by Ron Liebman
“Keep her awake,” I told my father. “Walk her around if you can.”
I grabbed my topcoat from the sofa and quickly left the apartment.
21.
I stepped from the cab at 112th Street.
On the way over here, I thought about calling Gloria Delarosa and asking for help. This was her old neighborhood. Then decided no. My private life was my private life. It had nothing to do with my career. Best to keep them separate.
What if I was too late? What if Sean had already killed this guy?
I stood before the shabby apartment building, passersby giving me the once-over. Me standing in this neighborhood looking all Brooks Brothers.
My thinking here was admittedly fluid. This situation was moving fast, probably too fast. My brother was in a murderous rage. I just had to find him and stop him from doing something that would either put him in prison for life or take his life. He, after all, was gunning for a drug dealer, not some pea-brained goose eyeing a collection of plastic decoys.
I really didn’t have time to reason this out. Maybe later, I thought. Right now I just needed to find my brother. Hopefully before it was too late. Sean was coming undone—had been, of course, since Afghanistan—and the crystal meth was accelerating his downward trajectory.
I raced up the worn steps, located the name on the faded tenant list, and pushed the button next to it.
A crackling voice came over the intercom. “What?”
So far so good. The guy up there was still alive.
“I’m looking for Sean Blake.”
Nothing.
I was about to jam my finger back on the button when the door buzzer sounded. I quickly grabbed the handle and entered the vestibule. It was dark and damp, the wallpaper was peeling, and there was the unmistakable reek of stale piss and staler garbage.
The apartment was on the second floor. I took the steps fast as I could. Quickly located the apartment and knocked on the door. Again nothing. I pounded on it. The door opened.
I stood there in that fetid hallway. Across the threshold was a guy, clearly Latino, pointing a silver pistol at my face. We stood there like that for what seemed an eternity. Then the guy took a few backward steps and used his gun to wave me into the apartment.
Once inside, I could tell from a quick glance around. This piece-of-shit living room was just a distribution place. No one lived here. It was probably one of several such locations he had throughout the city.
The man pointing the gun at me looked about my age. He was thin, dark, in that nether region between Spanish and African. His face was pockmarked. He was wearing steel-rimmed John Lennon eyeglasses. There were two other guys in the room. Also Latino. Big guys seated side by side on a ratty sofa. They were both in dark suits and open-necked shirts. One guy’s massive head was shaved, and he sported a stubble beard. The other had a ponytail. They kept watchful eyes on me.
The guy with the gun was checking me out, too. While that pistol looked to me the size of a small cannon, I did manage a quick glance at his eyes. I saw puzzlement. At least I think I did.
“And?” the guy finally said.
“I’m Sean Blake’s brother.”
“Good for you.”
“Listen, I said. “You know this, but my brother’s girlfriend buys—”
“Stop,” the guy ordered. He cocked his gun.
I stopped.
He then nodded to the shaved-headed guy, who lifted himself off the couch and came over to where I was standing. He signaled for me to hold my arms out to my sides, and then he frisked me.
“Clean,” he said to the boss.
“A wire,” the boss told him, like, Do I have to spell out every fucking little thing for you? The guy nodded. Oh, okay.
“Take off your clothes,” this hulking blockhead then told me.
“What?”
“Down to your skivvies. You do it or I do it for you. Up to you, man.”
The three of them watched while I undressed. As I removed each item of clothing, he took it from me, patted it down for any electronics, and then neatly folded the item and lowered it to the chair near us. Neatly? Like what, he was my valet?
Then I was down to my skivvies. The big guy even had me take off my socks. He nodded to the guy with the gun.
“Clean,” he said.
“His wallet.”
The big guy removed my wallet from my trousers and tossed it over to him. He snatched it with his left hand, lowered the gun, and stuffed it into the waistband of his trousers. He then went through my wallet, removed my driver’s license and one of my business cards. I watched as he went to a laptop sitting on a nearby table, where there was also a scale and collection of stuffed glassine bags.
He Googled me. I stood there watching as he went onto the Dunn & Sullivan website, clicked on the “Professionals” tab and then the “Partners” directory. He saw my picture, read my bio.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he said. “You should be smarter than this, Counselor.”
I shrugged.
When you’re right, you’re right.
22.
Diane’s Long Island City apartment was so much nicer than mine.
I was a transient in my apartment. Diane lived in hers. It was a home. We liked to sleep there Saturday nights. That way we could enjoy slow Sunday mornings. Fresh coffee and bagels. The Sunday Times. And that Manhattan skyline. Not bad.
The weather was letting up. Finally. Sunlight flooded into the apartment, brightening everything. Diane had just handed me the front page of the paper. Her hair was still all frizzed from the night before. She tightened the cloth belt on her robe; it had the unintended effect of silhouetting her figure. That got my attention. I loved being around her. Our relationship was deepening, no doubt about it. And not just physically. When I think back on it, this is when I started really falling in love with her.
