Authors: Michael A Kahn
Face Value (5 page)
Happy law firms are all alike; every unhappy law firm is unhappy in its own way.
Tony Manghini
Manager of Office Support Services
Warner & Olsen, LLP
Dick Neeler grinned and nodded. “I love it.”
It had taken me three days to get to his officeâthree days of brainstorming and meetings and phone calls. Lots of phone calls. But here we wereâBenny Goldberg as the spokesperson for Washington University's School of Law, me as the attorney for Sari Bashir's family, and Jerry Klunger as the designated representative of the law firm's staff.
Dick Neeler was a partner in the firm's intellectual property group. He and I had occasionally sparred over copyright disputes, although we'd always been courteous with each other. But more crucial for my purposes today, Neeler was on the Warner & Olsen marketing committee and, even better, chair of the firm's hiring committee, which meant he oversaw the firm's efforts to recruit new lawyers.
Law firms headquartered in St. Louis have learned that despite their national aspirationsâWarner & Olsen's slogan: “Midwest Values, Global Reach”âtheir best hiring prospects are local. While, yes, the occasional Harvard or Stanford graduate might opt to return to St. Louis, usually for family reasons, it was far more efficient for St. Louis firms to focus their recruiting efforts on St. Louis law schools and the University of Missouri in Columbia. Thus it was best to appoint a hiring chair who could connect to those students.
Dick Neeler was the ideal choice. First, his persona was just right: he was a relentlessly affable and totally nonthreatening balding guy in his late thirties who had started his career at Warner & Olsen as a summer clerk and was absolutely convinced that there was no finer law firm on the planet. He reminded you of the rush chair at a college fraternity, which is actually what he had been, according to one of the framed photos on his wall. Just as important, Dick Neeler had the right academic pedigree for the job. He was a graduate of the Washington University School of Law, taught an advanced trademark seminar at St. Louis University, and was a fanatic Mizzou sports fan, having gone there as an undergrad. He was a past president of the Tiger Club of St. Louis and drove a custom gold-and-black Lexus with University of Missouri alumni license plates.
Neeler was, in short, the perfect tool for getting the law firm's higher-ups to approve the Sari Bashir tribute video proposal. Better yet, he was sufficiently clueless to serve as the figurehead for the project without ever suspecting any ulterior motive.
“This is super,” Neeler said. “A beautiful homage to her and, frankly, a terrific opportunity for the firm. Great idea, Rachel.”
I gestured toward Jerry Klunger, whose massive body was squeezed into the chair on my right. “Jerry is a big part of this.”
“Nice work, big man,” Neeler said, pronouncing it
big mon
, for some reason that he must have assumed sounded hip.
Jerry blushed. “Thank you, Mr. Neeler.”
“And obviously,” I said, nodding toward Benny, “the law school is on board.”
“Professor,” Neeler said, pointing his index finger at Benny and giving him a wink, “you da man.”
Benny simply nodded, his expression neutral. To say I'd been nervous about bringing him to this meeting was an understatement. I'd tried to make Benny understand that his assessment of Neelerâ“a total fucking douchebag”âwas actually a good thing for us. But Benny has what charitably could be described as filter issuesâissues that date back at least to his infamous deposition incident when we were both young associates at Chicago's Abbott & Windsor. He had gotten fed up with opposing counsel's constant objections. Finally, after yet another objection, Benny got to his feet, leaned across the table, and informed his opponent
on the record
: “If you open that pie hole of yours one more time today, Norman, I am going to rip off your head and shit in your lungs.” That portion of the deposition transcript became Exhibit A to the other side's motion for sanctions, and, ultimately, an urban legend of the Chicago Bar.
Neeler said, “Oh, boy, this really hits a home run with our diversity goals, too. A tribute for an Arab associate. Like, wowie wow wow, eh?”
“She was an American citizen,” I said.
“Sure, but she was also Muslim. Allah and all that nutty stuff. It works. Believe me, it works like a charm. Allah akbar.”
With his nodding and grinning and rocking back and forth, all Neeler needed was a yarmulke and
tallis
to pass for a crazed Orthodox Jew at prayer.
“So her father's already on board, eh?” Neeler asked.
“I spoke with him yesterday,” I said. “He was touched by the idea. He wants to help. He said he would ask Sari's relatives to participate, too.”
“That is totally awesome, Rachel. Totally!”
He leaned back in his chair, smiling. “If we can have this video ready before the hiring season next fall, think of the killer PR for the firm. And not just locally. We can have our marketing folks get that baby out to the legal pressâ
Above The Law
,
The Wall Street Journal Law Blog
,
The American Lawyer
. Grab ourselves some national coverage with this bad boy. Unbelievable.”
I forced a smile. “Nice.”
I had to wonder about the actual recruiting value of the video. Especially if Sari's death remained a suicide. What kind of message did that send? “Warner & OlsenâA Law Firm To Die For.” Or maybe “Warner & OlsenâTil Death Do Us Part”?
