The Firm (7 page)

“When did you arrive?”

“This morning. I’ve already put three hundred miles on it.”

“Did the interior woman show up?”

“Yeah. She and Abby spent next year’s salary.”

“That’s nice. Nice house. We’re glad you’re here, Mitch. I’m just sorry about the circumstances. You’ll like it here.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I still don’t believe it. I’m numb, paralyzed. I shudder at the thought of seeing Marty’s wife and the kids. I’d rather be lashed with a bullwhip than go over there.”

The women appeared, walked across the wooden patio deck and down the steps to the pool. Kay found the faucet and the sprinkler was silenced.

They left Chickasaw Gardens and drove west with the traffic toward downtown, into the fading sun. They held hands, but said little. Mitch opened the sunroof and rolled down the windows. Abby picked through a box of old cassettes and found Springsteen. The stereo worked fine. “Hungry Heart” blew from the windows as the little shiny roadster made its way toward the river. The warm, sticky, humid Memphis summer air settled in with the dark. Softball fields came to life as teams of fat men with tight polyester pants and lime-green and fluorescent-yellow shirts
laid chalk lines and prepared to do battle. Cars full of teenagers crowded into fast-food joints to drink beer and gossip and check out the opposite sex. Mitch began to smile. He tried to forget about Lamar, and Kozinski and Hodge. Why should he be sad? They were not his friends. He was sorry for their families, but he did not really know these people. And he, Mitchell Y. McDeere, a poor kid with no family, had much to be happy about. Beautiful wife, new house, new car, new job, new Harvard degree. A brilliant mind and a solid body that did not gain weight and needed little sleep. Eighty thousand a year, for now. In two years he could be in six figures, and all he had to do was work ninety hours a week. Piece of cake.

He pulled into a self-serve and pumped fifteen gallons. He paid inside and bought a six-pack of Michelob. Abby opened two, and they darted back into the traffic. He was smiling now.

“Let’s eat,” he said.

“We’re not exactly dressed,” she said.

He stared at her long, brown legs. She wore a white cotton skirt, above the knees, with a white cotton button-down. He had shorts, deck shoes and a faded black polo. “With legs like that, you could get us into any restaurant in New York.”

“How about the Rendezvous? The dress seemed casual.”

“Great idea.”

They paid to park in a lot downtown and walked two blocks to a narrow alley. The smell of barbecue mixed with the summer air and hung like a fog close to the pavement. The aroma filtered gently through the nose, mouth and eyes and caused a rippling sensation deep in the stomach. Smoke poured into the alley from vents running underground into the massive
ovens where the best pork ribs were barbecued in the best barbecue restaurant in a city known for world-class barbecue. The Rendezvous was downstairs, beneath the alley, beneath an ancient red-brick building that would have been demolished decades earlier had it not been for the famous tenant in the basement.

There was always a crowd and a waiting list, but Thursdays were slow, it seemed. They were led through the cavernous, sprawling, noisy restaurant and shown a small table with a red-checked tablecloth. There were stares along the way. Always stares. Men stopped eating, froze with ribs hanging from their teeth, as Abby McDeere glided by like a model on a runway. She had stopped traffic from a sidewalk in Boston. Whistles and catcalls were a way of life. And her husband was used to it. He took great pride in his beautiful wife.

An angry black man with a red apron stood before them. “Okay, sir,” he demanded.

The menus were mats on the tables, and completely unnecessary. Ribs, ribs and ribs.

“Two whole orders, cheese plate, pitcher of beer,” Mitch shot back at him. The waiter wrote nothing, but turned and screamed in the direction of the entrance: “Gimme two whole, cheese, pitcher!”

When he left, Mitch grabbed her leg under the table. She slapped his hand.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “When was the last time I told you that you are beautiful?”

“About two hours ago.”

“Two hours! How thoughtless of me!”

“Don’t let it happen again.”

He grabbed her leg again and rubbed the knee. She allowed it. She smiled seductively at him, dimples forming perfectly, teeth shining in the dim light, soft
pale brown eyes glowing. Her dark brunet hair was straight and fell perfectly a few inches below her shoulders.

