Absolute Power

Chapter Eight

Jack was early. His watch showed one-thirty-five. He had taken the day off, spending much of it deciding what to wear; something he had never concerned himself with before, but which now seemed vitally important.

He pulled at his gray tweed jacket, fingered a button on his white cotton shirt and adjusted the knot in his tie for the tenth time.

He walked down to the dock and watched the deck hands clean the Cherry Blossom, a tour ship built to resemble an old Mississippi riverboat. He and Kate had gone on it their first year in D.C. during a rare afternoon off from work. They had tried to hit all the touristy attractions. It had been a warm day like today, but clearer. Gray clouds were now rolling in from the west; afternoon thunderstorms were almost a given this time of year.

He sat on the weathered bench near the dockmaster’s small hut and followed the lazy drift of the sea gulls across the choppy water. The Capitol was visible from his vantage point. Lady Liberty, minus the collective filth of over a hundred and thirty years of residing outdoors thanks to a recent cleaning, stood imperiously on top of the famous dome. People in this town were encased in grime over time, Jack thought to himself, it just came with the territory.

Jack’s musings turned to Sandy Lord, the firm’s most prolific rainmaker, and the biggest ego Patton, Shaw had ever seen. Sandy was close to being an institution in the legal and political circles of D.C. The other partners dropped his name as though he had just that moment stepped down from Mount Sinai with his own version of the Ten Commandments, which would have commenced with “Thou Shalt Make Patton, Shaw and LORD Partners As Much Money As Possible.”

Ironically, Sandy Lord was part of the attraction when Ransome Baldwin had mentioned the firm. Lord was one of the best, if not the best example of a power lawyer the city had to offer, and it had dozens in that league. The possibilities were limitless for Jack. Whether those possibilities included his personal happiness, he was far from certain.

He was also not certain what he expected from this lunch. What he was sure about was that he wanted to see Kate Whitney. He wanted that very much. It seemed as though the closer his marriage came, the more he was emotionally retreating. And where more likely a spot to retreat than to the woman he had asked to marry him over four years ago? He shuddered as that memory engulfed him. He was terrified of marrying Jennifer Baldwin. Terrified that his life would soon become unrecognizable to him.

Something made him turn, he wasn’t sure what exactly. But she was standing there, at the edge of the pier, watching him. The wind whipped her long skirt around her legs, the sun battled the darkening clouds, but still provided enough light to sparkle across her face as she moved the long strands of hair from her eyes. The calves and ankles were summer brown. The loose blouse bared her shoulders, showing off the freckles, and the tiny half-moon birthmark Jack had the habit of tracing after they had finished making love, she asleep and he watching her.

He smiled as she walked toward him. She must have gone home to change. This was clearly not her courtroom armor; these clothes represented a far more feminine side to Kate Whitney than any of her legal opponents would ever witness.

They walked down the street to the small deli, ordered and spent the first few minutes alternately staring out the window watching the approaching rain as it whipped the trees around, and exchanging awkward glances, as if on a first date and afraid to make steady eye contract.

“I appreciate your making the time, Kate.”

She shrugged. “I like it here. Haven’t been for a while. It’s nice to get out for a change. I usually eat at my desk.”

“Crackers and coffee?” He smiled and stared at her teeth. The funny one that curved inwardly slightly, like it was giving a quick hug to its neighbor. He liked that tooth the best. It was the only flaw he had ever noticed about her.

“Crackers and coffee.” She smiled back. “Down to two cigarettes a day.”

“Congratulations.” The rain came at the same time their orders did.

She looked up from her plate, her eyes swept over to the window and then abruptly to Jack’s face. She caught him staring at her. Jack smiled awkwardly and took a quick gulp of his drink.

She put her napkin on the table.

“The Mall’s a big place to accidentally run into someone.”

He didn’t look at her. “I’ve been having a run of good luck lately.” Now he met her eye. She waited. His shoulders finally collapsed.

“Okay, so it was less of an accident and more premeditated. You can’t argue with the results.”

“What are the results? Lunch?”

