Authors: Sydney Bauer
50
Washington DC
D
avid sat back in the antique leather chair and took in the room around him. He had been led into the library, a cool, darkly furnished space where the only light came from a desk lamp that sat centre right on top of the highly polished walnut desk. The heavy brocade drapes had been drawn against the morning sun, giving the impression that this room sat in an eternal state of evening, where bourbon was drunk and matters of great importance were considered and debated well into the night.
He took a breath as he contemplated exactly how he was going to approach the man he had made this appointment with a mere fifteen hours ago. David had grabbed an early morning shuttle to DC, determined to make the most of what was described by one of Baker's three clerks as a ‘rare window in the judge's overcrowded diary’. He had expected to have more time to plan, but it was made clear to him that audiences with the great man were often booked months in advance – and that this opening would close within seconds unless David made the commitment to be at Judge Baker's Georgetown home at 9 am the following morning, and to be there promptly on time.
The door behind him opened with a swish, the force moving through it pushing past him without even bothering to acknowledge his presence. David was a tall man but even so Baker towered over him like a monolith, his girth just about balancing out his six-foot-five-plus frame. He was wearing a custom-made business shirt that was monogrammed at the cuffs, his chest bordered by old-fashioned braces which corralled the perimeters of his middle and crisscrossed the expanse that was his back.
‘You're Cavanaugh,’ Baker said as he moved behind his desk and reached out with his massive block of a hand. The desk lamp forced his shadow across the back wall which was littered with images of him with every President since Johnson.
Baker shook David's hand with gusto. ‘It's been some time since I had a visitor from Boston, unless you include the Governor and the Attorney General – who I don't consider visitors by the way, but liberal inconveniences.’
David was speechless.
‘It's all right, Mr Cavanaugh, I have no doubt you vote Democrat like most of your Commonwealth's compatriots but I shall try not to hold that against you – unless you support the Red Sox, in which case …?’
‘Worse, sir – I grew up in Jersey, so I'm afraid I am a Yankees Man.’
‘Well, at least you're honest about it,’ said Baker before gesturing for David to take a seat. The big man planted himself in the green leather chair behind the desk, from where he towered over the files and newspapers and the framed family photographs that were grouped on the top right-hand corner of his desk.
‘Let me guess,’ said Baker, not one to let the silence linger. ‘My clerk told you that I had a rare window which meant you had to fly down here on a second's notice in order to nab the spot.’
‘Yes, sir,’ David nodded. ‘And I appreciate your –’
‘That was bullshit, Mr Cavanaugh. Not the rare window thing, god knows my windows are about as rare as those on the Great Pyramid of Giza, but it was I who moved things around in order to meet with you.
Does that surprise you?’
A confused David nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘You represent the Walker woman.’
‘Yes.’
‘The friend of Daniel Hunt's.’
Okay, thought David, surprised by this. ‘Her husband was employed by Hunt and Associates but I am not sure my client would refer to Mr Hunt as a friend.’
Baker's eyes narrowed before they widened once again. ‘What do you know about him?’ he asked.
David shook his head. ‘Hunt is of interest to you?’
‘Of course he's of interest to me. One minute we've never heard of him, the next he is being touted as one of the most influential corporate identities in Massachusetts. He is one of those men people seem to know everything and nothing about, and men like that always pique my interest, Mr Cavanaugh.’
David tried to contain his excitement – could this really be going the way it appeared to be? Had Jim Walker actually made contact with Ted Baker prior to driving south toward Washington? Did Baker know of Jim's suspicions and perhaps already put out some feelers to try and find out what Daniel Hunt was up to?
‘What do
you
know about him, sir,’ David attempted.
‘Ah, but I asked you first, Mr Cavanaugh.’
David nodded. The man was sharp. ‘I know he is incredibly successful, I believe he has created a business centred on self-interest, I think he is smart, calculating …’
‘A rather harsh assessment, Mr Cavanaugh.’
‘I didn't come here to waste your time, sir,’ he said.
Baker nodded before shifting in his chair and leaning swiftly forward across his desk toward David. ‘Tell me, Mr Cavanaugh, what did you expect to gain from this meeting?’
David knew he had to play his cards confidently, so he proceeded to lean forward himself. ‘I was hoping we could compare notes, Judge, on what we both know about Mr Hunt and the workings of his company. As you are probably aware, my client's husband was killed in a car accident late last year – moments south of Baltimore, on his way to Washington DC.’
Baker's expression remained neutral, but his left eyebrow rose just a little. ‘Go on, Mr Cavanaugh,’ he said.
‘We believe he was coming to meet with you, sir, to ask for your help in deciding how to expose Mr Hunt and what Mr Walker believed to be some questionable business practices.’
‘The wife tell you this?’
