Justice Hunter (4 page)
L
ess than twenty minutes later, Hunter was sitting across from the firm’s chairman, Al Mancini. They were in the palatial office, with a dictator-sized desk separating them. He’d only been in the Great One’s office one time before, and it was as intimidating as hell. The first time was during a tour after the big move to the new building. With the sun radiating against the looming towers of glass encasing the gargantuan corner space, it was like an obscenely large, flawless diamond on display for the masses to fawn over. It had infinite city views on two sides, a sleek, hotel-caliber seating area, and plasma displays forming a war room command-style center. An indoor putting green was buried in a deep recess of the room, entirely gratuitous.
Mancini exuded a sense of calm as he eyed up his prey, reclining slightly into the ergonomically perfect Herman Miller chair. His white shirt was pressed flawlessly, with French cuffs and silver links. A shimmering silk, royal blue tie screamed power. His hair was closely cropped and his features large. Mancini, with a face vaguely reminiscent of Mickey Rourke’s, was in his late forties and attractive in a rugged sort of way. Piercing blue eyes scanned the contents of a file he held casually in one hand.
Mancini dropped the folder and glanced up with the poise and stealth of a rattlesnake. The smile, revealing a crooked front tooth, was sedate and powerful. “Thanks for meeting me on such short notice. I know you’ve got a few different irons in the fire down there.”
“Of course, sir,” said Hunter, trying to keep his nerves at bay.
“Especially that Mediacast matter,” added Mancini.
Hunter nodded.
“And you can do away with the formalities. You probably don’t know this about me, but I’m not a fan of all the pomp and circumstance.”
“All right, then,” acknowledged Hunter.
“Relax,” ordered Mancini. “No need to be so nervous.”
“I’m all right.”
“Okay. Good. So who is Hunter Gray?” Mancini asked.
“Is that a trick question?”
“No, it’s not. No need to overanalyze.”
“All right. Well, I don’t think I’m too complicated. Pretty much an open book.”
“Is that so? What does Hunter enjoy? Any diversions, avocations?”
“Not really.” Hunter paused, trying to come up with something diplomatic. “I love movies.”
“A buff?”
“Not necessarily. Purely entertainment. I grew up watching movies with my dad. Keeping the spirit alive, I guess you could say.”
“Your father still with us?”
“He’s not.”
“Sorry.”
Hunter acknowledged the sentiment with a subtle nod.
“I lost my parents when I was in high school,” volunteered Mancini.
“That must’ve been tough.”
“It wasn’t easy, I can assure you.”
An awkward pause.
“So,” Mancini said, with a throwaway gesture, “how is the Mediacast matter going so far?”
“Judge Russo heard the request for an emergency injunction this morning, actually.”
“Is that right?” replied Mancini, pretending not to know.
I’m so fucked,
Hunter thought.
“No ruling yet, I take it.”
“Nope.”
“Sounds like Russo. Most thorough judge on the bench. Plus, with the media looking over his shoulder, he’d be wise to take his time with this one.” He paused. “We seem to be on pretty solid ground,” reflected Mancini, as if playing out the result in his mind’s eye.
“I think so.”
“Russo didn’t beat you up too much, did he? I know he can be a tough son of a bitch when he wants to be.” Although these days Mancini’s litigation practice was virtually nonexistent, clearly he hadn’t lost touch with his humble beginnings. He’d probably tried dozens of cases in front of Russo over the years.
“To be frank,” replied Hunter, “I don’t think Russo is my biggest fan.”
“There’s no doubt he’s a stickler for the rules,” he said omnisciently. “Rumor has it you were late this morning.”
Although he wasn’t entirely surprised, Hunter was a bit taken aback by Mancini’s attention to detail.
What are the odds he knows about the sanctions order already?
“I was,” confessed Hunter.
“Any particular reason why?” fished Mancini.
Because I was exhausted from a long night of getting high and screwing one of Judge Russo’s colleagues.
“Nothing justifiable, to be perfectly honest.”
