The Justice Game (9 page)

    His father would curse and let Jason know he was disappointed. He would remind Jason, as he had many times before, that Jason would be serving time behind bars if not for the fraternity of the men in blue—the way they looked out for each other’s families. He would do everything within his power to send Jason on another guilt trip.

    But it would only backfire, reminding Jason of the reason he had chosen this path in the first place. If other cops were as willing to work outside the law as the ones Jason knew, all kinds of innocent people would need good defense lawyers.

    His father would never understand that. He would accuse Jason of being a sellout.

    But Jason knew the truth.

    It was his father who had sold out. The system had already purchased his father’s soul.

Robert Sherwood looked up at a knock on his office door.

    “Come in.”

    The door swung open, and Rafael Johansen stepped in. “We’re all set,” he said.

    “Do you think he’s got copies of the software?” Sherwood asked.

    “Maybe. He wouldn’t give us access to his desk drawers and filing cabinets.”

    Sherwood thought about this for a moment. Given the enormous sums at risk, Justice Inc. had always been obsessed with protecting its proprietary information.

    “I think he’s a straight shooter,” Sherwood said. “But let’s put surveillance on him for a year or so just to play it safe.”

It took Jason three days to call.

    The first two days, he pulled up his father’s contact information a half-dozen times and scrolled the BlackBerry wheel until it shaded his father’s phone number. But he couldn’t bring himself to place the call.

    The third day, in the solitude of his apartment, Jason found the courage to push the wheel and initiate the call. The phone rang three times with no answer, raising Jason’s hopes that he might be able to just leave a message.

    But then his father answered. “Jason, I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you back?”

    “Sure.”

    An hour later, when Jason was walking down the Avenue of the Americas, he felt his BlackBerry vibrate twice. His father’s name and number appeared on the screen.

    “Hey, Dad,” Jason said.

    “Hey, Jason. Sorry I had to go earlier. I was in the middle of a department meeting. What’s up?”

    Justice Inc. placed a premium on confidentiality, so Jason needed to be somewhat vague, even with his father. In the past, he had described his job as “legal research for investment firms.”

    His father had scoffed at the “desk job” but tolerated it because he knew Jason was making $150,000 a year, enough to take a healthy chunk out of his student debt. The unspoken assumption—at least his father’s unspoken assumption—was that Jason would take a job as a prosecutor once he finished his two-year commitment.

    “Um, I’m leaving New York early, Dad. As in next week.” Jason paused—it was never easy to talk with his dad. “I finished my projects ahead of schedule, and they’re paying me the rest of my salary.”

    This brought an extended silence. Jason imagined the scowl on his dad’s face—the block jaw tensing as the forehead wrinkled in displeasure. It was, in Jason’s opinion, a face that bore little resemblance to his own. “You’re not telling me something,” his dad said. “You had a two-year contract. Something must have happened.”

    “Nothing happened,” Jason said. He started getting a little perturbed. Why couldn’t his father just accept that Jason had actually done something right? “I finished my research projects… ahead of schedule. They loved my work, made a ton of money off me, and now they’re going to help me get my own practice started.”

    Jason held his breath, ready for the explosion. He was standing at a street crossing, waiting for the light to change, elbow-to-elbow with a couple dozen New Yorkers. It felt like everyone was listening.

    “Your own practice?”

    “The president of the company has some connections. He’s setting me up with a few clients and an expert witness who recently retired from her post as Virginia’s chief forensic toxicologist. I’ll have my own law office in Richmond.”

    The light changed, and taxis immediately blew their horns. A large tour bus revved its engine as it went through the lower gears. Jason started walking again, moving with the masses.

    His father said something but Jason had to ask him to repeat it.

    “What type of clients?”

    “All kinds. Trial stuff. Civil as well as criminal.”

    This brought another pause. His father didn’t need it spelled out—private lawyers who handle criminal cases represent criminals. In his father’s view, only the prosecutors wore the white hats.

    “Heckuva way to make a living,” his father said. “Plea bargains for rapists. Attacking cops and victims for what—a couple hundred an hour?”

    Jason didn’t want to have this conversation right now. His father was stubborn, a trait Jason
had
inherited. “There are good lawyers on both sides, Dad. You know that.”
And crooked ones too,
though Jason left that part off.

    “Interesting way to show your gratitude,” Jason’s father said. Jason knew the comment was coming, but it still stuck in his craw. It was a reference to
the incident,
the point in Jason’s life when he learned that cops could be bought and sold, with loyalty if not with money. The same event that, in his father’s eyes, indebted Jason to his dad forever.

    The incident had haunted Jason for the past ten years, beginning with nightmares and bouts of depression that eventually gave way to a lingering cynicism. It was, though his father would never understand this, the reason Jason had decided to be a defense attorney.

    “Matt Corey put his career on the line—his entire life’s work—so you could have a chance,” his father reminded him. “You would have never made it to law school if Matt hadn’t valued our friendship enough to do that. Why do you want to spend your life attacking men like that?”

    “That’s not what I’ll be doing, Dad.” It was a small lie, but Jason just wanted off the phone.

    “Are you calling to ask me about this or tell me about it?”

    Jason took a breath and stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, out of the traffic flow. “I’m going to do this, Dad. And I’m going to do it the right way. I’ve made up my mind.”

    Jason’s father didn’t respond immediately, perhaps hoping that the uncomfortable silence would cause Jason to change his mind. If so, he was wasting his time.

    “There is no right way,” Jason’s dad eventually said. And with that parting comment, he hung up the phone.

