Justice Hunter (3 page)

F
IVE

T
he cold water hit Hunter like a smack in the face. He stood over the copper vessel sink in the men’s room of Marathon Grill, desperate to compose himself. His alluring hazel eyes stared out at his own reflection in self-disgust for getting sanctioned by Russo. His odds of making partner had officially tanked, even if he pulled off a minor miracle in the Mediacast case, which he knew was never going to happen.

Hunter’s wavy brown locks flowed naturally. He’d inherited his patrician nose from his mother’s Episcopalian side of the family, not from the Jews on his father’s side. His complexion was olive, prone to an easy tan. On balance, his looks would have been the envy of most men.

Hunter, humble to a fault, barely seemed to notice, though. He was seductive as hell and capable of persuading juries like an experienced snake charmer. His physique, chiseled at six feet, conjuring up images of Michelangelo’s
David
, was mostly genetics and less exercise than he preferred.

“I’m so glad that you beat that bitch.”

“I told you he didn’t rule yet,” replied Hunter, reluctant to admit just how poorly the hearing had gone. Not to mention the ridiculous sanctions order hanging over his head, like a blown statute of limitation.
Just a matter of time before the dirty little secret’s revealed.

“I can’t believe you didn’t take him up on The Palm. Dude, what were you thinking?”

Hunter and his two closest friends from Whitman Packer sat outside. Since that morning, when he was stuck inside Russo’s courtroom on the Mediacast injunction, the temperature had continued to climb. The outdoor seating area was packed with throngs of businesspeople sporting sunglasses and rolled-up sleeves, overrunning the restaurant. Spring fever filled the air, and Marathon had been transformed from a corporate eatery to an Ivy League frat party.

“That guy sounds shady as shit. Fuck The Palm. I wish I could’ve seen that freak break down in the courtroom,” said Dillon Wright, a charismatic and stylish associate at the firm. He had a large and interesting nose, dark complexion, and medium-length black hair, gelled crudely.

“I’m actually not feeling too good about it,” conceded Hunter, squinting from the sun in his eyes.

“Stop being so self-deprecating,” insisted the geeky one of the crew, Andy Smith. “Melissa Zane is known to be a nut job and the biggest bitch at Kruger.” Andy had short, light brown hair that showed a premature onset of male pattern baldness. His skin was ashen white, his features average. Overall, he looked like your run-of-the-mill, slightly nerdy, nice guy. There was not a bad bone in his body.

Dillon let out a cool laugh, slightly at Andy and slightly with Andy. “If Andy thinks she’s a bitch, you know the chick’s wacky.”

“I think Russo’s got it in for me,” said Hunter, still on edge. “Let’s leave it at that.”

“Got it.” Dillon didn’t take it personally. He and Hunter had been buddies since they started at Whitman. They’d been through a lot together—primarily abuse from the senior associates and partners. Dillon didn’t know when to let it go. Not to mention, he had seemed a bit off ever since the race for partner started heating up.

“What’d he say to you? I think I’ve heard every one of that old coot’s insults. Which one was it?”

Hunter was still reluctant to let the cat out of the bag. If he couldn’t tell them, though, whom could he tell? “The fucker sanctioned me.”

“Sanctioned?” said Andy, shocked. “Meaning what?”

“He fined me for being late.”

“You’re shitting me,” chimed in Dillon.

“I couldn’t make this shit up.”

“How much?”

“Five fucking grand.”

“That’s deep.” Dillon was obviously scheming as he empathized. “What are you gonna do?”

“Haven’t really thought about it yet.” Hunter paused. “Wait. It gets even better. The sanctions were entered against the firm, just so the fucker would force me to have to tell a partner.”

“Maybe there’s a way around that,” added Dillon with a sinister grin.

“Oh, God,” cringed Andy, like a prudish monogamist not wanting to hear the details of a friend’s kinky sexual exploits. “I can only imagine.”

Dillon ignored Andy. “Not to worry, Hunter. I’ll help you figure this out,” he assured with an evil glint in his eye. “If I have to kill the son-of-a-bitch myself.”

Clearly wanting to block it out for now, Hunter thanked Dillon for the unwavering support, and the conversation regained at least some semblance of normalcy after another few minutes.