The beer arrived and the waiter filled two mugs without saying a word. Abby took a small drink and stopped smiling.

“Do you think Lamar’s okay?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I thought at first he was drunk. I felt like an idiot sitting there watching him get soaked.”

“Poor guy. Kay said the funerals will probably be Monday, if they can get the bodies back in time.”

“Let’s talk about something else. I don’t like funerals, any funeral, even when I’m there out of respect and don’t know the deceased. I’ve had some bad experiences with funerals.”

The ribs arrived. They were served on paper plates with aluminum foil to catch the grease. A small dish of slaw and one of baked beans sat around a foot-long slab of dry ribs sprinkled heavily with the secret sauce. They dug in with fingers.

“What would you like to talk about?” she asked.

“Getting pregnant.”

“I thought we were going to wait a few years.”

“We are. But I think we should practice diligently until then.”

“We’ve practiced in every roadside motel between here and Boston.”

“I know, but not in our new home.” Mitch ripped two ribs apart, slinging sauce into his eyebrows.

“We just moved in this morning.”

“I know. What’re we waiting for?”

“Mitch, you act as though you’ve been neglected.”

“I have, since this morning. I suggest we do it tonight, as soon as we get home, to sort of christen our new house.”

“We’ll see.”

“Is it a date? Look, did you see that guy over there? He’s about to break his neck trying to see some leg. I oughta go over and whip his ass.”

“Yes. It’s a date. Don’t worry about those guys. They’re staring at you. They think you’re cute.”

“Very funny.”

Mitch stripped his ribs clean and ate half of hers. When the beer was gone, he paid the check and they climbed into the alley. He drove carefully across town and found the name of a street he recognized from one of his many road trips of the day. After two wrong turns, he found Meadowbrook, and then the home of Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell Y. McDeere.

The mattress and box springs were stacked on the floor of the master bedroom, surrounded by boxes. Hearsay hid under a lamp on the floor and watched as they practiced.

Four days later, on what should have been his first day behind his new desk, Mitch and his lovely wife joined the remaining thirty-nine members of the firm, and their lovely wives, as they paid their last respects to Martin S. Kozinski. The cathedral was full. Oliver Lambert offered a eulogy so eloquent and touching not even Mitchell McDeere, who had buried a father and a brother, could resist chill bumps. Abby’s eyes watered at the sight of the widow and the children.

That afternoon, they met again in the Presbyterian church in East Memphis to say farewell to Joseph M. Hodge.

    5    

The small lobby outside Royce McKnight’s office was empty when Mitch arrived precisely at eight-thirty, on schedule. He hummed and coughed and began to wait anxiously. From behind two file cabinets an ancient blue-haired secretary appeared and scowled in his general direction. When it was apparent he was not welcome, he introduced himself and explained he was to meet Mr. McKnight at this appointed hour. She smiled and introduced herself as Louise, Mr. McKnight’s personal secretary, for thirty-one years now. Coffee? Yes, he said, black. She disappeared and returned with a cup and saucer. She notified her boss through the intercom and instructed Mitch to have a seat. She recognized him now. One of the other secretaries had pointed him out during the funerals yesterday.

She apologized for the somber atmosphere around the place. No one felt like working, she explained, and it would be days before things were normal. They were such nice young men. The phone rang and she explained that Mr. McKnight was in an important
meeting and could not be disturbed. It rang again, she listened, and escorted him into the managing partner’s office.

Oliver Lambert and Royce McKnight greeted Mitch and introduced him to two other partners, Victor Milligan and Avery Tolar. They sat around a small conference table. Louise was sent for more coffee. Milligan was head of tax, and Tolar, at forty-one, was one of the younger partners.

“Mitch, we apologize for such a depressing beginning,” McKnight said. “We appreciate your presence at the funerals yesterday, and we’re sorry your first day as a member of our firm was one of such sadness.”

“I felt I belonged at the funerals,” Mitch said.

“We’re very proud of you, and we have great plans for you. We’ve just lost two of our finest lawyers, both of whom did nothing but tax, so we’ll be asking more of you. All of us will have to work a little harder.”

Louise arrived with a tray of coffee. Silver coffee server, fine china.