“I’m not looking ahead. I’m just taking it one step at a time. New life resolution. Change is good.”

She said with more than a little contempt, “Well, at least you’re not defending rapists and murderers anymore.”

“And burglars?” he shot back, and then instantly regretted it.

Kate’s face turned gray.

“I’m sorry, Kate. I didn’t mean that.”

She pulled out a cigarette and matches, lit up and blew smoke in his face.

He waved the cloud away. “Your first or second of the day?”

“Third. For some reason you always make me feel daring.” She stared at the window, crossed her legs. Her foot touched his knee and she quickly jerked it back. She stabbed out her cigarette and stood up, grabbing her purse.

“I have to get back to work. How much do I owe you?”

He stared at her. “I invited you to lunch. Which you haven’t even eaten.”

She pulled out a ten and tossed it down on the table and headed for the door.

Jack threw another ten down and raced after her.

“Kate!”

He caught up to her just outside the deli. The rain had stiffened and despite holding his jacket over their heads they were quickly soaked. She didn’t seem to notice. She climbed in her car. He jumped in the passenger side. She looked at him.

“I really have to get back.”

Jack took a deep breath, wiped the moisture off his face. The heavy rain drummed on the car’s exterior. He felt it all slipping away. He was far from sure how to handle this situation. But he had to say something.

“Come on, Kate, we’re dripping wet, it’s almost three o’clock. Let’s go get cleaned up and hit a movie. No, we can drive out to the country. Remember the Windsor Inn?”

She looked at him, absolute astonishment on her features. “Jack, by any chance, have you discussed this with the woman you’re engaged to marry?”

Jack looked down. What was he supposed to say? That he was not in love with Jennifer Baldwin despite having asked her to marry him? Right at that moment, he could not even recall asking her.

“I’d just like to spend some time with you, Kate. That’s all. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There is everything wrong with that, Jack. Everything!” She started to put the key in the ignition but he held her hand back.

“I’m not looking to make this a battle.”

“Jack, you’ve made your decision. It’s a little late for this now.”

His face curled into disbelief. “Excuse me? My decision? I made a decision to marry you over four years ago. That was my decision. It was your decision to end it.”

She pushed wet hair out of her eyes. “Okay, it was my decision. Now what?”

He turned to face her, gripped both her shoulders.

“Look, it suddenly occurred to me last night. Oh what the hell! It’s been every night since you left. I knew it was a mistake, goddammit! I’m not at PD anymore. You’re right, I don’t defend criminals anymore. I make a good, respectable living. I, we...” As he looked at her astonished face, his entire mind went blank. His hands were shaking. He let go of her, slumped back in the seat.

He stripped off his drenched tie, stuffed it in his pocket, and stared at the little clock on the dashboard. She checked out the motionless speedometer, then glanced at him. There was kindness in her tone, although the pain was evident in her eyes.

“Jack, lunch was very nice. It was good to see you. But that’s as far as we can go. I’m sorry.” She bit her lip, a movement he didn’t see because he was getting out of the car.

He poked his head back in. “Have a good life, Kate. You ever need anything, call me.”

She watched his thick shoulders as he walked through the steady rain, got in his car and drove off. She sat for several minutes. A tear traced its way down her cheek. She angrily flicked it away, put the car in gear and drove off in the opposite direction.

The next morning, Jack picked up the phone and then slowly put it back down. What was the point really? He had been in the office since six, wiped out his backlog of high-priority work and moved on to projects that had been on the back burner for weeks. He looked out the window. The sun ricocheted off the concrete and brick edifices. He rubbed the glare out of his eyes and pulled the blinds down.

Kate was not going to suddenly plunge back into his life and he had to adjust to that. He had spent the night turning every possible scenario over in his head, most wildly unrealistic. He shrugged. Things like this happened to men and women every day in every country in the world. Things sometimes did not work out. Even if you wanted them to more than anything else. You couldn’t will someone to love you back. You had to move on. He had plenty to move on to. Maybe it was time for him to enjoy the future he knew he did have.