“Check it out,” she said playfully, adding, “the paper,” with an over-the-shoulder grin as I watched her sashay back to the kitchen counter and the coffeemaker.
As you can see, I made it out of Spanish Harlem alive.
After the dealer finished Googling me, he stayed seated at the table and had the thug with the ponytail put me in the chair facing him.
“Can I get dressed?” I asked.
“Not just yet.”
Taking away someone’s clothes does intimidate. I never really appreciated how much until I sat there in my underpants facing this guy. Of course, the two big guys on the sofa and that pistol now on the table next to the laptop didn’t exactly put me at ease either.
He kept watching me, puzzled. I needed to say something. I couldn’t just sit there like that.
“Where are we going with this?” I finally asked.
“You tell me, Counselor.”
“My brother’s gunning for you.”
That got a smirk from him and chuckles from the two behemoths on the couch.
“I’m terrified,” he said to more laughter. Adding, “So you want what?”
I told him my brother’s story.
The dealer shrugged. He couldn’t have cared less.
“You coming here like this? A lawyer in some big fucking law firm? You gotta admit this is pretty stupid.”
I think I was seated in one of the only old and decrepit New York apartments that didn’t drench you in oppressive steam heat. I was shivering. I’m sure he saw that.
What could I say? Okay, this wasn’t the most thoughtful thing I’d ever done. But time still seemed to be of the essence. With Sean out there somewhere, waiting for this guy to show his head so he could put a bullet in it.
“I want you to cut his girlfriend off,” I told him. “No more dope. And I’ll get my brother to stand down.”
One of the guys on the couch said something in Spanish. I only caught a word
or two, not enough to understand.
“Carlos thinks that instead of cutting your girl off, we should cut your balls off,” the dealer told me, “and send them to your brother. Show him what will happen to his own cojones he comes ’round here again.”
Wonderful. What now? I was thinking.
“But you do have balls, coming here,” he added. “I’ll give you that, Counselor. So now listen. . . .”
Diane put a fresh mug of coffee on the table beside me as I read the Sunday Times piece she had pointed out. Entitled “Big Law’s Unhappy Weight Loss,” it was the lead article running from the front page to three full inside pages. The Times does that, you know? Leads with a long article on Sunday, figuring you’ve got more leisure to read than during busy weekday mornings.
So what did it say?
It talked about law-firm defections, lawyers jumping ship because revenue was down. They were deserting and climbing aboard other big firms in search of ever-higher paydays. About clients complaining, demanding lower fees, objecting to associate leveraging, and a good number of those clients abandoning ship, too. It said that some of the older firms were losing both lawyers and clients at unprecedented levels, putting them in jeopardy of sinking for the first time in their long and distinguished histories.
Dunn & Sullivan was mentioned, though with not a word written about Carl Smith’s scheme to take the firm public. That hadn’t leaked yet. And nothing about Peter Moss. His law firm was still not in the ranks of Big Law. So nothing about him either.
I can’t say that this was all news to me. You heard things. But only in a gossipy way. Corridor talk. Competition between the major law firms was fierce, so there was no sharing of stories among them, no comparison of woes.
What the Times did was put all the separate pieces together and then place them in the Sunday edition as a comprehensive story. This was the first public disclosure of what had apparently been brewing for some time. And the Times piece would no doubt generate follow-on stories from other publications. And the more stories, the more likely there would be hard shoves to the backs of more law firms standing blindfolded on the lip of the abyss.
When I finished reading, I lowered the paper and took hold of the mug at my elbow. I sipped at my coffee and sat there thinking. Here I had worked so hard, had put in an ungodly number of hours year in and year out so that I could make it, be a part of this world. A world in trouble. And how did I feel?
Good question.
I had felt more alive up in that ratty Spanish Harlem apartment than at any time since law school. Fair enough, but I still wanted to be part of this world, coming as I had from the outside, from the so-called working class. For all its woes, Big Law was still something substantial. It would redefine me. Make me something different, something better.
What did this say about me?
I looked over at Diane in the kitchen area, her back to me as she waited for a bagel in the toaster. Did she agonize over her professional life like this? A government lawyer exchanging hard work for soft pay? Remember, she couldn’t even afford this apartment after the next rent hike. Still, she seemed a great deal happier with her lot than I did with mine. But did she secretly aspire to something more? Like I said, I didn’t ask. Should I have?
Of course I should have.
And then I shut it down. I mean, what was the point? I was committed. What was I going to do? Throw up my hands and just leave? No way. I had a case. A meaningful one with injured clients. No way was I about to abandon them.
I reached over to the coffee table for the sports pages.
• • •
When the drug dealer finally let me put my clothes back on, I got out of that apartment as fast as I could. No sooner had I set foot on the sidewalk than my cell chimed. It was Sean.
“What the fuck you doin’?” he said.
“Where are you?”
“Across the street, to your right.”
