The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 5

It was almost midnight when Mitch stepped off the elevator and entered his apartment. The return trip was finally over and nothing had gone as scheduled. Delays ruled the evening: boarding, taxiing, taking off, even the cold dinner was served late. It took half an hour to get a cab at LaGuardia, and a wreck on the Queensboro Bridge wasted another forty minutes. His day had begun on time with a quiet breakfast at the Peabody. After that, nothing had gone as planned.

But he was home and little else mattered. The twins had been sleeping for hours. Normally, Abby would have been too, but she was on the sofa reading and waiting. He kissed her and asked, “Why are you still up?”

“Because I want to hear all about your trip.”

He had called with the welcome news that the latest death row case had not materialized, and for that they were both relieved. He had not mentioned the detour to see Lamar Quin. She poured him a glass of wine and they talked for an hour. He assured her more than once that there was no nostalgia for the old days. They had left nothing in Memphis.

When he began to nod off, she ushered him to the bed-room.

Five hours later, at exactly 6 A.M., the alarm clock pinged as always and Mitch crawled out of bed, leaving his wife behind. His first chore of the morning was to prepare the coffee. While it was brewing, he opened his laptop and found The Commercial Appeal, the Memphis daily. On the front page of the metro section the headline read: Tad Kearny Found Dead by Suicide. The story could have been written by the warden himself. There was no doubt about the cause of death. No idea how the “convicted cop killer” found an electrical cord. Death row inmates were allowed two ten-minute showers per week, during which they were “unmonitored.” Prison officials were scratching their heads, but hey, it’s prison and suicides happen all the time. Tad was about to get the needle anyway and he’d fired his lawyers. Did anyone really care? The wife of one of the dead DEA agents was quoted as saying, “We’re very disappointed. We wanted to be there and watch him take his last breath.”

His last lawyer, Amos Patrick of Memphis, was contacted but had no comment.

The Nashville Tennessean was even less sympathetic. The condemned man had murdered three fine officers of the law “in cold blood,” to coin an original term. The jury had spoken. The system had worked. May he rest in peace.

Mitch poured a cup of coffee, drank it black, and mumbled a prayer for Tad, then another one of thanks for dodging another messy, hopeless case. Assuming he had met Tad and somehow convinced him to sign on, Mitch would have spent the next ninety days scrambling to prove his client was legally insane. If he got lucky and found the right doctor, he would then frantically race to find a court that would listen. Every possible court had already said no to Tad. Every remaining strategy, and there were precious few, was a desperate long shot. Mitch would fly back and forth from New York to Memphis and Nashville, stay in budget motels, rack up thousands of miles with Hertz and Avis, and eat food that was a far cry from the delightful cuisine that came from Abby’s kitchen. He would miss her and the twins, fall far behind with his paying clients, lose a month of sleep, and then spend the last forty-eight hours at the prison either yelling into the phone or staring at Tad through a row of bars and lying about their chances.

“Good morning,” Abby said as she patted his shoulder. She poured a cup and sat at the table. “Any good news from around the world?”

He closed his laptop and smiled at her. “The usual. A recession is looming. Our invasion of Iraq looks even more misguided. The climate is heating up. Nothing new, really.”

“Lovely.”

“A couple of stories from down there about Tad Kearny killing himself.”

“It’s so tragic.”

“It is, but my file is closed. And I’ve decided that my career as a death row lawyer is over.”

“I think I’ve heard that before.”

“Well, this time I’m serious.”

“We’ll see. Are you working late tonight?”

“No. I’ll be home around six, I think.”

“Good. Remember that Laotian restaurant in the Village, about two months ago?”

“Sure. How could I forget? Something Vang.”

“Bida Vang.”

“And the chef has a last name with at least ten syllables.”

“He goes by ‘Chan’ and he’s decided to do a cookbook. He’ll be here tonight to destroy the kitchen.”

“Wonderful. What’s on the menu?”

“Far too much, but he wants to experiment. He mentioned an herbal sausage and fried coconut rice, among others. Might want to skip lunch.”

Clark emerged from the darkness and went straight to his mother for a hug. Carter would be five minutes behind. Mitch poured two small glasses of orange juice and asked what was on tap at school that day. As always, Clark woke up slow and said little over breakfast. Carter, the chatterbox, usually handled both ends of the morning conversation.

When the boys agreed on waffles and bananas, Mitch left the kitchen and went to shower. At 7:45 on the dot, the three guys hugged Abby goodbye and left for school. When he wasn’t out of town, and when the weather permitted, Mitch walked the twins to school. The River Latin School was only four blocks away and the walk was always a delight, especially when their father was with them. Near the school, other boys emerged, and it was obvious they had the same destination. They wore the uniform — navy blazer, white shirt, and khakis. The shoes were free of the dress code and were a startling mix of high-end basketball sneakers, L.L.Bean hiking boots, dirty buckskins, and traditional loafers.

Mitch and Abby still worried about their sons’ education. They were paying for the best in the city, but they, like most parents, wanted more diversity. Unlike the rest of the world, River Latin was 90 percent white and all-male. However, as products of mediocre public schools, they realized that they had only one opportunity to educate their children. For the moment, they could not foresee changing schools, but their concerns were growing.

Without showing too much affection, Mitch said goodbye to the twins, promised to see them that night, and hustled toward the subway.

