Justice Hunter (7 page)
I
nspiration came to Hunter in the shower, which was typically the case. The deck was stacked against him concerning the Vito’s case, and he decided the lesser of two evils was getting out. Losing was far too risky in light of his partnership aspirations. Plus, he had an ally in another influential partner at the firm, Clarence Hall. And if there was one person at the firm who wasn’t afraid of going head-to-head with Mancini, it was Hall. Hall, a former Black Panther and nationally renowned civil rights activist, always worked weekends, which could be a good thing, as much as Hunter dreaded going in. Mancini, on the other hand, never did, so Hunter didn’t have to worry about crossing paths with him. Sporting cargo shorts and Teva sandals, Hunter made his way to the office. En route he formulated the best arguments for the firm to turn down the case. If he persuaded Hall the city didn’t stand a chance against Vito, he’d be in good stead. If everything went smoothly, he’d have the only real advocate he needed in his corner.
He scanned his key card in the lobby and rode the elevator up alone. Then he dumped his bag in his office and checked his voicemail. The first, marked urgent, came from Melissa Zane, calling about the Mediacast case; the sound of her voice made his stomach turn. No matter how much he did to block out the stress, litigation was an endless series of battles, with a few nuclear wars sprinkled in for good measure. With the stakes so high, unfortunately the Mediacast case was already shaping up, much too quickly to boot, to be World War III. That was the Kruger firm’s modus operandi, after all. Every case, deficiencies or not, was fought much in the same way. Kruger was the legal world’s most arrogant superpower. Scorched earth tactics with capitalist motives in the name of democracy and justice were the norm.
The next few messages were internal. Hunter always had his hands in a few litigation pots, collaborating with associate colleagues on discovery and motions practice. The next message was from a first-year named Stephanie Diaz. Hunter had only met her a handful of times in passing, but since she was exceedingly attractive and quirky, in an artsy-fartsy sort of way, she wasn’t the type who could be easily forgotten. She left an extension and didn’t say much. But she did reference the Vito’s case. Hunter naturally assumed she’d been assigned to help with some of the research, which would’ve been fine with him if he were sticking with the case. Hunter pushed save and made a mental note that he’d have to deal with her sometime before Monday. In a perfect world, he’d be giving her the name of his replacement.
The last message had been left that morning, about an hour ago. It was from Dillon, which was somewhat atypical. First of all, Dillon, who never even thought about work over the weekend, let alone exerted the energy to place a work-related call, ordinarily texted him or caught him on his cell. And if he were in the building, he would just barge in. Their offices were along the same corridor, Dillon’s being only a few doors down. Dillon asked for a callback. That was all.
Just for fun, Hunter walked by Dillon’s office on the way up to see Clarence Hall. The light and computer were off. There was no sign of him anywhere. Hunter rode the elevator up to the equity partner floor. It was a relative ghost town. Only a few of the offices were illuminated, and luckily for Hunter, one of them was Hall’s. His door was ajar, and Hunter knocked softly. Clarence invited him in.
Clarence Hall, in his mid-sixties, resembled a very graying Denzel Washington. With a warm, paternal smile, he looked up from his work. In a freshly pressed oxford and bow tie, he looked quite the academic.
“Mr. Gray. And to what do I owe this pleasure on such a lovely Saturday?” he said as he set down an opinion on the antique mahogany desk. “Please, sit.” Hall was the only Whitman partner who had decided to keep his old desk when the firm moved. His refusal to conform to the modernist revolution at the firm spoke volumes about his character. To a man like Hall, possessions actually had sentimental value—like the framed maps and the aging, leather-bound law books lining his shelves. They were part of his history, not some aesthetic ideal that could be altered on a whim, just for show.
“Intriguing case?” Hunter asked.
Hall’s zeal for knowledge was written all over his face. “As a matter of fact, yes,” he replied, lowering his tortoise-shell reading glasses. “A surprisingly progressive workplace discrimination decision. It was just handed down by the state Supremes.” After a moment of awkward silence, Hall continued. “So are the rumors true? That you’re dabbling in civil rights these days?”
“I guess you could say that,” said Hunter. “Actually, that’s why I’m here.”
“Oh?”
“I could use your insight.”
“My insight? Well, I’m flattered, I guess,” Hall said to himself. “Go ahead, though. Of course. Anything.”
“Thanks.”
“So what’s on your mind, counselor?”
Hunter felt at ease. “All right. Anyway, you’re familiar with the Vito’s case.”
“I am,” replied Hall.
“Have you formed any opinions?”
“Opinions? To be perfectly frank, my understanding of the facts is relatively superficial. Only what I’ve gleaned from my conversations with Al Mancini. Some of the media coverage. That sort of thing.”
“I understand.”
“You’re handling this matter on behalf of the city. Isn’t that right?”
