Justice Hunter (5 page)
T
here was only one remedy for Hunter’s Friday afternoon jitters. Prescription drugs such as SSRIs were no match for the peaks and valleys of litigation, not to mention the stress associated with a drug addict sister and a widow for a mother poised to die slowly of a broken heart. Alone.
He stood in front of the huge L-shaped bar at The Blarney Stone, downing a pint of Yuengling beer. The Blarney, a potpourri of furniture and curios from Irish castles and cathedrals, Celtic textiles, and rich, dark wood, wasn’t Hunter’s favorite watering hole in town. In truth, it really wasn’t much of a watering hole at all, just the quintessential yuppie restaurant bar disguised as a commoner’s Irish tavern for the lawyers, bankers, Marlboro-light-smoking doctors, and Ivy League professor types. In Hunter’s eyes, the only redeeming thing about the place was that it was a stone’s throw from the office. Other than that, though, it was overpriced, which naturally meant that Dillon Wright loved the place. Expensive drinks meant attractive and impressionable women. And as for Andy Smith—well, he was the only guy Hunter knew who actually honored his marital vows.
“You’ve got to give Briere his props, though, dude,” said Andy, the perpetual optimist. His voice was tinged with the excitement of knocking a couple back with the guys before heading home to the ol’ ball and chain. He was schoolgirl giddy.
Dillon, vodka tonic in hand, smirked maliciously. “You know what I think?” he asked. “I think you’re in love with the guy.”
Andy’s face reddened with embarrassment as he surveyed the immediate vicinity for recognizable faces. Not that anyone would’ve heard the jab over the din of the five o’clock euphoria and the bar’s army of flat screens.
“Whatever, man.” He finished his beer with a manly swig. Then he pointed at the sexy blonde tending bar with his first two fingers. The effect was that of a nerd trying to look cool. Andy turned to Hunter. “You agree with me, right? This is their year.” It was ice hockey banter, one of the threesome’s enduring topics of interest.
“Sure,” Hunter replied, half paying attention. He was too preoccupied with the Herculean task that lay ahead. One screen showed the five o’clock news, with the closed-captioning transcription forming a steady stream of black and white letters and the occasional spelling error. A fifty-something female anchor moved into the next story, now that the homicides were out of the way. Her eyes conveyed disgust, yet her facial expression remained diplomatic—the newscaster’s version of an opinion.
Footage rolled with images of South Philadelphia, the Italian market, and then Vito’s Pizza. Vito’s controversial sign filled the screen. Then the camera cut to the field reporter, a twenty-something brunette showing as much leg and cleavage as she could get away with. She stood in front of Vito’s Pizza in high heels, the blaring neon sign behind her. The text described the controversy, while a clique of pimply teenagers in the background exploited the chance to get on the boob tube. The reporter, soaking up the notoriety like a beauty pageant contestant, kept a straight face despite the goofy expressions and vulgar sexual gestures by the hooligans. Next came a one-on-one with Vito. A rap-star-worthy gold chain and cross went bling as he smiled confidently, half flirting with the reporter. The camera panned across the street, where protesters shouted and waved anti-hate signs.
“You okay?” asked Dillon as the story ended. The text read, “And back to you…Thanks, Michelle. Coming up, we’ve got Frank Chambers with sports…”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine.”
Dillon ordered another round.
Andy, looking genuinely concerned, chimed in. “What’s up, dude? You want to talk about it?”
“Guys, I said I’m fine,” he said, defensively.
Dillon and Andy shared a look. Andy handed over a frothy pint like medicine to a patient.
“That Vito things is nuts,” Andy commented. “Is that what you were spacing out to? Remember how many late nights we had there back in the day?” he added nostalgically.
Hunter and Andy had been best friends since Temple Law School. They finished in the same graduating class and started together at Whitman.
“I know.”
Dillon, who had gone Ivy, to Penn Law, perked up. “You know, I think we’re involved in that case.”
“No way, dude,” Andy rifled back. “How do you know that?”
Andy was a die-hard Whitman associate. He’d probably lay down his life for the goddamn place. The stature of the firm and its media-worthy cases never ceased to amaze him. Dillon and Hunter, on the other hand, couldn’t give a shit. That was probably one of their connections.
“No, he’s right.” Hunter knew he had to come clean, especially because they were all vying for the same partnership slot. He was never particularly fond of playing the sly fox. And frankly, his friendships meant more than that.
Dillon and Andy whipped around at the same time, staring him down with a look of surprise.
Dillon went first. “And you know this because?”
“I actually just found out about it this afternoon. During my meeting with Mancini,” he said as he glanced at Dillon.
