Malice

15

A stiff breeze swept down the concrete canyons, stirring up old leaves and litter as the few tourists willing to brave the elements on a chilly Sunday evening to window-shop along Fifth Avenue pulled their coats tighter and tugged their hats down around their ears. Despite the cold, V. T. Newbury hesitated outside of the towering skyscraper as the sun slipped into the cloud bank somewhere beyond New Jersey. He'd been going in and out of the skyscraper most of his life, but the only reason he had was now gone, and he felt as if he no longer belonged there.

A sudden gust of frigid air slapped him in the face, like someone trying to get him to come to his senses. He considered turning around and taking a taxi back to his place in the Village, but taking a deep breath, he pushed through the revolving doors. Normally, they would have been locked on a Sunday, but not when Dean Newbury's nephew was coming to visit.

As V.T. walked up to the security desk, the guard smiled and hooked a thumb toward the private Newbury, White amp; Newbury Only elevators behind him. "Good evening, Mr. Newbury, your uncle is expecting you," the young man said pleasantly. "And by the way, I was sorry to hear about your father. A nice man. Always had time to ask how I was doing."

"Thank you, uh"-Newbury glanced down at the man's name tag-"David. Yes, he was a good man. I miss him." Not trusting himself to talk about his father's death without crying, he entered the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor of the seventy-story building.

The family firm occupied the entire floor-and that was just for the senior partners and their secretaries. The entirety of the next two floors below also housed the firm's junior partners, as well as the foot-soldier attorneys, paralegals, investigators, secretaries, researchers, and, occupying a wing of its own, the all-important billing department.

When the doors opened again, V.T. stepped off the elevator and waved to the pretty receptionist at the front desk, who smiled and pointed toward the office of his uncle, Dean Q. Newbury, the impervious, flint-eyed, most senior of senior partners.

"They got you working on a Sunday?" he asked the receptionist as he headed in the indicated direction.

"If your uncle's here, I'm here, Mr. Newbury," she called after him.

V.T. hurried down the hall, but then slowed as he approached the office opposite his uncle's, which had been his father's for nearly fifty years. The door was open and the lights on, so he stepped inside.

It was a magnificent office, as befitted the number two partner of the nearly two-hundred-year-old firm. The entire office was four times the size of his quarters at the District Attorney's Office. The furnishings were much nicer, too-soft couches and chairs done in light tan leather, with accents of wood around the library and the trim.

The main room was dominated by an ancient rosewood desk, said to have once been owned by George Washington when the ragtag Continental army was holed up on "York Island," awaiting the armed might of the British Empire. There was also a full kitchen with oak countertops and a refrigerator on which photographs of V.T. and his mother hung from magnets. The walls were tastefully decorated with art, including a large oil painting of V.T.'s parents and himself as a five-year-old boy, enjoying a picnic on the beach at the family's Cape Cod oceanfront house.

More photographs of the family were propped along the bookshelves, which were full of various texts. They weren't just law books, either, but the sort of books a bright young son might choose to read during a visit to his father's office while the old man worked. Dickens's Tale of Two Cities. A first-edition copy of Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises with the inscription "to my fishing buddy, Vincent, Warmest Regards, Ernest." History books. Poetry books. Copies of the Bible, the Koran, and the Torah, plus treatises on Buddhism and Hinduism.

There was even a much-thumbed copy of Jack Kerouac's On the Road. Its hard use indicated that his father would have preferred a transient life spent in smoky coffeehouses, listening to Beat poets, to his penthouse suite and corporate law. But that was simply not an option for Newburys, for whom duty to the family firm was cast in stone-at least not until V.T. and his cousin Quilliam broke the mold.

As always, the most impressive part of the office to V.T. was the view of Central Park. The gray crowds of trees stretched away to the north in the dimming light outside, but within a couple of months would be leafing out, an oasis of green in gray old Gotham. Even in winter, the scenery before him reminded V.T. of how the contrasting views from his father's and his uncle's offices matched their personalities.

His father spent many of his lunch hours walking in the park; he called it "getting in touch with sanity." Winter mornings sledding with his son gave way to summer mornings playing catch or taking a stroll with his wife while their boy wobbled ahead on a new bicycle.

Dean Newbury's office, on the other hand, faced south. Still a fantastic view, but one dominated by edifices of granite, concrete, glass, and steel. Fitting, V.T. thought, for a man with the emotional capacity of a rock.

Then again, he knew that his father also had reaped the benefits of a big-money law firm without complaint. He'd never had to worry about how to pay the mortgage or send his son to the finest boarding schools and Europe for "fine tuning."