He sat down at his desk and methodically moved through two more projects, a joint venture for which he was doing low-level, no-brain grunt work, and a project for the only client he had other than Baldwin, Tarr Crimson.

Crimson owned a small audiovisual company, was a genius with computer-generated graphics and images, and made a very good living running AV conferences for companies at area hotels. He also rode a motorcycle, dressed in cut-off jeans, smoked everything including an occasional cigarette, and looked like the biggest burnt-out druggie in the world.

Jack and he had met when a friend of Jack’s had prosecuted Tarr for drunk and disorderly, and lost. Tarr had come in dressed in a three-piece suit, briefcase and neatly trimmed hair and beard, and argued persuasively that the officer’s testimony was biased because the bust was outside a Grateful Dead concert, that the field test was inadmissible because the cop had not given the proper verbal warnings and lastly because an improperly functioning piece of equipment had been used to administer the test.

The judge, burdened with over a hundred D&Ds from the concert, had dismissed the case after admonishing the officer to adhere strictly to the rules in the future. Jack had watched the entire affair in amazement. Impressed, Jack walked out of the courtroom with Tarr, had a beer with him that night, and they quickly became friends.

Except for occasional, relatively innocuous brushes with the law, Crimson was a good, if unwelcome, client to the halls of Patton, Shaw. It had been part of Jack’s deal that Tarr, who had fired his last attorney, would be allowed to follow Jack to Patton, Shaw as if the firm would have actually said no to their new four-million-dollar man.

He put down his pen and moved once again to the window as his thoughts drifted back to Kate Whitney. An idea lumbered across the forefront of his mind. When Kate had left him originally, Jack had gone to see Luther. The old man had had no words of wisdom, no instant solution to Jack’s dilemma. Indeed, Luther Whitney was the unlikeliest person in the world to have the answer that would reach to his daughter’s heart. And yet Jack had always been able to talk to Luther. About anything. The man listened. He really listened. He didn’t merely wait for you to pause with your own story so he could plunge in with his own troubles. Jack wasn’t sure what he was going to say to the man. But whatever it was he was certain Luther would listen. And that was probably going to have to be good enough.

One hour later Jack’s computerized calendar buzzed a warning. Jack checked the time and threw on his jacket.

Jack moved quickly down the hallway. Lunch with Sandy Lord in twenty minutes. Jack was uncomfortable about being with the man, alone. Legions had been spoken about Sandy Lord, mostly true, Jack assumed. He wanted lunch with Jack Graham, Jack’s secretary had told him this morning. And what Sandy Lord wanted he got. Jack’s secretary also reminded him of that in a hushed whisper that made Jack slightly repulsed.

Twenty minutes, but first Jack had to check with Alvis on the Bishop documents. Jack smiled as he remembered Barry’s face when the drafts had been placed carefully on his desk, thirty minutes before the deadline. Alvis had scanned them, the astonishment clear on his features.

“This looks pretty good. I realize I gave you a tough deadline. I don’t usually like to do that.” His eyes were averted. “I really appreciate the hustle, Jack. I’m sorry if I screwed up your plans.”

“No sweat, Barry, that’s what they pay me for.” Jack had turned to leave. Barry had risen from his desk.

“Jack, uh, we really haven’t had a chance to talk since you’ve been here. Place is so damn big. Let’s have lunch one day, soon.”

“Sounds great, Barry, have your secretary give mine some dates.”

At that moment Jack realized that Barry Alvis wasn’t such a bad guy. He had dinged Jack, but so what? Compared to how the senior partners ran their underlings, Jack had gotten off easy. Besides, Barry was a first-rate corporate attorney and Jack could learn a lot from him.

Jack passed Barry’s secretary’s desk but Sheila was not there.

Then Jack noticed the boxes stacked against the wall. Barry’s door was closed. Jack knocked, but there was no answer. He looked around and then opened the door. His eyes closed and reopened as he looked at the empty bookcases, at the rectangular patches of unfaded wallpaper where a slew of diplomas and certificates had hung.

What the hell? He closed the door, turned and bumped into Sheila.

