The Firm (13 page)

When he had said enough, he unveiled the portrait of Martin Kozinski. It was an emotional moment. There were more tears. There would be a scholarship established at the Chicago Law School in his name. The firm would set up trusts for his children’s education. The family would be taken care of. Beth bit her lip, but cried louder. The seasoned, hardened, tough-as-nails negotiators of the great Bendini firm swallowed rapidly and avoided looking at each other. Only Nathan Locke was unmoved. He glared at the wall with his penetrating lasers and ignored the ceremony.

Then the portrait of Joe Hodge, and a similar biography, similar scholarship and trust funds. Mitch had heard a rumor that Hodge purchased a two-million-dollar life insurance policy four months before his death.

When the eulogies were complete, Nathan Locke disappeared through the door. The lawyers surrounded the widows and offered quiet words and embraces. Mitch did not know them and had nothing to say. He walked to the front wall and examined the paintings. Next to those of Kozinski and Hodge were three slightly smaller, but equally dignified portraits.
The one of the woman caught his attention. The brass plate read: “Alice Knauss 1948–1977.”

“She was a mistake,” Avery said under his breath as he stepped next to his associate.

“What do you mean?” Mitch asked.

“Typical female lawyer. Came here from Harvard, number one in her class and carrying a chip because she was a female. Thought every man alive was a sexist and it was her mission in life to eliminate discrimination. Super-bitch. After six months we all hated her but couldn’t get rid of her. She forced two partners into early retirement. Milligan still blames her for his heart attack. He was her partner.”

“Was she a good lawyer?”

“Very good, but it was impossible to appreciate her talents. She was so contentious about everything.”

“What happened to her?”

“Car wreck. Killed by a drunk driver. It was really tragic.”

“Was she the first woman?”

“Yes, and the last, unless we get sued.”

Mitch nodded to the next portrait. “Who was he?”

“Robert Lamm. He was a good friend of mine. Emory Law School in Atlanta. He was about three years ahead of me.”

“What happened?”

“No one knows. He was an avid hunter. We hunted moose in Wyoming one winter. In 1972 he was deer hunting in Arkansas and turned up missing. They found him a month later in a ravine with a hole through his head. Autopsy said the bullet entered through the rear of his skull and blew away most of his face. They speculate the shot was fired from a high-powered rifle at long range. It was probably an
accident, but we’ll never know. I could never imagine anyone wanting to kill Bobby Lamm.”

The last portrait was of John Mickel, 1950–1984. “What happened to him?” Mitch whispered.

“Probably the most tragic of all. He was not a strong man, and the pressure got to him. He drank a lot, and started drugs. Then his wife left him and they had a bitter divorce. The firm was embarrassed. After he had been here ten years, he began to fear he would not become a partner. The drinking got worse. We spent a small fortune on treatment, shrinks, everything. But nothing worked. He became depressed, then suicidal. He wrote a seven-page suicide note and blew his brains out.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Sure was.”

“Where’d they find him?”

Avery cleared his throat and glanced around the room. “In your office.”

“What!”

“Yeah, but they cleaned it up.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, I’m serious. It was years ago, and the office has been used since then. It’s okay.”

Mitch was speechless.

“You’re not superstitious, are you?” Avery asked with a nasty grin.

“Of course not.”

“I guess I should’ve told you, but it’s not something we talk about.”

“Can I change offices?”

“Sure. Just flunk the bar exam and we’ll give you one of those paralegal offices in the basement.”

“If I flunk it, it’ll be because of you.”

“Yes, but you won’t flunk it, will you?”

“If you can pass it, so can I.”

From 5 A.M. to 7 A.M. the Bendini Building was empty and quiet. Nathan Locke arrived around six, but went straight to his office and locked the door. At seven, the associates began appearing and voices could be heard. By seven-thirty the firm had a quorum, and a handful of secretaries punched in. By eight the halls were full and it was chaos as usual. Concentration became difficult. Interruptions were routine. Phones beeped incessantly. By nine, all lawyers, paralegals, clerks and secretaries were either present or accounted for.

