The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 7

Two hours before he was to board the nonstop flight from Rome to London, Mitch abruptly changed plans and got the last seat on a flight to New York’s JFK. There were pressing matters at home. Dinner with Giovanna could wait.

Confined to a narrow seat for eight hours, Mitch passed the time as always on long flights by diving into thick briefs so boring they usually led to a long nap or two. First, he reviewed the docket and current membership of the United Arbitration Board and read the bios of its twenty members. They were appointed by one of the many committees at the United Nations and served five-year terms, with a lot of time spent in Geneva and with generous expense accounts. A former member once told Mitch, over drinks in New York, that the UAB was one of the best gigs in the world for aging lawyers with international pedigrees and contacts. As always, its roster was chock-full of bright legal minds from every continent, most of whom had at one time or another passed through Ivy League law schools either to study or teach. Its business was done in English and French, though all languages were welcome and could be accommodated. Two years earlier, Mitch had appeared before the board and argued a case on behalf of an Argentine grain cooperative seeking damages against a South Korean importer. He and Abby spent three honeymoon-like days in Geneva and still talked about it. He won the case, collected the money, and sent a hefty bill to Buenos Aires.

Winning cases before the UAB was not that difficult if the facts fell into place. It had jurisdiction because the contracts, like the one for the bridge project between Lannak and the Libyan government, had a clearly written clause requiring both parties to submit their disputes to the UAB. In addition, Libya, like virtually every other nation, was a signatory to various treaties designed to facilitate international commerce and make the bad actors — and there was never a shortage of them — behave.

Winning was relatively easy. Collecting an award was another matter. Dozens of rogue states willingly signed whatever contracts and treaties were necessary to get the business, with no intention of paying the damages that became due at arbitration. The more Mitch read, the more he realized that Libya had a long history of trying to walk away from deals that looked promising at contract but went sour.

According to Scully’s intelligence, the bridge was a perfect example of Gaddafi’s erratic dreaming. He became enamored with the vision of a soaring structure in the middle of a desert and ordered it built. Then he lost interest and moved on to other important projects. At some point, someone convinced him it was a bad idea, but by then those pesky Turks were demanding serious money.

Luca’s UAB claim ran for ninety pages, and by the time Mitch had read it once he was almost asleep.

The pressing matter at home was a youth baseball game in Central Park. Carter and Clark played for the Bruisers, a serious contender in the Under Eight division of the city’s police league. Carter was the catcher and loved the dirt and sweat. Clark roamed the outfield and missed half the action. Mitch had almost no time to help coach the team, but he volunteered as the bench coach and tried to keep the lineup straight. It was a crucial task because if any kid, regardless of talent or interest, played one inning less than the others, his parents would be waiting in ambush after the game.

After a few light skirmishes with parents, Mitch was already plotting ways to interest the twins in individual sports such as golf and tennis. However, some of those parents were just as terrifying. Perhaps hiking and skiing might be more enjoyable.

The boys stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the foyer as Mitch inspected their uniforms. Abby was worrying about the time; they were already running late. They left in a rush and hurried along Sixty-Eighth Street to Central Park West. The teams were on one of the many fields of the Great Lawn, limbering up in the outfield as coaches yelled and parents huddled in the falling temperatures.

Hiding in the dugout presented its own challenges, but Mitch preferred it to the bleachers where the adults chatted nonstop about careers, real estate, new restaurants, new nannies, new trainers, schools, and so on.

The umpires arrived and the game began. For ninety minutes Mitch sat on the bench, surrounded by a dozen eight-year-olds, and managed to shut out the rest of the world. He kept the score book, made the substitutions, huddled with Mully, the head coach, chided the umpires, ribbed the opposing coach, and treasured the moments when his own sons sat beside him and talked baseball.

The Bruisers crushed the Rams, and at the final out the players and coaches lined up for the postgame handshaking rituals. The staff, Mully and Mitch, were determined to teach their players the virtues of sportsmanship, and they led by example. Winning was always fun, but winning with class was far more important.

In a crowded city with far too few fields and an abundance of kids, the games were limited by time, not innings. Another one was scheduled to start right away and it was important to clear the field. The victorious Bruisers and their parents walked to a pizzeria on Columbus Avenue where they commandeered a long table in the back and ordered dinner. The fathers had tall beers, the mothers chardonnay, while the players, all proud of their dirty uniforms, devoured pizza as they watched the Mets on a big screen.

Almost all the fathers were in finance, law, or medicine, and they were from well-to-do families from across the country. As a general rule they didn’t talk much about where they were from. There was always plenty of good-natured talk about college football rivalries, favorite golf courses, and such, but the conversations rarely drifted to their hometowns. They were in New York now, on the biggest stage, living the big life, proud of their success, and they considered themselves real New Yorkers.

Danesboro, Kentucky, was another world and Mitch never mentioned it. He thought of it, though, as he watched his own boys laugh and chatter with their friends. He had played all the sports the small town had to offer, and he could not remember a single game when his parents were watching. His father died when he was just a boy, and afterward his mother worked in low-wage jobs to support him and his brother, Ray. She never had the time to watch a ball game.

