The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 6

Scully & Pershing was known for its lavish offices wherever it ventured. Now in thirty-one cities on five continents and counting, because for Scully the numbers were important, it leased prime space in the most prestigious addresses, usually taller and newer towers designed by the trendiest of architects. It sent in its own team of decorators who filled each suite with art, fabrics, furnishings, and lighting indigenous to the locale. Enter any Scully office and your senses were touched by the look, feel, and expensive taste. Its clients expected as much. For the hourly rates they paid, they wanted to see success.

In his eleven years with the firm, Mitch had visited about a dozen of its offices, mainly in the United States and Europe, and, truthfully, the shine was wearing off. Each was different but all were similar, and he had reached the point of not slowing down long enough to appreciate the serious money on the walls and floors. After a while, they were beginning to blur together. But he reminded himself that the opulence was not for his benefit. It was all a show for others: well-heeled clients, prospective associates, and visiting lawyers. He caught himself mumbling like the other partners about the expense of maintaining such a facade. Much of that money could have trickled down to the partners’ pockets.

Things were different in Rome. There, the offices, as well as every other aspect of the practice, were under the thumb of Luca Sandroni, the founder. For over thirty years he had slowly built a firm that was housed in a four-story stone building with no elevators and limited views. It was tucked away on Via della Paglia near the Piazza Santa Maria, in the Trastevere neighborhood of old Rome. All of the buildings around it were four-storied stucco with red-tiled roofs, and tastefully showed the wear and tear of being built centuries earlier. Romans, new and old, never cared much for tall buildings.

Mitch had been there many times and loved the place. It was a step back in time and a welcome break from the relentlessly modern image of the rest of Scully. No other office in the firm had such history, nor did they dare say “slow down” when you entered. Luca and his team worked hard and enjoyed the prestige and money, but they were Italians and refused to succumb to the workaholism expected by the Americans.

Mitch stopped in the alley and admired the massive double doors. An old sign beside them read: Sandroni Studio Legale. The merger with Luca allowed him to keep his firm’s name, a point he would not concede. For a moment, Mitch thought of the law offices he’d seen that week, from his own shiny tower in Manhattan, to the grungy Pontiac place in Memphis, to Lamar Quin’s sleepy little suite upstairs above the town square, and now this.

He stepped through the doors and into a narrow foyer, where Mia was always sitting. She smiled, jumped to her feet, and greeted Mitch with the obligatory dramatic peck on both cheeks, a ritual that still made him a bit uncomfortable. They spoke in Italian and covered the basics: his flight, Abby, the boys, the weather. He sat across from her, sipped espresso that always tasted better in Rome, and finally got around to Luca. She frowned slightly but revealed nothing. Her phone kept ringing.

Luca was waiting in his office, the same one he’d had for decades. It was small by Scully standards, at least for a managing partner, but he could not have cared less. He welcomed Mitch with more hugs and kisses and the usual greetings. If he was sick, it wasn’t apparent. He waved at a small coffee table in a corner, his favorite meeting place, as his secretary inquired about drinks and pastries.

“How is the beautiful Abby?” Luca asked, in perfect English with only a trace of an accent. His second law degree was from Stanford. He also spoke French and Spanish, and years earlier could handle Arabic, but had lost it through neglect.

As they caught up on the McDeere family front, Mitch began to notice a weaker voice, but only slightly. When he lit a cigarette, Mitch said, “Still smoking, I see.”

Luca shrugged as if the smoking couldn’t possibly be related to a health issue. A double window was open and the smoke made its way through it. Piazza Santa Maria was below and the sounds of the busy street life emanated upward. Mia brought coffee on a silver tray and poured it for them.

Mitch tiptoed through the minefield of Luca’s family. He had been married and divorced twice and it was never clear if his current companion had lasting potential; not that Mitch or anyone else for that matter would dare to ask. He had two adult children with his first wife, a woman Mitch had never met, and a teenager with his second. A hot young paralegal broke up the first marriage, then ruined the second by cracking up and fleeing with their love child to Spain.