Mitch treasured the solitude of the early hours. He moved his clock up thirty minutes and began waking Dutch at five, instead of five-thirty. After making two pots of coffee, he roamed the dark halls flipping light switches and inspecting the building. Occasionally, on a clear morning, he would stand before the window in Lamar’s office and watch the dawn break over the mighty Mississippi below. He would count the barges lined neatly before their tugboats plowing slowly up-river. He watched the trucks inch across the bridge in the distance. But he wasted little time. He dictated letters, briefs, summaries, memorandums and a hundred other documents for Nina to type and Avery to review. He crammed for the bar exam.

The morning after the ceremony for the dead lawyers, he found himself in the library on the first floor looking for a treatise when he again noticed the five portraits. He walked to the wall and stared at them, remembering the brief obituaries given by Avery. Five dead lawyers in twenty years. It was a
dangerous place to work. On a legal pad he scribbled their names and the years they died. It was five-thirty.

Something moved in the hallway, and he jerked to his right. In the darkness he saw Black Eyes watching. He stepped forward to the door and glared at Mitch. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

Mitch faced him and attempted a smile. “Good morning to you. It happens I am studying for the bar exam.”

Locke glanced at the portraits and then stared at Mitch. “I see. Why are you so interested in them?”

“Just curious. This firm has had its share of tragedy.”

“They’re all dead. A real tragedy will occur if you don’t pass the bar exam.”

“I intend to pass it.”

“I’ve heard otherwise. Your study habits are causing concern among the partners.”

“Are the partners concerned about my excessive billing?”

“Don’t get smart. You were told the bar exam has priority over everything. An employee with no license is of no use to this firm.”

Mitch thought of a dozen smart retorts, but let it pass. Locke stepped backward and disappeared. In his office with the door closed, Mitch hid the names and dates in a drawer and opened a review book on constitutional law.

    10    

The Saturday after the bar exam Mitch avoided his office and his house and spent the morning digging in the flower beds and waiting. With the remodeling complete, the house was now presentable, and of course the first guests had to be her parents. Abby had cleaned and polished for a week, and it was now time. She promised they wouldn’t stay long, no more than a few hours. He promised to be as nice as possible.

Mitch had washed and waxed both new cars and they looked as if they had just left the showroom. The lawn had been manicured by a kid down the street. Mr. Rice had applied fertilizer for a month and it looked like a puttin’ green, as he liked to say.

At noon they arrived, and he reluctantly left the flower beds. He smiled and greeted them and excused himself to go clean up. He could tell they were uncomfortable, and he wanted it that way. He took a long shower as Abby showed them every piece of furniture and every inch of wallpaper. These things impressed the Sutherlands. Small things always did.
They dwelt on the things others did or did not have. He was the president of a small county bank that had been on the verge of collapse for ten years. She was too good to work and had spent all of her adult life seeking social advancement in a town where there was none to be had. She had traced her ancestry to royalty in one of the old countries, and this had always impressed the coal miners in Danesboro, Kentucky. With so much blue blood in her veins, it had fallen her duty to do nothing but drink hot tea, play bridge, talk of her husband’s money, condemn the less fortunate and work tirelessly in the Garden Club. He was a stuffed shirt who jumped when she barked and lived in eternal fear of making her mad. As a team they had relentlessly pushed their daughter from birth to be the best, achieve the best, but most importantly, marry the best. Their daughter had rebelled and married a poor kid with no family except a crazy mother and a criminal brother.

“Nice place you’ve got here, Mitch,” Mr. Sutherland said in an effort to break the ice. They sat for lunch and began passing dishes.

“Thanks.” Nothing else, just thanks. He concentrated on the food. There would be no smiles from him at lunch. The less he said, the more uncomfortable they would be. He wanted them to feel awkward, guilty, wrong. He wanted them to sweat, to bleed. It had been their decision to boycott the wedding. It had been their stones cast, not his.

“Everything is so lovely,” her mother gushed in his direction.

“Thanks.”

“We’re so proud of it, Mother,” Abby said.

