You had to spend money to make money. The firm paid sizable amounts to political action committees to grease the right people in Harrisburg to stave off the insurance lobby that wanted to put an end to large jury awards. And if they had their way, there would be no awards to injured plaintiffs. The insurance industry wanted premiums, not payouts.
Marty Silvio and Harry Levin were masters at rainmaking. They worked at it night and day. And it was rumored that they would push their own mothers down an elevator shaft to sign up a premier case, preferably a class action where there were lots of plaintiffs suing the same defendant.
And then there was Joe Maglio who turned rain into blizzards— blizzards of dollars. The chief litigator could charm the pants off the most hostile juror and wrap all twelve around his little finger. And if the devil were on the stand, it was said that Joe could get him to make the sign of the cross. Joe was a natural and had honed his God-given talent to a fine edge, an edge Nick wanted for himself one day. And that’s why he had to stop Falcone.
He pulled the heavy, glass door open and charged into the gray granite lobby of the Mark, a needle-shaped tower on the corner of Seventeenth and Market Streets. He didn’t bother giving his usual wave to Gilbert, the security guard at the desk who knew every tenant by name. It was helpful, especially at Christmas. But Nick didn’t acknowledge the “Good morning, Mr. Ceratto.” He blew past Gilbert into an open elevator that took him to the thirty-seventh floor, the top of the building. He flew past Celia Lopez, the receptionist, not even bothering to check
his messages, heading straight for Joe Maglio’s office. But it was empty. He hit zero on the phone.
“Yes, Nick,” Celia answered, indicating that she knew where he had been headed.
“Where’s Joe?”
“How should I know? He never tells me, you know that.”
“Did he come in today?”
“Nope. Unless he snuck in the back door,” she chuckled. “Is something wrong?” Her tone had changed to one of concern.
“No, Celia, I just need to talk to him, that’s all.”
“Sounds like an emergency to me,” she prodded, as usual, trying to squeeze as much information as possible out of him. Celia couldn’t stand being outside the loop. “Catch your breath or something. Want me to dial his cell?”
“Sure.” Nick tapped Joe’s gold pen impatiently on the clean desktop. There was no point in his asking Shirley, Joe’s secretary. Joe kept his own calendar and Shirley was useless—a gray-haired lady who smiled and brought Joe his coffee. She was nice enough, but still useless, one of Joe’s charity cases, a fixture and nothing more. When Joe really needed something, he always relied on Grace Monahan, the firm’s crackerjack paralegal, the one with a temper to match her flaming red hair. Nick continued to tap away. The phone clicked.
“Nope,” she announced on the speaker, “Sorry, Nick. But can I help…?”
“No thanks.” He hung up before she could cross question him.
Although he didn’t relish it, he went straight to Marty Silvio’s office. Nick had never had a great relationship with Silvio, or with Levin for that matter. Silvio’s door was closed as usual Nick knocked lightly, feeling uneasy. There was no response. He knocked again, thinking maybe he should wait for Joe or talk to Silvio by phone. But no, the matter couldn’t wait, and no, it wasn’t something to discuss on the telephone. Seconds later he was standing face-toface with the portly, slightly disheveled partner, the ever-present
unlit cigar clenched in his teeth like a bulldog with a prized bone. Silvio pulled at his loosened tie and smoothed a stray strand of hair on his balding head. He ignored his un-tucked shirttail.
“Yes?” he asked sarcastically. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this unannounced visit?”
Nick flushed as he caught a glimpse of Margo Griffin, the youngest associate, smoothing her skirt on the other side of the infamous brown leather sofa.
“Sorry, Marty, this is important. It can’t wait.”
Marty moved his large frame from the doorway and gave a nod to Margo. She passed Nick and disappeared down the hall.
Silvio took his seat behind a gargantuan desk that matched his frame, not to mention his belly. He struggled to prop his swollen feet on the desk and removed the wet cigar, fondling it tenderly between his thumb and forefinger, leaning back into his huge leather chair.
“Now let’s hear what’s so goddamned important.”