In as deferential a voice as I could muster, I asked, “What do you recommend we do next, Dick?”
Neeler leaned forward and rubbed his hands together. “Your timing is perfect. Better than perfect. The executive committee meets the day after tomorrow.”
He leaned back and pointed his thumbs at this chest. “Yours truly is on the agenda. I'm scheduled to make a presentation on next year's recruiting strategies. You've given me the featured item. I'll work up a budget, present it at the meeting, and by next week I'm hoping we'll have this sexy baby green-lighted. Oh, yeah.” He leaned forward, eyes wide. “Lights, camera, action, dawg!”
“Dawg?” Benny said.
I shrugged.
“A total fucking douchebag,” he said.
“But he's our douchebag,” I said. “If he can sell this project to the higher-ups, that's a big step forward.”
“But just one step.”
“I know.”
“Still, the guy is a piece of work. And the name? Dick Neeler? Are you kidding me? Dick, meet my friend Jack Meoff. Are you any relation to Pat Maweiny?”
We entered the garage from the walkwayâthe same one Sari entered on her last night, the same one for which Tommy Flynn had generated the data for that night. This was mid-afternoon, though, and you didn't need a cardkey to enter.
At the garage exit down below, I handed the ticket to the attendant, who confirmed that it had been stamped by Warner & Olsen and raised the gate.
“So, Rabbi Gold, what's next?”
“Let's first see if Neeler can deliver. Then we can figure out the best way to proceed.”
Neither Sari's father nor the dean of the law school knew the other reason behind the tribute video. As far as either man knew, the sole goal was to create a mini-documentary celebrating Sari's life and featuring interviews with friends, family, and colleagues. What they didn't know was that those colleagues would include the four lawyers from the firm who had entered the garage from the walkway after nine p.m. that night. Nor did they know that another goal of the tribute video was to capture those four lawyers on video answering certain specific questions prepared by Stanley Plotkin.
“So where do you stand?” Benny asked. “Are you a true believer?”
“I'm still an agnostic. I'm looking for closure more than anything else.”
“Even if it turns out to be exactly what the cops concluded?”
“If the doubts are resolved, I'm okay. I like the idea of getting those four lawyers on video for Stanley to study.”
I shrugged. “But if at the end of the process, at the conclusion of whatever might qualify as our investigation, I'll be happy if all we have is a beautiful tribute to Sari for her family and friends.”
“Your video idea is brilliant,” Benny said. “To quote that douchebag, âbetter than perfect,' dawg. But I'm hoping for your sake the result confirms suicide. You start turning up some suspicious shit, girl, and you could find yourself in some deep shit.”
“To quote you: âone step at a time.'”
I turned onto the Forest Park Expressway.
“Speaking of pieces of work,” Benny said, “your buddy Stanley Plotkin is one helluva piece of work.”
“True.”
I smiled at the memory of the meeting I'd convened that morning to introduce Benny to Stanley and Jerry. Although I set the meeting at Stanley's house in the hope that it would put him at ease, he stood throughout the meeting and stared at the bookcase until, near the end, Benny said, “Stanley, I understand you're a fan of facial actions, eh?”
Stanley leaned back from the book case, stretched his neck, and turned toward Benny.
“If by the term
fan
,” he said in a loud nasal voice, “you have in mind an enthusiastic and raucous devotee, typically an emotionally fervent spectator at a sporting or cultural event, or an ardent and often obsessive admirer of a celebrity, such as that Kardashian woman with the enormous gluteus maximus, or a genre, such as science fiction, then no, Professor Goldberg, I am not a fan of the Facial Action Coding System. I am, however, intrigued by the system and what it reveals about human nature and emotions. I am an admirer, albeit not at the zealous level, of Paul Ekman and Wallace V. Friesen, who created the most comprehensive version of the coding system. The current version of their manual includes an additional author contributor, one Joseph C. Hager. Nathan Sanford, however, received no credit, and perhaps deserves none. Interesting, however, that his namesake received thirty electoral college votes in the 1834 election, losing out to John C. Calhoun, who received 182 votes.”
To which Benny had replied, after a long pause, “Sorry I asked.”
I took the Washington U exit to the law school and pulled up to the entrance
“You're coming to dinner, right?” I said.
“Your mom's making her stuffed cabbage, right?”
“Just for you, boychik.”
“Oh, my God. Just thinking about it is giving me a chubby.”
“Out of the car. You are truly disgusting. See you at six.”
Tonight it was Sam's latest favorite bedtime book, William Steig's
Sylvester and the Magic Pebble
. I'd read it to him each night for at least the last three weeks.
“â¦âMr. Duncan put the magic pebble in an iron safe.'”
I paused and glanced over at Sam, who was staring at the page as he pressed his blankie against his cheek. The illustration showed Sylvester Duncan, a donkey, curled up on the couch, eyes closed, in the embrace of his mother and father.