“Well don’t ever fuck up like that again,” chided Mancini. “Especially when it comes to Mediacast. They’re our lifeblood, son. You got that?”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Good. And thank you for your honesty. I’ve heard that about you.” Mancini pressed a button on one of the two telephones before him. “Anyway, don’t worry too much about Russo. He’s a friend to this firm, I can assure you. I’ll smooth things over with him. You’ll be just fine.”
Mancini’s words were reassuring but cryptic as well.
What the hell was he referring to? Run-of-the-mill campaign contributions? Or something more sinister?
There was no doubt Mancini had the clout to call Russo—even make or break the judge come judicial re-election time. But to read the president judge the riot act?
“Anyway, I’m hearing the client’s relatively pleased with how it went,” added Mancini.
Even if he managed a win, which at this point was looking like a long shot, Hunter wasn’t expecting Mancini to get overly excited. Shrewd lawyers like Mancini knew damn well that client satisfaction was little more than a mirage, tempting believers into complacency, which invariably led to being shit-canned at some point down the line.
“Okay,” said Hunter, inwardly breathing a huge sigh of relief. Mancini was playing it cool now but would assuredly fire him if losing the injunction ruffled any feathers over at Mediacast corporate.
Hunter sensed that somebody else was behind him. Mancini didn’t flinch, though.
“Can I offer you a drink?” asked Mancini. An exceedingly attractive Latino staffer was standing desk-side, silver tray in hand. “Gracias, Yazmín.” His accent was convincing, his tone polite.
“Sí, Señor Mancini,” she said, her tone subservient with an ever-so-slight hint of flirtation.
“Arnold Palmer?” offered Mancini.
“Sure.” She extended a dark-toned arm in Hunter’s direction.
“You golf?” The question seemed intentionally sobering.
Hunter shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t.”
“That’s a real shame. You know that I was hoping to get you out there on the links,” he said, arching his brows coolly, feigning disappointment.
It was obvious Mancini was a golfer. As if the synthetic putting green didn’t give it away. He even drank like one. Arnold Palmers, for God’s sake. Hunter was more of a sweater himself: soccer, running, sex with female judges. The truth was that when it came to golf, he thought it was ridiculous how many shit-for-brains did it just to suck up to one another to score business. It was like a bunch of lapdogs doing circles and chasing one another’s tails without ever managing to get a piece of the ass in front. Exhibit A was Todd Stevens, a shoo-in for partner next year and the biggest prick in the firm by a mile.
“You pretty avid?”
“These days, frankly, more than I would want. My handicap got too low, and so I’m losing all kinds of money.” Mancini took a well-mannered sip. Hunter did likewise. “Enough about me, though. The truth is that this firm has made a boatload of money thanks to that game. I know you’re probably thinking it’s cliché. And frankly, I used to think the same thing myself. You might consider me a believer these days, though. And without business, I don’t care how talented you are. You’ve got nothing.”
Hunter couldn’t read Mancini. He wondered where he was going with this meeting. Was Mancini implying that Hunter would need more before he had a real shot of getting the partnership nod? Aside from a matter here and another matter there, Hunter wasn’t exactly what you’d call a rainmaker, especially compared with that piece of crap Todd Stevens, whose daddy’s real estate company was a major client of the firm. Stevens was a tall drink of water and arrogant as hell. He dressed like a Brooks Brothers model and acted like a Hollywood power broker—not to mention that he was banging Hunter’s ex-girlfriend from law school. Not only did he look the part, but he also delivered. He was a goddamn partner’s wet dream.
“Point taken.”
Mancini studied Hunter’s expression and then smiled endearingly. “I like you, Hunter. I think you’ve got a great future here at Whitman. That’s why I called you up here. If anyone’s capable of making rain, my money’s on you.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“You just need a little guidance, which is perfectly understandable. We were
all
there once upon a time. We have a lot in common,” Mancini added. “Both relatively good attorneys, both fierce competitors, both idealistic as hell.” Hunter was taken aback a bit by the accuracy of Mancini’s words. Mancini oozed charisma and was dangerously persuasive. The accolades and worshiping were starting to make sense to Hunter. Not that he’d ever bow down to the guy, but he was impressed, nonetheless. And Hunter always gave credit when credit was due.