His wife's family, who were quick to remind the Newbury side that they could trace their American beginnings back to the Pilgrims, were wealthy New England bluebloods. But the Newbury family was richer still, though considered by their in-laws to be "newcomers," having only reached America sometime around the Revolutionary War.

Neither side was known for its warmth. Public demonstrations of affection were frowned upon. But the New Englanders were puppy dogs compared to the Newbury branch. In fact, V.T.'s paternal grandfather, a one-eyed monster named Haldor, made Uncle Dean Newbury seem warm and cuddly as a koala bear. Not once could V.T. remember having received a pat on the head or a kind word from the time he was born until the old man's death. In fact, his most vivid memory of Grandfather Newbury was how the family patriarch would follow him with that one eye as he walked past, like a vulture sizing up a dying rabbit.

When V.T. asked his father why Grandfather Newbury didn't seem to like him much, his father laughed. So you noticed that, too, eh? he'd said. Don't let it bother you, it's just the way he is; he treated me the same, and I don't think he knows any better.

The only person who ever really seemed to matter to Grandfather Newbury was Uncle Dean, who, V.T. gathered from his mother, spent much of his time after adolescence in his father's company. But I daresay there's little affection between them, she'd added. It's more like they're in business together. Just remember you have a mother and father who love you very much.

V.T. had considered himself lucky that he got his pair of parents.

While still patrician in many respects, they were odd ducks in their respective families, with all sorts of unsavory habits like laughing out loud and kissing in public. Their child was considered insufferably unruly-likely to speak before spoken to, and loud. But his parents ignored their families' admonishments to take him in hand before it was "too late."

When V.T.'s grandfather passed away there was a large funeral on what was a fittingly gloomy, misty day, attended by a host of severe, important-looking men and their dour, faded wives. But he couldn't remember anybody actually crying except for his dad. The others simply stood or sat beneath umbrellas with their faces unmoving, as if set in stone. And when the brief service was over, they simply turned away, got in their limousines, and returned from wherever they came.

V.T. and his father were the last ones left at the grave site.

They'd stood there holding hands and looking at the casket as raindrops struck it and rolled off. The boy had looked up at his father and been surprised to see tears also rolling from his face. Good-bye, Dad, he'd said at last. I wish I could have known you.

With the passing of the old man, V.T.'s uncle had been next in line for what his dad called the throne… And he's welcome to it.

Dean Newbury was a chip off the granite block that was his father. He made it clear at every opportunity that his brother was a disappointment to the family and argued incessantly with him about taking on pro bono cases on behalf of indigent people or causes Vincent supported, such as Greenpeace.

One such argument V.T. overheard when he was twelve or so. It was one of the few times he ever heard his father raising his voice, and the exchange stuck. Pro bono, Dean, do you know what that means? For the good, Dean, for the good. I'm trying to save the soul of this firm, if there was ever a soul to be saved.

Dean Newbury shouted back. This firm doesn't need a soul. What it needs are billable hours, big settlements, and huge fees. And senior partners who remember their responsibility to their family.

Damn this family's responsibilities, Vincent shouted A murky tie to the past that for all I know was full of pirates and scoundrels, and now full of secrets that even its members are not privy to know.

The argument ended when V.T. poked his head in the door. The two men glanced at him, then glared at each other, before dropping the argument. However, V.T. got the clear impression that the battle was not over, merely postponed.

Like Haldor, Dean Newbury spent a lot of time with his son, Quilliam, particularly after the boy became an adolescent. But that, too, seemed to be a relationship that lacked any connection beyond that of proctor and pupil.

After Quilliam went away to college, V.T. only saw him at the obligatory family gatherings at Thanksgiving and Christmas, which were for the most part quiet, joyless occasions more for show than substance. It was easy to see at such times that the relationship between Quilliam and his father was growing increasingly strained, and they could often be seen off by themselves on the grounds, gesturing and arguing.

The final breaking point between father and son occurred when Quilliam refused to go to law school after graduation and instead joined the U.S. Marine Corps. In a private moment before Quilliam shipped off to boot camp, V.T., a freshman at Harvard, asked his cousin why he would join the marines with the unpopular war in Vietnam picking up steam. This family has always taken from this country and sacrificed nothing, he'd replied bitterly. Sooner or later, all bills come due.

