Authors: William Lashner
“He was my partner, but he left the firm.”
“Yes. Joined Blaine, Cox, Amber and Cox, didn’t he?”
“They gave him a very handsome offer.”
“Married an Amber, I understand. Their youngest, the
pretty one. I was invited to the wedding but was overseas at the time.”
“I couldn’t make it either,” I said, though I hadn’t missed it because I was overseas. I think there was something on television I needed to see that night,
The World of Disney on Ice
maybe, or something.
“I suppose the marriage might have had something to do with the offer.”
“Something.”
“That leaves you with two lawyers now, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.” Prescott had done more than merely glance through the file.
“I assume Mr. Guthrie took a number of his clients with him,” he continued. “But he didn’t take this case. Tell us why not, Victor.”
“Because it barks,” said Madeline.
I glanced sideways at her and let out a soft growl under my breath.
“Do you know what the key to any successful law practice is, Victor?” asked Prescott.
I couldn’t help my bitter smile. “Obviously not, sir.”
“Objectivity,” he said, with a rich man’s certainty. “It’s all too easy in this business to take positions that satisfy our emotions but that ultimately hurt our clients. It’s all too easy to let our passions stir.”
I tried but failed to imagine passions stirring in the formal upright man before me.
“Now we’ve given you all our files and you’ve found nothing,” he continued. His graveled voice, still precise and formal, now gained a touch of anger, just a hint, but just a hint was enough to send me slinking back in my chair. “Some minor discrepancies between the information we received and what went out in the prospectus, yes, but not enough to show a pattern. And you won’t be able to prove reliance on the prospectus anyway. Nobody reads those things. You can be assured the jury will learn of the
many charitable organizations our clients support, the many philanthropic boards they sit upon. And in the end the jurors will view your clients as fools with so much money they were willing to throw it away on any twisted tax shelter that promised they wouldn’t have to pay their fair share. Frankly, Victor, if we go to trial we’re going to bloody you, and you know it.”
He paused when the door opened. “Ah, Janice.”
She came in with a large silver tray and laid it upon the low table. There was a silver coffeepot and two white china cups and a crystal creamer and a crystal sugar bowl with a fine silver spoon. On a doily set upon a china plate perched an array of fancy cookies. It looked as if the Queen were coming to join us. I was grateful for the respite as my eyes had begun watering. My eyes water whenever I am under attack, a condition that was hell in elementary school, and I was under attack now. In less than a minute Prescott had exposed every weakness in my case. As Janice poured for me, I tried to squeeze back the tears.
“The project never made a dime,” I said before taking a sip of coffee. It was so exquisite it startled me for a moment, rich and crisply bitter. I took another sip. “As soon as you took our money it all went down the tubes. I’ll make that very clear for the jury.”
“The real estate market died on us,” said Prescott. “Everyone on the jury will know that. They can’t sell their houses either.”
“Your projections weren’t even close.”
“They were only projections. We never claimed we could predict the future.” He put a shrug into his voice. “It was a business deal between businessmen that went bad. Business deals go bad every day without any fraud involved. We can go on all day like this, Victor, back and forth, but that’s no way to find common ground. Our clients want to fight to the end.” Then he flashed the smile
of a diplomat greeting an unworthy adversary whom protocol required him to flatter and said the words I had been waiting to hear. “But I have convinced them that the economics are in favor of our working something out.”
I felt a thrill ripple through me just then, the thrill of a settlement on the horizon, of money in my bank. Without changing a card, my poker hand had grown brawny.
Keeping his eyes focused on mine, he said, “Madeline, what were the most recent figures discussed?”
“Plaintiffs demanded half a million dollars,” she said through a smirk. “We offered five thousand.”
“It hadn’t seemed worth pursuing,” I said.
“Well, let’s try, Victor,” said Prescott. “Even if you won everything you’d win what? A million dollars?”
“We’ve asked for punitives.”
“Yes, and we’ve asked for sanctions for the filing of a frivolous lawsuit. We’ll say a million. You received tax benefits on the losses of about thirty percent, so let’s put actual compensatory damages at seven hundred thousand. Now tell me honestly, Victor, since this is all off the record, at what do you put your chance of actually winning? Five percent? Ten percent?”
“Fifty-fifty?” I hadn’t meant it to, but my answer ended up being phrased as a question.
“That’s a joke, right?” said Madeline.