David nodded. ‘She knew her husband was concerned about it. He was a decent man, what Hunt was doing went against the grain.’
Baker went to smile, but then seemed to think better of it. ‘You think Hunt was insider trading?’
David had to admire the man's ability to cut to the chase. ‘We think that that is a possibility, Judge.’
Judge Baker nodded before relaxing back in his seat. ‘What has all this got to do with your client, Mr Cavanaugh?’
David considered his answer, reminding himself that he had come to DC to get information from Baker, not so that Baker could get information from him. ‘To be honest, at this point we are not completely sure.’
‘Which is why you caught the shuttle to DC,’ said Baker.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You're mere weeks from trial and you're gallivanting up and down the east coast clutching at straws such as this?’ Baker considered him. ‘You must be desperate, Mr Cavanaugh.’
‘I wouldn't say that, sir.’
‘Stupid then.’
‘
Excuse me, sir
?’ David was not sure he'd heard Baker correctly.
‘This is not a remake of Wall Street, Mr Cavanaugh – Oliver Stone did that already and believe me, the sequel was crap. Do you know how hard it is to lodge an investigation against a man such as Hunt? I dare say your client's husband understood the difficulties in doing so which was possibly why he was on his way to see me and not the director of the SEC.’
‘You're saying you wouldn't have helped him?’
‘Of course I wouldn't have helped him. Why should I? I am not some legal eagle for hire, Mr Cavanaugh. I might even go as far as to say that your man, this Walker, was either an idealist or a fool or perhaps even both. So he suspected his boss was insider trading, well, let me tell you, son, every subordinate in every bullish trading house across this
country
suspects their boss is insider trading and most of them are probably right. Despite what the experts have been trying to tell us since the crash of 2008, we are still a capitalist economy, Mr Cavanaugh. We are all about profit and loss and deficit and gain and hopefully more of the latter. If my years on the bench have taught me anything, Mr Cavanaugh, it is that our entire financial system relies on an equal balance of the good and the evil. If Daniel Hunt is guilty of what Mr Walker suspected, then he is just one of many driving our economy to some sort of recovery. Like it or not, men like Hunt are necessary for the survival of said economy, not the politicians who postulate over bailouts and banking reform and the foes of CEOs who lined their pockets with gold. This is not Moscow, Mr Cavanaugh, this is Washington DC. You show me a man who doesn't acknowledge the necessity of entrepreneurs like Hunt and I'll show you a liar, and lies are necessary in the scheme of things, of course – which is why I shall deny everything I have just said to you if I am held to it.’
Baker took a rare breath and the silence settled around them, a peace interrupted only by the distant noises beyond this bunker Baker had created for himself – his workplace, his empire, his home.
‘Listen to me, Mr Cavanaugh,’ said Baker then, his voice softening just a little. ‘You came here for my help and so I will do my best to give it to you considering the mess you appear to be in. If your reputation did not precede you I would have assumed that you were a sap of an attorney with a client who, by the sounds of it, doesn't have a snowflake's chance in hell of ever seeing freedom again. But I have heard otherwise, and I do suspect that you are a lot smarter than you have appeared to be, so my advice to you is that you use that savvy brain of yours and go about doing what you were engaged to do in the first place.’
‘My client is innocent, Judge,’ said David, determined to state his case.
‘Well good for her, but you and I have been around long enough to know that that is not the issue here – and if you have made it so, then you are sorely remiss.’
David went to argue but Baker held up his hand. ‘It's all right. I understand you don't like what you are hearing, Mr Cavanaugh, but if you know what is good for you, and for your client, you will not only listen to me but follow my advice. Negotiate a plea and give your client something to look forward to, even if it is ten years in the future.’
‘That's not what I do, Judge Baker.’
‘Oh I see,’ replied Baker sarcastically. ‘So what is it you
do
do then? Waste your precious trial preparation time by playing slave to idealistic notions that will not only land your client in jail for life but leave you regretting the way you handled things for the rest of your goddamned career?’ Baker shook his head. ‘At least your client will be able to launch an appeal on the grounds of incompetent counsel the moment she is convicted. And she
will
be convicted, Mr Cavanaugh, believe you me.’
David could not think of a word to describe the mix of feelings that engulfed him then. What started out as resentment and frustration and outright rage at the cynical law-maker's opinions soon morphed into a sense of futility and sorrow and grief that a man who had obviously once been great had allowed himself to sink into a pit of unabashed immorality and self-importance. But then a new sensation came over him – a need to show him, and all the others like him, that he was wrong.
‘How old is he?’ asked David then, pointing at the photograph on Baker's desk. The shot was of a one or two-year-old boy. He had blonde hair framing an angelic face and a smile that lit up the otherwise shadowy office.
