When No One Is Watching (2 page)

From behind the podium, Peterson lifted a large glass trophy—a sculpture of the company’s logo: a muscular athlete, laurel wreath around his head, arms raised skyward in victory. Beneath the glass figurine was an inscription that read, “In Recognition of the Outstanding Contributions and Friendship of Blair Van Howe and Danny Moran—Champions of Champions.”

Blair beamed as he accepted the trophy. He raised it above his head with both arms as the assemblage of normally reserved corporate leaders cheered like rabid sports fans. He loved the limelight. He’d been in his element the past few weeks on center stage, handling the city’s biggest trial in a decade, and he was basking in the accolades and adulation of the corporate leaders standing before him.

“Thank you,” Blair shouted in a commanding voice, silencing the applause. “It’s a real privilege to represent a world-class company like Champions HealthCare and the esteemed leadership team represented here in this room.” He paused and looked intently at the eager faces staring back at him. “When we embarked on this mission, we all knew the stakes were incredibly high, and your courage and determination have paid off. We achieved a monumental victory this week, for the company, and just as importantly, for the thousands, maybe millions of people in desperate need of affordable health care. Think about what we’ve accomplished. From its inception, Champions HealthCare has had a mission of providing affordable health care options to people who don’t have the luxury of health insurance provided by large employers. The concept is beautiful in its simplicity. Because we represent large groups of people, we should be able to negotiate favorable rates from health care providers, just like large employers do. But there were those who attempted to stand in our way. They refused to negotiate with us. They engaged in collusion and conspired against us. They were large, powerful institutions with a vested interest in keeping prices for the little people at unconscionable levels. They had a tremendous war chest and the best lawyers money could buy. But you had the courage of your convictions, and you took them on. And justice prevailed! You sent a real message, and no one will stand in our way now. We’ve pushed the door wide open, and countless people will now have real options for affordable health care. This is a great victory for them and for Champions HealthCare. And it is truly an honor to have been entrusted with your confidence and to have had the opportunity to fight this battle shoulder to shoulder with people like you.”

Just as in the courtroom, Blair Van Howe was in complete command of his audience. His voice was rich and resonant, and his speech was unfailingly eloquent and effortless. He projected a natural charm that was at once folksy and comfortable, and yet also laden with power and demanding of respect. He was a man whose very presence commanded attention before he uttered a single word. He was trim and muscular, his athletic frame accentuated by his perfectly tailored Italian suits. Stunningly handsome, he could have been mistaken for a movie star or a fashion model, and he often was, although, at the age of thirty-nine, his once-sandy-brown hair was now silver-gray. He liked it that way. He thought it made him look distinguished, which was exactly what he wanted as he entered this new stage of his life.

“Gentlemen, I’d like to propose a toast,” Blair continued. “Two toasts, actually. First, to Champions HealthCare. I have no doubt that you will have a glorious and successful future. May your stock soon hit a hundred dollars per share!”

The room again erupted into boisterous applause.

“Hear, hear!” a voice rang out above the crowd.

“To a hundred dollars a share!” shouted another.

“And second,” Blair continued, “to my friend and partner, Danny Moran, the true mastermind behind our legal strategy. I was lucky enough to enjoy most of the spotlight, but Danny truly deserves most of the credit.” He turned toward Danny and handed him the trophy as a waiter scurried forward with glasses of champagne for them both. Blair raised his glass and smiled warmly at his colleague.

“To Danny!” Grant Peterson echoed as the room burst into noisy applause once again.

“Way to go, Danny!”

“Here’s to Danny!”

“We love you, Danny, you brilliant son of a bitch!”

Danny smiled modestly and nodded to the crowd. He raised his glass in salute, then lowered it to his lips and pretended to sip the champagne.

Grant Peterson raised his arms again. “Quiet, please. I have one more important announcement, and then you can get back to your celebration.” The crowd settled down and looked at Peterson with anticipation.