The conversation immediately went to the remodeling. The men ate in silence as the women chattered
on and on about what the decorator did to this room and that one. At times, Abby was almost desperate to fill in the gaps with words about whatever came to mind. Mitch almost felt sorry for her, but he kept his eyes on the table. The butter knife could have cut the tension.

“So you’ve found a job?” Mrs. Sutherland asked.

“Yes. I start a week from Monday. I’ll be teaching third-graders at St. Andrew’s Episcopal School.”

“Teaching doesn’t pay much,” her father blurted.

He’s relentless, thought Mitch.

“I’m not concerned with money, Dad. I’m a teacher. To me, it’s the most important profession in the world. If I wanted money, I would’ve gone to medical school.”

“Third-graders,” her mother said. “That’s such a cute age. You’ll be wanting children before long.”

Mitch had already decided that if anything would attract these people to Memphis on a regular basis, it was grandchildren. And he had decided he could wait a long time. He had never been around children. There were no nieces or nephews, except for maybe a few unknown ones Ray had scattered around the country. And he had developed no affinity for children.

“Maybe in a few years, Mother.” Maybe after they’re both dead, thought Mitch. “You want children, don’t you, Mitch?” asked the mother-in-law.

“Maybe in a few years.”

Mr. Sutherland pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. The issue of smoking had been repeatedly discussed in the days before the visit. Mitch wanted it banned completely from his house, especially by these people. They had argued vehemently, and Abby won.

“How was the bar exam?” the father-in-law asked.

This could be interesting, Mitch thought. “Grueling.” Abby chewed her food nervously.

“Do you think you passed?”

“I hope so.”

“When will you know?”

“Four to six weeks.”

“How long did it last?”

“Four days.”

“He’s done nothing but study and work since we moved here. I haven’t seen much of him this summer,” Abby said.

Mitch smiled at his wife. The time away from home was already a sore subject, and it was amusing to hear her condone it.

“What happens if you don’t pass it?” her father asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

“Do they give you a raise when you pass?” Mitch decided to be nice, as he had promised. But it was difficult. “Yes, a nice raise and a nice bonus.”

“How many lawyers are in the firm?”

“Forty.”

“My goodness,” said Mrs. Sutherland. She lit up one of hers. “There’s not that many in Dane County.”

“Where’s your office?” he asked. “Downtown.”

“Can we see it?” she asked.

“Maybe some other time. It’s closed to visitors on Saturdays.” Mitch amused himself with his answer. Closed to visitors, as if it was a museum.

Abby sensed disaster and began talking about the church they had joined. It had four thousand members, a gymnasium and bowling alley. She sang in the choir and taught eight-year-olds in Sunday school.
Mitch went when he was not working, but he’d been working most Sundays.

“I’m happy to see you’ve found a church home, Abby,” her father said piously. For years he had led the prayer each Sunday at the First Methodist Church in Danesboro, and the other six days he had tirelessly practiced greed and manipulation. He had also steadily but discreetly pursued whiskey and women.

An awkward silence followed as the conversation came to a halt. He lit another one. Keep smoking, old boy, Mitch thought. Keep smoking.

“Let’s have dessert on the patio,” Abby said. She began clearing the table.

They bragged about his gardening skills, and he accepted the credit. The same kid down the street had pruned the trees, pulled the weeds, trimmed the hedges and edged the patio. Mitch was proficient only in pulling weeds and scooping dog crap. He could also operate the lawn sprinkler, but usually let Mr. Rice do it.

Abby served strawberry shortcake and coffee. She looked helplessly at her husband, but he was noncommittal.

“This is a real nice place you’ve got here,” her father said for the third time as he surveyed the backyard. Mitch could see his mind working. He had taken the measure of the house and neighborhood, and the curiosity was becoming unbearable. How much did the place cost, dammit? That’s what he wanted to know. How much down? How much a month? Everything. He would keep pecking away until he could work in the questions somewhere.

“This is a lovely place,” her mother said for the tenth time.

“When was it built?” her father asked.

Mitch laid his plate on the table and cleared his throat. He could sense it coming. “It’s about fifteen years old,” he answered.

“How many square feet?”