Whatever bill he thought the family owed, Quilliam paid when he was killed by a sniper in Danang shortly after the start of the Tet offensive in January 1968. His body had been shipped home for services complete with a flag-draped coffin and a marines honor guard. At the conclusion, the honor guard folded the flag into a triangular bundle and tried to present it to Dean Newbury with the condolences "of a grateful country." But Dean had turned away and refused to take it, so his brother Vincent accepted it from the confused marine sergeant.

V.T. had at first misinterpreted his uncle's reaction as a political statement regarding the war. But when he saw his uncle's face, the expression wasn't one of sorrow or even bitterness over the loss of a son in an unpopular war. It was anger. Anger directed at the coffin. Anger at his son for disobeying. Later, when their eyes met at the reception hosted by his parents, V.T. got the distinct impression that his uncle was thinking: If someone had to die, it should have been you. The firm could have done without you.

That impression had gone a long way toward V.T.'s choice of law careers after he graduated and passed the bar. Not that corporate law had ever interested him, but he didn't feel that he belonged at a family firm in which billable hours became the litmus test for good lawyering, and whose leader couldn't mourn the death of a son.

There had been plenty of tears at the funeral for V.T.'s father the previous month. But most of those were shed by Vincent's friends and the employees of the firm who'd worked closely with him. Those in attendance from his mother's side at least looked sad, but those who attended from the Newbury side were as emotionless as ever. And when the memorial service was over, they turned away, got in their limousines, and drove back to wherever they came from.

Most did not show up at the wake, which, V.T. thought, was just as well. They would not have understood or appreciated the tearful toasts to "a good man" and the laughter as various people related stories about his father, who, unbeknownst to V.T., had been quite the practical joker in college.

V.T. had spent much of the memorial service and wake in stunned disbelief. His father had complained of chest pain some ten years before, right after V.T.'s mother died. It turned out to be mild arrhythmia. He'd changed his diet and exercised regularly, and took digitalis to deal with any reoccurrences of the arrhythmia. After a recent physical, the longtime Newbury family doctor had pronounced him as fit as any octogenarian had a right to expect. But a month later, Vincent Newbury collapsed and died from a massive heart attack.

It had taken time to get over the shock, but V.T. had come to accept that his father had lived a long life and that old men sometimes died unexpectedly. He was just grateful that their relationship had been such that after the other mourners left the grave that day and he was alone, he hadn't wished he could have known his father better.

More of a surprise when he thought about it was how his uncle had suddenly warmed up to him after his father's funeral. It had started with invitations to lunch, at which Uncle Dean strained to be jovial and warm but, as he'd never had much practice at it, came off as stiff and phony. Yet, when his uncle kept trying, V.T. decided he was being too hard on the old man and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He even told his boss and friend, Butch Karp, that he had decided the old man, a widower, was feeling the end of his days and realizing that his nephew was the only real family he had left.

Karp had been sympathetic about his loss. He reminded V.T. that it was their fathers who first gave two young assistant district attorneys of such disparate backgrounds something in common besides the law. One of Karp's favorite stories was how he'd learned to love the law while sitting at his father's knee in the living room of their Brooklyn house in the fifties. Butch's father, Julius, had graduated from law school as one of the best and brightest of his class. But the realities of supporting a wife and family had steered him into the business world, where he'd become moderately successful. However, he'd never lost his passion for the law, and the family living room was the scene of Saturday night gatherings of some of the best legal minds in the five boroughs. Over glasses of whiskey and through a fog of cigar smoke, they'd debated the great cases of the day and argued questions of constitutional law as if they were preparing to go before the U.S. Supreme Court.

One of those who regularly attended the gatherings was Vincent Newbury, at least until his duties with the family firm had put an end to his participation. It had been V.T.'s father who years later pointed out the connection when Karp and Marlene visited the Cape Cod beach home with V.T. I wish I could have spent more time with those folks, like your dad, he'd said. But I was expected to spend my time at the family firm.

V.T. also suspected that part of his uncle's warming trend was the lack of a Newbury heir to take over the firm. In the past, the annual invitation to join the firm had come from his father, as both a wistful idea to be closer to his boy and a private joke between them, knowing what V.T.'s answer would be: No thanks.

However, the sales pitch he got from his uncle over dinner at Harry Cipriani, one of New York's most expensive and exclusive restaurants, following his father's death had bordered on the pathetic. Dean began by lauding V.T.'s "noble efforts" on behalf of the public. However, he said, no one could hold it against a longtime public servant "who in the twilight of his career opted to ensure his own golden years by taking over the family business." The comment had caught V.T. by surprise, as he didn't really consider himself to be in the "twilight of his career." Nor had he considered that with his father gone and his uncle going, he might be considered to be in line for "the throne."

