The Rooster Bar

39

At nine Thursday morning, Mark and Todd entered their new bank on Fulton Street as it opened. They had an appointment with an account manager and soon fed her a convoluted tale of their urgent need to wire $20,000 to a law firm in Senegal. Zola had e-mailed the precise wiring instructions. The manager had not yet performed such a task in her brief career. She made a few phone calls and learned, as did Todd and Mark, that the exchange rate between U.S. dollars and West African francs was important. The dollars were first converted to francs, then the wire was authorized by Mr. Lucero, senior partner. The wire was initiated and the money would arrive in Senegal in about twenty-four hours, if all went well. The transaction took an hour, plenty of time for Mark and Todd to charm the account manager with their clever remarks and winning personalities.

With the money on the way, Mark and Todd took the train into Manhattan and eventually arrived at Penn Station. Killing time and in no hurry whatsoever to return to D.C., they boarded at noon and napped all the way home.

Home? Though they had been gone for only five days, D.C. seemed like a different world. For years it had been their chosen ground, the place where they would begin and build their careers in the midst of endless opportunity, a city brimming with lawyers and firms and young professionals, all moving up. Now it was the place where they had failed miserably, with the damage meter still clicking away. They would soon leave D.C. in a hurry, and in disgrace, and with people looking for them, and so they found it difficult to gaze at the city from the backseat of a cab and feel any twinge of nostalgia.

Phil Sarrano’s office was on Massachusetts Avenue near Scott Circle. He was one of four associates in a ten-member firm that specialized in white-collar criminal defense, work that usually meant nice fees from well-heeled politicians, lobbyists, or government contractors. Somehow the firm found time for two dropouts who’d made a rather brazen raid into the city’s proud legal profession and were too broke to hire a more experienced lawyer.

Phil was only one year older than Todd and Mark. He had finished law school at Foggy Bottom in 2011, the year they had started. Looking around his office, though, they could see no diploma from the diploma mill. On the Ego Wall behind his desk was a handsome, framed certificate from the University of Michigan conferring upon him a degree in liberal arts, but nothing from Foggy Bottom. It was a nice office in a nice little firm that gave every impression of being prosperous and engaging. Phil certainly seemed to enjoy his work.

Where had they gone so wrong? Why had their careers fallen off the tracks?

“Who’s prosecuting?” Todd asked.

“Mills Reedy. Know her?”

“Nope. Never slept with her. Did you?” he asked Mark.

“Not that one.”

“I beg your pardon?” Phil said.

“Sorry, inside joke,” Todd said.

“Better keep it inside.”

“Is she tough?” Mark asked.

“Yes, a real ballbuster,” Phil said, reaching for a file. “She sent over the file and I’ve gone through it. They have copies of all of your court appearances, with those other names of course, so I gotta ask the question that I don’t usually ask: Do you guys have any defense to these charges?”

“Nope,” Mark said.

“None whatsoever,” Todd said. “We’re guilty as hell.”

“Then why’d you do it?” Phil asked.

“Isn’t that another question you’re never supposed to ask a client?” Todd asked.

“I suppose. Just curious, that’s all.”

Mark said, “We’ll talk about that later, maybe over a drink. My question has to do with the prosecution. Are they really serious about this crap? It’s such a minor little crime. In fact, in half the states unauthorized practice is not even a felony. It’s a low-grade misdemeanor.”

“This ain’t half the states,” Phil said. “This is D.C. and, as you would probably know if you actually had licenses, the Bar Council takes its work very seriously. And it does a good job. I’ve had one conversation with Ms. Reedy and she was all business. Reminded me that the max is two years in jail and a $1,000 fine.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Todd said.

“We’re not serving time, Phil,” Mark said. “And we gave our last $6,000 to you, so we’re even broker.”

“Had to borrow it from my grandmother,” Todd said.

“You want it back?” Phil asked, bristling.

“No, no, you keep it,” Mark said. “We just want you to know that we’re broke and we’re not going to jail, so write that down somewhere.”

Todd said, “And we can’t post a bond either.”

Phil was shaking his head. “I doubt that’ll happen. So, if you have no defense and you won’t accept any of the penalties, what exactly do you want me to do?”

“Stall,” Mark said.