“It involves our friend Blair Van Howe. As you know, Blair has provided us with outstanding legal representation for over eight years now, and I’m sorry to say that, as of tomorrow, he will no longer be acting as our attorney.” Peterson paused for effect, staring at the puzzled faces before him. “That’s because Blair will soon be providing another kind of representation for us and many others—as a United States Congressman for the great state of Illinois!” An excited buzz rippled through the crowd. “Just yesterday, Blair received the endorsement of the Democratic Party leadership to run against longtime incumbent Scott Carlson. He’ll be announcing his candidacy at a press conference Monday morning, but he wanted his good friends here in this room to be among the first to know. Congratulations, Blair! See you in Washington!”

Once more, the room exploded with shouts and applause as well-wishers rushed forward to shake the candidate’s hand. Danny slipped away from the podium unnoticed and quietly made his way back to his table, still carrying his untouched glass of champagne. It was Blair’s moment now. The spotlight belonged on him, and Danny was happy to see his friend thoroughly enjoying the well-deserved attention. He was also genuinely pleased to see the Champions executives in such high spirits. They deserved to be. Yet Danny himself felt conflicted. Despite the celebratory atmosphere, he felt depressed, even a bit angry. Actually, he felt that way
because
of the festivities. The alcohol was flowing freely, and everyone in attendance seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. Everyone seemed joyful and uninhibited—everyone except him.

Danny Moran was a man who loved to drink. He loved the taste of good beer and fine wine. He loved the way it made him feel. But it usually got the better of him, and he knew it. Once he started drinking, it was hard to stop, and with increasing frequency, he’d been drinking until he completely passed out. He often awoke the next day with absolutely no recollection of the previous evening beyond a certain point in time. That was scary. And staying out all night, then returning home in the morning with no explanation of his whereabouts had taken a serious toll on his marriage. That, coupled with his need to stay clear-headed and focused during trial preparation, had caused him to quit cold turkey over three months ago. But now the trial was over. He knew that he should abstain, but he desperately wanted a drink. He continued staring at his untouched glass of champagne as if engaged in a contest of wills with the pale golden liquid.

“Danny! Time for you to make good on your promise!” Danny looked up to see Brendan O’Malley, Champions’ general counsel, standing before him, holding a mug of light beer. Danny stared at him blankly. “Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten,” Brendan said. “Remember? The day the lawsuit was filed? You assured me that someday you and I would celebrate our victory over a couple of pints of Guinness. Time for you to pay up! Let’s go next door and grab a real beer. This stuff tastes like piss!” Brendan disdainfully set his beer mug on the table.

It was difficult to say no to Brendan O’Malley. Aside from his personal charm and the forcefulness of his personality, Brendan was Danny’s primary contact at Champions HealthCare, and was responsible for sending a great deal of legal work to Danny and his firm. They had become good friends over the years and had spent countless hours together over the past few months, gearing up for the Champions trial.
What the hell
, Danny thought. He couldn’t risk offending Brendan.
Just one beer
, he told himself, and with that decision, his spirits lifted immediately. He stood and smiled eagerly at the general counsel. “You’re on, Brendan. A deal’s a deal!”

Brendan put his arm around Danny’s shoulders, and they made their way to the restaurant’s bar, just around the corner from the private dining room.

Two hours later, Blair found Danny at the bar, drinking Guinness by himself and staring absently at a basketball game on the television behind the bar.

“Brendan told me I’d find you here,” said Blair. “The party’s breaking up. Ready to call it a night?”

“No, you go ahead, Blair. I may stay awhile,” Danny replied, slurring badly. “I want to watch the rest of this game.”

Blair eyed his partner with concern. “Who’s winning?” he asked.

“I dunno.”

“Who’s playing?”

“Dunno.”

“Well, you’re my ride home, pal. I can’t stay out all night. I’ve got to be fresh tomorrow so I can prepare for the press conference.”

Danny reached into his pocket and handed Blair his valet parking stub. “Here you go, Blair. Take my car. I’ll catch a cab later.”

Blair was well aware of Danny’s history of blackouts and all-nighters, and he had no desire to leave his friend in his present condition.

“That’s okay, Dano,” he said agreeably. “I’ll wait. Just finish your beer, and I’ll drive you home.” Blair ordered a gin and tonic and joined his friend at the bar. He truly didn’t mind waiting. He was still in high spirits, and a brief delay would permit him to savor this special evening just a while longer.

