The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 3

The first time Mitch had stepped into the ornate lobby of the Peabody hotel in downtown Memphis, he was two months shy of his twenty-fifth birthday. He was a third-year student at Harvard Law and would graduate the following spring number four in his class. In his pocket he had three splendid job offers from mega firms, two in New York and one in Chicago. None of his friends could understand why he would waste a trip to visit a firm in Memphis, which was not exactly in the major leagues of Big Law. Abby was also skeptical.

He’d been driven by greed. Though the Bendini firm was small, only forty lawyers, it was offering more money and perks and a faster track to a partnership. But he had rationalized the greed, even managed to deny it, and convinced himself that a small-town kid would feel more at home in a smaller city. The firm had a family feel to it, and no one ever left. Not alive anyway. He should have known that an offer too good to be true came with serious strings and baggage. He and Abby lasted only seven months and were lucky to escape.

Back then they had walked through the lobby, holding hands and gawking at the rich furnishings, oriental rugs, art, and the fabulous fountain in the center with ducks swimming in circles.

They were still swimming and he wondered if they were the same ducks. He got a diet soda at the bar and fell into a thick chair near the fountain. The memories came in a torrent: the giddiness of being heavily recruited; the relief that law school was almost over; the unbounded certainty of a bright future; a new career, new home, fancy car, fat salary. He and Abby had even talked of starting a family. Sure, he’d had some doubts, but they had begun to dissipate the moment he entered the Peabody.

How could he have been so foolish? Had it really been fifteen years? They were just kids back then, and so naive.

He finished his drink and walked to the desk to check in. He had reserved a room for one night in the name of Mitchell Y. McDeere, and as he waited for the receptionist to find his reservation, he had the fleeting thought that someone might remember him. The receptionist did not, nor would anyone else. Too much time had passed and the conspirators who’d chased him were long gone. He went to his room, changed into jeans, and left the hotel for a walk.

Three blocks away, on Front Street, he stood and stared at a five-story edifice once known as the Bendini Building. He almost shuddered at the memories of his brief but complicated time there. He recalled names and saw old faces, all of them gone now, either dead or living quiet lives elsewhere. The building had been renovated, renamed, and was now packed with condos advertising views of the river. He walked on and found Lansky’s Deli, an old Memphis tradition that had not changed. He went in, took a seat on a stool at the counter, and asked for coffee. To his right was a row of booths, all empty in the late afternoon. The third one was exactly where he’d been sitting when an FBI agent appeared out of nowhere and began quizzing him about his firm. It had been the beginning of the end, the first clear signal that things were not as they seemed. Mitch closed his eyes and replayed the entire conversation, word for word. Wayne Tarrance was the agent’s name, one he would never forget regardless of how hard he tried.

When the coffee was gone, he paid for it and left and walked to Main Street where he caught a trolley for a short ride. Some of the buildings were different, some looked the same. Many of them reminded him of events he had struggled to erase from his mind. He got off at a park, found a seat on a bench under a tree, and called the office to see what chaos he was missing. He called Abby and checked on the boys. All was well at home. No, he was not being followed. No one remembered him.

At dusk he wandered back to the Peabody and took the elevator to the top. The bar on the roof was a popular spot to watch the sunset over the river and have drinks with friends, usually on Friday afternoon after a hard week. During his first visit, his recruiting trip, he and Abby had been entertained there by younger members of the firm and their spouses. Everyone had a spouse. All the lawyers were men. Those were the unwritten rules at Bendini back then. Later, when they were alone, they had a quiet drink on the roof and made the calamitous decision to take the job.

He got a beer, leaned on a railing, and watched the Mississippi River wind its way past Memphis on its eternal voyage to New Orleans. Massive barges loaded with soybeans inched along under the bridge to Arkansas as the sun finally set beyond the endless flat farm fields. Nostalgia failed him. The days of such promise had vanished within weeks as their lives became an unbelievable nightmare.