Normally professional and precise in her manner, without a hair out of place and glasses set firmly on the bridge of her nose, Sheila was a wreck. She had been Barry’s secretary for ten years. She stared at Jack, fire flashed through her pale blue eyes, and then was gone. She turned around, walked quickly back to her cubicle and started packing up boxes. Jack stared blankly at her.

“Sheila, what’s going on? Where’s Barry?” She did not respond. Her hands moved faster until she was literally throwing things into the box. Jack moved over next to her, looked down at the petite frame.

“Sheila? What the hell’s going on? Sheila!” He grabbed her hand. She slapped him, which shocked her so badly she abruptly sat down. Her head slowly went down to her desk and stayed there. She began to quietly sob.

Jack looked around again. Was Barry dead? Had there been a terrible accident and no one had bothered to tell him? Was the firm that big, that callous? Would he read about it in a firm memo? He looked at his hands. They were trembling.

He perched on the edge of the desk, gently touched Sheila’s shoulder, trying to bring her out of it, but without success. Jack looked around helplessly as the sobs continued, rising higher and higher in their intensity. Finally, two secretaries from around the corner appeared and quietly led Sheila away. Each of them gave Jack a not very friendly glance.

What the hell had he done? He looked at his watch. He had to meet Lord in ten minutes. Suddenly he was very much looking forward to this lunch. Lord knew everything that happened at the firm, usually before it actually did happen. Then a thought tickled the back of his head, a truly horrible thought. His mind went back to the White House dinner and his irate fiancée. He had mentioned Barry Alvis by name to her. But she wouldn’t have...? Jack practically sprinted down the hallway, the back of his jacket flapping behind him.

Fillmore’s was a Washington landmark of fairly recent vintage. The doors were solid mahogany and bedecked with thick, weighty brass; the carpets and drapes were handwoven and supremely costly. Each table area was a self-contained haven of intense mealtime productivity. Phone, fax and copier services were readily available and widely used. The ornately carved tables were surrounded by richly upholstered chairs in which sat the truly elite of Washington’s business and political circles. The prices ensured that the clientele would remain that way.

While crowded, the pace of the restaurant was unhurried; its occupants unused to being dictated to, they moved at their own level of intensity. Sometimes their very presence at a particular table, a raised eyebrow, a stifled cough, a knowing look, was a full day’s work for them, and would reap huge rewards for them personally or for those whom they represented. Money and raw power floated through the room in distinct patterns, coupling and uncoupling.

Waiters in stiff shirts and neat bow ties appeared and then disappeared at discreetly placed intervals. Patrons were coddled and served and listened to or left alone as the particular occasion called for. And the gratuities reflected the clientele’s appreciation.

Fillmore’s was Sandy Lord’s favorite lunch spot. He peered over his menu, briefly, but methodically surveyed with his intense, gray eyes the broad expanse of the dining room for potential business or perhaps something else. He moved his heavy bulk gracefully in his chair and carefully coaxed a few gray hairs back into place. The trouble was, familiar faces kept disappearing as time moved forward, stolen away by death or retirement to points south. He removed a fleck of dust from one of his monogrammed shirt curls and sighed. Lord had picked this establishment, maybe this town, clean.

He punched on his cellular phone and checked his mes sages. Walter Sullivan hadn’t called. If Sullivan’s deal came through, Lord could land a former Eastern Bloc country as a client.

A whole goddamned country! How much could you charge a country for legal work? Normally a lot. The problem was the ex-communists had no money, unless you counted rubles and coupons and kopecks and whatever else they were using these days, all of which might as well be used for toilet paper.

That reality did not trouble Lord. What the ex-commies had in abundance was raw materials that Sullivan was salivating to acquire. That was the reason Lord had spent three godforsaken months there. But it would be worth it if Sullivan came through.

