Mistress of Justice (45 page)

Donald Burdick poured port into Waterford glasses. His hands left fingerprints in a slight coating of dust on the bottle, which, he noticed, had been put up in 1963.

The year that a Democratic President had been killed.

The year he made his first million dollars.

The year that happened to be a very good one for vintage port.

He carried the glasses to the guests: Bill Stanley, Lamar Fredericks, Woody Crenshaw—all old fogies, his granddaughter might say, if kids still used that word, which of course they didn’t—and three other members of the executive committee. Three young partners to whom Burdick was making a point of being kind and deferential.

Three partners who were in absolute terror at the moment—because they had been picked and polished by Wendall Clayton and then leveraged by him onto the executive committee.

The men were in Burdick’s study. Outside, wet snow slapped on the leaded glass windows.

“To Hubbard, White & Willis,” Burdick said. Glasses were raised but not rung together.

The Reconstruction had began swiftly. Only one of Clayton’s lackeys had been fired outright—tall, young Randy Simms III, a fair-to-middlin’ lawyer but one hell of a scheming nazi sycophant, Vera Burdick had observed. It had been her delightful task to transmit, through her own social network, rumors of various types of illegal scams the young partner was guilty of. By the time she was through he’d been thoroughly blackballed and was a pariah in the world of New York law and Upper East Side society.

As for the other pretty young men and women associates on Clayton’s side … they weren’t asked to leave, the theory being they’d work even harder to rid themselves of the contamination. These secessionists and collaborators were given the shaved-head treatment then kicked onto the summer outing and hiring committees.

These three Nameless were the last order of business in the Purge.

One of them said, “Your wife, Donald, is a charming lady.”

Burdick smiled. They had of course met Vera before this evening though she had never served them dinner, never entertained them, never told them stories of her travels and anecdotes about her famous political friends; never, in short, grilled them like an expert interrogator.

He set the assassination-year bottle in the middle of the tea table.

He said, “Bill knows this but for the rest of you, I have some news. I’m meeting tomorrow with John Perelli. We have a problem, of course. Perelli’s position is that Wendall’s
discussions with him suggest an implicit agreement to go forward with the merger—even though the whole firm’s never approved it.”

One of the Nameless nodded. Impressed that the man returned his gaze, Burdick continued, “His thinking is that we agreed to negotiate in good faith. The firm has now decided that we do not want to go forward simply because we do not want to go forward. That is
not
good faith. We have an implied contract problem. Look at Texaco and Pennzoil.”

Another Nameless: “I know the law, Don.” This was a little brash, as the youngster understood immediately; he continued more contritely, “I agree they’d have an argument but I think we hedged well enough so that with Wendall gone the basic deal has changed.”

Vera asked bluntly, “Was Clayton’s presence a condition precedent to going forward?”

Two of the Nameless blinked, hearing the charming woman nail the legal situation perfectly with one simple question.

“No.”

Her husband, smiling, shrugged. “Then, I submit, we still have our problem.”

The first Nameless said, “But what would they want as a remedy? Specific performance?”

Burdick decided the man was an idiot and made a mental note to give him only scut work for the rest of his time at Hubbard, White. “Of course not. The courts can’t
make
us merge.”

Bill Stanley said, “They want money. And what do
we
want?” When no one answered he answered himself, “Silence.”

Burdick said, “No more publicity. Under any circumstances. A senior partner kills himself? Bad enough and we’re going to lose clients because of that, my friend. Then a suit from Perelli? No, I want to preempt them.”

Lamar Fredericks, round, bald and roasted from two weeks of golf on Antigua, said, “Preempt? You mean bribe. Cut the crap and tell us what it’s going to cost.”

Burdick looked at Stanley, who said to the group, “We’d pay Perelli twenty million. Up to, that is. We’ll start lower, of course. Full release and agreement not to say anything to the press. If they do, liquidated damages of a double refund.”

Crenshaw snorted. “What does that do to our partnership shares?”

Burdick snapped, “It’ll be a cut out of operating profits. Take a calculator and figure it out yourself.”

“Will they buy into it?”

Burdick said, “I’ll be as persuasive as I can. The reason you’re all here is that it would be an expenditure out of the ordinary course. I don’t want to present it to the firm. So to authorize it we need a three-quarters vote of the executive committee.”

None of them had assumed that this was solely a social dinner, of course, but it was not until this moment that they understood the total implications of the invitation. They were the swing votes and were being tested; Burdick had to know where they stood.

“So,” Burdick said cheerfully, “are we all in agreement?”

This was the final exorcism of Wendall Clayton. In these three trim, handsome lawyers resided what was left of his ambitious spirit.

Was his legacy, Burdick wondered, as powerful as the man?

Gazes met. No one swallowed or shuffled. When Burdick called for the vote they each said an enthusiastic “In favor.”