“Be reasonable, Victor,” said Prescott. “We’re trying to work together here. Let’s put it at ten percent.”
“It’s not worth seventy thousand dollars,” said Madeline.
“Ten percent, Victor? Seventy thousand dollars. What do you say?”
One third of seventy thousand dollars came to something like twenty-three grand, enough to pay off our firm’s bills and make payroll and rent for the next month. I had to hold myself back from shouting yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. “It’s not enough,” I said. “You couldn’t try this case for
less than a hundred thousand, and you still might lose. I’d go back to my clients with an offer of two hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Of course you would,” said Prescott.
“I told you it wasn’t worth discussing,” said Madeline. “Guthrie we could talk to, but Victor acts like he’s on some crusade.”
“You’re using my hourly rate against us, Victor,” said Prescott. “That doesn’t seem quite fair. Ninety thousand.”
“I don’t set your fees, Mr. Prescott,” I said, even as I figured. If we could pull in thirty thousand from this case, I thought, I could even take a draw, start to pay down my credit card bills. I put down the coffee cup so it wouldn’t rattle as my nerves started to pop. “For two hundred thousand we could settle this today.”
“One hundred thousand dollars, Victor. And we won’t go higher.”
Madeline said, “That’s way too high for this frivolous piece of…”
“One-ninety,” I said, cutting her off.
Prescott laughed. It was a deep, genuine laugh, warm in its way. It was so authoritative a laugh that I had to struggle not to join in, even though he was laughing at me. “No, we’re not splitting the difference, Victor. One hundred thousand dollars, that’s as high as we go.”
“That’s not going to do it,” I said. But threes started to jiggle like belly dancers before my eyes. Thirty-three, three hundred, thirty-three. Thirty-three, three hundred, thirty-three. It had a golden sound to it, like bangles sweeping one against the other during a slow, seductive dance. Thirty-three, three hundred, thirty-three. And thirty-three cents. “One hundred and eighty thousand,” I countered.
“You’re disappointing me, Victor,” said Prescott. “I thought we could reach an accommodation.” He leaned back again and looked away from me, toward the window and the view. “I have instructed Madeline to begin trial
preparations tomorrow. Once we start spending money on the trial, paying experts, compiling exhibits, organizing the documents, once we start all that, I can’t offer the same amount. So this offer is only good until you leave this office.”
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Prescott. For one hundred and eighty thousand dollars, we’ll disappear. We won’t say anything to the press, won’t sully the perfect reputations of your clients. No nasty trial. Nothing. The end.”
He shrugged. “That’s all a necessary precondition in any event. One hundred thousand dollars.”
I stood. “That’s not enough.”
“I’ll whip you in court, son.”
“You just might at that, sir.”
Prescott stared me down. I was supposed to turn to leave, that was the act, but the sound of those threes jangling bangling through my mind froze my feet in place and I stared back at him, waiting for him to save me.
“I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do,” said Prescott. “I hate doing this, I think I’m going too far, but you are a bulldog, Victor, and you don’t leave me much choice. What I’m willing to do is give you one more number. This number is a blue light special, do you understand? I want to hear a quick yes or no. If it’s yes we have a deal. If it’s no we’ll fight it out in court. Are you ready for the number, Victor?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“One hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”
The division was so easy it couldn’t have been unintentional. Forty thousand dollars registered in my mind with the ringing clarity of a bell. In the blink of an eye I plotted my expenditures. Twenty thousand directly to the office, overdue salary to our secretary and receptionist, overdue rent, overdue use and occupancy tax, overdue dues due to the bar association. Blue Cross had been hounding us for money, as had West Publishing and Xerox, which had
refused to service the machine because we were behind on our maintenance payments. All our copies came out badly streaked and gray, as if they were copies of copies of copies. We were short of stationery, manila folders, yellow pads; our postage meter hadn’t been reset in months. Twenty thousand dollars disappearing like so much drifting paper into the abyss of our failing legal practice. We’d put five in the bank to take care of another month’s nut, just in case, leaving fifteen grand to be split between Derringer and me, which, after paying overdue estimated taxes, would leave me with four thousand dollars. One of my credit cards was maxed, so I’d pay that down, and my student loans were deeply in default, maybe a payment or two would renew their patience, and I still owed my father the five thousand I had borrowed last year when things got very very tight.
“We have a deal, Mr. Prescott,” I said.