Lord had learned to have his doubts about everyone. But if anyone could pull this deal off, Walter Sullivan could. Everything he had touched seemed to multiply to global proportions, and the droppings that went to his cohorts were truly awe-inspiring. And at almost eighty, the old man hadn’t flowed a step. He worked fifteen-hour days, was married to a twenty-something babe right out of a drive-in movie. He was right this minute in Barbados where he had flown the three highest-ranking politicos for a little business and entertainment Western style. Sullivan would call. And Sandy’s short but select client list would grow by one, but what a one it would be.

Lord took note of the young woman in the painfully short skirt and tiptoe heels strolling across the dining room.

She smiled at him; he returned the look with slightly elevated eyebrows, a favorite signal of his because of its ambiguity. She was a congressional liaison for one of the big 16th Street associations, not that he cared about her occupation. She was excellent in bed, that he did care about.

The view brought back a number of pleasant memories. He would have to call her soon. He jotted a note to that effect in his electronic notebook. Then he turned his attention, as did most of the ladies in the room, to the tall, angular fig ure of Jack Graham striding across the room, heading straight for him.

Lord rose and extended his hand. Jack didn’t take it.

“What the hell happened to Barry Alvis?”

Lord introduced one of his blank stares to the confrontation and sat back down. A waiter appeared and then was dismissed by a short wave of Lord’s hand. Lord eyed Jack, who remained standing.

“You don’t give a person a chance to catch their breath, do you? Straight out the mouth and into the fire. Sometimes that strategy is smart, sometimes it isn’t.”

“I’m not kidding, Sandy, I want to know what is going on. Barry’s office is empty, his secretary is looking at me like I personally ordered a hit on him. I want some answers.” Jack’s voice was rising, and with it the stares increased.

“Whatever you have on your mind, I am sure we can discuss it with a little more dignity than you’re mustering right now. Why don’t you have a seat and start acting like a partner at the best damned law firm in this city.”

Their eyes stayed locked for a full five seconds until Jack slowly sat down.

“Drink?”

“Beer.”

The waiter reappeared and went away with an order for beer and Sandy’s potent gin and tonic. Sandy lit a Raleigh and casually looked out the window, then back at Jack.

“You know about Barry then.”

“All I know is he’s gone. Why he’s gone is what I want you to tell me.”

“Not much to tell. He was let go, effective today.”

“Why?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Barry and I were working together.”

“But you weren’t friends.”

“We didn’t have a chance to be friends yet.”

“Why on God’s earth would you want to be friends with Barry Alvis? Man was permanent associate material if ever I saw one, and I’ve seen plenty.”

“He was a helluva lawyer.”

“No, technically, he was a highly competent attorney, proficient in the area of corporate transactional matters and tax, with a subspecialty in health care acquisitions. He’s never generated a dime in business, and never would. Thus he was not a ‘helluva lawyer.’”

“Goddammit, you know what I mean. He was a very valuable asset to the firm. You need somebody to do the friggin’ work.”

“We have roughly two hundred attorneys who are very well suited to do the friggin’ work. On the other hand, we have only a dozen or so partners who bring in any material clients. That is not the proportion one should strive for. Plenty of soldiers, not enough chiefs. You see Barry Alvis as an asset, we saw him as a high-priced liability without the talent to leverage himself. He billed enough to keep himself very highly compensated. That is not how we, the partners, make the most money. Thus a decision was made to sever our relationship.”

“And you’re telling me you didn’t get a little nudge from Baldwin?”

Lord’s face contained genuine surprise. A lawyer with over thirty-five years’ experience blowing smoke in people’s faces, he was a consummate liar. “What the hell do the Baldwins care about Barry Alvis?”

Jack scrutinized the corpulent face for a full minute and then let his breath out slowly. He looked around the restaurant suddenly feeling silly and embarrassed. All this for nothing? But if Lord was lying? He glanced again at the man, but the face was impassive. But why would he lie? Jack could think of several reasons, but none of them made too much sense. Could he have been wrong? Had he just made a complete ass out of himself in front of the firm’s most powerful partner?

