The King of Torts

7

Clay could think of only one other occasion in the past four years on which he called, or tried to call, Bennett the Bulldozer. That effort had ended dismally when he’d been unable to penetrate the layers of importance surrounding the great man. Mr. BVH wanted folks to think he spent his time “on the job,” which for him meant out among the earth-moving machinery where he could direct matters and smell up close the unlimited potential of Northern Virginia. In the family’s home there were large photos of him “on the job,” wearing his own custom-made and monogrammed hard hat, pointing here and there as land got leveled and more malls and shopping centers got built. He said he was too busy for idle chatter and claimed to hate telephones, yet always had a supply nearby to take care of business.

Truth was, Bennett played a lot of golf, and played it badly, according to the father of one of Clay’s law school classmates. Rebecca had let it slip more than once that her father played at least four rounds a week at Potomac, and his secret dream was to win the club championship.

Mr. Van Horn was a man of action with no patience for life behind a desk. He spent little time there, he claimed. The pit bull who answered “BVH Group” reluctantly agreed to forward Clay on to another secretary deeper inside the company. “Development” the second girl said rudely, as if the company had unlimited divisions. It took at least five minutes to get Bennett’s personal secretary on the phone. “He’s out of the office,” she said.

“How can I reach him?” Clay asked.

“He’s on the job.”

“Yes, I figured that. How can I reach him?”

“Leave a number and I’ll put it with the rest of his messages,” she said.

“Oh thank you,” Clay said, and left his office number.

Thirty minutes later Bennett returned the call. He sounded indoors, perhaps in the Men’s Lounge at the Potomac Country Club, double Scotch in hand, big cigar, a game of gin rummy in progress with the boys. “Clay, how in the world are you?” he asked, as if they hadn’t seen each other in months.

“Fine, Mr. Van Horn, and you?”

“Great. Enjoyed dinner last night.” Clay heard no roaring diesel engines in the background, no blasting.

“Oh yes, it was really nice. Always a pleasure,” Clay lied.

“What can I do for you, son?”

“Well, I want you to understand that I really appreciate your efforts to get me that job down in Richmond. I didn’t expect it, and you were very kind to intervene like that.” A pause as Clay swallowed hard. “But truthfully, Mr. Van Horn, I don’t see a move to Richmond in the near future. I’ve always lived in D.C. and this is home.”

Clay had many reasons to reject the offer. Staying in D.C. was mid-list. The overwhelming motive was to avoid having his life planned by Bennett Van Horn and getting locked into his debt.

“You can’t be serious,” Van Horn said.

“Yes, I’m very serious. Thanks, but no thanks.” The last thing Clay planned to do was to take any crap off this jerk. He loved the telephone at these moments; such a wonderful equalizer.

“A big mistake, son,” Van Horn said. “You just don’t see the big picture, do you?”

“Maybe I don’t. But I’m not so sure you do either.”

“You have a lot of pride, Clay, I like that. But you’re also very wet behind the ears. You gotta learn that life is a game of favors, and when someone tries to help you, then you take the favor. One day maybe you’ll get the chance to repay it. You’re making a mistake, here, Clay, one that I’m afraid could have serious consequences.”

“What kinds of consequences?”

“This could really affect your future.”

“Well, it’s my future, not yours. I’ll pick the next job, and the one after that. Right now I’m happy where I am.”

“How can you be happy defending criminals all day long? I just don’t get it.”

This was not a new conversation, and, if it followed the usual course, things would deteriorate quickly. “I believe you’ve asked that question before. Let’s not go there.”

“We’re talking about a huge increase in salary, Clay. More money, better work, you’ll be spending your time with solid folks, not a bunch of street punks. Wake up, boy!” There were voices in the background. Wherever Bennett was, he was playing for an audience.

Clay gritted his teeth and let the “boy” pass. “I’m not going to argue, Mr. Van Horn. I called to say no.”

“You’d better reconsider.”

“I’ve already reconsidered. No thanks.”

“You’re a loser, Clay, you know that. I’ve known it for some time. This just reaffirms it. You’re turning down a promising job so you can stay in a rut and work for minimum wage. You have no ambition, no guts, no vision.”

“Last night I was a hard worker — had broad shoulders, lots of talent, and I was as sharp as a tack.”

“I take it back. You’re a loser.”

“And I was well educated and even handsome.”

“I was lying. You’re a loser.”

Clay hung up first. He slammed the phone down with a smile, quite proud that he had so irritated the great Bennett Van Horn. He’d held his ground and sent a clear message that he would not be shoved around by those people.