I searched up the block. There was Sean, behind a parked car on the far side of the street. Waiting for the dealer. His hoodie up over his head for cover. The .45 no doubt jammed in his pocket. I walked across to him, grabbed his elbow, and forced him away.
I made a deal up there in that apartment. The guy gave me an offer, and I took it. He said he’d cut Rosy off, but only if I agreed to be at his beck and call if and when he needed me. I tried telling him I wasn’t a criminal lawyer. Wouldn’t he be better off with someone from that part of the bar?
He said he didn’t care. Told me my coming here like this was enough for him. And he clearly liked the idea of some big-deal law firm in his corner.
I had to give him my word that I’d be there for him the minute he needed me. And for no charge. Then I could tell my brother to stand down. In addition to cutting Rosy off, neither the dealer nor any of his crew would go looking for Sean. That was part of the offer. There would be no preemptive strike on my brother, he told me, though not in those exact words.
When I got Sean far enough away from the apartment building, I told him all this. Well, not exactly in those words either.
I just told him that I had somehow managed to convince the dealer to stop selling heroin to Rosy.
Sean was still hot. And high. He started arguing, saying, “It’s too goddamn late. The motherfucker is going down.” He settled after a while.
And how was I going to explain to my law firm that I had agreed to undertake the legal representation of some scumbag drug dealer? And for free?
I wasn’t. I’d keep that to myself and hope for the best. I did tell Diane as she stood at her kitchen counter buttering her bagel. She chuckled, wondering out loud if the day would come when she and I would be at opposite trial tables as she prosecuted and I defended the dealer and his crew. “Yeah, wouldn’t that be a barrel of laughs?” I was saying when my phone pinged.
I had sent Jeremy and Gloria to India. Their mission was to go to Dipak Singh’s law office and gather and review documents for shipment to Dunn & Sullivan.
India was nine and a half hours ahead of New York, so 11:30 a.m. in New York and 9:00 p.m. in India. Even though it was Sunday night there, Dipak’s office told them that he personally would meet them at the airport, drive them into town to their hotel, get them settled, and then work out arrangements to meet with him at his office first thing Monday morning.
I read the e-mail. They were at the airport.
Dipak was a no-show.
23.
Peter Moss didn’t wait.
Discovery or no discovery, he filed his complaint naming Dunn & Sullivan as a defendant. And he added an additional defendant: the hedge fund that Carl Smith had gotten to put up the money to finance the case for our law firm. Moss had learned of their existence in the few records we’d produced by that point. Peter Moss claimed that the hedge fund had to be in on the fraud. His reasoning?
Simple.
He claimed no way would they have ponied up legal-fee money for us without first carefully vetting the case. Since they put up the dough, they had to know. (A variation on the O.J. trial’s “If [the glove] doesn’t fit, you must acquit.”) Moss pled this “on information and belief,” of course.
Now that my law firm had actually been sued, I called Carl Smith’s office like the good boy that I was. No e-mails or other writings from me. I knew how to follow orders. I was, after all, a team player. Like I said, not actually “one of the boys,” but I suited up in the same locker room they used.
I called his secretary, told her what had happened. I mean, this was big. A venerable law firm like Dunn & Sullivan actually sued. And accused of fraud. The New York Times would be all over this. Carl was going to want to see me ASAP. Of course he was.
I got an e-mail.
An e-mail? After all that shit I took from him about my writing one fucking little e-mail. Nothing in writing. You want me? You pick up the phone and call me. Admoni
shing me, pointing his luncheon fork in my face like the drug dealer had with his silver pistol. And he sends me an e-mail?
Here it is.
To: Carney Blake
From: Carl Smith
Subject: GRE Amended Complaint
Mr. Blake:
As the partner in charge of the above-referenced matter, you have assured me there is absolutely no merit to any of the claims recently asserted against this law firm. It is imperative that you continue to take all necessary steps to clear this firm’s good name and protect it from such frivolous allegations.
Carl Smith
Partner & Chairman
Dunn & Sullivan, LLP
One Times Square
New York, NY 10036
I was fuming. I put my fingers to the keys of my laptop and quickly banged out a response. A hot response. My index finger hovered over the SEND button as I proofread the e-mail. I mean, there was shit you didn’t have to eat. Sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander. (I think I came up with another two or three wise old adages. Do unto others . . . and so on.) My index finger actually touched the SEND key. Then I hesitated. Send?
If you’re thinking damn right send, fine. But you’re standing at the sidelines. You know there’s more to this story. I was in the moment. So.
I didn’t. Simple as that. I went for Door Number Two. I walked down the hall to Anka Stankowski’s office.
I was seated across from her, waiting as she read the complaint I had handed her. Every so often she would look up at me, then go back to reading. When she finished, I handed her the hard copy I had printed out of Carl Smith’s e-mail. She read it and chuckled.
Still snickering, Anka leaned into her chair, the metal underpinnings groaning from her shifting girth.