The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 2

Most Scully partners, along with many of their rivals in Big Law, as well as countless money runners on Wall Street, scurried from the tall buildings around 6 P.M. and hopped into black sedans driven by professionals. The more important hedge fund stars sat in the spacious rear seats of long European cars they actually owned and were driven by chauffeurs on their payroll. The truly essential masters of the universe had fled the city altogether and lived and worked quietly in Connecticut.

Though he could afford a car service Mitch took the subway, one of his many concessions to frugality and his humble past. He caught the 6:10 train at South Ferry, found a seat on a crowded bench, and, as always, buried his face behind a newspaper. Eye contact was to be avoided. The car was packed with other well-heeled professionals headed north, none of whom had any interest in chatting. There was nothing wrong with riding the subway. It was quick, easy, cheap, and, for the most part, safe. The rub was that the other passengers were, in some fashion, Wall Streeters, and as such were either making plenty of money or on the verge of it. Private sedans were almost within reach. Their subway days were almost over.

Mitch had no time for such nonsense. He flipped through the newspaper, patiently squeezed even closer to other passengers as the car took on more riders, and allowed his mind to drift away to Memphis. He had never said he would never return. Between him and Abby, that promise did not have to be expressed. Getting away from the place had been so frightening that they could not imagine going back for any reason. However, the more he thought about it, the more intrigued he became. It was a quick trip that would probably lead nowhere. He was doing Willie a huge favor, one that would undoubtedly lead to a nice payback.

After twenty-two minutes, he emerged from underground at the Columbus Circle station and began the daily walk to his apartment. It was a splendid April evening, with pleasant skies and temperature, one of those postcard moments when half the city’s population seemed to be outdoors. Mitch, though, hurried home.

Their building was on Sixty-Ninth Street at Columbus Avenue, in the heart of the Upper West Side. Mitch spoke to the doorman, collected the daily mail, and rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor. Clark opened the door and reached up for a hug. At the age of eight, he was still a little boy and unashamed to show his father some affection. Carter, his twin, was slightly more mature and already outgrowing the rituals of physical contact with his father. Mitch would have hugged and kissed Abby and asked about her day, but she had guests in the kitchen. A delicious aroma filled the apartment. Some serious food was being prepared and dinner would be another delight.

The chefs were the Rosario brothers, Marco and Marcello, also twins. They were from a small village in Lombardia in northern Italy, and two years earlier had opened a trattoria near Lincoln Center. It was a hit from day one and was soon awarded two stars by the Times. Reservations were hard to get; the current waiting time was four months for a table. Mitch and Abby had discovered the place and ate there often, anytime they wanted. Abby had the clout to get a table because she was editing the Rosarios’ first cookbook. She also encouraged them to use her modern kitchen to experiment with new recipes, and at least once a week they descended upon the McDeere apartment with bags of ingredients and a near riotous approach to cooking. Abby was right in the middle of it, rattling away in perfect Italian as Carter and Clark watched from the safety of their stools near a counter. Marco and Marcello loved performing for the kids and explained their preparations in thickly accented English. They also chided the boys into repeating Italian words and phrases.

Mitch chuckled at the scene as he tossed his briefcase, took off his jacket, and poured a glass of Chianti. He asked the boys about their homework and received the standard assurances that it was all finished. Marco presented a small platter of bruschetta, placed it on the counter in front of the boys, and informed Mitch that he should not worry about homework and such because the boys were doing important work as taste-testers. Mitch pretended to be sufficiently chastised. He would check the homework later.

The name of their restaurant was, not surprisingly, Rosario’s, and it was embroidered in bold letters across red aprons worn by the chefs. Marcello offered one to Mitch, who, as always, declined on the grounds that he could not cook. When they were alone in the kitchen, Abby allowed him to peel and chop vegetables, measure spices under her watchful eye, set the table, and handle the garbage, all grunt work she deemed acceptable for his talents. He had once elevated himself to the position of sous chef but was rather harshly demoted when he burned a baguette.

She asked for a small glass of wine. Marco and Marcello declined, as usual. Mitch had learned years earlier that Italians, in spite of their prodigious production of wine and the presence of it at virtually every meal, actually drank little. A carafe of their favorite local red or white would satisfy a large family over a long dinner.