It was nine p.m. and Bobby Falcone was still at his desk. He had gotten over his fury of the morning. He had taken two aspirin washed down with a large scotch, and had begun working on an appeal to the Superior Court on one of his many losses. He was tired. His anger and the scotch had taken their toll. His vision was becoming blurry, and he decided it was time to go home—home to nothing. His wife would be asleep and his kids on the phone. He heard a gentle tap on the door. He got up slowly and opened it.
“What are you doing here?” he said to the elderly gentleman outside the door. “It’s late for cleaning, isn’t it?”
The man smiled. His blue eyes matched his blue jumpsuit, which bore the name of the building, Four Adam Place.
“Need to empty your wastebasket, sir. I did all the others and dusted up. I’m just waiting on yours.” He grinned apologetically. “Can’t afford to miss an office. I’m new here and I need the job.”
“Yeah. I don’t know you. Where’s Charlie?” Falcone turned away toward his papers and briefcase on the desk.
“Charlie’s sick today. I’m just filling in. Don’t worry, he’ll be back.” The elderly janitor began to slowly retrieve Falcon’s oversized brass wastebasket.
“Hey, don’t bother with that. You look like you’re in worse shape than I am. I’ll get it tomorrow,” Falcone said, continuing to pack his papers.
The man smiled gratefully as Falcone bent to pick up a document which had fallen to the floor. He ignored Falcone’s offer and picked up the brass can. In less than a second the plate glass window in Falcone’s twentieth floor office shattered, and out went the trash, along with Bobby Falcone.
Nick read the headline in the
Inquirer
the next morning: “Lawyer Jumps Twenty Stories to Death.” It was definitely a shocker. He had been ordered to file suit against Falcone for slander ASAP and to personally serve him with a copy of the complaint. It was Silvio’s way of putting an end to the matter. But Falcone had put an end to it himself. It was better this way, Nick thought. He felt sorry for Bobby, but it was better for the firm. Who needed to spend two years litigating a defamation claim against a deadbeat? It was clear Falcone had nothing to back up what he had said. Nick felt sorry for Bobby’s kids. Kids always suffered the most when their parents were nuts. He knew from personal experience.
He looked up from the paper and, from his penthouse condo in the Society Hill Towers, watched the sleet as it fell and coated the pavement below. He took a long, cautious sip of hot, cream-laced English Breakfast tea. He found the brew extremely comforting on cold winter mornings, especially when he had to work. He closed the paper and padded barefoot into his walk-in closet to face the first dilemma of the day: which suit to wear. The navy Armani, the black Versace, the chalk-stripe Polo? He chose the Armani. It fit him better. It hugged his tall, lean body like no other. The trousers fell just to the top of his black, mirror finished Italian shoes.
He wanted to make sure that he looked good—really good. Today was the firm’s annual Christmas bash where he would be glad-handing Philadelphia’s best, and worst, public figures. The firm didn’t discriminate. As long as they made headlines, they were invited. The food and alcohol would flow nonstop from noon until seven p.m. And they would all come with appetites like gorillas: lawyers, doctors, judges, politicians, insurance claims managers. They came not just for the delectable tidbits, but also for deals, pledges, contributions, client referrals, and settlement
offers. Inevitably several seven-figure cases were negotiated at the Christmas party. Joe would always manage to corner a battlefatigued defense lawyer and badger him into making an offer he couldn’t refuse.
Nick had learned how to shmooze the enemy and charm the pants off the ladies— lawyers, judges, it didn’t matter. They had a weakness for his Mediterranean good looks. And he had a weakness for women in general. But he never took unfair advantage, and he never discussed the women he had been with. He didn’t have to lie or promise, or “wine and dine” them. Women wanted him more than he wanted them and, cheap talk was for losers. Besides, his reputation for discretion only got him more women and the admiration of men unlike him. It was a matter of respect for the women he was with. He may not have loved them but he respected them and they knew it.