“Dillon told me. We just figured it had to do with Mediacast. That your hunch was right or something. We didn’t want to pry, but I could tell something was up.”
“Didn’t want to press it man,” echoed Dillon. “It’s all such a fucking rat race. Not worth our energy when we’re away from that prison.”
“Don’t worry about hurting my feelings, guys. I’m a big boy.”
“I told you, dude,” said Andy.
“What! You don’t have a brain of your own,” Dillon fired back. As usual, they were bickering like an old married couple.
“Anyway,” Dillon refocused. “So what’s the deal with Mancini, then?”
“He wants me to represent the city in the Vito’s case.”
“Wait. We’re representing the commission?” asked Andy. “We’re prosecuting the case?”
“I guess so. But I thought the same thing myself. Since when do we turn away liable defendants with tons of cash?”
“Anyway. That’s huge, dude!” Andy was thrilled for him. “You’re the man!”
“On behalf of the Human Relations Commission?” Dillon wasn’t so quick to react, as he pondered the case assignment. Dillon’s thoughtful hesitation didn’t bother Hunter, either. He’d always valued Dillon’s well-reasoned and brutally honest opinions.
“Tough case to win. But I think it bodes well for you,” Dillon concluded. “Considering the media backlash against the city for bringing the case in the first place, you should be psyched he picked you.” Dillon paused. Then, with an ominous tone to his voice, he added, “Just don’t beat him too badly.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” replied Hunter, trying to make sense of Dillon’s comment. And then the obvious dawned on him. It was a Mafia thing. He was insinuating the mob’s involvement, a natural reaction when it came to controversy in South Philly.
“You don’t think it’s too risky?”
“Depends what you mean by
risky
.”
“Do I stand a chance of winning the damn thing? Mancini already alluded to some kind of PR problem.”
“No shit. The guy’s a living legend,” said Andy.
“What do you know about the case?” asked Hunter.
“Not too much. But rumor has it the whole thing was trumped up, which I personally find hard to believe. The dude’s a narcissist. Anyway, I’ve heard the suit stems from a personal vendetta between a local councilwoman and Vito. Apparently there’s some bad blood there. And the sign gave her the ammo she needed…”—something caught Andy’s eye—“to go after him.” Dillon peered stealthily over his shoulder. Hunter picked up on the gesture.
“Dude, not that it’s any big deal, but look who it is,” said Andy.
“Surprise, surprise. Our boy with your ex. Must be getting serious.”
Todd Stevens, uberassociate at the firm and wannabe Brooks Brothers mannequin, had started dating Hunter’s ex-girlfriend from law school. Her name was Monica Fine, a fiery redhead who worked at the District Attorney’s Office. It had been years since they were together, and Hunter had convinced himself it was over. But it was undeniable that at moments like these, his heart told him otherwise. He knew it was masochistic, too. She had cheated on him, and he hated himself for not being able to let it go.
“Sloppy seconds,” added Andy protectively as he turned back. “I hate that jerk.”
“He is a pompous dick, isn’t he?” Dillon’s observation was drawn out, as if he was daring Todd to read his lips. Get him hot under the collar. “
She
is smokin’ hot, though, Hunter.”
“She’s definitely attractive,” admitted Hunter. “No doubt.” He was smiling at the irony that even now, years later, he still wasn’t entirely over her.
Maybe Judge Sheila will change all that…
“So where were we?” asked Andy as he observed Hunter taking a tortured swig. Hunter’s back was to him. Dillon, although a married man like Andy, was still off fantasizing about Hunter’s ex. “You’ve got an uphill battle with the ordinance. You need to make sure you’ve got all bases covered.”
“Y
ou know I’ve got your back, dude, but the thing’s an inartfully drafted piece of crap,” Andy said emphatically. He was referring to the city ordinance outlawing discrimination in public places—the one the city relied on in its noble pursuit of equality against Vito. “Some poor kid interning for the city one summer probably got roped into putting it together.” Knowing Andy, he’d memorized the damned thing already.
“I can only imagine,” replied Dillon coolly. He wasn’t the most diligent fellow, a quality he flaunted proudly. Dillon, with his near-genius IQ, was one of those lawyers who got by on instincts and common sense alone. Legend had it that he refused to crack a book back in law school and then scored near-perfect exams without even studying. Although uncorroborated, he also claimed he got a perfect score on the LSATs. Hungover, no less.
“I glanced at it before I came over,” said Hunter.
Andy wouldn’t let up. It was as if he was personally offended by the incompetence that went into the legislation. “I don’t think it passes constitutional muster.”
“That’s not Hunter’s problem, though, Andy,” snapped Dillon, three vodka tonics in. “Hunter’s assignment is to advocate, not play judge and jury, for God’s sake. Or corrupt politician, for that matter.”