There was only one choice for dinner. He crossed Union Avenue, entered an alley, and could smell the ribs. The Rendezvous was by far the most famous restaurant in town, and he had eaten there many times, as often as possible. On occasion, Abby had met him after work for their famous dry smoked ribs and ice-cold beer. It was Tuesday, and though always busy it was nothing like the weekends when it was not unusual to wait an hour for a table. Reservations were out of the question. A waiter pointed to a table in one of the many cramped dining rooms and Mitch took a seat with a view of the main bar. Menus were unnecessary. Another waiter walked by and asked, “You know what you want?”

“A full order, small cheese plate, tall beer.” The waiter never stopped walking.

He had noticed many changes in the city, but there would always be one constant: the Rendezvous would always be the same. The walls were plastered with photos of famous guests, Liberty Bowl programs, neon signs for beer and soft drinks, sketches of old Memphis, and more photos, many from decades earlier. One tradition was to tack a business card to the wall before leaving, and there must have been a million of them. He had done so himself and wondered if there were any left from the lawyers at Bendini, Lambert & Locke. Since it was evident that no one ever bothered to remove a card, he suspected they were still there.

Ten minutes later the waiter presented a platter of ribs, cheddar cheese, and a side of slaw. The beer was as cold as he remembered. He ripped off a rib, took a large bite, savored it, and had his first pleasant memory of Memphis.

The Capital Defense Initiative was founded by Amos Patrick in 1976 soon after the Supreme Court lifted the ban on capital punishment. When that happened, the “death states” scrambled to spruce up their electric chairs and gas chambers and the race was on. They were still trying to out-kill one another. Texas was the clear leader with several states jockeying for second place.

Amos grew up dirt poor in rural Georgia and had known hunger as a child. His close friends were all black, and as a small kid he was angered by their mistreatment. As a teenager, he began to understand racism and its insidious effects on black people. Though he didn’t understand the word “liberal,” he grew up to become quite a radical. A high school biology teacher recognized his aptitude and steered him to college. Otherwise, he would have spent his life working the peanut fields with his friends.

Amos was a legend in the confined world of death penalty defense. For thirty years he had waged war on behalf of cold-blooded killers who were guilty of crimes that often defied description. To survive, he had learned to take the crimes, put them in a box, and ignore them. The issue wasn’t guilt. The issue was giving the state, with its flaws, prejudices, and power to screw things up, the right to kill.

And he was tired. The work had finally beaten him down. He had saved many lives, lost his share along the way, and in doing so built a nonprofit that attracted enough money to sustain itself and enough talent to keep up the fight. His fight was fading fast, though, and his wife and doctor were badgering him to slow down.

His office was legendary too. It was a bad imitation of 1930s Art Deco that had been expanded and whittled down over the decades. A car dealer built it and once sold new and used Pontiacs along “Auto Row” on Summer Avenue, six miles from the river. With time, though, the dealerships moved on, fled farther east like most of Memphis, and left behind boarded showrooms, many of which were bulldozed. Amos saved the Pontiac place at an auction that attracted no one but him. His mortgage was guaranteed by some sympathetic lawyers in Washington. He cared nothing for style, appearances, and public perception, and he had little money for renovations. He needed a large space with utilities, nothing else. He wasn’t trying to attract clients because he had more than he could handle. The death penalty wars were raging and the prosecutors were on a roll.

Amos spent a few bucks on paint, drywall, and plumbing, and moved his growing staff into the old Pontiac place. Almost immediately the lawyers and paralegals at CDI adopted a defensive attitude toward their sparse and eclectic workplace. Who else practiced law in a converted bay where they once changed oil and installed mufflers?

There was no reception area because there were no visiting clients. They were all on death row or some other unit in prisons from Virginia to Arizona. A receptionist was not needed because guests were not expected. Mitch rattled the bell on the front door, stepped into an open area that was once a showroom, and waited for human contact. He was amused by the decor, which was primarily posters advertising shiny new Pontiacs from decades earlier, calendars dating to the 1950s, and a few framed headlines of cases in which the CDI had managed to save a life. There were no carpets, no rugs. The floors were quite original — shiny concrete with permanent stains of paint and oil.

