“Why didn't you answer?”
“I didn't want to be bothered. It was six thirty in the morning, and I wanted to concentrate on the project that I was working on. I figured that we could always talk later.”
“And he didn't leave a message?”
“No. The second time there was a message, but he didn't say anything and hung up after a few seconds.”
“Weren't you curious?”
“It was early, I hadn't had my coffee yet, and I wasn't ready to get my head around complicated tax issues.”
“So you're sure you didn't meet with Ben at all this morning?”
“No.” Will didn't like the way Detective Kovach had repeated the question.
“So how did Ben manage to have your card key to the office when he went off the roof?”
“I really don't know, but I suppose that Ben or someone else could have entered my office and taken it from my jacket pocket while I was in the library.”
“But you didn't hear anyone else on the floor?”
“I heard a door shut around six forty-five or so, but I didn't see anyone.”
“Tell me how you found the other access card.”
“It was just there in my pocket.”
“You told Lieutenant Morrison on the phone that you realized that Ben was using your access card because you recognized the blue and green cord that was attached.”
“That's right.”
“So why didn't you realize that the key you took with you to go downstairs wasn't yours? It didn't have a blue and green cord.”
“I had just seen someone fall to his death. I was kind of freaked out at that point.”
“So you have the other key with you right now?”
Will nodded and handed over the access card to the detective.
“Why don't you just set that on the desk,” Detective Kovach said. He picked it up gingerly by its edges and dropped it into a plastic baggie that he removed from his jacket. “You know, Will, you have the right to have an attorney present while we have this discussion.”
“Wait a second . . .”
“You know that you have the right to an attorney, right?”
“Yeah, sure. I know my story sounds odd, but I'm telling you the truth. I called you, remember?”
Detective Kovach examined the access card through the plastic bag. “What do you think the odds are that this belonged to Ben Fisher? Pretty good, I'd say, but we'll know soon enough. Or would you prefer to just tell me right now?”
The detective slipped the plastic bag into his jacket pocket. “I've got an idea. Why don't you just tell me the whole truth about what happened this morning?”
“I don't know what happened here, but I'm telling you the truth. I didn't meet with Ben Fisher this morning. And I have no idea how our access cards got switched.”
“Now why would he sneak into your office and do that? What purpose could that possibly serve? He obviously had his own access card.”
“I don't know. Maybe someone wanted to frame me for his murder.”
“Frame you for his murder,” the detective repeated softly. “And I thought I was the one who read too many crime novels. No one said that Ben Fisher's death was a murder. Did I say that?”
“No, but from the tone of your questions . . .”
“I'm sorry, did I have a tone?”
“Maybe I should have a lawyer.”
“No, I think I'm done for right now. But the next time we talk, you'll want to bring a lawyer. And there will be a next time. In the meantime, I strongly recommend that you not tell anyone, other than your lawyer, about the access card thing. It will just make our job more difficult, and it could lead to some press coverage that I don't think you'd like.”
Detective Kovach rose, unfolding himself slowly to his full height. “Oh, and thanks again for the legal advice.”
Watching the detective leave, Will felt dazed, like the time he had cracked the windshield with his head after being struck in a rear-end collision. He had hoped that the police would appreciate the fact that he was coming forward voluntarily with useful information. Instead, Detective Kovach just seemed grateful to have a suspect. The fact that he was innocent should have been a comfort to him, but it wasn't. Innocent men were convicted of murder all the timeâDNA evidence was freeing only the lucky ones. And even the rumor that he was a suspect in Ben's death would be enough to derail his partnership and perhaps his entire legal career.
Unable to concentrate on his work, Will kept turning the facts of that morning over in his head, but they refused to cohere. Why would anyone want to kill mild-mannered Ben Fisher? And if someone wanted to kill Ben, why would they do it at the office when they could have killed him someplace where there was less risk of discovery? Will thought he might know the answer to that oneâwhoever committed the murder wanted Will to be present so that suspicion could be cast on him. But why would anyone want to implicate him in Ben's death?
Will tried to dispel these disturbing questions by immersing himself in the details of the Jupiter-Pearl transaction. He had no choice if he was to be prepared to immediately step in as lead counsel.
Throughout the rest of the afternoon and a late night at the office, Will worked feverishly to get up to speed on the complex deal. He studied the latest draft of the merger agreement. Claire Rowland, a whip-smart young associate who was leading the team of attorneys conducting due diligence, briefed Will on the status of their review. When he was comfortable that he was conversant in the transaction, he called Jupiter CEO David Lathrop at home that evening to assure him that the transition would be seamless and the closing would not be delayed. Lathrop seemed satisfied that Will was being appropriately obsessive about his new responsibilities.
Will fell asleep at his desk sometime around three A.M. He started awake to find that the sun was coming up again over the Oakland hills, just as it had twenty-four hours before when Ben had plunged to his death. Will couldn't remember the dream that had awakened him so suddenly; he just knew that he'd had the sensation of falling from a great height.
THREE
The next morning, another visitor stood in the doorway of Will's office. This time it was Don Rubinowski, the firm's managing partnerâand he wasn't smiling. Will immediately assumed that Don had spoken with Detective Kovach and learned that he was the prime suspect in Ben Fisher's death. If the firm didn't fire him on the spot, they would probably at least ask him to take a leave of absence until he was either exonerated or jailed.
“You okay?” Don asked, detecting Will's agitation.
“Not really,” Will replied.
“Did you sleep here last night?”
“Yeah. Just trying to get my arms around the Jupiter Software merger.”
“It's good to see that you appreciate what's at stake. But I would expect nothing less from you. That's why we gave you the assignment.”