Amidst that wreckage, the bright spot was his daughter, Giovanna, who was a Scully associate in London. Five years earlier, Luca had finessed the firm’s nepotism rules and quietly landed her a job. According to the firm gossip, she was as brilliant and driven as her father.

While his private life had been chaotic, his professional career was without a blemish. The Sandroni Studio Legale had been romanced by all the players in Big Law before Luca finally got the deal he wanted with Scully.

“I’m afraid I have a slight problem, Mitch,” he said sadly. With years of practice he had flattened out almost every wrinkle in his accent, but “Mitch” still sounded more like Meetch.

“The doctors have run tests for a month now, and they finally agree that I have a cancer. A bad one. In the pancreas.”

Mitch closed his eyes as his shoulders sagged. If there was a worse cancer he was not aware of it. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“The prognosis is not good and I’m in for a bad time. I’m taking a leave of absence while the doctors do their work. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

“I’m so sorry, Luca. This is awful.”

“It is, but my spirits are good and there are always miracles, or so my priest tells me. I’m spending more time with him these days.” He managed a chuckle.

“I don’t know what to say, Luca.”

“There’s nothing to say. It’s top secret, classified and all that. I don’t want my clients to know yet. If things deteriorate, then I’ll gradually inform them. I’m already handing off some of my cases to the partners here. That’s where you come in, Mitch.”

“I’m here, ready to help.”

“The most important matter on my desk right now involves Lannak, the Turkish contractor and a longtime client. An extremely valuable client, Mitch.”

“I worked on one of their cases a few years back.”

“Yes, I know, and your work was superb. Lannak is one of the largest construction companies in the Middle East and Asia. They’ve built airports, highways, bridges, canals, dams, power plants, skyscrapers, you name it. The company is family-owned and is superbly managed. It delivers on time and on budget and knows how to do business in a world where everyone, from a Saudi prince to a cab driver in Kenya, has his hand out looking for a kickback.”

Mitch nodded along and noticed Luca’s voice fading a little. On the flight to Rome he had read the firm’s internal client memos on Lannak. Headquarters in Istanbul; fourth-largest Turkish contractor with estimated annual revenues of $2.5 billion; large projects around the world but especially in India and North Africa; an estimated 25,000 employees; privately owned by the Celik family, who seemed to be as closemouthed as a bunch of Swiss bankers; family fortune thought to be in the billion-plus range, but one guess was as good as the next.

Luca lit another cigarette and half-heartedly blew smoke over his shoulder. “Are you familiar with the Great Man-Made River project in Libya?”

Mitch had read about it but only knew the basics. His knowledge, or lack thereof, didn’t matter, because Luca was in his storytelling mood. “Not really.”

Luca nodded at the correct response and said, “Goes back decades, but around 1975 Colonel Gaddafi decided to build an underground canal to pump water from under the Sahara to the cities along the coast in northern Libya. When the oil companies starting poking around for oil eighty years ago, they found some huge aquifers deep beneath the desert. The idea was to pump the water out and send it to Tripoli and Benghazi, but the cost was far too much. Until they discovered oil. Gaddafi gave the project the green light, but most experts thought it was impossible. It took thirty years and twenty billion dollars, but damned if the Libyans didn’t pull it off. It worked, and Gaddafi declared himself a genius, something he has a habit of doing. Since he then had dominion over nature, he decided to create a river. There is not a single one in the entire country. Instead they have seasonal riverbeds known as ‘wadis,’ and these dry out in the summer. Gaddafi’s next breathtaking project would be to combine some of the larger wadis, reroute the flow of water, make a permanent river, and build a magnificent bridge over it.”

“A bridge in the desert.”

“Yes, Mitch, a bridge in the desert, with delusional plans to link one side of the desert to the other and somehow build cities. Build a bridge and the traffic will find it. Six years ago, in 1999, Lannak signed a contract with the government for eight hundred million dollars. Gaddafi wanted a billion-dollar bridge, so he ordered changes before construction started. In his newspapers he posed for photos with models of ‘The Great Gaddafi Bridge’ and told everyone it would cost a billion, all generated by Libyan oil. Not a dime would be borrowed. Because Lannak has done business in Libya for many years, they knew how chaotic things could be. Let’s just say that Colonel Gaddafi and his warlords are not astute businessmen. They understand guns and oil. Contracts are often a nuisance. Lannak would not begin the job until the Libyans deposited five hundred million U.S. dollars in a German bank. The four-year project took six years and is now complete, which is a miracle and a testament to the tenacity of Lannak. The company met the terms of its contract. The Libyans have not. The overruns were horrendous. The Libyan government owes Lannak four hundred million and won’t pay. Thus, our claim.”