“Yeah. Mr. Mancini actually gave me the case yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” he asked, surprised.
“Why? Is there something…?”
Clarence interrupted. “Nothing. I don’t think, at least. It’s just that I thought Mancini said he’d assigned out the case a few weeks ago…” He paused. “Perhaps it was a different matter. Well, anyway.” He let it go. “Now that doesn’t leave you with a heck of a lot of time to prepare now, does it? Al clearly believes in you, as do I, if you’re thinking you can’t mount a respectable case in such a limited time. If anyone can do it, Hunter, you’re the best person for the job.”
Shit.
The vote of confidence felt great coming from someone as prominent as Hall. But he sure as hell couldn’t trust Mancini’s motivations. That wasn’t exactly the sort of thing he could divulge to Hall, either.
“Thank you,” said Hunter.
“And I don’t have to tell you how important this client is.”
“The time’s a factor. But that’s not my only concern. Based upon the ordinance, I don’t think the city’s got very much of a case.”
Clarence concentrated on Hunter’s words, his wise eyes X-raying his motivation.
“I just don’t see it. If anything, it feels like some sort of personal vendetta against this Vito guy,” Hunter said.
“A conspiracy?” Hall smiled.
Without evidence, Hunter didn’t bother responding. He knew it would come off as absurd. Hall was far too intelligent to judge anything on hearsay and innuendo.
“Refresh my memory now, Mr. Gray. How does this sign read again? Isn’t it something like ‘Yo! Speak American or beat it!’” he asked dismissively, rolling his eyes at the obvious intolerance.
“I think it’s ‘Yo! Order in American. This is the USA, my friend.’”
“How foolish of me to omit the word ‘friend.’ At least I got the ‘Yo!’ right.”
Listening to his own words, Hunter couldn’t overlook Hall’s visceral reaction. And sitting across from Clarence, a brilliant and distinguished partner, who just so happened to be African American, the words had never sounded uglier. He thought he detected sadness in Hall’s eyes, sensing the statement resonated with his own life experience. A wall-mounted family photo caught Hunter’s eye, particularly the innocent expressions on the faces of Hall’s children, taken in his much younger days.
“Pretty vile speech, if you ask me.”
“I originally thought so too.”
“But you don’t anymore?” A long pause. “What’s this really about, Hunter? You certainly didn’t come here for me to translate this nonsense for you. If you’re afraid of losing and foiling your partnership bid, you might need to rethink your choice of careers, young man.”
“What if I am? You’re telling me you never thought about that sort of thing?”
“That’s correct. And I’d be lying if I said I was batting a thousand before I was voted in. That’s an inescapable and oftentimes frustrating reality in the life of a litigator. The result isn’t always commensurate with the effort. It can be somewhat arbitrary.”
“Have you looked at the ordinance, though?”
“Sure. It’s as unconstitutional as the day is long,” observed Hall. “Your point being?”
“Maybe I’m out of my comfort zone. But isn’t that a problem for the city?”
“Only if you let it become one. I haven’t seen the pleadings, but I guarantee you Vito’s legal team is playing that angle to the hilt.”
Hall was right. “It’s a red herring, though, Mr. Gray,” he added. “And until the highest court in the land declares it to be unconstitutional, it’s not your concern. Or mine, for that matter. Your job is simply to enforce it to the best of your ability. Illegal immigrants are people too, after all. And we both know that’s really what this is all about.” Hall’s words were reminiscent of Dillon’s the night before.
Hall went on, “We both know there’s no such thing as a perfectly drafted law. Plus, what do your instincts tell you? At some point, that’s all we really have now, isn’t it? Does any business owner have the right to refuse to serve pizza, for God’s sake, to any paying customer? Male, female, black, white, green, blue? We all get hungry now and then, don’t we, Mr. Gray?” he asked, tongue-in-cheek.
Hall’s words resonated with Hunter. It wasn’t the outcome he came here for, but maybe subconsciously he came to Hall to be persuaded. Hunter’s decision had just gotten a whole lot more difficult. Now it wasn’t just about backing out. It had become about copping out, something that didn’t sit well with him. Putting Mancini’s motivations aside, maybe he needed to do this for himself.
Hunter heard movement behind the door. Hall peered out curiously.
“Mr. Wright. May I help you?”
What the hell is Dillon doing here?
“I was just looking for…”
Hunter turned.
“There you are,” Dillon said.
“Here I am, Dillon,” Hunter replied firmly, hinting that the meeting hadn’t ended. Dillon was acting less perceptive than usual, standing at the doorway.
Hunter got to his feet, sparing the three any further awkwardness. “I should probably be going anyway.”
“You have some work ahead of you,” Hall said.
“Thanks, though,” said Hunter.
“This better be
very
good,” Hunter cautioned Dillon as soon as they hit the hallway.
“It is. I’m so screwed, dude.”