Lord’s voice was softer now, almost consoling. “Barry Alvis was let go as part of an ongoing effort to clear out the deadwood near the top. We want more attorneys who can do the work and produce the rain. Hell, like you. Simple as that. Barry wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last. We’ve been working on this for a long time, Jack. Long before you ever came to the firm.” Lord paused and looked keenly at Jack. “Is there something you’re not telling me? We’re going to be partners soon, you can’t keep things from your partners.”

Lord chuckled inwardly. The list of secret deals he had had with clients was a long one.

Jack was close to biting, but decided not to.

“I’m not a partner yet, Sandy.”

“Pure formality.”

“Things don’t happen till they happen.”

Lord shifted uncomfortably in his chair, waved his cigarette smoke like a wand. So maybe the rumors that Jack was contemplating jumping ship were true. Those rumors were the reason Lord was sitting here with the young lawyer. They looked at each other. A smile tugged at Jack’s mouth. Jack’s four million in legal business was an irresistible carrot. Particularly because it meant another four hundred grand to Sandy Lord, not that he needed it, but not that he would turn it down either. He had the reputation of being a big spender. And lawyers didn’t retire. They worked until they dropped. The best made a lot of money, but compared to CEOs, rock stars and actors they were strictly minor-league compensation-wise.

“I thought you liked our shop.”

“I do.”

“So?”

“So what?”

Sandy’s eye roamed the dining room again. He spotted another female acquaintance encased in a sleek and costly business suit under which Sandy had good reason to believe she wore absolutely nothing. He swallowed the rest of his gin and tonic, looked at Jack. Lord grew more and more irritated. The stupid, green sonofabitch.

“You ever been to this place before?”

Jack shook his head, surveyed the thick menu, searching for a burger and fries and not finding it. Then the menu was yanked out of his hand and Lord leaned into him, his breath heavy and saggy in Jack’s face.

“Well, why don’t you take a look around then?”

Lord lifted a finger for the waiter and ordered a Dewar’s and water, which appeared a minute later. Jack leaned back in his chair, but Lord inched closer, almost straddling the ornately carved table.

“I’ve been in restaurants before, Sandy, believe it or not.”

“Not this one though, right? You see that little lady over there?” Lord’s surprisingly slender fingers sliced through the air. Jack’s gaze fell on the congressional liaison. “I’ve fucked that woman five times in the past six months.” Lord could not help but smile as Jack appraised the subject and came away duly impressed.

“Now ask yourself why a creature like that would condescend to sleep with a big old bag of fat like me.”

“Maybe she feels sorry for you.” Jack smiled.

Lord did not. “If you actually believe that, then you possess a naïveté that borders on incompetence. Do you really believe women in this town are any more pure than the men? Why should they be? Just because they have tits and a skirt doesn’t mean they won’t take what they want and use any means at their disposal to do so.

“You see, son, it’s because I can give her what she wants, and I don’t mean between the sheets. She knows that, I know that. I can open doors in this town only a handful of men can. And the quid pro quo for that is she lets me fuck her. It’s a straight commercial transaction entered into by intelligent, highly sophisticated parties. How about that?”

“How about it?”

Lord sat back in his chair, lit a fresh cigarette and blew precise rings to the ceiling. He picked at his lip and chuckled to himself.

“Something funny, Sandy?”

“I was just now thinking how you probably got a kick out of people like me when you were in law school. Thinking how you were never going to be like me. Gonna go defend illegal aliens wanting political asylum or do death row appeals for poor sonofabitches who’ve butchered a few too many people and blamed it on getting spanked by their momma when they were bad. Now come on, tell the truth, you did that, didn’t you?”

Jack loosened his tie, took a sip of beer. He had seen Lord in action before. He smelled a setup.

“You’re one of the best lawyers around, Sandy, everybody says so.”

“Shit, I haven’t practiced law in years.”

“Whatever works for you.”

“What works for you, Jack?”

Jack felt a slight but perceptible clinch in his gut as he heard his name pass through Lord’s lips. It suggested a coming intimacy that had startled him, despite Jack’s knowledge of its inevitability. Partner? Jack took a breath and shrugged.

“Who knows what they want to be when they grow up?”