“The sometimes-unfortunate reality about what we do, though,” continued Mancini, “is that we’re not necessarily in love with all of our clients. It’s a capitalistic endeavor, though, which means if we’re making money, we occasionally need to pursue a course that isn’t one we can identify with.”
Hunter still didn’t know where Mancini was going with all this, but the words made sense. It was as if Mancini had a window into Hunter’s disillusionment of late. Hunter was feeling burned out and even apathetic at times. Like this morning, for instance. “But that’s why we call it the law
business
. Keeping our clients content as we pursue profits, even ones we can’t necessarily stomach.”
Hunter’s mind kept wandering between that morning’s hearing and his older sister, an aspiring actress slash habitually recovering drug addict. Hunter had gotten word a couple days ago that she had relapsed. “Makes sense,” Hunter replied, pretending to stay focused.
“When I first took up golf, I couldn’t stand the sport. I was a soccer player like you back in the day.” Wait. That wasn’t on Hunter’s résumé.
How the hell did he know that?
“But one of my mentors made me play. And I’ve learned to love the game ever since. I scored my first whale client on the links. The better I got, the more clients I got. As the clients rolled in, the curiosity among the CEOs of some of the biggest companies started to pique. It was a natural progression.
“Enough of that, though,” Mancini said, pushing off from the desk and getting to his feet. Hunter watched as the man, a master of the universe really, approached the dizzying wall of glass. He suddenly went contemplative—the introspection of a leader. “I need your help, Hunter.”
“All right,” he replied, up for the task. The feeling was a mix of flattery and curiosity.
“We’ve got a client—a rather significant client, in fact—that’s managed to get itself into a bit of hot water.” Mancini paused, collecting his thoughts. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
“I think so.”
“Excellent. Because this is serious—virtually a matter of life and death.”
Hunter wished he could see the expression on Mancini’s face, catch the reflection off the glass. But no such luck. Ironically, even with the excruciating glare, Hunter never felt so very much in the dark.
“Y
ou’re familiar with Vito’s Pizza?” asked Mancini, turning on the heel of his Prada loafer.
“Sure.”
Is this guy fucking kidding? Life or death? And now pizza, of all things? Let me guess. Attack of the killer pizzas?
Hunter was tempted to ask. He went with it, though. Everybody knew Vito’s Pizza. It was a Philadelphia institution, located deep in the heart of South Philadelphia, a predominantly Italian American neighborhood. It was a mandatory meet-and-greet destination for every politician, athlete, and movie star who passed through the City of Brotherly Love. The pizza was ranked in the top five nationally by even the most discerning and misanthropic food critics, surpassing even the usual Chicago and New York landmarks.
“Well, it just so happens that Vito, ‘The Vito,’” he said, making quotation marks with his flawlessly manicured fingers, “is making enemies left and right with his crackpot political agenda.”
Vito Armani was the multimillionaire owner of the eatery, which was really more of a glamorized food truck with metal picnic furniture padlocked to the urban concrete. Not that anyone would be stupid enough to steal the damn things—especially not in so-called Mafia country. Hundred-dollar bills stuck up the asses of very dead guys discovered in trunks and all that. Armani was a likable, no-nonsense, and highly opinionated Italian American. The grandson of immigrants who emigrated from the Old Country at the turn of the twentieth century, he was raised on the streets and only knew one thing—unwavering determination.
Reporting about a million pizza pies annually and God knows how many more that were actually tossed, Vito had “fuck-you” money, as Hunter’s father used to say.
May his soul rest in peace.
In other words, Vito could afford to speak his mind. And if people didn’t like it, they could go fuck themselves. That was his philosophy, and it was written all over his gritty, fifty-something features. His right-wing political views were always controversial, and that placed him front and center in the media. He was a media darling, in fact, handsome in a rugged Ray Liotta
Goodfellas
sort of way, always good for sparking debate, which naturally meant better ratings and more money for the fat cats at the top. The extent of Hunter’s experience with Vito was the occasional late-night drunken eating binge at his establishment with his college buddies during his undergrad days at Temple University.
