag?”

This is probably going to be the end of my legal career, but I could always go back to Buffalo and teach Political Science and maybe coach the soccer team if this goes to shit. In my situation, I only have one option: play weak and end strong.

“A 10:2 jury. I
give
the prosecutor ten, presumably women jurors and I will take two guys, preferably with records.”

“Are you insane? That’ll never work. The prosecutor will eat you alive and I’m pretty sure Shaw will rip you a new asshole if you play games like this.”

“I’ll need you to prepare the ladies for trial. From this moment on, the hookers shall be addressed as
ladies
.” I stand up and pace, trying to get every thought out of my head. “You need to find out how they spent the money that was given to them. The girlier the shit the better – do not take offense to that, you know what I mean. I will handle Delgado and his idiotic pilfering, but the ladies need to be coached to be charming and likable. No sex! Sex is dirty. Refer to every encounter between Delgado and the ladies as a date.”

“So is this a date?” She motions between our genitals and cocks her eyebrows.

“
This
, is hot sex,” I say flatly.

“You’re the boss. Not for long though.” Fiona stands and puts on her heels. “Don’t forget that tomorrow is Diane’s last day and we’re taking her to lunch.” Fiona pats my chest as I kiss the top of her head. “Okay Adam, I’m outta here. I need to go home and do laundry.”

I grab my wallet from the dresser and beckon Fiona over with my finger. “Buy yourself something pretty,” I say, shoving a twenty between her breasts.

She smiles, taking the money and putting it in her purse. “Good night, jerk.”

After Fiona leaves, I drop to the floor to get my old soccer ball I keep hidden under the bed. Focusing right now is imperative – I’m also really close to beating my record of eighty-nine knee volleys. Soccer helps me relax. My dad taught me long ago about the importance of physical activity, but there’s a level of concentration in the game of soccer that surpasses most sports. There are no timeouts and no plays being yelled across the field by a quarterback – every decision is based on instinctive reaction.

Axl Rose wails through my stereo as I count the sixtieth volley. I misjudge the placement and the ball slaps against my knee before flying across the room. Fuck, 10:2? A jury of ten women and two men equals one ballsy move.

Welcome to the jungle.

The following morning, I arrive at my office to find Diane, wiping back tears and shoving a matronly zombie in my face. “Adam, I want you to meet Roberta.”

I assume this is the replacement, and by the frown on Roberta’s face, I assume she’s fucking fantastic. I extend my hand, allowing her frigid fingers to graze my palm. “Pleasure to meet you, Roberta. I hope you find Davis, Jenkins and Shaw a rewarding place of employment. Diane, do you mind stepping into my office a moment?” I nod to Roberta as Diane follows me into my office. I motion for her to shut the door and then clutch my heart dramatically.

“Hey, thanks for that. I missed my old nuns from Catholic school.” I sit behind the desk and turn on my computer. Diane sits across from me simultaneously giggling and crying.

“Adam, you cannot be distracted and Roberta will keep you focused. This is for your own good and I know that your special someone is out there, not here.” She makes a point, my career is my number one priority right now.

I pull open my bottom drawer and retrieve my present for Diane. As soon as I place it on my desk, she breaks into a blubbering cry. I squirm uncomfortably but I jokingly tease, “Diane, don’t make me get Sister Roberta. It’s nothing, really. Open it.” I slide the gift across my desk and she sighs.

She unwraps the present and opens the box, gently removing her gift from the layers of tissue paper. It’s a silver garden spade charm for the bracelet she always wears and a plastic garden set for her grandson, Jack. Not a big deal.

“Adam . . .” She shakes her head but doesn’t finish. Diane places her hand on top of mine and I lean down to kiss it. We silently say our goodbyes and then she abruptly stands. She takes her gift, smiles warmly and then leaves my office.

I roll up my sleeves and prepare for tomorrow’s jury selection. I know the prosecutor fairly well from my days at the DA’s office, and he’s just the type of pompous asshole I need to get the jury I want. The jerk needs to feel like the victor during the selection, and I can only fight for one or two in order to appear weak. I need ten women that appreciate kind gestures, believe that feminism comes in many forms, and are disgusted by arrogant prosecutors – moderately difficult. I need two men that like sex, fast cars and the objectivity of women – easy.

This is my reputation. This is my future. This
has
to work.