Don Rubinowski had been managing partner for twelve years, quite a run in the world of law firm management. In fact, he had come to be known as “Teflon Don,” impervious to the vagaries of law firm politics and economic cycles. In a firm that was increasingly giving way to casual dress, one of the few lasting changes on law firm life wrought by the Internet boom, Don remained buttoned down and dapper. He wore a charcoal gray bespoke suit with a pocket handkerchief and suspenders. Like those children of the sixties who never quite moved on from that golden time, Don Rubinowski never really left the leveraged-buyout glory days of the late eighties.
“Awful thing with Ben. Just awful. No one seems to know why he did it.” Don stepped into Will's office and shut the door behind him.
Will wanted to tell Don about the switched access cards and his interview with Detective Kovach, but he felt compelled to obey the detective's instruction to keep his mouth shut.
“But I'm not here to talk about Ben,” Don added. “Or the Jupiter Software deal.”
Will felt a sickening jolt, certain that he would soon be leaving the firm to pursue “other opportunities.”
“Will, I'm here to inform you that the executive committee has voted to extend you an offer to join the partnership as an equity partner.”
If he had heard this news yesterday, he would have been ecstatic. Today, he just felt numb. Detective Kovach obviously hadn't shared his suspicions with firm management. When Will realized that a response was expected, he said, “Thanks, Don. I've been looking forward to hearing that for a long time.”
“I thought about waiting to tell you, given what's happened. But I figured the news of the vote would leak anyway. And a bit of good news can't hurt, right?”
Don clapped Will on the shoulder. “Over the years, we've all watched you develop into a superb attorney. You've earned this in spades, and we're all expecting more great things from you in the future. Harvey will provide a package of materials describing the terms of your equity contribution, the changes in your benefits. You know, you won't be an employee anymore. But listen to me, I'm talking like you've already accepted. I don't expect you to answer until you've reviewed the materials.”
“I'll review the materials, but there's absolutely no question. Thank you.”
“Enough with the thank-yous. We're not doing this just because you're a nice guy. You've made a hell of a lot of money for this firm. We want you here for the long haul . . . so you can put a bunch of associates to work and make even more money for all of us. Speaking of which, how's the Catalina Partners deal going?”
There was a limit to Don's supply of congratulatory chitchat, and, with that, it had been reached. Will proceeded to give Don a rote update on the progress of the Catalina deal.
Then it occurred to Will. “Did Ben make partner?”
Don scowled. “No, he didn't. I gave him the news the day before he died. It seemed like he was handling it just fine. He was kind of quiet, but Ben was always quiet. We have no reason to think that it was because of the partnership. I mean, elevation to partner is a great thing, but, c'mon, it's not life and death.”
“No, it's not. Did anyone see him go off the roof? Were there any security cameras up there?”
“No. No cameras on the roof.” Don let out an audible sigh and continued. “Anyway, whatever happened with Ben, it doesn't change the fact that you've done a great job here.”
Don shook Will's hand again, then hurried off down the hallway, clearly anxious to preempt any further conversation about Ben. Will returned to his desk and sank into his black leather chair.
Will tried to recall his most recent conversations with Ben. If Ben had been depressed, it had seemed to be the same low-grade depression that afflicted many of his colleagues. Will had never known anyone who had committed suicide, but he supposed that all such deaths must be, to some degree, inexplicable. He probably just didn't know Ben well enough to recognize his particular unhappiness.
Will found it difficult to imagine that someone would commit suicide over being passed over for partner, but he certainly understood how career goals could turn into obsessions. Will quickly dismissed the idea of suicide because it did not explain why Ben, or someone else, would have entered his office and swapped access cards with him. That action made sense only if someone wanted to frame him for Ben's death.
Besides, Ben couldn't have been that upset about being passed over for partner because he must have known that he was a long-shot candidate to begin with. Although Ben was a brilliant technician, he was a “service” attorney, advising on the tax aspects of mergers and acquisitions for the clients of corporate rainmakers like Sam Bowen and Richard Grogan. Will knew that Ben had missed out on at least one opportunity to land a client, Carlyle Industries, that would have surely propelled him to partnership. Like most legal careers, Ben's had probably turned on the outcome of a few critical moments when he had a shot at landing a franchise client, the kind that made careers and generated millions of dollars in billings. A partner's compensation is based largely on billing credit, and the assignment of billing credit often boils down to a negotiation among attorneys. Although Ben had received the initial call from Carlyle's CEO, Richard Grogan quickly asserted himself as Carlyle's primary contact at the firm, giving him leverage to demand most of the billing credit.
When a client like Carlyle Industries approaches a law firm for representation, it is like a gazelle wandering onto the African savanna within striking distance of a pride of lions. The dominant predators claim the largest portion of the kill. On the Discovery Channel, Richard Grogan would be classified as an apex predator. Richard was at the top of the law firm food chainâhe eats others, but no one in his world eats him. Ben Fisher was not an apex predator, which explained why he did not receive credit for his role in bringing in Carlyle Industries and, later, why he did not make partner.
Will didn't consider himself much of a predator, either, and so he just felt lucky to have survived the partner selection process at a firm that one former colleague had likened to “a nest of tarantulas.” Counting the three years of law school, he had spent the past nine years working toward the goal, nearly a third of his life. For Will, making partner meant that the financial gamble he had taken in borrowing more than $100,000 to go to law school had officially paid off. It also proved somehow that he was not like George, his father. When Will was young, George, an office supplies salesman, had been physically abusive to both Will and his mother. Now George was long gone and Will was paying for his mother's care in a nice, but very expensive, assisted-living facility. Making partner meant money, security, prestige, and never having to undergo another annual performance review. In the parlance of the gangster movies that he loved, Will was now a made guy.