As he entered the tower on Broad Street and walked through the soaring atrium, he paused to remember Lamar’s story about his visit here. Mitch saw the chrome and leather benches against a glass wall and sat down for a moment. He smiled as he watched the ants marching, hundreds of well-dressed young professionals like himself eager to start the day and wishing the escalators would climb faster. It would indeed be a shock to a small-town lawyer with a laid-back practice.

He was glad he’d made the effort to see his old friend, but it would never happen again. Lamar had not offered a hand to shake as Mitch left. There were simply too many unpleasant memories.

And that was fine with Mitch.

He glanced at his watch and realized that about twenty-four hours earlier he had been sitting in the former showroom of a Pontiac dealership in a shady part of Memphis, waiting and waiting for a meeting he wanted no part of.

The sharp sound of the word “Mitch” interrupted his random thoughts and brought him back to reality. Willie Backstrom was walking over, thick briefcase hanging from a leather strip over his shoulder. Mitch stood and said, “Good morning, Willie.”

“I’ve been here for thirty years and I’ve never seen anyone use those benches. You okay?”

“We’re too busy to sit down. Seriously, how can you bill a client when you’re sitting in the lobby?”

“Do it all the time.”

They walked away and joined the crowd at a wall of elevators. Once they were packed inside and moving up, Willie said softly, “If you get a minute, stop by today and let’s talk about Amos.”

“Sure. You ever been to the Pontiac place?”

“No, but I’ve heard about it for years.”

“I got the impression that a visiting lawyer can get a lube job while taking a deposition.”

The top man at Scully & Pershing was Jack Ruch, a forty-year veteran still hitting it hard in the final months as he neared the finish line of his seventieth birthday. The firm mandated retirement at seventy with no exceptions. As a policy, it was wise but widely unpopular. Most of the older partners were renowned experts in their fields and were billing at the highest rates. When forced out, they took their expertise with them, as well as the long, trusted relationships with their clients. On the one hand it seemed shortsighted to set such an arbitrary deadline, but youth demanded it. Forty-something partners like Mitch wanted to see room at the top. The young associates were super ambitious and many refused to join big firms that did not clear the deck by shoving out the old guys.

So Jack Ruch was counting the days. His official title was managing partner, and as such he ran the firm much like a high-powered corporate CEO. It was a law firm, though, an organization of proud professionals, not a corporation, and the titles were much weightier. Managing partner it was.

When Jack called, every lawyer in the building dropped what he or she was doing because whatever he or she was doing was not nearly as crucial as whatever Jack might have on his mind. But he was a skillful manager and knew better than to interrupt and throw his weight around. His email asked Mitch to appear at his office at 10 A.M., “if convenient.”

Convenient or not, Mitch planned to be there five minutes early.

He was, and a secretary led him into the splendid corner office suite at precisely 10 A.M. She poured coffee from a silver pitcher and asked Mitch if he wanted something from the daily platter of fresh pastries on the credenza. Mitch, mindful of Chan and his band of Laotian sous chefs set to invade his kitchen in a few hours, thanked her and declined.

They sat around a small coffee table in a corner of the suite. From sixty floors up the views of the harbor were even more impressive, though Mitch was far too focused to venture a glimpse. Those who worked in Manhattan’s tallest buildings were adept at ignoring the views while visitors gawked.

Jack was tanned and fit and wearing another one of his fine linen suits. He could pass for a man fifteen years younger and it seemed a shame to show him the door. But he had no time to dwell on a policy that he had agreed to thirty years earlier and wasn’t about to change. “I spoke to Luca yesterday,” he said rather gravely. Obviously, something heavy was going down.

In the vast universe of Scully, there was only one Luca. Twenty years earlier, when American Big Law went on a merging binge and gobbled up firms around the world, Scully had managed to convince Luca Sandroni to join forces. He had built a sterling international firm in Rome and was widely respected throughout Europe and North Africa.

“How is Luca?”

“Not good. He was not specific, rather vague actually, but he had a bad trip to the doctor’s office and got some unwelcome news. He didn’t say what it was and I didn’t ask.”

“That’s awful.” Mitch knew him well. Luca was in New York several times a year and enjoyed a good time. He had dined at Abby’s table and the McDeeres had stayed at his spacious villa in central Rome. That the young American couple had lived in Italy and knew the culture and language meant a lot to him.

“He wants you in Rome, as soon as possible.” Odd that he didn’t contact Mitch directly with the request, but Luca was always respectful of the chain of command. By going through Jack, the message was being delivered that Mitch should drop everything and go to Rome.

“Of course. Any idea what he wants?”

“It involves Lannak, the Turkish construction company.”

“I’ve done some work for Lannak, but not much.”

“Luca has represented the company forever, a great client. Now there’s another dust-up in Libya and Lannak’s in the middle of it.”

Mitch nodded properly and tried to suppress a smile. Sounded like another great adventure! In his four years as a partner he had established a reputation as a sort of legal SWAT team leader sent in by Scully to rescue clients in distress. It was a role he relished and tried to expand while guarding it as his own.

Jack continued, “As usual, Luca was light on the details. He still doesn’t like the phone and hates email. As you know, he prefers to discuss business over a long Roman lunch, preferably outdoors.”

“Sounds dreadful. I’m leaving Sunday.”