Luca put down his cigarette, picked up a remote, and aimed it at a flat screen on the wall. Wires ran from the screen to the floor where they joined other wires that snaked away in all directions. The current demands of technology required all kinds of devices, and since the walls were solid stone and two feet thick, the IT guys did not drill. Mitch adored the contrast between the old and new: the latest gadgets wedged into a sprawling maze of rooms built before electricity and designed to last forever.

The image on the screen was a color photo of a bridge, a towering suspension bridge over a dried-up riverbed with six-lane highways running to and from. Luca said, “This is the Great Gaddafi Bridge in central Libya, over an unnamed river yet to be found. It was and is a foolish idea because there are no people in the region and no one wants to go there. However, there is plenty of oil and maybe the bridge will get used after all. Lannak doesn’t really care. It’s not paid to plan Libya’s future. It signed a contract to build the bridge and upheld its end of the deal. Now our client wants to be paid.”

Mitch enjoyed the conversation and wondered where it was going. He had a hunch and tried to control his excitement.

Luca stubbed out his cigarette and closed his eyes as if in pain. He punched the remote and the screen went blank. “I filed the claim in October with the United Arbitration Board in Geneva.”

“I’ve been there several times.”

“I know, and that’s why I want you to take this case.”

Mitch tried to maintain a poker face but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Okay. Why me?”

“Because I know you can represent our client effectively, you can prevail in the case, and because we need an American in charge. The board’s chairman, more formally known as the ruling magistrate, is from Harvard. Six of the twenty judges are American. There are three from Asia and they usually go along with the Americans. I want you to take the case, Mitch, because I probably won’t be around to see it through.” His voice faded as he thought about dying.

“I’m honored, Luca. Of course I’ll take the case.”

“Good. I talked to Jack Ruch this morning and got the green light. New York is on board. Omar Celik, Lannak’s CEO, will be in London next week and I’ll try to arrange a meeting. The file is already thick, thousands of pages, so you need to catch up.”

“I can’t wait. Do the Libyans have a defense to the claim?”

“The usual truckload of absurdities. Defective design, defective materials, unnecessary delays, lack of supervision, lack of control, unnecessary cost overruns. The Libyan government uses the Reedmore law firm out of London for its dirty work, and you will not enjoy the experience. They are extremely aggressive and quite unethical.”

“I know them. And our claim is bulletproof?”

Luca smiled at the question and said, “Well, as the attorney who filed the claim, I’ll say that I have complete confidence in my client. Here’s an example, Mitch. In the original design, the Libyans wanted a superhighway approaching the bridge from both directions. Eight lanes, mind you. There are not enough cars in the entire country to fill eight lanes. And they wanted eight lanes over the river. Lannak really balked and eventually convinced them that a four-lane bridge was more than adequate. The contract says four lanes. At some point, Gaddafi reviewed the project and asked about the eight lanes. He went nuts when his people told him the bridge would have only four lanes. The King wanted eight! Lannak finally talked him down to six and demanded a change order from the original design. Expanding from four lanes to six added about two hundred million to the job, and the Libyans are now refusing to pay that. It was one major change order after another. To complicate matters, the market for crude oil cratered and Gaddafi ordered some stiff belt-tightening, which in Libya means everything gets reduced but the military. When the Libyans were a hundred million dollars in arrears, Lannak threatened to stop working. So Gaddafi, being Gaddafi, sent the army, his revolutionary goons, to the job site to monitor the progress. No one got hurt but things were tense. At about the time the bridge was finished, someone in Tripoli woke up and realized that it would never be used. So the Libyans lost interest in the project and refused to pay.”

“So Lannak is finished?”