“I’m sure you’re familiar with the controversy over a sign Vito has had hanging at his shop since early this year.”
“Vaguely.” Hunter hadn’t really followed the story too closely. There was more than enough cheap propaganda going around these days. Now that Mancini mentioned it, though,
there was something.
He recalled seeing a bunch of talking heads on one of the local news shows blabbering away about Vito’s audacity, more like valiant patriotism for the right-wingers of the group.
“That’s just fine. I have to admit I didn’t really pay it much mind myself. If it weren’t for my brother, who still lives in the house I grew up in, I probably wouldn’t—” Mancini caught himself, though, sensing he was divulging too much information. After a brief pause, he went on, “Let me refresh your recollection, as we say in the biz.”
Hunter momentarily visualized Mancini as a tyke raised on the mean streets of South Philly. As powerful and polished as he was now, he had a blue-collar streak Hunter had never picked up on before. Like an Impressionist masterpiece, the closer he got, the cruder it became. South Philly roots actually made perfect sense.
“So right there, right in front of the registers at the end of the line, there’s an eyesore of a sign smacking every customer in the face.” There was no indoor seating at Vito’s. All the ordering and food consumption took place outside, which didn’t stop the legions of die-hard customers from braving the elements, come hell or high water.
The pizza was just that fucking good.
“You can picture it? Vito has that one section—his own personal political billboard.”
Hunter knew the area. Like everyone else, though, he’d been either too famished or drunk to even notice.
“The sign, posted right there at the window where the customers pay, says, and I think I’m getting this verbatim,” he said, arching his brows in mild disbelief, “‘Yo! Order in American. This is the USA, my friend.’” Mancini let the words sink in like an anesthesiologist administering the juice.
It wasn’t until Hunter actually heard the words that the shock value registered. Although illegal immigration had been a hot-button political issue for a few years already, reaching a crescendo before the 2008 presidential election, it wasn’t every day that someone actually had the balls to take a stand. Mancini slid a photograph across the desk.
Hunter scrutinized the image. It was a hodgepodge of right-wing conservative sentiment: the American flag, a “wanted” photograph of Bin Laden, and the World Trade Center. Some of the signs, more like handmade computer-generated printouts, were faded from the sun. On the local front, there were tributes to fallen officers and soldiers who had lost their lives over in the Middle East. Directly at eye level, sandwiched between the others, was the controversial sign du jour. It was arguably just an opinion, which everyone knows are like assholes—everybody’s got one.
But something so radical in a place of public accommodation?
“Needless to say, it’s been great fodder for the media. All the pundits and academics are duking it out over the sign’s potentially catastrophic impact. ‘Hate speech’ is how one bleeding-heart liberal referred to it. I want to know what you think, though, Hunter. I’m curious.”
“It’s bold. That’s for sure,” he replied, diplomatically.
“Would it surprise you if I told you the Commission on Human Relations was formally challenging it? The sign, that is.”
“No. Not really. I guess they really don’t have very much of a choice, do they? I’d imagine they’re getting all kinds of heat. Has anyone actually been denied service, though?”
“As far as I know, no.”
Hunter considered the implications. “Interesting,” he muttered to himself, knowing Vito had a solid defense if that was where Mancini was going with this. Not that he necessarily subscribed to borderline xenophobic opinion. But he was paid to think like a defense lawyer. After years of communistic indoctrination, it was ingrained in his psyche, for better or worse.
“Have we ever represented Vito before?”
“Vito?” said Mancini with a chuckle. “No. Never have. And after this case, it’s a sure bet we never will.”
“Not sure I follow.” Although a case like this wasn’t typically in a large firm’s wheelhouse, the constitutional issues that were potentially precedent setting and the resultant publicity were hard to resist. Some of the firms even handled them pro bono.
“Vito’s already lawyered up. Probably did before he hung the damn thing. Real publicity whore. Some overzealous legal nonprofit from down south. Wants to take the thing all the way to the Supremes, if you want my opinion. But he’s not the client I’m referring to.”
“I’m still not sure I…” He paused, processing. “The Human Relations Commission?” Hunter asked doubtfully.
