Primary Justice

16

“WHAT IS IT WITH you, anyway, Kincaid?”

Derek closed the door to his office and began his ritualistic pacing. Glad to see the ankle’s healed up, Ben thought.

“I asked you to try to get a kid adopted. A simple matter. The hearing is already set; you either win or lose. Except, for some reason, the next day you tell me you need a private detective to investigate the kid’s”—he hunched his shoulders together like a ghoul and rolled his eyes to the tops of their sockets—“myster-r-r-r-rious past.” He resumed his normal posture. “And now you want to hire an accountant, for God knows what reason. What is going on?”

“Mr. Derek, I think these papers I discovered are very important.” Ben neglected to mention where he discovered them.

“Why? What can they tell us that’s relevant to an adoption hearing?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Derek. That’s just it. I’m not an accountant. I got C’s in algebra—”

“Stop.” Derek thrust the palm of his hand forward as if he was doing a bad imitation of the Supremes. “No more.”

He sat down behind the desk. “I will tell you this one more time, Kincaid, and only once more, if you catch my drift.” He leaned forward and stared meaningfully into Ben’s eyes. “This is not a pro bono case, but it’s damn close. This is not a money-maker, for us or our client. Our client does not want to spend a bundle of bucks on this. All he wants is to sleep nights with his guilt assuaged because he tried to do something nice for an old employee’s widow. And, frankly, if we’re unsuccessful”—Derek shrugged—“well, he did what he could.”

Ben stared back at the man. It was useless. Like arguing ethics with the Great Wall of China.

“Speaking of Sanguine,” Derek continued, “have you finished the brief for our preliminary injunction motion in the trade dress case?”

“Yes,” Ben answered. “I placed it on your desk this morning—”

“I’ve already read that draft,” Derek interrupted. “And I’ve made changes. It’s in your in box.”

“I’ll see that Word Processing makes the changes, sir.”

“What about my opening statement? Have you written that?”

“N-no. I didn’t realize you wanted—”

“What did you think I was going to do tomorrow morning? Stand at the podium and twiddle my lower lip?” He struck a match against the side of the box and lit a cigarette. “You see, Kincaid? This is exactly what I’ve been talking about. You’re behind in your work, you’re really only making an effort on one case, and you’re not accomplishing anything on it!”

He took a deep, calming draw on his cigarette, then used the cigarette as a pointer. “A good associate doesn’t have to be told to do something. A good associate sees that it needs to be done and does it. Period. I know you’ve just started, but frankly, your work to date has not been up to the usual Raven standards. And if your work isn’t up to snuff, Kincaid, nothing can save your butt from the shredder. Not your mother, your minister, a shareholder—or his wife.” Derek’s eyes flashed.

Ben didn’t know how to respond. No secrets at R T & T.

“So get humping, Kincaid. The trade dress hearing tomorrow is before Old Stone Face, Judge Schmidt. He’s a would-be author of a few unimportant legal articles and fancies himself a celebrated literary figure. So pepper the opening statement with obscure quotations and polysyllabic prose. You should be good at that.” He took a final drag from his cigarette. “And forget about this asinine accountant crap!”

Ben left the office without saying a word. As he walked down the corridor, every secretarial eye was fixed upon him. Ben realized just how loud Derek’s shouting had really been. Was it just Ben or was Derek still on the skids with his wife? That would explain volumes. It seemed as if Derek opposed his investigation of this case at every step.

Ben ducked into the elevator lobby and pushed the DOWN button. Tom Melton and Alvin Hager joined him just as the doors opened. The three of them stepped into the elevator.

“So, Mr. Harvard gave you a bad time, eh?” Alvin asked in a boisterous voice. The elevator descended. “Do you lurk outside of keyholes or what?”

“Not necessary when Derek’s doing the shouting,” Tom said. “What a prima donna. I did think that jab about shareholders’ wives was unfair, though. I mean, it’s not as though it was your idea, after all.” Tom and Alvin looked at each other solemnly, then broke into broad grins.

Tom regained his solemn expression. “Seriously, Ben, try not to worry about him too much. Everyone knows what a prick he is.”

“That’s an understatement,” Alvin added. “Do you realize no associate assigned to Derek has lasted over three years with the firm? Ever. In the twelve years since Derek came here from Philadelphia.”

“That’s pathetic,” Ben mumbled. “Someone needs to do something about him.”

The bell rang, and the doors opened on the ground floor. Alvin and Tom headed toward the fast-food restaurants and ice-skating rink in the mall adjoining the office tower.

“Before we run off, Ben,” Tom said, “are you coming to the recruiting function tonight?”

“Recruiting function? I’ve already been recruited.”

“For next year’s class, Ben. Now that you’re an associate, you have an obligation to pull your weight in recruiting. I’m in charge of the recruiting program, and I’m organizing a little soiree tonight. The firm likes to have new associates in attendance—to tell the new recruits how wonderful life is at R T & T. They’re more likely to listen to someone closer to their own age.”

Ben shook his head. “I don’t think I’d be the ideal pitchman for R T & T.”

“I wouldn’t say no if I were you, Ben,” Alvin remarked. “Just speaking as a friend. The firm higher-ups want tonight’s guest in a bad way. He’s 3L Yale, decent grades, law review. If we can be part of the team that reels him in, it’ll be a feather in our caps. Given your current standing in the firm, you can’t afford to pass up a chance to impress shareholders.”

Ben sighed. “I’ll think about it and get back to you guys. Okay?”

They nodded.

“Is Marianne coming?”

Tom and Alvin exchanged a naughty look. “I don’t think so, Ben,” Tom said. “That wouldn’t be quite appropriate.” They looked at each other again and burst into laughter. Tom swatted Alvin on the shoulder, and the two of them walked off toward the fast-food zone.

Ben watched Heckle and Jeckle recede into the distance. Great, he thought. What next?

After they were gone, he walked until he reached the shopping mall area. He stood at the banister on the third level, looking down on the ice-skating rink below. There was only one person on the ice, a girl, probably in her early teens. She had dark hair and was wearing a skimpy, sequined outfit. She was skating to a classical piece—one of Chopin’s preludes, Ben thought. She raised her arms and executed a nice aerial double spin. She was trying to maintain balance, to remain smooth and graceful, and yet there was something imperfect, something slightly awkward about her execution. Perhaps she was new at this, Ben thought, or was performing a new routine, and was still working out the bugs, still perfecting her art.

Ben stared down at her until the itching in his eyes grew too strong. He turned and, holding his head down so that he could not be seen, raced to the nearest men’s room. He entered one of the stalls, closed the door behind him, sat down on the toilet, and began to cry.