“I will speak for myself, though,” said Dillon proudly. “I had a pro bono case with Melissa Zane last year, a landlord-tenant case.” He paused. “Mauled her.”

Andy jumped in. “I think I remember that one,” he acknowledged. “Didn’t that case settle out?”

Hunter and Andy laughed. Dillon kept a poker face. “Whatever, Andy. It only settled because of me. My guy had no case.” Dillon’s lawyerly explanation only made it funnier. Eventually Dillon gave in and cracked up too. Busted.

A sexy blonde waitress delivered their food. “Burgers?” Dillon and Andy raised their hands. “Jay’s turkey?” Hunter nodded, politely.

“Watching your girlish figure?” joked Dillon. Andy already had a mouth full of food. He shrugged his shoulders inquisitively.

“Yeah.” Hunter smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Trying to turn over a new leaf. Been eating too much crap lately.”

“I should probably do the same thing.” Dillon grabbed a fry as he said it.

“Me too,” added Andy, barely able to get the words out, his cheeks looking like Dizzy Gillespie’s. Hunter and Dillon looked over at Andy and laughed.

Dillon leaned back, rolling up his sleeves and soaking up the sun. “I can’t believe this weather. It’s incredible.” It was picture perfect. The clear blue sky seemed oddly tropical, with the latest additions to the Philadelphia skyline—Mediacast Tower and Cira Centre—soaring proudly in homage to capitalism.

Andy stopped chewing long enough to notice the weather. “First day of spring,” he observed.

“No shit,” fired back Dillon and shook his head in disbelief.

“I’m just saying.” Andy pouted like a little boy and took out a
Terminator
-style pair of sunglasses. He put them on with precision. “That’s better.”

“Good idea,” said Hunter. “I’m struggling here.” He continued to squint.

Dillon checked them out. “Dude, you look like a frickin’ serial killer in those things.” Andy looked around and up, moving his head mechanically as if he’d just landed on planet Earth for the very first time. Dillon glanced at Hunter, fighting back more laughter at Andy. “Here’s the deal.” Dillon slipped into a deviant tone. “Why don’t the three of us skip out and shoot down to AC for the rest of the day.” AC was short for Atlantic City, New Jersey. “Get our weekend started off on the right foot. We can hit the poker tables and grab a few cocktails at Bally’s new beach bar. It’s probably going off today, and supposedly the bikini-clad waitresses are smoking hot.”

Hunter watched Andy perk up.
He never knew life at Whitman Packer could be so adventurous and exciting.
“You want to play hooky?”

“I do,” Dillon replied with conviction. “Can you guys handle it?” He looked at Andy and then Hunter, challenging them. “There’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate if I go back. Mancini’s got me reviewing Microsoft discovery. My head’s getting ready to explode.”

“Microsoft?” asked Andy with a tinge of jealousy to his voice.

“That’s great Mancini’s going to you for that, though,” said Hunter, sincere. “The three of us know anything Microsoft is off limits to amateurs.”

“Why don’t I ever get picked for that kind of stuff?” Andy seriously wanted to know.

Before Dillon came back with a smart-ass remark, Hunter reassured him. “It’s only a matter of time, Andy. Just keep pumping out quality work.”

Andy nodded in understanding. He appreciated Hunter’s support.

“I can put in a good word for you,” offered Dillon arrogantly, half-joking.

“Don’t,” said Hunter and Andy at the same exact time. They shared their own laugh, appreciating each other’s good instincts.

“I’m not feeling the love today, guys,” joked Dillon. “Anyway, so what do you say? Let’s get out of Dodge. I’m willing to bet none of the partners are working this afternoon. We can head down in Andy’s new Mustang.” He stared at Andy. “It’s a convertible, right?”

“Nope. Went with the hardtop.” Andy turned red.

“You’re kidding,” replied Dillon in disbelief. “Who buys a Mustang with a hardtop?” he asked himself, shaking his head. “Let me guess. The wifey—”

“Leave the poor guy alone,” interrupted Hunter.

“Okay, Dad.”

“We should head back. I’ve got a summary judgment motion to crank out,” said Andy. The reality of life as an associate with two thousand hours minimum billing seeped back into the conversation. Fantasizing about escaping for the afternoon had been fun while it lasted.