“âSome day they might want to use it,'” I read, “âbut really, for now, what more could they wish for? They all had all that they wanted.'”
I closed the book and reached over to turn off the lamp. I kissed my son on his forehead and then again on his nose.
“I love you, Sammy,” I whispered.
“I love you, too, Mommy.”
I turned toward Yadi, who was in his usual bedtime spot, curled up on the comforter at the foot of Sam's bed. Yadi jogged with me in the morning and walked with me before bedtime, but the rest of his life was devoted to Sam. He was our four-year-old collie-shepherd mix. He had one straight German shepherd ear, one floppy collie ear, and a sweet and gentle temperament unless you were a stranger approaching Sam or me, at which point he transformed into a truly intimidating junkyard attack guard.
“Good night, Yadi,” I whispered.
He looked up, thumped his tail twice, and settled back down with a sigh.
I gave Sam a hug. “Sleep tight, little guy.”
As I came down the stairs, I could hear Benny and my mother in the kitchen.
“So maybe he is a genius,” Benny was saying. “But he's also totally wacky. A real nut job.”
“He has problems,” my mother said. “Such a sad situation. His two older brothers would make a mother proud. One is a doctor, the other a rabbi. Who could ask for more? And then there's poor Stanley. Barely got through high school because of all of his tsuris. But a smart boy, Benny, and not just with that Electoral College stuff. He knows classical music like the back of his hand. And zip codes? You have no idea. I'm telling you, he could teach that Alex Trebek a thing or two.”
“Alex Trebek, eh? There's a universal standard. Jesus, Sarah, no one needs to know fucking zip codes. That's why Al Gore invented the Internet. I've met Stan the Man. He's meshuggah. Just because you play mahjong with his mother is no reason to let him anywhere near Rachel. Now he's got her in the middle of his craziness.”
“What craziness?” I asked with a smile as I walked into the kitchen.
Benny rolled his eyes. “The evils of mahjong.”
I joined them at the kitchen table, where Benny had already consumed almost an entire platter of my mother's kamishbroidt, a crunchy Yiddish cousin of the Italian
biscotti
.
My mother held up a teacup and saucer. “Some tea, doll baby?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
She poured me a cup of tea.
I took a bite of a kamishbroidt. “Mmmm. Delicious.”
It had been four years since Jonathanâmy husband, Sam's fatherâdied in a plane crash. My mother, God bless her, quit her job and moved in to help me raise Sam and my two stepdaughters, Leah and Sarah. Eventually, my mother sold her condo and moved into our coach house in back. Leah is now a junior at Brandeis University, and Sarah is a freshman at Wisconsin. Although the two girls call me Rachel, all three of my kids call my mother Baba, which is Yiddish for grandmother. Their Baba is hard-headed and opinionated and sets high standards for her grandchildren. Don't ask the girls how many times their red-headed Bobba made them rewrite their college application essays. Though she can exasperate me like no other human on the face of the earth, we all adore her. Even me.
She plays bridge on Monday nights, mahjong on Tuesday, poker on Thursdays, and works out three days a week at the J, where she has her own fan club of suitors among the retirees who exercise there. The feisty Widow Gold the Elder has already turned down close to a dozen marriage proposals.
“So?” my mother said to me. “What's the next step?”
“We wait,” I said.
“For what?”
“To see whether her law firm approves the video tribute.”
“When will you know?”
I shrugged and looked at Benny. “A couple days?”
He nodded.
I smiled. “Meanwhile, tomorrow I dive back into the fish tank.”
“The Barracuda?” Benny said.
“Yep.”
“What?” my mother said. “You're suing a fish?”
“Worse,” I said. “I'm suing a doctor. His lawyer's the fish.”
“Actually,” Benny said, “his lawyer's a schmuck.”
“His name is Barry Kudar,” I said. “His nickname is Barracuda.”
“So what's tomorrow?” Benny asked.
“A deposition.”
“Who?”
“The doctor.”
“I thought you took his deposition already.”
“I did. This is the follow-up.”
“On what?”
“His financial records.”
Benny smiled. “Ah, yes. The punitive damage claim.”
I nodded.
“What doctor is this?” my mother asked.
“Jeffrey Mason,” I said. “Heart surgeon and sexual harasser.”
“Rachel represents the nurse he groped.”
“Sofia Garcia,” I said.
“Groped?” my mother said.
“Groped, propositioned, and harassed.”
“This doctor. Not a Jew, I hope.”
I smiled. “Not a Jew, Mom.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“I assume the doc is loaded,” Benny said.
“My lips are sealed,” I said. “The one thing the Barracuda got from the judge was a protective order to keep the doctor's finances confidential.”
“Sexual harassment,” my mother said. “In the operating room?”
“And elsewhere,” I said.
“That's terrible. What does the hospital say?”
“They settled,” Benny said. “Rachel sued them, too. Your daughter's one tough broad. The hospital paid up and got out.”
“Well, you make sure that fish behaves tomorrow.”
“I'll try, Mom.”