‘Excuse me?’ said Baker.
‘Your grandson, how old is he?’
Baker hesitated, his cheeks reddening ever so slightly. ‘Edward is seventeen months.’
David nodded. ‘He's named for you.’
Baker nodded.
‘Then it's a pity you leave him no ideals to look up to.’
Baker's complexion blanched but it was David's turn to hold up his hand and silence the great man before him.
‘You think this makes up for your cynical view of our system of justice?’ David gestured at the space around him. ‘The antique desk, the celebrity photo gallery, and the oversized books that sit gathering dust on your shelves? This is bullshit, Judge Baker. You're just a caricature in a scornful little play. You think your attitudes make you a realist, someone who can see the world as it really is, but what they actually do is make a mockery of everything you are supposed to represent by pissing on that flag you've got hanging like a prop in the corner.’ David gestured toward the American flag near the far window. He knew he was getting worked up, but at this point he didn't give a damn.
‘You went to a lot of trouble to predict my client's future, Judge Baker, so let me return the favour and predict the future of that kid who's smiling up at you in that photograph. One day, when he's old enough, he's gonna look on up and realise that he doesn't want any part of his grandfather's contemptuous view of the world. And when that happens, he's not going to feel bitter or resentful or even attempt to set you straight, because by that time he'll know that you're beyond help, and that the only emotion he is capable of feeling toward you and your narrow-minded cynicism is pity.’
Baker said nothing, his eyes now flicking toward the child in the photograph before refocusing on David once again. He swallowed, curled his hands into fists and then, like a bullet from a gun, shot to his feet and placed those fists on the desk before him. He shifted his weight forward, his bulk now arching across the table, to tower over a still-seated David in a no-holds-barred attempt at physical intimidation.
‘You are a major disappointment, Mr Cavanaugh,’ he said, the mildness of such a criticism almost ridiculous given the large man's threatening stance.
David saw it then, an inner rage sparked by the nerve David had hit when he mentioned perhaps the only thing that could move this man – his grandson.
David got to his feet. ‘Not as big a disappointment as you have been, sir.’
‘
Get out
!’ yelled Baker, the floodgates now open. ‘
Get out of my home and never attempt to contact me again.
’
And so David met Baker's eye one last time before he shook his head, picked up his briefcase and made his way toward the door. He left Baker's home understanding that he was leaving with nothing but the knowledge that if his daughter had been old enough, this morning at least, she would have been proud of him.
51
Boston, Massachusetts
T
ed Baker's words echoed in his ears. ‘Cavanaugh was here,’ he'd said. Baker was calm, which was a good thing, but there was still a tinge of panic to his tone. The fact that he was calling while Cavanaugh was still walking down his front steps spoke reams about the depth of Baker's concerns, which on the surface were legitimate, given all the judge had to lose.
Baker had to be reminded who he was talking to, and to a certain extent reassured that nothing led back to him. ‘You said it yourself – Cavanaugh is digging in the wrong backyard.’
‘I don't give a fuck,’ Baker countered. ‘The fact that he is digging at all is unsatisfactory.’
‘Did you pretend to help him?’
‘I gave him my honest opinion.’
‘That his case is screwed?’
‘In no uncertain terms.’
‘It's true.’
‘Then why didn't he believe me?’
‘Because he's a fool who has no idea that he has been played like a fiddle from the outset.’
‘He's not afraid, and we all know that a man without fear makes for the most unpredictable of adversaries.’
‘Then maybe we need to scare him a little.’
‘That's your decision, not mine.’
He laughed. ‘What's wrong, Judge, you worried about getting your hands dirty? Do you regret our doing business?’
A pause. ‘Of course not.’
‘I was thinking,’ said Baker after a short silence, ‘that you owe me. My performance in front of Cavanaugh was nothing short of exemplary. Further, I told him to negotiate a plea – to barter his client's life away and get the hell out.’
So that was it
. ‘Our business was concluded months ago.’
‘It was, but Cavanaugh's interest changes things. How do you plan to deal with it?’
‘I have a plan.’
‘Then you need to move on it – quickly – and you need to compensate me for my protection.’
‘You're suggesting that my dealing with Cavanaugh involves my making some sort of profit.’
‘All of your dealings make you a profit, my friend.’
And he did not bother to dispute it. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said after a time.
‘All right,’ agreed Baker. ‘But if I were you, I would not underestimate him.’
‘It's the fact that I don't which is going to make this so enjoyable,’ he said. ‘Have you seen his wife?’
‘I am ending this call,’ said Baker, which he did, promptly, the beeps of his hang-up sounding like a time bomb counting down to zero.
‘Tick, tock,’ he said to himself then. ‘Time to call Davenport. Time to move.’