He slapped his palms onto his thighs and stood, smiling warmly, pumping my hand like I was a new father. “Splendid. Just splendid. Madeline,” he said without looking at her. “Why don’t you get to work right away drawing up the papers.” He said nothing more until she stood and, without saying farewell, left the office.
“I should get going too,” I said. “Tell my clients the news.”
“Not just yet, Victor. You’re tenacious, I’ll give you that. A bulldog. Let’s take a moment together. I might have a proposition for you, son.”
He put his arm around my shoulder. The gesture was so unexpected that I froze as if under attack.
“I might just have for you,” he said, “the opportunity of a lifetime.”
CONNIE MACK,
the ageless Philadelphia baseball magnate who coincidentally looked very much like William Prescott III, once said, “Opportunity knocks at every man’s door,” but I didn’t believe it for a second. There were men and women who toiled all the days of their lives without getting a single chance. I knew them, I was related to them, I was one. I had been waiting for it all my life and still it had never come for me, never called my name, never knocked on my door, never slipped itself through my mail slot. Or then again, maybe the post office had simply misplaced it, along with that letter I’d been expecting from Ed McMahon. No, it was the great myth of America that this is the land of opportunity. For guys like me, I had learned painfully, there was no such thing as opportunity, only a grind to wear away our spirits as it stole the heart from our lives day by day. So I was naturally skeptical. When someone like Prescott whispered the word opportunity in my ear, it generally meant the opportunity for him to take advantage of me.
“A brilliant man,” said Prescott, gesturing toward a picture of himself standing beside a slouching President Nixon. “It was an honor to work for him.”
“I’m sure it was,” I said. There were things I could say to him about Nixon the perjurer, the man who lied about his secret plan to end the war and then saturated Hanoi with his bombs, who resigned in disgrace and was saved
from indictment only by presidential pardon, but this wasn’t the moment.
“Oh, he made mistakes, of course,” said Prescott. “But in my mind that gives him all the more stature. He is a tragic hero, a man brought to power and glory through his brilliant, slightly paranoid will and brought to ruin by the same. But while he was at the top of his ride, he was a damn good president.”
“I’m an admirer of Kennedy.”
“Oh, yes.” He stepped over to another picture of a very youthful William Prescott III shaking hands with a smiling Jack Kennedy. We were standing before his wall of photographs, a shrine, really, to himself, as Prescott introduced me to the greats and near greats who had known him. I listened politely, fighting all the while to restrain the giddy joy I felt about the settlement we had reached in
Saltz.
“All charm and good looks, Kennedy,” continued Prescott. “But a bumbler, really. He stumbled into the Bay of Pigs, almost fumbled us into a nuclear war over Cuba, and then put us into Vietnam. November 22, 1963, was a terrible day, but frankly I think the country was better off because of it.”
“Kennedy had vision,” I said.
“No, not really. What did he care about civil rights before King started grabbing headlines? Now Reagan had vision.” There was a large color photograph of Ronald Reagan with his arm around Prescott. “He was a genuinely nice man, too. He wasn’t the brightest, but he didn’t have to be. There are a million smart bureaucrats in the federal government, that’s not what we need at the top. But Reagan’s vision was unrealistic. That’s why of all the presidents I’ve known, the one I admire most is Bush.”
He guided me to a picture of himself with George and Barbara Bush. The Bushes were smiling warmly at
Prescott, who was standing with a regal stiffness, staring straight into the camera.
“A fine man,” said Prescott. “A great leader. A true pragmatist in a world of ideologues. He was betrayed by his own people. That’s how the clown we have now slipped in.”
I voted for the clown, but this wasn’t the moment to bring that up either, though I did say, “I’m not sure pure pragmatism is admirable in a politician.”
“Anything else is just diddling, Victor. If you don’t concentrate on the practical consequences of your actions, what do you concentrate on, intent? Good intentions were not the problem with our presence in Vietnam, it was just that, practically, victory there was impossible. A quarter million French had been defeated by the Vietnamese, how did we think we could prevail? The only way to govern effectively is to look beyond the ideology, beyond the surface morality, right to the heart of the doing.”
“But what goals do you seek without an ideological framework?”
“Peace, prosperity, justice, equality. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Goals are easy, everyone wants the same things, but a pragmatist won’t be misled by a false ideology and won’t let narrow restrictions on means get in his way. Lawyers are by their very nature pragmatists. Whether or not we’re in ideological agreement with our clients, our job is to win for them within the rules, no matter how. Anything less is a violation of duty.”