“Precisely. Through our contract with the city. I know it’s not the sort of thing we’re inclined to handle. Normally the financial exposure is much more significant.”
“Seems like a lot of risk for not a lot of reward, if you ask me.”
“Perhaps,” replied Mancini, weighing Hunter’s reaction.
“Like it or not, Vito’s a hero in these parts,” Hunter said.
“It’s already been decided,” Mancini declared, prophetically.
“All right.” But Hunter wasn’t in a position to press the issue.
“Do you think this is something you can handle? It’s a good opportunity for you to get your name out there. Show us you’re partnership material,” added Mancini, dangling the gilded carrot.
As little as Hunter knew about civil rights law and the Commission on Human Relations, he really had no choice. Saying no to Mancini probably wasn’t the savviest career move.
“Sure,” he said with a detectable note of hesitation. “Of course I can.”
“Excellent.”
“Just out of curiosity, though, what’s so dire about the case? You said it was a matter of life and death.”
“We need to figure out how to win this case. They’re not saying it, but I know our contract depends on it. No pressure,” he said facetiously, turning back toward the waterfall of glass, signaling the meeting was over.
Hunter got to his feet. He had plenty of questions, but he knew they’d have to wait.
“See my assistant for the file. And by the way, the hearing’s next week.”
By the way? Is this guy out of his skull? Next week!
Hunter stopped dead in his tracks. “Next week?” Hunter heard his voice crack.
“As in next Thursday.”
“Right.”
“Sorry for the late notice. The goddamn city law department,” Mancini said under his breath. “Let’s just say some of those people wouldn’t last here longer than an hour. Let’s leave it at that. Shall we?”
Mancini’s venting didn’t make Hunter feel any better, though. Of course, the prospect of becoming one of the go-to senior associates was encouraging and seemed to bode well for a partnership bid. Yet Hunter knew it was all a test. Mediacast and the city were obviously key clients of the firm. But these cases weren’t matters of life or death. The worst-case scenario for Whitman was that Hunter would drop the ball, and appeals would be taken, which meant even heftier fees, leaving the firm with a tolerable amount of egg on its face. Mancini certainly had a penchant for persuasion. He would easily smooth things over and get things back to the status quo.
The firm would never give credence to the claim that Hunter had even been in the running for partner, and his status as a lifelong associate would be immortalized throughout the legal community. He’d always have a little untouchable in him—just enough for the firm’s top brass to push him out and find him a painfully dull in-house position with one of its corporate clients. There were close to sixteen thousand lawyers in the city, and there was no reason that number wouldn’t continue to rise precipitously. So the blue-chip firms had to make room for the incoming class of impressionable and unsuspecting associates, only to begin the cycle anew. These were the seasons of associate life at the monolithic firms. And losing a partnership bid was the same as an associate’s eternal Fargo winter.
On the continuum of shitty assignments, there was probably nothing worse than a last-minute Friday afternoon mission impossible. To add insult to injury, the case involved a major client of the firm plus an area of law Hunter knew virtually nothing about. And then, of course, there was the supposedly inconsequential “public relations snafu.”
Maybe the case is a dog. Why did Mancini bring it to me?
Frankly, it seemed like a case better suited for a partner, someone more well-versed in the art of media diplomacy, which Hunter certainly was not. Hunter figured none of that really mattered now. The case was all his, and he had to learn the law in record speed. It was hard enough putting together a case in a month, even when you knew the lay of the land. There was no way around it. He was so royally fucked. A loss would guarantee he wouldn’t get a partnership nod.
“I have faith in you.” Mancini’s voice was barely audible as Hunter exited the cavernous office.
Hunter knew losing wasn’t an option. And so did Mancini. That’s obviously what he meant by
faith.
Mancini didn’t strike Hunter as a man of God. “Thanks.”
Thanks for the fait accompli. This thing was over before it even began.
That’s all there was to it. Case file in tow, all three redwells of it, Hunter pressed the elevator button, all too aware of the fact that the next week would be life altering. By next Thursday, he’d know whether there had ever been a purpose behind the last seven years of his associate existence.