Twenty minutes later, Danny staggered out of the bar with Blair at his side, and they made their way to the valet stand. Blair felt a twinge of excitement as he saw Danny’s new Porsche 911 glide around the corner. He handed the young valet a twenty-dollar tip, helped Danny into the passenger seat, then jumped behind the wheel.

“This ought to be fun!” Blair said, a broad smile on his face and a gleam in his eyes, as he glanced over at his passenger. Danny didn’t respond. He had already closed his eyes.

Terry McGrath tiptoed up the stairs and quietly opened the bedroom door of his twelve-year-old son, Tommy.

“Is she asleep, Dad?” Tommy asked, springing out of bed, fully dressed.

“Yep,” Terry whispered gleefully. “Fast asleep. Time to launch Operation Bulldog, buddy boy! Go wake Ashley.”

“Yes, sir!” Tommy replied in a hushed but excited voice.

Tommy scurried into his younger sister’s bedroom. “Ashley, get up! It’s time!” Ashley was snoring hard and didn’t stir. Tommy shook her vigorously. “Ashley! Operation Bulldog!”

Ashley opened her eyes and looked at him blankly for several seconds until comprehension set in. “Operation Bulldog! Yay!” She shouted and clapped her hands, an enormous smile brightening her face.

“Shhh! You’ll wake Mommy. Be very quiet, Ashley, okay?”

“Okay, Tommy,” she responded, in a loud stage whisper. She groped for her glasses on the nightstand and clumsily pulled on her jeans and a sweatshirt. They made their way down to the kitchen, where their father was writing a note on his wife’s birthday card.

“Okay, kids,” he said, “sign the card.”

Tommy signed his name, then waited impatiently as Ashley slowly printed her name in large, crooked block letters. “That’s good enough, Ashley,” he snapped as his sister began drawing awkwardly shaped hearts around her name. “Time to go.”

“We’re coming, Bully!” Ashley shouted exuberantly.

“Shhh!” hissed Terry and Tommy together.

“Come on, little girl,” said Terry, taking his daughter’s hand and walking toward the garage.

“Can we take Lucille?” Ashley asked.

Lucille was Terry’s vintage 1957 Chevrolet, which his wife Nancy had bought him for his fortieth birthday a year earlier. Its body was a thing of beauty—cherry red, in mint condition—but its engine required constant maintenance, so he rarely drove it except on special occasions. “Absolutely,” he responded. This was clearly a special occasion.

Terry opened the back door, and Ashley climbed in. “Wait, Daddy!” she yelled as he was about to close the door. “I forgot Mr. Growl. He wants to come, too.”

Terry smiled patiently. “Okay, sweetheart, go get Mr. Growl. I’ll wait.”

Terry waited behind the wheel of the Chevy, basking in the moment. He loved being a husband and a father, and times like this made him realize how fortunate he was. God, this was fun! It felt like Christmas, but the roles were reversed. He and the kids had planned a special surprise for Nancy’s fortieth birthday that required elaborate scheming and the utmost secrecy. They called it Operation Bulldog, which was fitting, since that was the surprise: a puppy—a bulldog, half English and half French.

Nancy had long wanted a dog in the family, but Terry had always resisted. He just wasn’t a dog person. He thrived on cleanliness, neatness, and order, and he was convinced that having a dog around the house would be an impediment to all of those goals. He had begun to warm to the idea recently after seeing the joy on his daughter’s face when she played with a neighbor’s puppy. This had been a tough year for Ashley. She had been born with Down syndrome, but he and Nancy had mainstreamed her by sending her to the local public school with all the other kids her age. At eight years old, Ashley was just beginning to realize that she was different from the others, and it broke his heart. She deserved all the joy that life could bring her special little heart, and Terry was determined to do whatever he could to make her happy, even if it meant having a messy, smelly, drooling canine in his house.

So Terry embarked on Operation Bulldog, knowing that the addition of a puppy to the McGrath household would be a thrill for both Nancy and Ashley. The kids delighted in the grand conspiracy as they spent weeks secretly visiting breeders all over the city, looking for a purebred English bulldog, the breed Nancy had owned as a child. Their plans changed when Ashley fell in love with a funny-looking English-French mix at the pet shop in the local mall. They had purchased the puppy earlier in the day and were hiding it at the Martins’ house, four blocks away on Hamilton Avenue.