“We are quite saddened,” said Oliver Lambert. “So please bear with us.”

They all nodded and frowned at the table. Royce McKnight looked at some notes on a legal pad.

“Mitch, I think we’ve covered this before. At this firm, we assign each associate to a partner, who acts as a supervisor and mentor. These relationships are very important. We try to match you with a partner with whom you will be compatible and able to work closely, and we’re usually right. We have made mistakes. Wrong chemistry, or whatever, but when that happens we simply reassign the associate. Avery Tolar will be your partner.”

Mitch smiled awkwardly at his new partner.

“You will be under his direction, and the cases and files you work on will be his. Virtually all of it will be tax work.”

“That’s fine.”

“Before I forget it, I’d like to have lunch today,” Tolar said.

“Certainly,” Mitch said.

“Take my limo,” Mr. Lambert said.

“I had planned to,” said Tolar.

“When do I get a limo?” Mitch asked.

They smiled, and seemed to appreciate the relief. “In about twenty years,” said Mr. Lambert.

“I can wait.”

“How’s the BMW?” asked Victor Milligan.

“Great. It’s ready for the five-thousand-mile service.”

“Did you get moved in okay?”

“Yes, everything’s fine. I appreciate the firm’s assistance in everything. You’ve made us feel very welcome, and Abby and I are extremely grateful.”

McKnight quit smiling and returned to the legal pad. “As I’ve told you, Mitch, the bar exam has priority. You’ve got six weeks to study for it and we assist in every way possible. We have our own review courses directed by our members. All areas of the exam will be covered and your progress will be closely watched by all of us, especially Avery. At least half of each day will be spent on bar review, and most of your spare time as well. No associate in this firm has ever failed the exam.”

“I won’t be the first.”

“If you flunk it, we take away the BMW,” Tolar said with a slight grin.

“Your secretary will be a lady named Nina Huff. She’s been with the firm more than eight years. Sort of
temperamental, not much to look at, but very capable. She knows a lot of law and has a tendency to give advice, especially to the newer attorneys. It’ll be up to you to keep her in place. If you can’t get along with her, we’ll move her.”

“Where’s my office?”

“Second floor, down the hall from Avery. The interior woman will be here this afternoon to pick out the desk and furnishings. As much as possible, follow her advice.”

Lamar was also on the second floor, and at the moment that thought was comforting. He thought of him sitting by the pool, soaking wet, crying and mumbling incoherently.

McKnight spoke. “Mitch, I’m afraid I neglected to cover something that should’ve been discussed during the first visit here.”

He waited, and finally said, “Okay, what is it?”

The partners watched McKnight intently. “We’ve never allowed an associate to begin his career burdened with student loans. We prefer that you find other things to worry about, and other ways to spend your money. How much do you owe?”

Mitch sipped his coffee and thought rapidly. “Almost twenty-three thousand.”

“Have the documents on Louise’s desk first thing in the morning.”

“You, uh, mean the firm satisfies the loans?”

“That’s our policy. Unless you object.”

“No objection. I don’t quite know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. We’ve done it for every associate for the past fifteen years. Just get the paperwork to Louise.”

“That’s very generous, Mr. McKnight.”

“Yes, it is.”

_____________

Avery Tolar talked incessantly as the limo moved slowly through the noontime traffic. Mitch reminded him of himself, he said. A poor kid from a broken home, raised by foster families throughout southwest Texas, then put on the streets after high school. He worked the night shift in a shoe factory to finance junior college. An academic scholarship to UTEP opened the door. He graduated with honors, applied to eleven law schools and chose Stanford. He finished number two in his class and turned down offers from every big firm on the West Coast. He wanted to do tax work, nothing but tax work. Oliver Lambert had recruited him sixteen years ago, back when the firm had fewer than thirty lawyers.

He had a wife and two kids, but said little about the family. He talked about money. His passion, he called it. The first million was in the bank. The second was two years away. At four hundred thousand a year gross, it wouldn’t take long. His specialty was forming partnerships to purchase supertankers. He was the premier specialist in his field and worked at three hundred an hour, sixty, sometimes seventy hours a week.