“Good morning,” said a young lady as she hustled by with a stack of papers.

“Good morning,” Mitch replied. “I’m supposed to see Amos Patrick at nine o’clock.”

She had merely greeted him and had not offered to help. She managed a tense smile as if she had better things to do, and said, “Okay, I’ll tell him, but it might be a while. We’re in the middle of a bad morning.” She was gone. No invitation to have a seat, certainly no offer of coffee.

And what, exactly, might constitute a bad morning in a law firm where every case dealt with death? In spite of the tall front windows with plenty of sunlight, the place had a tense, almost dreary feel to it, as if most days began badly with the lawyers up early and fighting deadlines across the country. There were three plastic chairs in a corner with a coffee table covered in old magazines. The waiting room, of sorts. Mitch sat down, pulled out his phone, and began checking emails. At 9:30, he stretched his legs, watched the traffic on Summer Avenue, called the office because it was expected, and fought off irritation. In his world of clock-driven precision, being half an hour late for an appointment was rare and expected to occur only with a suitable explanation. But he reminded himself that this was a pro bono matter and he was donating his time.

At 9:50, a kid in jeans stepped around a corner and said, “Mr. McDeere, this way.”

“Thanks.”

Mitch followed him out of the showroom and past a large counter where, according to a faded sign, they once sold auto parts. They went through a wide swinging door and into a hallway. The kid stopped at a closed door and said, “Amos is waiting.”

“Thanks.” Mitch stepped inside and got himself bear-hugged by Amos Patrick, a wild-looking character with a mass of unruly gray hair and an unkempt beard. After the hug they shook hands and exchanged preliminary chitchat: Willie Backstrom, other acquaintances, the weather.

“Would you like an espresso?” Amos asked.

“Sure.”

“Single or double?”

“What are you having?”

“A triple.”

“Make it two.”

Amos smiled and walked to a counter where he kept an elaborate Italian espresso machine with an inventory of various beans and cups. The man was serious about his coffee. He took two of the larger cups — real, not paper — punched some buttons, and waited for the grinding to start.

They sat in a corner of his rambling office, under an overhead door that hadn’t been lowered in years. Mitch couldn’t help but notice that Amos’s eyes were red and puffy. Gravely, he said, “Look, Mitch, I’m afraid you’ve wasted a trip down. I’m really sorry, but there’s nothing you can do.”

“Okay. Willie warned me.”

“Oh no, not that. Much worse. Early this morning they found Tad Kearny hanging from an electrical cord in the shower. Looks like he beat ’em to the punch.” His voice choked and went silent.

Mitch could think of no response.

Amos cleared his throat and managed to say, almost in a whisper, “They’re calling it a suicide.”

“I’m sorry.”

For a long time they sat in silence, the only sound being the dripping of coffee. Amos wiped his eyes with a tissue, then struggled to his feet, retrieved the cups, and placed them on a small table. He walked to his remarkably cluttered desk, picked up a sheet of paper, and handed it to Mitch. “This came across about an hour ago.”

It was a shocking image of a naked, emaciated white man hanging grotesquely from an electrical cord cutting into the flesh of his neck and looped over an exposed pipe. Mitch took one look, turned away, and handed it back.

“Sorry about that,” Amos said.

“Wow.”

“Happens all the time in prison, but not on death row.”

More silence followed as they sipped espresso. Mitch could think of nothing to say, but the message was clear: the suicide was suspicious.

Amos stared at a wall and said softly, “I loved that guy. He was crazy as hell and we fought all the time, but I felt such sympathy for him. I learned a long time ago not to get emotionally involved with my clients, but with Tad I couldn’t help it. Kid never had a chance in life, doomed from the day he was born, which is not unusual.”

“Why did he fire you?”

“Oh, he fired me several times. It got to be a joke, really. Tad was street-smart and taught himself the law, thought he knew more than any of his lawyers. I stuck with him, though. You’ve been through it. It’s hard not to get consumed by these desperate men.”

“I’ve lost two of them.”