“Chill out, dude,” Andy replied. “You’re preaching to the choir. We’re all just trying to brainstorm here.”
“Is that so? Because I think you’re starting to lose perspective, my friend. Must be those rose-colored sunglasses,” Dillon jabbed.
“You’re hysterical.” Andy was peeved, coming off like the school nerd or a little brother at his breaking point with an older sibling’s abuse.
“Just calling it the way I see it. I don’t think you’re doing anyone any favors playing devil’s advocate. It’s not an option, bro.”
“And I’m calling it the way
I
see it!”
“Both of you guys! Enough. Why don’t we just agree to disagree?”
“Are you fucking serious?” asked Dillon.
Hunter ignored Dillon’s noise. “So,” he directed his question to Andy, “you think his lawyers will focus on the validity of the ordinance? Instead of whether Vito’s sign was discriminatory? As a smokescreen?” Andy’s insights were almost always provocative.
“My only point.”
“I still think you overcomplicate things,” said Dillon under his breath.
Above the din, Andy’s cell phone rang. Andy stared at the caller ID of the outdated cell phone.
“Who could that be?” asked Dillon.
“Shit!” Andy said.
Hunter and Dillon shared an amused look.
“The ball and chain?” asked Dillon.
“Hypocrite.”
“Please.”
As a matter of law, Dillon was also married. But he was the least-committed married guy Hunter had ever met, with no ring and seemingly no responsibility. His wife, a medical resident at Jefferson Hospital, was never home, for Christ’s sake. They had no kids. She just had a killer body and family money out the yin yang. As if Hunter’s fear of commitment weren’t bad enough after being cuckolded by his ex-girlfriend back in law school, there was Dillon singlehandedly reinventing the marital contract.
“Let it go,” advised Dillon.
“Stop, Dillon.”
Andy stared at the phone catatonically as it continued to ring, relentless.
“Send the hoe to voicemail,” slurred Dillon.
Just as Andy stepped away to answer it, it went to voicemail. “Shit! Shit!” Andy tried to collect himself. “All right. I’ve got to…I’ve…” he stammered.
“I should probably do the same myself.” Drinks were seemingly futile at this point. Hunter couldn’t begin to clear his head. He dreaded it, but he knew the only solution was to immerse himself in the case.
“You too?” Dillon raised his arm for emphasis. “Thanks a lot, wingman.”
Hunter grabbed his case. “You know I can’t condone that kind of behavior. Alexandra will never forgive me. And she’s a good girl.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“Need a lift? Ride’s around the corner,” Andy asked Hunter.
“Sure. Thanks,” he replied.
“Arrivederci, pussies.”
It was a quick trip to Hunter’s apartment in Andy’s new black Mustang hardtop. Andy worked the manual transmission with surprising competence as the unseasonably humid night air flooded the cabin. The coupe stopped at Nineteenth and Chestnut, in front of a Starbucks. A pack of blonde sorority types, dressed in all black, turned heads as they crossed the intersection. The light went green, and the throaty engine roared as the Mustang approached Rittenhouse Square. Formerly overridden by druggies and hookers, it was now the focal point for one of Philly’s poshest neighborhoods. European-style bistros lined the park. They’d be packed to the gills on a night like this, which was oddly tropical. Andy ricocheted the car past the luxury high-rises adorning the square.
They stopped in front of Hunter’s place on Pine Street, a relatively nondescript four-plex midblock. By the time Hunter’s key hit the common front door, Andy had accelerated away, eager to face the music, growing more dissonant with each fleeting second. The greeting committee, Hunter’s eight-year-old black lab, Sam, tried to shellac him with a mouthful of drool. Hunter barely averted a saliva shower as he entered the living room of the two-bedroom apartment. In the dark, dingy kitchen, he swigged OJ from the carton and then put food out for Sam, who had already assumed his usual statuesque pose at Hunter’s leg. Hunter’s BlackBerry chirped, and he pulled it from the front pocket of his khakis. He answered right away, happy to hear to Sheila’s voice.
“Yeah. Just got in…The Blarney. What a cluster.”
Sam the lab peered up curiously, the whites of his expressive black eyes glimmering from the artificial light penetrating the glass.
“Crap…I completely forgot…”
Just fucking perfect
, Hunter thought. He had completely spaced. They had dinner plans. She’d gotten a sitter and all. And she hated being away from her kids. Plus, she was irresistible, her voice sultry and alluring.
“Don’t even think about canceling.”
“I had a bomb dropped on me right before I left.”