Sensing V.T.'s uneasiness, his uncle had quickly noted that nothing needed to be decided at that moment and that all he was asking was that his nephew keep an open mind. He'd then requested that V.T. drop by the office so that he could introduce him to "a dozen or so friends and associates…important people who could be of considerable help to a bright young man such as yourself." As a show of good faith for the turnaround in their relationship, he'd agreed.

That's why V.T. was now looking at a photograph of himself with his father on a deep-sea fishing adventure off of Nova Scotia some twenty years earlier. A voice behind him interrupted the memory. "This could be your office, you know-or if you wait just a bit longer, you could have mine, if you prefer that view."

V.T. turned and saw his uncle. He felt a little guilty, as if his uncle had read his mind about the contrasting views and personalities. He held out a hand. "Good to see you, Uncle Dean."

The old man's hand was cold as ice but his face was the picture of bonhomie. "Welcome. Welcome," he said, clapping V.T. on the back. "Thanks for coming. I think you'll find this evening's meeting very interesting."

As usual, Dean Newbury was impeccably dressed, in a five-thousand-dollar Armani suit and what V.T. presumed to be hand-made calfskin shoes, which probably added another grand to the ensemble. He looked every bit the elder statesman; his hairline had receded until he was bald on top with a fringe of snow-white hair around the sides, but his Aqua Velva-blue eyes were as sharp and piercing as when V.T. had been a boy.

Dean took him by the elbow and ushered him across the hall into his own office. "I wanted a minute alone with you before we meet the others," he explained.

V.T. looked around with interest. All the years he'd been going to the firm to see his father, he'd only been in his uncle's office once, and all he remembered was the view. The room had none of the warmth of his father's, either. The office had a kitchen, done in black granite and stainless steel, all of which looked like it had never been used.

There were the usual law office diplomas on the wall. A photograph of Dean standing on a podium with then president Richard Nixon-one arm around the president's shoulders and both of them raising the V for victory sign. However, two sets of paintings on the walls seemed incongruous with the sterility of the rest of the decor. One set was a series of portraits in oil that he knew were the senior partners of Newbury, White amp; Newbury dating back to the early nineteenth century. The second set was three oil paintings of sailing ships that were hung on the wall opposite the portraits, along with what appeared to be a primitive old map depicting Great Britain, Ireland, and Scotland surrounding the Irish Sea.

"I didn't know you were such an avid ocean lover," V.T. said, pointing to the paintings.

Dean glanced at the paintings and grunted. "I'm not," he said. "Matter of fact, anything smaller than a luxury liner like the QEII, and I'm seasick as a dog. I inherited those from your grandfather Newbury, who insisted, as had every head of this firm before him, that they hang in the office of the next in line to remind us that our paternal roots were in seafaring folks."

Closing the door, Dean turned to his nephew. "I wanted to again ask you to keep an open mind about joining the firm," he said, moving over toward his desk. "But I do want to warn you, joining the firm is not an automatic ascension to the head of the firm. The men you're going to meet are my most trusted advisors, and I can trust them to be honest when they let me know what they think of you."

"So this is a test?" V.T. said, wondering why that made him feel so irritated when he knew that this was going to be either a sales job or a job interview.

"I suppose, but it's because they're being protective of me and this firm. Many of our families have been close for a very long time, and we look out for one another," Dean replied.

The little speech took V.T. aback a bit. He'd never heard that much emotion for the death of his own son or brother. Then again, maybe he does have it in him and just doesn't know how to show it, he thought. "That's a great sentiment," he said.

"Sentiment?" Dean snorted. "Call it self-interest. Our affairs are closely linked, and they just want to make sure whoever is in this office holds up their end of the bargain. But in the end, I will make my own decision."

Dean turned to gaze out the wall of windows facing south, like an ancient king surveying his kingdom. "I'm an old man, Vinson," he said, using V.T.'s Christian name for perhaps the first time in his life. "And I guess that your father's death has reminded me of my own impending mortality, so I am trying to get my affairs in order. As you know, you are my only heir…"

V.T. thought he detected a note of bitterness in the statement but kept his expression unchanged.

"…and it is my preference-the preference, really, of all the men you see on that wall," he said, pointing to the portraits of his predecessors, "that this firm's leadership be passed on to a Newbury. So I thought that, perhaps, we might spend more time together, get better acquainted. And…perhaps…you'll come around to understanding that you have a legacy here that a great many people-more than you know-are counting on a Newbury to continue."