“All but the final punch list. The company always finishes, regardless of what the lawyers are doing. I suggest you go to Libya as soon as possible.”

“And it’s safe?”

Luca smiled and shrugged and seemed winded. “As safe as ever. I’ve been there several times, Mitch, and know it well. Gaddafi can be unstable, but he has an iron grip on the military and the police and there’s very little crime. The country is full of foreign workers and he has to protect them. You’ll have a security team. You’ll be safe.”

For lunch, they strolled across the piazza to an outdoor bistro covered with large umbrellas. Without stopping, Luca smiled at the hostess, said something to a waiter, and by the time he arrived at his table the owner was greeting him with hugs and kisses. Mitch had eaten there before, and he often wondered why Luca chose the same place every day. In a city filled with great restaurants, why not explore a little? Again, though, he said nothing. He was an extra in Luca’s world and thrilled to be included.

A waiter poured sparkling water but did not offer menus. Luca wanted the usual — a small seafood salad with arugula and a side of sliced tomatoes in olive oil. Mitch ordered the same.

“Wine, Mitch?” Luca asked.

“Only if you do.”

“I’ll pass.” The waiter left.

“Mitch, I have a favor to ask.”

At that moment, how could Mitch possibly say no to any request? “What is it?”

“You’ve met my daughter, Giovanna.”

“Yes, we had dinner in New York, twice I think. She was a summer intern for a law firm. Skadden, I believe.”

“That’s right. Well, as you know, she’s in our London office, fifth year there, and doing well. I’ve discussed the Lannak case with her and she’s eager to get involved. She’s been cramped in the office for some time, the ninety hours a week routine, and she wants some fresh air and sunshine. You’ll need several associates for the busywork, and I want you to include Giovanna. She’s very bright and works hard. You won’t be disappointed, Mitch.”

And, as Mitch vividly recalled, she was quite attractive.

It was an easy request. There was plenty of grunt work ahead — documents to read and categorize, discovery to decipher, depositions to plan, briefs to write. Mitch would supervise it all, but the tedium would be delegated to associates.

“Let’s sign her up,” he said. “I’ll call and welcome her aboard.”

“Thank you, Mitch. She will be pleased. I’m trying to convince her to return to Rome, at least for the next year. I need her close by.”

Mitch nodded but could think of nothing to say. The food arrived and they busied themselves with lunch. The piazza was coming to life with midday traffic, as office workers left their buildings in search of something to eat. The foot traffic was fascinating and Mitch never tired of watching the people.

Luca stopped eating as a sudden pain stiffened his back. It passed and he smiled at Mitch, as if all was well.

“Ever been to Libya, Mitch?”

“No. It’s never been on my list.”

“Fascinating place, really. My father lived there in the thirties, before the war, back when Italy was trying to colonize the country. As you probably know, the Italians were not very good at the colonizing business. Leave it to the British, the French, the Spaniards, even the Dutch and Portuguese. For some reason the Italians never got the hang of it. We bailed out after the war, but my father stayed in Tripoli until 1969, when Gaddafi took over in a military coup. Libya has a fascinating history, one worth taking a look at.”

Not only had Mitch never planned to visit the place, he had never been curious about its history. He smiled and said, “I’ll have a PhD by next week.”

“For the first ten years of my practice, I represented Italian companies doing business in Libya. I stayed there often, even had a little flat in Tripoli for a couple years. And there was a woman, a Moroccan.” The twinkle was back in his eye. Mitch could not help but wonder how many girlfriends Luca had kept around the world in his day.

“She was a beauty,” he said softly, wistfully.

Of course she was. Would Luca Sandroni waste time with a homely woman?

Over espresso and the obligatory Italian post-lunch cigarette, Luca said, “Why don’t you stop off in London and see Giovanna? She’ll be thrilled to be personally invited onto the case. And check on her, tell her I’m doing fine.”

“Are you doing fine, Luca?”

“Not really. I have less than six months, Mitch. The cancer is aggressive and there’s little I can do. The case is yours.”

“Thank you, Luca, for the trust. You won’t be disappointed.”

“No, I won’t, but I’m afraid I might not be around to see its conclusion.”