Dillon was still selling. “You and me?” he asked Hunter, already knowing the response.

“Sorry. I’d love to, but I’ve got too much on my plate right now. Plus I’ve got dinner plans with Sheila.”

“Dude. You’re the man. I can’t believe you’re hooking up with a judge.” Andy shook his head in admiration. “Plus, she’s hot as shit.”

“I wouldn’t mind being held in contempt by her,” added Dillon in his sleaziest voice.

Hunter smiled. “Sometimes I can’t believe you both are married men.”

“Believe it,” responded Andy. “This is exactly how married men are.” Andy sounded particularly sage in the moment.

S
IX

B
ack at the firm, Hunter realized just how right Dillon had been. The place was a veritable ghost town. Whitman Packer owned a twenty-eight-story building on the seventeen hundred block of Market Street. It was a modern building, mostly glass and executed in a somewhat predictable and bland rectilinear shape; nothing so exotic that it would turn off the stuffier clientele. It was completed less than two years ago, and the architect was some famous Danish guy who couldn’t resist lending it a bit of European flair, which Hunter was sure only pissed off the union guys who had to build the goddamn thing. Basically, Whitman had been in dire need of revitalization, and its latest incarnation came in the form of a whole new look. That’s the way it goes in the law biz. Appearances are everything.

The firm was founded in the late 1800s by a few Harvard lawyers and for more than a century was known as one of the stodgiest firms in town. The old office, which was composed of a dozen or so floors in a skyscraper up about a block on the same street, could’ve easily passed for a swanky Ivy League men’s club. All the mahogany wood and leather one could stomach. It had the whole nine yards: miles of oriental carpeting, brass, and antique lamps at every turn, crystal glasses for the clients, and occasional partner boozing to celebrate bagging an elephant client or securing a major trial verdict.

Over the past decade, though, some of Whitman’s competitors started to change their image, abandoning that old-world feel for a sleeker and more updated vibe. They were stepping into the twenty-first century, if you will, rolling with the times. Kruger, for instance, Whitman’s arch-nemesis, moved from the business district of the city up to Thirtieth Street rail station into a new ultra-modern skyscraper. Somewhere along the way, the in-house marketing gurus also shortened the name of the firm from Kruger Green & Conduit to just Kruger. It was a concerted PR effort to distinguish itself from the rest of the pack.

And it worked like a charm. The moniker Kruger in Philly now was to law what Lady Gaga was to music and Brad was to Hollywood. Whitman and Packer were the only two surnames remaining in the name of Hunter’s firm, the marketing people having whittled it down from Whitman Packer Prince & Dubow. They probably would’ve stripped it all the way down had it not been for fear of an infringement suit by the ubiquitous chocolate company bearing the same name.

The hierarchy of the firm was not much different from Whitman’s rivals. It was your typical modern-day caste system structure disguised as egalitarianism. There were the “touchables,” and then there were the “untouchables” of the firm. The higher up you went, the more expensive the real estate became per square foot and the more powerful the lawyers got. Needless to say, the firm’s inner circle of equity partners, the heaviest hitters, occupied the very top floor, twenty-eight. They were the department chairs, executive committee members, and of course, Whitman’s most “touchable” himself, its managing partner, an Armani-wearing power broker by the name of Albert Mancini. Mancini chaired the litigation department and fired off directives from the swankiest office in the joint. It was easily nicer than most condos in the city, which certainly included Hunter’s walk-up a few blocks south of Rittenhouse Square. One can only imagine the intimidation factor.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, Whitman’s subterranean and lower levels were dedicated to the mail-roomers, maintenance, and kitchen staff. These were mostly immigrants and burnouts who’d smoked one too many joints back in the day. By the looks of it, a few were still tokin’. These were the firm’s “untouchables.” Hunter’s office was a modest shoebox of an office on fifteen. That was where the firm’s senior associates passed the days. Dillon and Andy were up there too, with offices along the same corridor, the side with the better city views. Newcomers to fifteen, those associates just settling into their senior status, were relegated to the other side of the floor, which backed up to Market Street.