Eight weeks later

Kelly Starling snuck a discreet glance at her watch, taking care to ensure the recruit sitting across her desk didn’t notice. She liked this young man—Geoff, a second-year from Georgetown with good grades and a track record of serious community service. Kelly’s firm, one of the largest and most prestigious on K Street in downtown Washington, surely could have used another idealist like Kelly. But she knew it wasn’t going to happen.

    “I read the article about your work with victims of human trafficking,” Geoff said, admiration flashing in his eyes. “It’s one of the things that attracted me to the firm.”

    He was talking about a two-year-old
Washington Post
story detailing the way young women were lured to America with the promise of jobs and then forced into prostitution or pornography to pay off insurmountable debts. As a second-year associate at Burgess and Wicker, Kelly had started taking a few of those cases
pro bono
—filing suits to wipe out the women’s debts and pushing prosecutors to indict the men who brought them here. The article made great press, and now B&W included it in all their marketing and recruiting materials, as if the firm had a serious commitment to
pro bono
work.

    Kelly had retold the story in dozens of interviews, mesmerizing law students with a side of D.C. most of them never knew existed. At the same time, she was careful not to imply that they might have a shot at being another Kelly Starling. B&W was interested in billable hours, not crusades.

    Kelly was one of a kind—a fortunate beneficiary of publicity that had helped the firm’s image and eased the conscience of its senior partners as they hauled down more than a million a year. One Kelly Starling was good for a firm like B&W, softening its image. The firm “cover girl,” the other associates had labeled her. But a bunch of Kelly Starlings would destroy the financial model of the firm, butchering the cash cow that funded Bentleys for the partners and college educations for their kids and plastic surgery for their spouses.

    Stifling a yawn, Kelly told Geoff her sex-trafficking story, leaving out the gory details in a PG-13 version of the events. Most recruits expressed horror that such things could go on right under their government’s nose in the nation’s capital. A few of the more confident male recruits—usually former jocks—would try to flirt a little or let Kelly know that they might have taken matters into their own hands and busted a few heads when nobody was looking.

    Kelly was used to this—men trying to impress. She had been a swimmer in high school, fast enough to earn a few college scholarships, which she had promptly declined. She still tried to stay in shape, but her sedentary job was taking its toll. Plus, there were some things you couldn’t fix at the gym.

    To her own critical eye, her shoulders were a bit too broad, and she lacked the curves of most women her age, compensating instead with toned arms and flat abs. She still remembered the article they ran in her hometown paper in high school. It was probably supposed to be a compliment, but it didn’t seem that way to a sixteen-year-old girl who had grown to an awkward five-ten:
She has the perfect swimmer’s body. Her posture is gangly, loose and cocky, like a teenage boy’s. Her body resembles an inverted triangle—broad shoulders, long torso, thin hips—and provides a significant advantage in leverage over the other more muscular female swimmers she regularly beats.

    An inverted triangle—not exactly an endorsement for Hollywood’s next leading lady. But it worked for Kelly. Some said she had “natural” beauty, probably a backhanded comment on the fact that Kelly wore little makeup and kept her dirty-blonde hair short and layered, requiring minimal fuss between her morning swim and hitting the office. More honest assessors used the word
handsome
to describe her slender face, an adjective perhaps engendered by the firm jaw or high forehead. She squinted when she smiled, flashing dimples and perfectly aligned white teeth, thanks to the wonder of orthodontics.

    The
Washington Post
article had called her a cross between Dara Torres and Greta Van Susteren—quite a stretch in Kelly’s opinion. The same article had described her as somewhat obsessive, an “A+++ personality,” in the words of the reporter. The fact that Kelly could still remember the exact quotes nearly two years later probably proved them right.

    In any event, the recruiting director at B&W was no dummy—she sent Kelly nearly twice as many male law students as females.

    But Geoff didn’t try to play it cool or demonstrate his machismo. “That’s amazing,” he said after Kelly finished. “I would have never had the guts to do half that stuff.”

    Geoff was big and a little goofy, his blond hair moussed into spikes, but his transcript was littered with As. If B&W hired him, he would be stuck in the library, researching complicated tax shelter schemes or leveraged buyouts. He wouldn’t have a minute to spare for the homeless or elderly.

    Kelly wrapped up the interview as efficiently as possible and ushered Geoff to the next attorney’s office five minutes early. She walked quickly back to her office so she could fill out the interview form before her next appointment. She gave Geoff a few scores below five on a scale of one to ten, low enough to guarantee he wouldn’t make the cut. Kelly really liked the kid, so much so that she wasn’t willing to subject him to the pressure cooker at B&W. Only the strong survived at Kelly’s firm. Her partners would chew Geoff up and spit him out.

Later in the day, Kelly waited in her office for the receptionist to call. She tried to busy herself with other files, but it was useless. Finally, at a few minutes after one, the call she had been waiting for came through.

    “Mr. Crawford is here.”

    “Can you set him up in 12A? I’ll be down in a couple minutes.”

    Mr. Crawford. Blake Crawford. Grieving widower of Rachel Crawford, the reporter gunned down in the WDXR studio two months earlier. A week ago he had called Kelly out of the blue, claiming he had been referred to her by the Handgun Violence Coalition. He wanted to talk about suing the manufacturer of the MD-9—the gun Larry Jamison had used to execute Rachel.

    At first, she thought it was a prank, but she kept herself from saying anything stupid. Once she realized it really
was
Blake Crawford on the phone, she started running through the legal analysis in her mind. Though the case sounded like a stretch, Kelly didn’t want to say no until she had at least researched it. She didn’t get calls from potential clients with national name recognition every day.