“I like to think we’re more than hired guns.”
“So, Victor, you show yourself to be a romantic. Very good.”
“I was wondering,” I said, trying to change the conversation to a safer subject. “How soon do you think we can close on the
Saltz
settlement?”
Prescott laughed. “Maybe I stand corrected. I’ll have
Madeline work the night on it. We can close as soon as your clients sign releases.”
“Terrific,” I said, trying to fight the smile. “The sooner the better.”
“We’ll do everything we can to accommodate you. Everything.”
Normally I hated Republicans, there was something oily and insincere about them. I didn’t care much for weepy hearted Democrats, either, but it was Republicans who really set me off. Maybe it was that theirs was the party of big money and I had none. Maybe it was that their cure for every ill was a cut in the capital gains tax when I had never in my life had a capital gain. Or maybe it was just that when a Republican pulled you aside to explain that assault weapons were as wholesomely American as apple pie and DDT, or that ketchup really was a vegetable, the blather would all come out of a self-satisfied George Willian smirk that you would slug if you were on the fifth-grade playground. Normally I hated Republicans, but there was something about Prescott that I couldn’t help but like: his formality, his honesty, the way he exuded integrity. There was about him and his portrait gallery an air of noblesse oblige that I admired. Most likely my newfound affection derived from the fact that he had just given me forty grand, but for whatever reason I felt the glow of good fellowship in his office, even as we disagreed on the political issues of the day.
“Come over here,” he said, leading me to his desk. “Sit down for a minute, Victor.” He lowered himself into the deep maroon desk chair and leaned forward, hands clasped before him. I sat stiffly in one of the upholstered chairs.
“Now that your calendar has suddenly cleared for the next month,” he said, “I might have an opportunity for you.” That ominous word again. “I was impressed with the way you handled the
Saltz
case. Your tenacity. I read your briefs. Very solid. We pride ourselves on teaching our
associates how to litigate here, but you can only teach so much. We can’t teach how to spin gold from straw; it is either innate or it will never be learned.”
“Our case isn’t mere straw.”
He waved away my comment. “We’ve settled.” He clenched his fist and shook it at me with affection. “Tenacity. Victor, I think you’re a terrific lawyer, yes I do.” He looked at me as if he were deciding something about my face. “Ever do any criminal work?”
“Some. DUI, a few drug cases that pleaded out. I tried one aggravated assault to verdict.”
“How did it go?”
“Fine, until the jury came back.”
“Juries can be like that. The only lawyers who never lose a case are the ones who won’t try the tough ones. Do much federal work?”
“Yes, sir. It’s the only way to get to a jury before the client expires from old age.”
“Ever appear before Judge Gimbel?”
“No, but I heard he’s a tough old bird.”
“Yes, he is,” said Prescott. “A little overdone for my liking, too.”
I rubbed my chin to wipe off whatever it was he was staring at. Then he leaned farther forward. His voice became conspiratorially soft. “Jimmy Moore, the councilman.”
“I know of him.”
“He and his chief aide, Chester Concannon, are under indictment for extortion and racketeering.”
“Yes. I know that also.”
“Moore is accused of using his City Council post to try to extort a million and a half dollars from the owner of the nightclub Bissonette’s.”
“That’s a lot of dollars,” I said.
“Yes, it is. He’s accused of actually getting five hundred thousand. He is also accused of brutally beating Zack
Bissonette, the former baseball player who was also part owner of the club, because Bissonette had tried to interfere in the extortion plot. Finally, he is accused of burning down Bissonette’s because the payments stopped. All very serious charges that, if true, would make Jimmy Moore a monster. I represent him.”
“Good luck,” I said, without really meaning it. From everything I had read about the case in the
Philadelphia Inquirer,
Moore was guilty as hell and going to spend many, many years in a federal prison. And the whole city knew that Bissonette, a retired second baseman who had been a darling of the Veterans Stadium crowd, was still in a coma from the beating.
“Frankly, Moore’s politics are the exact opposite of mine,” said Prescott. “But in court that doesn’t matter. Now, Chester Concannon, the aide, was represented by my old friend Pete McCrae.”
“It’s a shame what happened to him,” I said. McCrae was an obese Republican politico who had recently died in a Chinatown restaurant. They had thought it was a heart attack until they cut open his throat at the autopsy and found a large, fatty piece of duck lodged there. Dr. Heimlich, I guess, was dining elsewhere that night.