V.T. smiled. "Thank you. I'd like the chance to get better acquainted. However, as I always told my father, I enjoy working at the District Attorney's Office. Like I said before, I feel that I make a real difference there."

For a moment, the smile faded from the old man's face and it was a struggle to replace it. "Yes, yes, of course, and you certainly have put in your time with little enough reward, but maybe it's time to hand the baton to the next generation so that they can champion the cause of an ungrateful public."

V.T. started to protest the description but Dean held up a hand.

"Please, why argue? Has the public ever thanked you for taking on the dregs of society?" he said. "No, they elect politicians who coddle criminals and pass laws so that after all your hard work their new 'friends' can go right back on the streets murdering, robbing, stealing, raping. That has to be tough on you. Nonetheless, it's your life. I just want to make the point that you can make a difference here, too. The law isn't just about putting criminals in prison. We also protect the rights of all citizens, which I might add-though perhaps it isn't politically correct-includes the rights of people who have worked hard for their success and have the right to enjoy the fruits of their labors and to pass those fruits on to their descendants if they so choose. These people create more than great wealth. They create jobs, pay wages, build an economy and a nation. And in the end, they pay a far greater percentage of their income in taxes than does, if you'll excuse the term, 'the average Joe,' or for that matter, welfare mothers and gangsters who pay no taxes at all, build nothing, are simply anchors on the ship of society."

V.T. understood the argument, at least the rational side of it.

He'd actually had it before with his father many years ago when he was a teenager and railing against "the establishment." Expecting his father to take his side and not toe the company line, he'd been surprised and at first upset when his father actually defended the role of white-shoe law firms and their clients. By the time his father finished, V.T. had reluctantly conceded that the firm's clientele had important, legitimate interests that required legal experts to protect. And, his father pointed out, he would have never been able to take on as many pro bono cases as he did if some wealthy real estate developer with a tax problem wasn't footing the bill with his legal fees.

Like his father before him, V.T. had certainly enjoyed the benefits of having the best of anything money could buy. Education. Opportunity. Freedom to choose. He didn't believe that money was the root of all evil, just-as the Bible actually said-the "love of money." He didn't love money as such, but he certainly enjoyed what it could buy-fine wines, frequent travels with first-class accommodations, and a nicer home than he could have afforded as just an assistant district attorney.

Yet, working for the DAO, he was acutely aware that money could buy a more equal protection for some than for others. Money paid for dream-team lawyers and armies of investigators; it greased palms and on occasion had been known to buy a public official, a witness, a juror, or even a judge. It was probably why he'd gravitated toward prosecuting white-collar crimes, to level the playing field.

V.T. didn't like his uncle's social-issues rant. But for the sake of familial cordiality, he just nodded and said, "I understand completely."

Dean smiled broadly, pulled open the center drawer of his desk, and withdrew a small item. He held it out and V.T. saw that it was a ring. "As a token of a new relationship between us, I wanted to give you this," he said. "It belonged to my son. That symbol has been a sort of family coat of arms for centuries."

"A coat of arms? I thought the Newbury coat of arms has ducks and crosses or something on it," V.T. said.

"Well, yes, perhaps coat of arms isn't the right term," Dean said, pressing the ring into V.T.'s hand. "More like a fraternity ring. A very old fraternity, and if you play your cards right, I'll let you in on our deepest secrets someday."

Holding the ring up, V.T. noted the three gold spirals joined at the center against a black background of onyx. "It's beautiful," V.T. said. "And it does look old. Is it Celtic?"

"Indeed. It's called a tre cassyn. You'll see that the men you're about to meet also wear these, as do I. The symbol fits our motto: 'Quocunque jeceris stabit.'"

"Wherever you will throw it, it stands," V.T. interpreted. He saw his uncle's surprised look and added, "One of the requirements in boarding schools when I was a boy was that we study Latin. I have to confess that I was one of those geeks who actually enjoyed the class."

Dean laughed a bit too loud. "Well, good to see someone's education didn't go to waste. Anyway, it would make me proud if you'd accept it…if for no other reason than as a reminder of Quilliam."

V.T. thought the comment about wasted educations in the con text of giving him Quilliam's ring was a jab at both his son and anyone who wouldn't jump at the chance of ending a legal career on the top floor of a Fifth Avenue skyscraper. But his uncle was already heading for the door. "Now let's go meet the others. They're not the sort who like to be kept waiting."

Dean Newbury then pulled up short. "Oh, we also have another motto you may hear from time to time. It goes back to the first American Newburys. 'What must be, will be.' A bold statement, don't you think?"