Burdick smiled and, when he poured more port, gripped one of them on the shoulder—welcome to the club. He was the foolish partner, the one whose professional life would be a living hell from that day on.

Then Burdick sat down in his glossy leather wingback chair and reflected on how much he despised them for not having the mettle to take Clayton’s fallen standard and shove it up his—Burdick’s—ass. He then grew somber. “Oh, just so you know: We have another problem, I’m afraid.”

“What do you mean?” Stanley’s voice was a harsh whine.

“One of the paralegals is in the hospital,” Vera Burdick explained. “It’s quite serious. I have a feeling she won’t survive.”

“Who?” a Nameless dared to ask.

“Taylor Lockwood.”

“Taylor? Oh, no, not her. She’s one of the best assistants I ever had on a closing. What happened?”

“Food poisoning. Nobody knows exactly how she got it.”

“Should we—” one of the Nameless began to ask.

But Vera Burdick interrupted. “I’m on top of it. Don’t worry.”

Bill Stanley shook his head. “God, I only hope it wasn’t anything we catered. Could you pass that port, Donald?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Mitchell Reece closed his litigation bag and slid it under the seat of the shuttle from Boston as they approached La Guardia early the next morning.

Still no call from Taylor Lockwood and he hadn’t been able to reach her at the firm. He’d gotten only her voice mail.

He wondered what was going on.

But as he stared at the brown and gray expanse of the Bronx beneath him his thoughts returned to Wendall Clayton’s funeral, held in an Episcopalian church on Park Avenue. The minister’s words came clearly to mind.

I recall one time when I happened to meet Wendall; it was a Saturday evening, late. We happened to be strolling up Madison Avenue together, he returning from the firm, I from some function at my congregation.…

The minister had foresaken the pulpit and, like a talk show host, walked down into his audience.

 … and we passed a few moments in idle conversation. Though we were in very different places in our lives I saw that there were striking similarities between his profession and mine
.
He voiced some concern for a young man or woman, a lawyer at his firm, who was suffering from doubts. Wendall wanted to inspire this protégé to be the best lawyer they might be …

Hundreds of people. Most of the partners from Hubbard, White & Willis, many associates, many friends had attended.

 … just as I in my own way deal with spiritual doubt in our young people.…

Quite a church, Reece recalled. Huge, pointy, Gothic, solid. All the joists and beams met in perfect unison—high in the air. It was a fitting place for an aristocratic man to be eulogized.

Then he thought back to another death at the firm—Linda Davidoff’s. Her funeral, Reece decided, had been much better. The church was tamer, the minister more upset. It seemed to Reece preferable to get more tears and fewer words from men of the cloth at times of mourning.

Clayton’s Upper East Side minister had been correct about one thing, though: He and Clayton had indeed been cut from the same bolt—noblemen and medieval clergy. In tarot cards pentacles would be their suit. Choose this sign for dark men of power and money.

Aggressive men.

The minister was seizing an opportunity to preach, just as Clayton had seized a chance of his own—and had died as a consequence of his reach.

The sudden grind and windy slam of the plane’s wheels coming down interrupted Reece’s thoughts. And as he glanced out the window, Reece decided it was ironic that he saw below him the huge cluster of dense graveyards in Queens—a whole city of a graveyard. He watched until it vanished under the wing and they landed.

As he walked down the ramp toward the terminal Reece saw his last name on a card being held up by a limo driver.

“Is that for
Mitchell
Reece?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. You have luggage?”

“Just this.”

The man took his bags.

Reece gave him the address of the firm.

“We’re supposed to stop someplace else, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m afraid there’s some kind of problem.”

Reece climbed into the back of the Lincoln. “What kind of problem?”

“An emergency of some kind.”

Forty minutes later the driver pulled up in front of yellow-painted doors at an annex to Manhattan General Hospital. It was deserted, except for some big blue biohazard containers and a bloody gurney sitting by itself. It seemed as if a body had just been pulled from it and hauled off to a pauper’s grave.

Inside, Reece stopped at a reception desk and was directed down a long, dim corridor.

He found the basement room he sought and pushed open the door.

Gray-faced and red-eyed, Taylor Lockwood blinked in surprise at his entrance and shut off the soap opera she was watching.

She smiled. “Mitchell, it’s you! Kiss me—it’s not contagious—then see if you can scarf up some food. I’m starving to death.”

Suck on ice,” Reece said when he returned a few minutes later.

Taylor frowned.

“I asked them what you could have to eat. They said you should suck on ice.”

She nodded at the IV. “Glucose. It’s pure carbohydrates. I’m dying for a hamburger.”

Reece gave her a Life Saver. “You look, well, awful.”

“ ‘Awful’ is a compliment, considering how I did look. The nurse tells me I’ve recovered incredibly well.”