He would deal with Rebecca later, and it would not be pleasant.

Clay’s third and final visit to D Camp was more dramatic than the first two. With Jermaine in the front seat and Rodney in the back, Clay followed a D.C. police car and parked again directly in front of the building. Two cops, both young and black and bored with subpoena work, negotiated their entrance. Within minutes they were in the midst of a tense confrontation with Talmadge X, Noland, and another counselor, a hothead named Samuel.

Partially because he had the only white face in the crowd, but primarily because he was the lawyer who’d obtained the subpoena, the three counselors focused their wrath on Clay. He could not have cared less. He would never see these people again.

“You saw the file, man!” Noland yelled at Clay.

“I saw the file that you wanted me to see,” Clay shot back. “Now I get the rest of it.”

“What’re you talking about?” Talmadge X asked.

“I want everything here with Tequila’s name written on it.”

“You can’t do that.”

Clay turned to the cop holding the papers and said, “Would you please read the subpoena?”

The cop held it high for all to see, and read: “All files pertaining to the admission, medical evaluation, medical treatment, substance abatement, substance abuse counseling, rehabilitation, and discharge of Tequila Watson. As ordered by the Honorable F. Floyd Sackman, D.C. Superior Court Criminal Division.”

“When did he sign it?” Samuel asked.

“’Bout three hours ago.”

“We showed you everything,” Noland said to Clay.

“I doubt that. I can tell when a file has been rearranged.”

“Much too neat,” Jermaine added helpfully, finally.

“We ain’t fighting,” said the larger of the two cops, leaving little doubt that a good fight would be welcome. “Where do we start?”

“His medical evaluations are confidential,” Samuel said. “The doctor-patient privilege, I believe.”

It was an excellent point, but slightly off the mark. “The doctor’s files are confidential,” Clay explained. “But not the patient’s. I have a release and waiver signed by Tequila Watson allowing me to see all of his files, including the medicals.”

They began in a windowless room with mismatched filing cabinets lining the walls. After a few minutes, Talmadge X and Samuel disappeared and the tension began to ease. The cops pulled up chairs and accepted the coffee offered by the receptionist. She did not offer any to the gentlemen from the Office of the Public Defender.

After an hour of digging, nothing useful had been found. Clay and Jermaine left Rodney to continue the search. They had more cops to meet.

The raid on Clean Streets was very similar. The two lawyers marched into the front office with two policemen behind them. The Director was dragged out of a meeting. As she read the subpoena she mumbled something about knowing Judge Sackman and dealing with him later. She was very irritated, but the document spoke for itself. The same language — all files and papers relating to Washad Porter.

“This was not necessary,” she said to Clay. “We always cooperate with attorneys.”

“That’s not what I hear,” Jermaine said. Indeed, Clean Streets had a reputation for contesting even the most benign requests from OPD.

When she finished reading the subpoena for the second time, one of the cops said, “We’re not going to wait all day.”

She led them to a large office and fetched an assistant who began hauling in files. “When do we get these back?” she asked.

“When we’re finished with them,” Jermaine said.

“And who keeps them?”

“The Office of the Public Defender, under lock and key.”

The romance had begun at Abe’s Place. Rebecca had been in a booth with two girlfriends when Clay walked by en route to the men’s room. Their eyes met, and he actually paused for a second, unsure of exactly what to do next. The girlfriends soon got lost. Clay ditched his drinking pals. They sat together at the bar for two hours and talked nonstop. The first date was the next night. Sex within a week. She kept him away from her parents for two months.

Now, four years later, things were stale and she was under pressure to move on. It seemed fitting that they would end things at Abe’s Place.

Clay arrived first and stood at the bar in a crowd of Hill Rats draining their glasses, talking loud and fast and all at once about the crucial issues they had just spent long hours dealing with. He loved D.C., and he hated D.C. He loved its history and energy and importance. And he despised the countless minions who chased themselves in a frenetic game of who was more important. The nearest discussion was a passionate argument about wastewater treatment laws in the Central Plains.

Abe’s Place was nothing but a watering hole, strategically placed near Capitol Hill to catch the thirsty crowd headed for the suburbs. Great-looking women. Well dressed. Many of them on the prowl. Clay caught a few looks.

Rebecca was subdued, determined, and cold. They sneaked into a booth and both ordered strong drinks for the ride ahead. He asked some pointless questions about the subcommittee hearings that had begun, amid no fanfare, at least according to the Post. The drinks arrived and they dived in.

“I talked to my father,” she began.

“So did I.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were not taking the job in Richmond?”