“But see you are grown up, Jack, and it’s time to pay the man at the door. So what’s it gonna be?”

“I’m not following this.”

Lord leaned in again, hands clenched, like a heavyweight pressing the exchange, looking for the tiniest opening. Indeed, for a moment, an attack seemed imminent. Jack tensed.

“You think I’m an asshole don’t you?”

Jack picked up his menu again. “Recommend anything?”

“Come on, kid, you think I’m a greedy, egocentric, power-happy asshole who doesn’t give a shit about anything or anybody that can’t do something for me. Ain’t that right, Jack!” Lord’s voice was rising, his thick body half out of his chair. He pushed Jack’s menu back down to the table.

Jack nervously scanned the room, but no one seemed to be paying attention, which meant every word of the exchange was being carefully absorbed and dissected. Lord’s red eyes focused directly on Jack’s, pulling them to him.

“I am, you know. That’s exactly what I am, Jack.”

Lord settled back in his chair, triumphant. He grinned. Jack felt inclined to smile in spite of the repulsiveness.

Jack relaxed a notch. Almost as if sensing that slight release, Lord slid his chair over next to Jack’s, crowding him. For a moment Jack seriously contemplated decking the older man — enough was enough.

“That’s right, I’m all those things, Jack, all those things and more, much more. But you know what, Jack? That’s who I am. I don’t try to disguise it or explain it. Every sonofabitch that has ever met me has come away knowing exactly who and what I was. I believe in what I do. There’s no bullshit there.” Lord took a deep breath, and then slowly let it out. Jack shook his head, trying to clear it.

“What about you, Jack?”

“What about me?”

“Who are you, Jack? What do you believe in, if anything?”

“I’ve got twelve years of Catholic school, I’ve got to believe in something.”

Lord shook his head wearily. “You’re disappointing me. I heard you were a bright kid. Either my reports are wrong, or you’ve got that shit-eating grin on your face because you’re afraid of what you might say.”

Jack grasped Lord’s wrist in a viselike grip.

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

Lord smiled and gently tapped Jack’s hand until the grip was released.

“You like these kinds of places? With Baldwin as a client you’ll be eating in places like this until your arteries are hard as drill bits. In about forty years, you’ll keel over in some sand trap in the Caribbean and leave behind some young and suddenly rich third-time-around honey; but you’ll die happy, believe me.”

“One place is the same as another to me.”

Lord’s hand came down hard on the table. This time several heads did turn. The maitre d’ glanced in their direction, trying to conceal his apprehension behind his thick mustache and quiet air of competence.

“That’s my whole goddamned point, son, that goddamned ambivalence of yours.” His voice lowered, but he continued to lean into Jack, crowding him. “One place is definitely not the same as another. You have the key to this place, you know. Your key is Baldwin and that nice-looking daughter of his. Now the question becomes: will you or won’t you open that door? Which query interestingly enough leads us right back to my original question. What do you believe in, Jack? Because if you do not believe in this” — Lord spread his arms wide — “if you do not want to become the Sandy Lord of the next generation, if you wake up at night and laugh at or curse my little idiosyncrasies, my assholeness if you will, if you really and truly believe you are above that, if you really hate whaling away at Ms. Baldwin and if you don’t see one single item on that menu that you care for, then why don’t you tell me to fuck off? And get up and walk out that door there, your head high, your conscience clear, and your beliefs intact? Because frankly this game is far too important and intensely played for the uncommitted.”

Lord slumped back in his chair, his mass extrapolating outward until it fully engulfed the space.

Outside the restaurant a truly beautiful fall day was unfolding. Neither rain nor excessive humidity marred the blue sky’s perfectness; the gentle breeze rustled discarded newspapers. The torrid pace of the city seemed to have momentarily slowed a notch. Down the street at LaFayette Park, sunseekers lay in the grass, hoping for a few more moments of tan before the really cold weather set in. Bike messengers on break prowled the area looking for unconcealed legs and blouses open just a peek.

Inside the restaurant Jack Graham and Sandy Lord were staring at each other.

“You don’t pull any punches do you?”