After lunch, the three of them passed the security desk, which was manned by an affable black single mother of two, Markita Sims. Markita, sporting the usual navy blazer, was one of those people who always managed to stay upbeat no matter the adversity she was facing. Her smile was downright infectious.

“Long lunch, boys?” asked Markita, pretending to be nosy but just making friendly conversation. Most of the lawyers who passed her weren’t the world’s most socially adept people.

“Not long enough,” replied Dillon.

“Tell me about it,” added Andy, complaining just to be cool. He wasn’t fooling anybody, though. It was obvious he loved every minute of his eighteen-hour days.

“Hi, Markita,” said Hunter. “Any big plans for the weekend?”

“I’ve got a date,” she said, perking up.

Hunter raised his eyebrows. “A date? And who’s the lucky man?” He was genuinely happy for her. Markita had been enduring child custody and support issues with the father of her children ever since Hunter could remember.

“Not a deadbeat. That’s for damn sure.” She laughed. “Plus he’s kinda cute.”

“Nice to see you’re finally learning from your mistakes,” jabbed Dillon.

“Sounds like a real catch,” encouraged Hunter.

“Not as cute as you, though.”

Hunter smiled. “You’re far too kind.”

“Any of the partners back in the house?” asked Dillon, his tone colored by mischief and a fake b-boy style. Dillon was a self-proclaimed information junkie.

“I haven’t seen any,” said Markita discreetly.

“You’re the best,” said Dillon. “And I don’t care what raunchy jokes they’re tellin’ about you down in the mailroom.”

“You’re bad,” she said. Pointing at Dillon, she warned the other two, “I’d stay away from this crazy one. That boy’s crazier than a bedbug.”

The four of them laughed it off.

“Have a great weekend,” chimed in Andy, anxious to get back to the grindstone.

The elevator opened at fifteen, and the triumvirate headed back to their offices. They walked through the hallway, which resembled a corridor in a first-rate museum of modern art. Glass walls encased the perimeter. Industrial material resembling blond hardwood deadened the sound of footsteps. Incomprehensible post-modern art adorned the walls. The administrative staff, which included paralegals and legal secretaries, was clumped together in generously sized workstations. The support at Whitman and the other white-shoe firms in the city was the mortar that held those places together. They knew far more than most associates and made a pretty penny compared with the other firms. A couple—the ones who worked for the top partners—were pulling down six-figures easily.

Andy, the anxiety unmanageable by this point, broke away. Meanwhile, Dillon followed Hunter, stretching out his break as long as possible. Hunter’s paralegal, Debbie Jones, whose station was just a few feet from his door, typed away on her keyboard. Dillon, acting suave, interrupted Debbie, who was mid-keystroke. Hunter, who after four years knew Debbie better than most, could tell she was annoyed. She couldn’t stand Dillon, but Dillon was too self-absorbed and arrogant to make the connection. “You’re working way too hard for a Friday, Deb.” Debbie looked up begrudgingly and bit her tongue. “Let me know if Hunter is cracking the whip too hard.” Dillon was all about the double entendre. Sexual innuendo.

“Oh, okay. I’ll be shua to keep that in mind.” Debbie spoke with a noticeable South Jersey accent. She had a pleasant way about her; even her sarcasm sounded polite. She was in her late twenties and attractive, looking like Demi Moore in
St. Elmo’s Fire.
Even her long, brown hair was crimped, with outdated bangs. Her exceedingly jealous husband, an auto mechanic, had been out on disability ever since Hunter could remember.

Her radiant blue eyes turned toward Hunter with a calm sense of urgency. “Mr. Mancini stopped by.”

“He did? Shit.” Hunter gathered his thoughts. “When?”

“Little after one.”

Hunter checked his watch: 1:29.
What if it’s about the sanctions order? If I didn’t get the injunction in Mediacast?
Maybe he was blowing this out of proportion. He tried to stay calm and rational. He’d been at Whitman for about seven years already and had gotten to know Albert Mancini a little. And as far as Hunter knew, Mancini was relatively apathetic about him, which was the way you wanted it with Mancini. Hunter had never seen him get excited about any of the other associates—except for Todd Stevens, who was notorious for being the biggest brownnoser in the firm. But Hunter had seen Mancini lose it with associates. And one mistake with Mancini was all it took. Associates were expendable. There was always someone smarter, with better credentials and better connections, and who was more eager. With about a one-in-fifty shot of making it to partner, the stakes were exceedingly high. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“Nah. Just said to come up to his office when you’re back. But to call first.”