“Why didn’t you tell me your father was pulling strings to get me a job in Richmond?”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I made it clear.”

“Nothing is clear with you.”

Both took a drink.

“Your father called me a loser. Is that the prevailing mood in your family?”

“At the moment, yes.”

“Shared by you?”

“I have my doubts. Someone has to be realistic here.”

There had been one serious intermission in the romance, a miserable failure at best. About a year earlier they had decided to let things cool off, to remain close friends, but to have a look around, perhaps play the field, make sure there was no one else out there. Barb had engineered the separation because, as Clay found out later, a very rich young man at the Potomac Country Club had just lost his wife to ovarian cancer. Bennett was a close personal friend of the family, etcetera, etcetera. He and Barb laid the trap, but the widower smelled the bait. One month on the fringes of the Van Horn family and the guy bought a place in Wyoming.

This, however, was a much more severe breakup. This was almost certainly the end. Clay took another drink and promised himself that whatever else was said, he would not, under any circumstances, say something that would hurt her. She could hit below the belt if she wanted. He would not.

“What do you want, Rebecca?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. Do you want out?”

“I think so,” she said, and her eyes were instantly wet.

“Is there someone else?”

“No.”

Not yet anyway. Just give Barb and Bennett a few days.

“It’s just that you’re going nowhere, Clay,” she said. “You’re smart and talented, but you have no ambition.”

“Gee, it’s nice to know I’m smart and talented again. A few hours ago I was a loser.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Why not, Rebecca? Why not have a laugh? It’s over, let’s face it. We love each other, but I’m a loser who’s going nowhere. That’s your problem. My problem is your parents. They’ll chew up the poor guy you marry.”

“The poor guy?”

“That’s right. I pity the poor guy you marry because your parents are insufferable. And you know it.”

“The poor guy I marry?” Her eyes were no longer wet. They were flashing now.

“Take it easy.”

“The poor guy I marry?”

“Look, I’ll make you an offer. Let’s get married right now. We quit our jobs, do a quickie wedding with no one present, sell everything we own, and fly to, say, Seattle or Portland, somewhere far away from here, and live on love for a while.”

“You won’t go to Richmond but you’ll go to Seattle?”

“Richmond is too damned close to your parents, okay?”

“Then what?”

“Then we’ll find jobs.”

“What kinds of jobs? Is there a shortage of lawyers out West?”

“You’re forgetting something. Remember, from last night, that I’m smart, talented, well educated, sharp as a tack, and even handsome. Big law firms will chase me all over the place. I’ll make partner in eighteen months. We’ll have babies.”

“Then my parents will come.”

“No, because we won’t tell them where we are. And if they find us, we’ll change our names and move to Canada.”

Two more drinks arrived and they wasted no time shoving the old ones aside.

The light moment passed, and quickly. But it reminded both of why they loved each other and of how much they enjoyed their time together. There had been much more laughter than sadness, though things were changing. Fewer laughs. More senseless spats. More influence from her family.

“I don’t like the West Coast,” she said, finally.

“Then pick a spot,” Clay said, finishing the adventure. Her spot had been chosen for her, and she wasn’t getting too far from Mommy and Daddy.

Whatever she had brought to the meeting finally had to be said. A long pull on the drink, then she leaned forward and stared him directly in the eyes. “Clay, I really need a break.”

“Make it easy on yourself, Rebecca. We’ll do whatever you want.”

“Thank you.”

“How long a break?”

“I’m not negotiating, Clay.”

“A month?”

“Longer than that.”

“No, I won’t agree to it. Let’s go thirty days without a phone call, okay? Today is the seventh of May. Let’s meet here on June the sixth, right here at this very table, and we’ll talk about an extension.”

“An extension?”

“Call it whatever you want.”

“Thank you. I’m calling it a breakup, Clay. The big bang. Splitsville. You go your way, I go mine. We’ll chat in a month, but I don’t expect a change. Things haven’t changed much in the past year.”

“If I’d said yes to that awful job in Richmond, would we be doing this split thing?”

“Probably not.”

“Does that mean something other than no?”

“No.”

“So, it was all a setup, wasn’t it? The job, the ultimatum? Last night was just what I thought it was, an ambush. Take this job, boy, or else.”

She would not deny it. Instead, she said, “Clay, I’m tired of fighting, okay? Don’t call me for thirty days.”

She grabbed her purse and jumped to her feet. On the way out of the booth, she somehow managed to plant a dry and meaningless kiss near his right temple, but he did not acknowledge it. He did not watch her leave.

She did not look back.