“A tragedy,” agreed Prescott. “But now Chester Concannon needs new counsel. I was impressed with the way you handled the
Saltz
case and I thought you might want the opportunity.”
“I’m flattered,” I said.
“You should be. Trial is in two weeks.”
“Wait a second,” I said. “If trial’s in two weeks I won’t have time to prepare.”
“Everything you’ll need we have here for you, the documents, copies of the government’s tapes.” He gestured at the piles on his conference table. “We’ve done all the discovery already and McCrae’s files are readily available.”
“I’d be thrilled to handle it, Mr. Prescott. But I
would need more time. What’s the chance of getting a continuance?”
“We don’t want a continuance. For political reasons the government indicted too soon, hoping to affect this fall’s election. Now they’re stuck going to trial with an incomplete investigation. And Bissonette is still in the hospital, unable to testify. They’re hoping he revives. We think, due to the weakness of their case, it’s to our advantage to get to trial before he does. We’ve opposed every motion for a continuance and asserted our rights under the Speedy Trial Act. The government wants a delay but the judge is holding to the trial date so long as the defense agrees. We need someone who can get up to speed quickly and be ready to go in two weeks.”
“I can’t be ready to try a major criminal case in two weeks.”
“Actually, you won’t have to. McCrae, before his visit to Ying’s Peking Duck House, was satisfied to let me present a joint defense on behalf of both defendants. He found, and I’m sure you will too, that if we stand together we can turn the government’s case into cheesecloth. I believe we could be a very effective team, Victor. And if you’re able to take this case, other work together could be arranged. I often used McCrae for outside counsel and gave him cases we couldn’t handle ourselves because of a conflict. He built up quite a lucrative practice that way. You could, too.”
“I’m very interested in the other work, Mr. Prescott, very, but I just don’t think I can accept this case. The Rules of Professional Conduct won’t allow me to take a case where I couldn’t be adequately prepared.”
He pressed his lips together and then began writing on a pad. Without looking up at me he said, “That’s fine, Victor. We’re not always ready to seize our opportunities, no matter how transient they may be. I understand completely. Janice will show you out.”
I waited for a moment, waited for him to look up and smile, waited for him to again tell me how good a lawyer I was and all that we could do together, but he didn’t say another word, concentrating instead only on the pad upon which he wrote. After more than a few moments of waiting I rose and headed for his door.
“Did I mention the retainer,” he said as I turned the doorknob.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Fifteen thousand dollars up front if you decide to take the case.”
“That sheds a new light on the offer,” I said, releasing the knob from my grip.
“I thought it might.”
“Mostly, sir, it would be the honor of working with you.”
“Yes, I see. So I take it you’re on board?”
I hesitated a moment, but not too long a moment. “Yes, sir.”
“Terrific,” he said brightly and he smiled his charismatic smile that warmed me. “The trial team is meeting Monday night, here, at six. You can meet your client then. Before the Monday meeting you can look at whatever evidence we have. I’ll set up a room for you, say starting at ten.”
“Fine.”
“We have a status hearing before Judge Gimbel on Tuesday morning. I’ll make sure your retainer is ready by then. By the way, Victor, what’s your hourly fee?”
“One-fifty,” I said.
“You’re going to make us look like chiselers by comparison. For this case your fee is two-fifty. Is that acceptable?”
“Perfectly.”
“It’s great to have you on the team, Victor. This is a terrific opportunity for you, son,” he said, and I knew that it was. Prescott was offering me more than just a high
publicity case in which my picture would make the papers and my name become known. He was offering to mentor me, to guide my career, to raise me to something more than second-rate. There was no telling what I could gain from his wise guidance and touching concern for my welfare.
“I understand,” I said, “and I am very grateful for the chance.”
“Yes,” he replied, without a hint of credulity in his face. “I believe that you are. And I have no doubts but that you’ll come through for us.”
So maybe I had been wrong after all. Maybe this glorious land to which my great-grandfather had brought his family from Russia actually was the land of opportunity he sought and maybe this William Prescott III was the instrument of that opportunity, along with whichever fate had lodged that chunk of roasted duck in fat Pete McCrae’s throat. I still had my doubts, sure, but fifteen grand up front and two-fifty an hour did a lot of easing.