“Yikes. I remember those days.” Before becoming a judge, Sheila had been an associate and then partner at Kruger, Melissa Zane’s firm—top of her class at Penn Law, editor of the
Law Review
, and a rock star at Kruger. “Who was it?” As a judge, she obviously knew all the partners at his shop.
“Mancini.”
“Mancini? Wow! I’m impressed. You must be doing something right over there.”
“The jury’s still out on that.”
“So without revealing anything privileged,” she said coyly, “what’s the compelling fact pattern? So enticing you’d actually forgo a date with the hottest jurist divorcee in town?”
“The Vito’s Pizza case. Which incidentally I know nothing about, and the trial’s less than a week away.”
“Loads of time.”
“Very funny.”
“I think so.” She paused. “Pretty high profile for a lowly senior associate. The media’s been devouring that case. No pun intended. Even the major networks are getting in on the action.”
A lump formed in Hunter’s throat.
“Yeah. I think Lou Dobbs just had him on,” Sheila said.
“Pretty hot issue, I guess,” Hunter replied.
“It’s hot all right, with the upcoming presidential election and right wingers wanting to make English the official language of the United States. Anyway, that’s a tough case. You should be flattered Mancini picked you.” As an afterthought, Sheila added: “Just curious. Did he give you the option of not handling it? Or is this your big partnership test?”
“More the latter, I think.” The truth was that Hunter didn’t have a choice.
“That Mancini is one sly fox,” she said under her breath.
“Why?”
“Huh?”
“You said he was being
sly
in assigning me the case. Why do you say that?”
What does Sheila know? Why isn’t she letting on?
“Oh. Right.” Sheila played it off. And then she did what all lawyers did best—bullshitted. “I just know what an important client the city is for Whitman. The last thing Mancini needs is to lose this one. But there’s no denying that the cards are stacked against him. Popular opinion, as crass as it comes off, is with Vito. He’s being heralded as a hero for having the gumption to take a stand. And frankly, I can tell you firsthand that working people are incensed that some of the so-called illegals have a nine-to-five and free health care when they can’t even get it.”
“So Mancini knows we’re gonna lose? Is that it?”
“If I were a betting gal, which I’ve been known to be, I’d have to say yes. I think that’s why he picked an associate—to do his dirty work. Why he picked you.”
“And here I thought it was my legal prowess.”
“Worst-case scenario is that the naïve and relatively unseasoned associate blows it and becomes a scapegoat for a crappy case. Not too bitter of a pill for the city to swallow.” In the blink of an eye, the Vito’s case went from daunting and sensational to daunting and dreadful. Hunter was in dire need of a plan.
“Wouldn’t that be a bit too obvious, though? Wouldn’t the city be expecting a partner?”
“Perhaps,” she said, weighing his logic. “But knowing Mancini, he’ll justify it with strategy. Reverse psychology. The case was winnable. No need for a partner. That sort of thing.”
“So how do I bow out? I mean, I already committed.”
Sheila chuckled. “Commitment? Isn’t that sort of a contradiction these days at the big firms?”
Notions of loyalty had become something of a farce of late. And there was no doubt that had something to do with Sheila’s decision to leave Kruger. “Just bow out. That’s how. You’ll be on Mancini’s shit list for a while. But he’s not the only vote on the partnership committee over there.”
The only decisive vote, though.
“I need to digest.”
“Go ahead. Just don’t take too long. If the trial’s next week, there isn’t a whole lot of time for buyer’s remorse.” Sheila paused. “Now moving on to stress relief, which should be your only focus come weekend time. Are we still on for later? If you play your cards right, you might even make it to second base.”
“You should’ve said so to begin with,” he replied.
“How predictable. You’re all wired the same way,” she said, taking a jab against men.
“And you’re just figuring that out now?” A pause. “Anyway, you’re probably right. Might be exactly what the doctor ordered. See you in a bit. I’ll call before I leave.”
Hunter clicked off and walked into the living room, wondering what had happened to his willpower. The streetlight penetrated the slats of the vertical blinds at the front window, their shadows forming bars along the eggshell white, bare walls. Sam was curled up in the fetal position on a tattered recliner, totally at peace in his food coma. Hunter smiled at the thought that Sam would be starving again in an hour.
Suddenly a shot rang out on his block. It startled Sam. Hunter flinched at first before ruling out a gunshot. That was not a common occurrence in his neck of the woods. Then it was apparent from the sputtering that it was a backfire.
Probably a jalopy polluting the ritzy area just to piss everyone off.
Sam ignored it, turning his blocky head away from the window and falling back into his catatonic state. Rest was tempting to Hunter. But as the expression went, there’s no rest for the weary. He had a night of cramming and passion on tap. So he turned and headed for the closet-sized second-bedroom-turned office. Time to get started—for real. Withdrawal was not an option.