“W
hat were you doing, by the way? Groveling about the sanctions thing?”
“Fuck off.”
“Chill, man. I told you, I’m taking care of it. I already spoke to that hottie in accounting. Plus I’ve got a foolproof backup plan up my sleeve just in case.”
“Do I even want to know?”
“No.”
“All right. But just hurry up already,” replied Hunter. “Because it’s gonna come out any second, and I won’t have a chance to plead before I get axed.” A deliberate pause. “Now what’s this dilemma of epic proportions that just couldn’t wait?”
“I’m sworded,” said Dillon, gravely. “That’s all there is to it.”
“And why’s that?” asked Hunter impatiently. Hunter wondered what could possibly be worse than being entirely unprepared for a major trial his partnership bid hinged on.
In less than a goddamn week.
They proceeded past the other dark and deserted offices on the partner floor leading to the elevator bank.
“You’re pissed, huh?” Dillon paused. “What the hell did I interrupt? Were you proposing or something?”
“Hilarious. How long were you standing out there anyway?”
“You’re fucking paranoid. You know that?”
“Maybe,” replied Hunter.
“Anyway, don’t tell me you went to Hall hoping he would persuade you not to do the case.”
“Just tell me how you fucked up. I’ve got to figure things out.”
“Dude. You need to chill the fuck out.”
“What’s up?” asked Hunter with as much patience as he could muster. The elevator door opened. They entered alone.
“All right. We’ll come back to you in a second.” A pause. “Anyway, Meredith’s pissed.” Meredith was Dillon’s wife, a sweet, attractive medical resident at Penn. A couple years his junior, she grew up in Villanova, a swanky Main Line neighborhood about a half hour outside the city. Her father managed a hedge fund, and her family was exceedingly wealthy. The two met while they were undergrads at Penn.
“I’m afraid to even ask.” Dillon possessed a variety of self-destructive tendencies: alcohol, drugs, gambling—you name it. He also had a habit of straying.
“Give me a break. I’m not that bad.”
Hunter stared at him disbelievingly.
“Okay. You’ve made your point, Mr. Wonderful. Anyway, Meredith thinks I cheated.”
“And did you?” The elevator came to a graceful stop, and the doors glided open. “Can’t you see I’m waiting with bated breath?” Hunter added, cynically.
“Pretty much,” conceded Dillon, feigning shame.
“What the hell does ‘pretty much’ mean?”
“I was too shit-faced to remember exactly what happened.”
“Did you wake up next to her naked?”
“Whoever said it was a she?” lisped Dillon.
“I don’t have time for this shit. Seriously.”
“All right. Yes. And I’m pretty sure it was killer sex. It’s hazy, but I seem to remember this girl being a total freak.”
“Well, does this freak have a name? Candy? Trixie? Or did you not get her name?”
“She does, and you’re gonna be totally irate.”
“Why’s that? I can’t stop you from torturing your completely devoted wife. God only knows why she hangs around to endure the abuse.”
“It was Monica Fine.”
“You’re joking.”
“See. I knew you’d be pissed.”
“I’m really not.” A pause. “I think it’s kind of pathetic, actually.”
“Please. You should be thanking me.”
Hunter grinned. “Thanking you? For what?”
“For confirming that she’s not really into Stevens.”
Hunter recalled seeing the pair together at The Blarney Stone on Friday night. “I’m over her.”
“Bullshit.”
“Seriously.”
“Oh, I forgot. You’ve graduated to cougars.”
“There’s something to be said for cougars.”
“I’ve dabbled, and I beg to differ,” replied Dillon. “Entirely overrated.”
“So, incidentally, is Meredith still trying to get pregnant?”
“That’s all she ever talks about anymore. I can’t remember the last time we’ve just screwed. It’s always procreative. Feel like a goddamn sperm donor. And her fertility issues. Jesus Christ!”
“You’re cruel.”
“What?” he asked defensively.
Trying to explain was futile. “Then don’t have kids.”
“I told her we would.”
“Not a good reason.”
“You’ll see.”
“And I’ll be sure to remember these prophetic words.”
Despite Dillon’s brazen attitude, he did look somewhat remorseful, a major feat for him.
“Why are you even with her?” asked Hunter.
“She idolizes me, and of course, there’s the money.”
“Seriously.”
“She’s a good girl.”
“Don’t fuck it up, then. Keep it in your pants. It’s not worth it.”
“So you’re really not gonna thank me. It doesn’t give you even the slightest amount of satisfaction knowing that she couldn’t give a shit about that buffoon.”
“Maybe she cares as much as she’s capable of caring.” The words were really intended for Dillon.
“Maybe.”
“Anyway, don’t say anything to Andy. He wouldn’t get it.”
“If you say so.”
“He’s a fucking Walton.”
“Enough said.”
A pause.
“So what’s up with that case? Enough about me.”