“Right.”

“Big Al,” chimed in Dillon, breaking the tension. Hunter smiled but kept ruminating over why Mancini could’ve possibly made a personal appearance. Mancini had never sought Hunter out directly before. The best thing he could come up with was that Mancini already knew the outcome of the Mediacast hearing.

“Thanks.”

Debbie smiled nervously, obviously concerned for him.

Hunter wanted to be left alone to compose himself, but Dillon followed him into the office anyway. For a firm of Whitman’s stature and wealth, with offices in major cities the world over, one might assume a senior associate under consideration for partner would enjoy at least some degree of luxury. That was clearly not the case, though. In fact, like the seats in coach, these offices were barely functional. Spartan was more like it. They were clearly designed with an eye toward maximizing the billable hour count at the firm. They were not large enough to be distracting, but had just the right amount of density. An oversized, sycamore L-shaped desk dominated nearly half the space. Piles of motions and pleadings covered the main section of the desk, which faced the modern metal and intentionally uninviting guest chair. A flat-panel monitor, computer mouse, and Lexis-Nexis coffee mug rested on the other part. Rows of reddish-brown case files called redwells littered the floor, along with a couple of banker boxes. A light wood bookshelf, filled with manuals and rulebooks, adorned one of the interior walls, making the narrow opening between the wall and the end of the desk damn near impassable.

Individual expression came in the form of bobbleheads, randomly placed on the shelf at eye level; one was of David Beckham, the international soccer sensation. The others were players with the Philadelphia Flyers, Hunter’s favorite Philadelphia team. There was also a smattering of family photos taped to the wall near the computer display. A couple awards and degrees were hung unpretentiously.

Hunter squeezed past the desk and sat at the black leather desk chair.

“Let me just refresh my inbox,” he said as he clicked the mouse. Dillon stood in front of the bookshelf. He already had a bobblehead in hand, playing with the spring-action plastic head with fetish-like persistence. Hunter swiveled in the chair and faced Dillon. “What do you think he wants?”

“God only knows.” Dillon rolled his eyes. Mancini was a bit of an enigma. Then Dillon had an idea. “I wouldn’t worry about it, though. He’s got to give you some props for Mediacast. Just pray the sanctions thing doesn’t come up. And don’t bring it up, either. The dude’ll never find out. I guarantee it.”

“You sound pretty confident.”

“You’ll see.”

“If you say so.”

Then Hunter diverted his gaze momentarily.

Dillon sensed something was wrong. “What is it, man?”

“I lost. I just know it,” confessed Hunter.

Dillon wrinkled his brow in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me? Russo might be a prick, but he knows where his bread is buttered, if you know what I mean.”

Hunter looked past him and let out an ironic laugh. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Fuggetaboutit,” Dillon replied, doing his best Soprano-land accent.

“Whatever happens, it’s a small price to pay for serious partnership contention.”

“You think Russo knows about you and Judge Primeau?” Dillon asked.

“I highly doubt it. She’s pretty discreet about that sort of thing.” Sheila wasn’t the type to kiss and tell, especially with a judgeship on the line.

“But you can’t be positive?” cross-examined Dillon.

“I’m telling you.”

“You haven’t known her that long. I don’t care what you think.”

“I guess you’re right,” he conceded.

“Maybe some of those negative vibes you’re pickin’ up on are out of jealousy—i.e., the old coot’s got a hard-on for her and knows you’re bang…” Dillon caught himself, “…dating her.” The image of a naked Judge Russo chasing Sheila around the bedroom made Hunter queasy. “Look, the way I see it,” brainstormed Dillon, “if you want a guarantee, have Sheila talk to him…”

“Are you nuts?”

Dillon put the bobblehead back on the shelf, taking his cue. “Suit yourself.”

He knows I’d never go down that road.

As Dillon turned to leave, he offered an insincere, “Good luck” on his meeting with Mancini.