“I’ve lost twenty, now twenty-one, but Tad will always be special. I represented him for eight years and during that time he never had a visitor. No friends, no family, no one but me and a chaplain. Talk about a lonely soul. Living in a cage in solitary with no one on the outside, only a lawyer. His mental state deteriorated over the years and the last few times I visited him he refused to say a word. Then he would write me a five-page letter filled with thoughts and ramblings so incoherent it should’ve been clear proof of his schizophrenia.”

“But you tried insanity.”

“Tried, yes, but got nowhere. The State fought us at every turn and the courts had no sympathy. We tried everything, and we had a fighting chance a few months ago when he decided to fire his legal team. Not a smart move.”

“What about guilt?”

Amos took another sip and shook his head. “Well, the facts were not in his favor, shall we say? A drug runner caught in a sting with narcs, three of whom took bullets to the head and died at the scene. Not a lot of jury appeal. The deliberations lasted about an hour.”

“So he did kill them?”

“Oh, yes, shot two in the forehead from forty feet away. The third one took a bullet in the chin. Tad, you see, was an expert shot. Grew up with guns everywhere — in every car and truck, every closet, every drawer. As a kid he could hit targets practically blindfolded. The narcs picked the wrong guy to ambush.”

Mitch let the word rattle around the room for a moment, then said, “Ambush?”

“It’s a long story, Mitch, so I’ll give you a quick skinny. Back in the nineties there was a gang of rogue DEA agents who decided the best way to win the war on drugs was to kill the smugglers. They worked with informants, snitches, and other thugs in the trade and set up sting operations. When the delivery boys showed up with the goods, the agents simply killed them. No need to bother with arrests and trials and such, just vigilante justice that was bought hook, line, and sinker by the authorities and the press. Pretty effective way of putting the runners out of business.”

Mitch was speechless and decided to drink his coffee and listen.

“To this day they’ve never been exposed, so no one knows how many traffickers they ambushed. And, frankly, no one cares. Looking back, it appears as though they lost some of their enthusiasm when Tad shot three of their buddies. Happened about twenty miles north of Memphis at a rural drop-off point. There were some suspicions, some of the lawyers were putting the pieces together, but no one really wanted to dig too deep. These were nasty, violent men of the law who made their own rules. Those who knew about it were only too happy to help with the cover-up.”

“And you knew?”

“Let’s say I suspected, but we don’t have the manpower to investigate something this unbelievable. My wagon is fully loaded with deadlines elsewhere. Tad, though, always knew it was an ambush, and he was making some pretty wild accusations when he fired us. I think he was onto something. Again, the poor kid was so mentally unbalanced it was hard take him seriously.”

“What are the chances it was not a suicide?”

Amos grunted and wiped his nose with the back of a sleeve. “I would bet good money, and I don’t have much, that Tad didn’t die by his own hand. I’ll speculate and say that the authorities wanted to keep him quiet until they could kill him properly in July. And we’ll never know because the investigation, if you could call it that, will be a whitewash. There’s no way to find the truth, Mitch. Another one’s gone and nobody cares.” He sniffled and wiped his eyes again.

“I’m sorry.” Mitch was somewhat surprised that a lawyer who had lost twenty clients to executions would be so emotional. Wouldn’t you get callous and jaded after a few? He had no plans to find out. His time in this little corner of the pro bono world had just come to an end.

“And I’m sorry too, Mitch. Sorry you made the trip down.”

“No problem. It was worth it to meet you and see your office.”

Amos waved at the overhead door attached to the ceiling. “Whatta you think? Who else practices law in an old Pontiac place. Betcha don’t have one of these in New York.”

“Probably not.”

“Give it a try. We have an opening, guy quit last week.”

Mitch smiled and suppressed a laugh. No offense, but the salary would be less than his property taxes in Manhattan. “Thanks, but I’ve tried Memphis.”

“I remember. The Bendini story was a big one around here for a while. An entire firm blows up and everybody goes to prison. Who could forget it? But your name was hardly mentioned.”

“I got lucky and got out.”

“And you’re not coming back.”

“And I’m not coming back.”