What lucky kids these were. Affluent lives, private schools, and supportive parents who were too involved in their activities. Mitch often worried that his kids would be too pampered and too soft, but Abby disagreed. Their school was demanding and pushed the students to achieve and excel. Carter and Clark were, at least so far, well-rounded and being taught proper values both at school and at home.

Abby was startled at the news that Luca was gravely ill. She had met many Scully partners, probably too many, from all over the world, and Luca was by far her favorite. She wasn’t keen on the idea of Mitch traveling to Libya, but if Luca said it was safe, then she wouldn’t push back. Not that it would do any good. Since he made partner four years earlier, Mitch had become a seasoned traveler. She often went with him, especially when the destination was exciting. European cities were her favorite. Between her parents, her kid sister, and a collection of nannies, babysitting was rarely a problem. But the boys were getting older and more active, and Abby feared her globe-trotting days were about to be curtailed. She also suspected, though had said nothing, that her husband’s success would mean even more time away from home.

Late that night, she brewed a pot of chamomile tea that was supposed to induce “slumber,” and they cuddled and chatted on the sofa and tried to get sleepy.

Abby said, “And you’re gone for a week?”

“Something like that. There’s no clear agenda because we can’t predict what might happen. Lannak has a skeleton crew still at the bridge, and we’re told that one of their top engineers will be available.”

“What do you know about bridge construction?” she asked with a chuckle.

“Nothing, but I’m learning. Every case is a new adventure. Right now I’m the envy of almost every lawyer at Scully.”

“That’s a lot of lawyers.”

“It is, and while I’m dashing across the desert in a jeep looking for a magnificent bridge to nowhere, which just happened to cost over a billion dollars, the rest of my colleagues will be stuck behind their desks, worrying about their hourly billing.”

“I’ve heard this before.”

“And you’ll probably hear it again.”

“Well, your timing is good. My mother called today and they’re coming for the weekend.”

No, my timing is perfect, Mitch thought. In years past he would have blurted it out and stuck another pin into his wife’s skin, but he was in the often uncomfortable process of reconciling with his in-laws. He had come a long way, but back at the beginning there had been so much territory to cover.

“Anything planned?” he asked, to be polite.

“Not really. I may have dinner with the girls Saturday and let my parents babysit.”

“Do that. You need a night out.”

The war had begun almost twenty years earlier when her parents insisted that she break off the engagement and ditch the McDeere guy. Both families were from Danesboro, a town so small that everyone knew everyone else. Her father ran a bank and the family had status. The McDeeres had nothing.

“Dad said he might take the boys to see the Yankees.”

“He should take them to see the Mets.”

“Carter would agree. And because of that, Clark is becoming a Yankee fan.”

Mitch laughed and said, “I have a brother. I remember.”

“How is Ray?”

“Fine. We talked two days ago, nothing has changed.”

A week before they finished college, Mitch and Abby were married in a small chapel on campus, in front of twenty friends and no family. Her parents were so irate they boycotted the wedding, a slap so terrible it was years before she could discuss it with a therapist. Mitch would never truly forgive them. Ray would have attended the wedding had he not been serving time in prison. These days he was working as a charter boat captain in Key West.

Mitch’s in-law rehab had now brought him to the point of being civil to them, dining with them, and allowing them to babysit their grandchildren. When they entered the room, though, walls went up around him and everything else was off-limits. They could not stay in the apartment. Mitch argued it wasn’t large enough anyway. They could not inquire about his work, though it was evident that his partnership was providing a lifestyle far above anything in Danesboro. They could not and did not expect the McDeere family to visit them in Kentucky. Mitch wasn’t going back anyway.

The law degree from Harvard had somewhat tempered their disapproval of their son-in-law, but only for a moment. The move to Memphis had been puzzling, and when things blew up there and Abby disappeared for months, they of course blamed Mitch and despised him all over again.

With time, some of the issues faded as maturity settled in. A therapist helped Abby begin the process of forgiving her parents. The same therapist realized Mitch was another story, but managed a slight breakthrough when he reluctantly agreed to at least be civil when they were in the same room. More progress was slowly made, driven more by Mitch’s love for his wife than by the manipulations of the therapist. As so often happens in complicated families, the arrival of grandchildren softened the edges and shoved even more history aside.

“And your mom?” she asked softly.

He took a sip of tea and shook his head. “Still the same, I guess. Ray checks on her once a week, or so he says. I have my doubts.” His mother was spending her final years in an assisted living facility in Florida. With dementia, she moved closer to the end each day.

“And what does one do in Tripoli?”

“I don’t know. Ride camels. Play shoot-’em-up with terrorists.”

“That’s not funny. I went to the State Department website. According to our government, Libya is a terrorist state and they evidently hate Americans.”

“Who doesn’t hate Americans?”

“The State Department says it’s sort of okay to go but take precautions.”

“Luca knows more about Libya than the bureaucrats in Washington.”

“I wish you wouldn’t go.”

“I have to go, and I’ll be fine. Our bodyguards are quicker than the terrorists.”

“Ha, ha.”

Not too many years earlier, he would have blurted something like: Well, I’d rather hang out with a bunch of Revolutionary Guards than see your parents.

He smiled at the thought, then let it pass. After several thousand bucks in therapy, he had learned to bite his tongue.

Often, it was almost bleeding.