“Delay,” Todd said. “Drag it out, let it blow over. If you asked for a trial date what would you get?”

“At least six months, maybe a year,” Phil said.

“Beautiful,” Mark said. “Tell Ms. Reedy we’re going to trial and we’ll have plenty of time to work a deal.”

“You guys sound like a couple of real lawyers,” Phil said.

“We were educated at Foggy Bottom,” Todd said.

After dark they sneaked into their apartment above The Rooster Bar, to check on things and perhaps settle in for the night. But it was even gloomier than they remembered, and after an hour they called a car and went to a budget motel. Each had $5,000 cash in a pocket, which meant that the Lucero & Frazier firm checking account was down to its last $989.31. They found a pricey steak house and splurged on filets and two bottles of fine California cabernet.

After the table was cleared and the wine was almost gone, Todd asked, “Remember the movie Body Heat? Kathleen Turner and William Hurt?”

“Sure, a great movie about an incompetent lawyer.”

“Among other things. Mickey Rourke plays a guy in jail, and he has this famous line, something like, ‘When you commit a murder you make ten mistakes. If you can think of eight of them, then you’re a genius.’ Remember that?”

“Maybe. Have you killed someone?”

“No, but we’ve made mistakes. In fact, we’ve probably made so many mistakes we can’t even think of half of them.”

“Number one?”

“We blew it when we told Rackley about our friend committing suicide. That was really stupid. His security guy, what’s his name?”

“Doug Broome, I think.”

“That’s it. Broome scared the shit out of us when he walked in and told us they had checked every Mark Finley and every Todd McCain in the country, right?”

“Yes.”

“So, it’s obvious Rackley is a fanatic about security and intelligence. It wouldn’t take much of an effort to research recent suicides by students at his law schools. Gordy’s name would pop up. Broome and his boys could snoop around Foggy Bottom and someone could drop our names, which were in the Post last week, by the way. Without too much effort, Broome could track down our real names, which, of course, would lead to our new law firm up in Brooklyn.”

“Wait, I’m not following. Even if he knows our real names and where we’re from, how can he find Lucero & Frazier in Brooklyn? We’re not exactly registered up there. We’re not in the phone book, not on a website. I don’t get it.”

“Mistake number two. We overplayed the Miami class action. Rackley and Strayhan must have asked themselves why we are so interested in the Cohen-Cutler lawsuit. That’s our angle, so we must have some skin in that game. What if, and I’m not sure about this, but what if Broome can find out that the firm of Lucero & Frazier has referred thirteen hundred cases to Cohen-Cutler?”

“Stop right there. We are not the attorneys of record and our firm name is off the books, same as dozens of other lawyers who’ve referred their cases. Cohen-Cutler has the information, but it’s confidential. There’s no way Rackley could penetrate Cohen-Cutler. Besides, why would he want to?”

“Maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe he just informs the FBI that there is potential fraud in the Swift Bank settlement.”

“But he wants the settlement to be done, and as soon as possible.”

“Maybe, but I have a hunch Rackley would react badly if he suspected we were stealing from him.”

“I doubt he’ll venture anywhere near the FBI when it comes to Swift.”

“True, but he can find a way to blow the whistle.”

Mark twirled his wine around his glass and admired it. He took a sip and smacked his lips. Todd was staring into the distance.

Mark said, “I thought you don’t do regrets.”

“These are mistakes, not regrets. Regrets are over and done with and a waste of time to rehash. Mistakes, though, are bad moves in the past that might affect the future. If we’re lucky, the mistakes can possibly be contained or even corrected.”

“You’re really worried.”

“Yes, same as you. We’re dealing with some very rich people with unlimited resources, and we’re also breaking laws right and left.”

“Thirteen hundred to be exact.”

“At least.”

Their waiter stopped by and asked about dessert. They ordered brandy instead. Todd said, “I called Jenny Valdez at Cohen-Cutler four times today, never got her. I can only imagine the chaos down there as they try to process 220,000 claims. I’ll keep trying tomorrow. We need to make sure our firm name is kept buried, and if somebody calls sniffing around, then we need to know it.”

“Good. You think Broome might show up in court tomorrow?”

“Not in person, but he might have someone take a look.”

“You’re making me paranoid.”

“We’re on the run, Mark. Paranoia is a good thing.”