“I don’t have time for that, Jack. Not for the last twenty years. If I didn’t believe you could handle the direct approach, I would’ve just bullshit with you and let it go.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“All I want to know is whether you’re in or out. The truth is, with Baldwin, you could go to any other shop in town. You chose us, I’m presuming, because you like what you saw.”

“Baldwin recommended you.”

“He’s a smart man. Lots of people would follow his lead. You’ve been with us one year. If you choose to stay, you’ll be made a partner. Frankly, the twelve-month wait was purely a formality, to see if we were a good fit. After that you will never have any financial concerns, not counting your future wife’s considerable monies. Your main occupation will be to keep Baldwin happy, and to expand that piece of business, and to bring in anybody else you can. Because let’s face it, Jack, the only security any lawyer has are the clients he controls. They never tell you that in law school and it’s the most important lesson you have to learn. Never, never lose sight of that fact. Even doing the work should take a back seat to that. There’ll always be bodies to do the work. You will be given carte blanche to chase more business. You will have no one supervising you, except Baldwin. You will not have to monitor the legal work being done for Baldwin, we have others who will do that for you. All in all, not such a terrible life.”

Jack looked down at his hands. Jennifer’s face appeared there. So perfect. He felt guilty for having assumed she had had Barry Alvis fired. Then he thought of the numbing hours as a PD. His thoughts finally turned to Kate, and then quickly stopped. What was there? The answer was nothing. He looked up.

“Stupid question. Do I get to keep practicing law?”

“If that’s what you want.” Lord eyed him closely. “So do I take that as a yes?”

Jack glanced down at the menu. “The crab cakes look good.”

Sandy exhaled smoke to the ceiling and smiled broadly. “I love ’em, Jack. I goddamn love ’em.”

Two hours later, Sandy stood in the corner of his massive office suite staring out onto the busy street below, while a conference call plodded forward on the speaker phone.

Dan Kirksen walked in the door, his stiff bow tie and crisp shirt concealing a slender jogger’s body. Kirksen was the firm’s managing partner. He had unwavering control over everyone in the place except Sandy Lord. And now perhaps Jack Graham.

Lord glanced at him with uninterested eyes. Kirksen sat down and waited patiently until the conference call participants said their good-byes. Lord clicked the phone off and sat down in his chair. Leaning back, he eyed the ceiling and lit up. Kirksen, a health fanatic, inched back from the desk.

“You want something?” Lord’s eyes had finally come to rest on Kirksen’s lean, hairless face. The man consistently controlled a shade under six hundred thousand in business, which guaranteed him a long, secure home at PS&L, but those numbers were chickenshit to Lord and he did nothing to hide his dislike of the firm’s managing partner.

“We were wondering how the lunch went.”

“You can handle the softballs. I don’t have time to play fucking softball.”

“We had heard unsettling rumors, and then with Alvis having to be terminated when Ms. Baldwin called.”

Lord waved a hand through the air. “That’s taken care of. He loves us, he’s staying. And I wasted two hours.”

“The amount of money at stake, Sandy, we, we all felt it would be better, it would convey the strongest possible impression if you—”

“Yeah. I understand the numbers, Kirksen, better than you, I understand the numbers. Okay? Now, Jacky boy is staying put. With luck he might double his fishing line in ten years, and we can all retire early.” Lord looked over at Kirksen, who seemed to grow smaller and smaller under the big man’s gaze. “He’s got balls, you know. More balls than any of my other partners.”

Kirksen winced.

“In fact, I kind of like the kid.” Lord stood up and moved over to the window, where he watched a procession of preschoolers attached together with rope cross the street ten stories below.

“Then I can report a positive to the committee?”

“You can report any goddamn thing you like. Just remember one thing: don’t you boys ever bother me with one of these things again, unless it’s really, really important, you understand me?”

Lord glanced once more at Kirksen and then his eyes returned to the window. Sullivan still had not called. That was not good. He could see his country slipping away, like the little bodies disappearing around the corner. Gone.

“Thank you, Sandy.”

“Yeah.”