Due to her knowledge of Italian food and wine, Abby was a senior editor at Epicurean, a small but busy press in the city. The company specialized in cookbooks and published about fifty of them a year, almost all of them thick, handsome editions loaded with recipes from around the world. Because she knew many chefs and restaurant owners, she and Mitch dined out often and seldom bothered with reservations. Their apartment was a favorite laboratory for young chefs dreaming of success in a city crowded with fine restaurants and serious gourmands. Most of the meals prepared there were extraordinary, but since the chefs were free to experiment, there was the occasional dud. Carter and Clark were easy guinea pigs and were being raised in a world of cutting-edge recipes. If the chefs couldn’t please them, their dishes were probably in trouble. The boys were encouraged to pan any dish they didn’t like. Their parents often joked quietly about raising a couple of food snobs.

Tonight there would be no complaints. The bruschetta was followed by a small truffle pizza. Abby announced that the appetizers were over and directed her family to the dining table. Marco served the first course, a spiced fish soup called cacciucco, as Marcello found a seat. All six took a small bite, savored the flavors, and thought about their reactions. It was slow eating and this often bothered the kids. The pasta course was cappelletti, small ravioli in beef broth. Carter in particular loved pasta and declared it delicious. Abby wasn’t so sure. Marco served a second pasta course of risotto with saffron. Since they were conducting research in a lab, a third pasta course of spaghetti in clam sauce was next. The servings were small, only a few bites, and they joked about pacing themselves. The Rosarios bickered back and forth about the ingredients, the variations of the recipes, and so on. Mitch and Abby offered their own opinions, often with the adults all talking at the same time. After the fish course the boys were getting bored. They were soon excused from the table and went upstairs to watch television. They missed the meat course, braised rabbit, and the dessert of panforte, a dense chocolate cake with almonds.

Over coffee, the McDeeres and Rosarios debated which recipes should be included in the cookbook and which needed more work. It was months away from completion, so there were many dinners to follow.

Shortly after eight, the brothers were ready to pack up and leave. They needed to hustle back to their restaurant and check on the crowd. After a quick cleanup and the usual round of hugs, they left with serious promises to return next week.

When the apartment was quiet, Mitch and Abby returned to the kitchen. As always, it was still a mess. They finished loading the dishwasher, stacked some pots and pans by the sink, and turned off the light. The housekeeper would be there in the morning.

With the boys tucked in, they retired to the study for a nightcap, a glass of Barolo. They replayed the dinner, talked about work, and unwound.

Mitch couldn’t wait to deliver the news. “I’ll be out of town tomorrow night,” he said. It was nothing new. He was often gone ten nights a month, and she had accepted the demands of his job a long time ago.

“It’s not on the calendar,” she said with a shrug. Clocks and calendars ruled their lives and they were diligent with their planning. “Somewhere fun?”

“Memphis.”

She nodded, trying and failing to hide her surprise. “Okay, I’m listening, and this better be good.”

He smiled and gave her a quick summary of his conversation with Willie Backstrom.

“Please, Mitch, not another death row case. You promised.”

“I know, I know, but I couldn’t say no to Willie. It’s a desperate situation and it’s probably a wasted trip. I said I would try.”

“I thought we were never going back there.”

“So did I. But it’s only for twenty-four hours.”

She took a sip of her wine and closed her eyes. When they reopened she said, “We haven’t talked about Memphis in a long time, have we?”

“No. No need to, really. But it’s been fifteen years and everything has changed.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“I’ll be fine, Abby. No one will recognize me. All the bad guys are gone.”

“You hope. As I recall, Mitch, we left town in the middle of the night, scared to death, certain the bad guys were after us.”

“And they were. But they’re gone. Some are dead. The firm imploded and everybody went to prison.”

“Where they belonged.”

“Yes, but there’s not a single member of the firm still in Memphis. I’ll ease in and out and no one will know.”

“I don’t like the memories of the place.”

“Look, Abby, we made the decision a long time ago to live normal lives without looking over our shoulders. What happened there is old history now.”

“But if you take the case your name will be on the news, right?”

“If I take the case, which looks doubtful, I won’t hang out in Memphis. The prison is in Nashville.”

“Then why are you going to Memphis?”

“Because the lawyer, or ex-lawyer, works there. I’ll visit him in his office, get briefed, then we’ll make the drive to the prison.”

“Scully has about a million lawyers. Surely they can find someone else.”

“There’s not much time. If the client refuses to see me, then I’m off the hook and back home before you even miss me.”

“Who says I’ll miss you? You’re gone all the time.”

“Yes and I know you’re miserable when I’m out of town.”

“We can hardly survive.” She smiled, shook her head, and reminded herself that arguing with Mitch was a waste of time. “Please be careful.”

“I promise.”