In forty minutes he was driving his red Boxster west on Spruce Street toward Broad. He checked his shave in the rearview mirror. It was clean. He looked good. He smoothed back his dark hair and guided the car into his reserved parking space in the garage under the Mark. Within a few minutes, he was on the thirty-seventh floor at his firm’s double mahogany doors. He passed the glittering, twelve-foot Christmas tree in the marble floored foyer. The smell of the fresh pine garland wrapped with twinkling bee lights were all reminders of the season-to-be-merry—and not to worry about Falcone, or trials, or anything for that matter. The clatter of caterers echoed throughout the suite as they busily set out the firm’s monogrammed china and glassware. Giorgio, the firm’s head chef, checked the lobster remoulade and the platters of thinly sliced rare beef. The smells were delectable. Everything looked fine, except for Celia Lopez.
“Hey, why are you crying on this most festive occasion?” Nick asked jokingly as he stopped at her desk.
Celia dabbed as her eyes and shook her head.
“Come on. What’s up? It can’t be that bad.”
“Did you read this?” She sniffled, trying her best to compose herself, and pointed to the headline in the
Legal Intelligencer
with her blazing red acrylic fingertips.
“Yeah. In this morning’s paper. It’s a shame, but he was really nuts. I guess the stress finally got to him. You know, all this friggin’ fighting we have to do. It’s not healthy…”
“What do you mean, nuts? He wasn’t nuts.”
“Hey, what do you care? You didn’t know him, did you?”
She flushed.
“You did?” He leaned toward her. She dabbed her eyes again and nodded affirmatively.
“I went out with him a couple of times,” she whispered, looking around to reassure herself that they were alone. “I’m ashamed. I knew he was married. But it was nothing, just drinks.” “Did he say anything to you about the firm?” Nick’s voice had dropped.
She shook her head. “No—just that we had all the good cases, and wins.” She looked over her shoulder apprehensively. “And that Silvio and Levin were thieving bastards.”
“Is that it?”
“Yeah. Was he supposed to tell me more?”
Nick shook his head no and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Nick, why are you so concerned about what Bobby said?”
“I’m not.” He hesitated a moment. “ He was over the top when I last saw him. Babbling nonsense.”
“What was it?” She stopped sniveling and looked squarely at Nick. “What nonsense?”
He smiled. “Just nonsense.”
“Don’t tell anyone, Nick. You know, about the drinks.” She frowned. “I don’t want…”
“I know, and I won’t as long as you promise to cheer up. OK? Life goes on. Right?”
She nodded affirmatively.
“OK. Settled then.” Nick slapped the marble countertop. “Any messages for me?”
“Nope. Nobody loves you. At least, last night nobody did.” Deep dimples appeared as she smiled. Then the phones lit up. It was five past nine, and Celia had begun her daily routine, giving away as little information as possible and shielding her bosses from clients who wanted information, and answers.
The party began promptly at noon with Joe Maglio popping a bottle of Dom Perignon. He lifted the sparkling, crystal flute and made the usual speech thanking all the associates, paralegals, secretaries, and filing clerks for all their hard work making the firm a success. He wished everyone health, wealth, and happiness. He never underestimated the value of the lowest ranking employee. He always had a kind word—a word of encouragement, or a twenty dollar bill for anyone who needed it.
Joe had come a long way. Son of impoverished immigrants who had dreams for their son, he had fulfilled their dream. He had gotten a scholarship to the University of Pennsylvania Law School where he had graduated at the top of his class. But instead of following many of his classmates into large, conservative commercial firms where he would just push paper, he had gone to the Public Defenders Office where he got to try cases. There he learned to connect with a jury. Persuasion came naturally to him. He had gotten acquittals for many poor, innocent defendants, as well as some guilty ones. But then he became tired of being poor himself and set out to put his skill to work to his own advantage. And that he did.
Marty Silvio and Harry Levin met twenty years ago at Temple Law School. They were both in the bottom ten percent of their class, but most of the successful plaintiff’s lawyers were not geniuses—just good businessmen and Slivio and Levin were just that. They were natural rainmakers, but neither could find their way to the courthouse. Neither had the guts or the talent to try cases. Both were used to settling cases with little or no effort. They often talked about themselves as “plaintiff’s adjusters” rather than as lawyers. Their job was so easy. But as lawyers they were allowed to charge forty percent. Public adjusters had to be happy with ten.