by Paul Heald
She walked straight over to the shadowy alcove in the back of his office, determined to make her stay in the Judge’s inner sanctum as brief as possible. Carolyn had clerked during the 1983-84 term, but to Melanie’s dismay, she found a gap in the row of binders where 1983-84 should have been. She slowly scanned the entire collection to see if it had been misplaced, but the volumes had been meticulously kept in the proper order.
“Damn.”
She turned slowly, took one last look at the shelves, and walked toward the door, but as she passed the Judge’s desk, she noticed a black binder sitting on top of a stack of papers. Without touching it, she bent over and checked the year: 1983-84. Why the hell does he have it out now? She fought the urge to pick it up. What if the Judge came back and she were caught? But the Judge never came back after supper. He arrived super early, worked hard, and left early. Calm down, she said to herself, memorized the position of the book, and picked it up, you’re not stealing anything.
She turned on every light in the library to help dispel the sense that she was doing something unseemly and sat down to read the collected works of Carolyn Bastaigne. She anxiously skipped to the end of the binder, looking for the last case that she had worked on, but it turned out to be a boring review of a Federal Trade Commission merger decision. Disappointed, she went back to the front of the book and started working through the memoranda in chronological order.
Nothing jumped out at her. Carolyn worked on a number of criminal cases, but they all had been decided in favor of the defendant or involved defendants who seemed utterly unlikely to come seeking revenge on a lowly law clerk. Other cases involved the improper granting of a radio station license, a department store chain bankruptcy, and music copyright infringement. Her memos were inevitably short and devoid of the massive citation to prior case law that characterized Melanie’s own work. By the time she got back to the final case, she was thoroughly discouraged. She stared at the first page of the FTC merger case and lamented the three hours she had wasted. It was already 11:00 p.m.
She was about to put the book away, when she noticed the heading of the final case:
Panel: FJM, PKA, GTB
Clerk: CB
Date: June 5, 1984
Appeal From: Central District (Meyers)
This was the only appeal from Judge Meyers that Carolyn had worked on. Melanie started to read the case again and noticed that the memo was almost three times longer than the others, with voluminous citation to other cases and even a learned discussion of law review articles on anti-trust law. She read slowly and carefully while the kernel of a theory formed in her head.
The case involved a proposed merger between two soft drink manufacturers. Because of the size of the firms, the approval of the Federal Trade Commission had been necessary and eventually obtained. Before the merger was consummated, however, a rival bottler had challenged it in court on anti-trust grounds, arguing that the combined firms would control a dangerously large share of the market. In an opinion by Judge Meyers, the merger had been enjoined and the two frustrated bottlers appealed to the Eleventh Circuit. Enter Carolyn Bastaigne, who had apparently been assigned to take the case. Her well-written and comprehensive memo argued convincingly that Judge Meyers had erred and recommended that the merger be approved.
Melanie leaned back in her chair. Why had Carolyn spent so much time and effort on this particular case? Why work so hard to overturn the opinion of her best friend’s judge? She pulled her knees to her chest and set her heels on the edge of the chair.
What if her friend wanted the case overturned? Melanie had not been a star in her securities regulation class, but she remembered that when mergers were denied, the stock prices of both firms usually fell. A later approval of the same proposed merger would send stock prices skyrocketing. Carolyn would have known the decision in the case long before the media or even the parties involved. It would be very easy to make a tidy bundle on the inside information. Was this what Jennifer Huffman and Carolyn Bastaigne had been whispering about before she died?
It was nine thirty in Denver. Melanie got April’s home number from information.
“Hi, April, it’s Melanie. I’m sorry to bug you at home, but I was wondering if you remember anything about the last case Carolyn was working on, a big soft drink merger case.”
“How’d you find out about that?”
“From an old bench memo.” She flipped through the case one more time while April spoke.
“Well, I can remember how much she wanted to work on it. Our co-clerk had originally chosen it, but she bitched and moaned and offered to trade another case for it. Eventually he let her have it just to shut her up.”
“Interesting.”
“How come?”
“I read the memo, and it’s actually good. All the rest of her work is crap. She must have really wanted the case for some reason.” She tapped the binder with her pencil and scribbled a note on a yellow pad.
“Hmmm … I never read it. But you’re right about her work. I could never figure out how she got a job with a firm like Cravath.”
“Maybe she had a great summer internship there when she was a law student?”
“Maybe. But I doubt it. She was a slacker to the core.”
“Thanks, April.” Melanie heard the judgment in her voice and shuddered involuntarily. How could someone like Carolyn hand in work that was substandard? How could someone not care about her reputation? When you work for someone, Melanie thought, they will judge you. Life was filled with bosses, teachers, pageant officials, and parents, and if you couldn’t satisfy them, where would you be? In the middle of an argument, one of her sorority sisters had once accused her of being a “pleaser.” You’ve got no will of your own, she had been told. What was she supposed to do, get Bs instead of As or withdraw from a competition just to demonstrate she was a free spirit? There were enough slackers without her joining the group.
She sat for a long while and wondered what to do next. It would be nice to talk to Jennifer Huffman, but she doubted that a phone call out of the blue would be very productive. And if she and Carolyn were attempting to trade on inside information together, she was unlikely to admit it. If only she could figure out a way to get to Cravath, Swaine, and Moore.
XVII.
LOSING MY RELIGION
Suzanne knew as soon as the phone rang that the news was bad. Her hand lingered on the receiver through the fifth ring before she slowly picked it up. A shaky voice asked to speak to Arthur. Suzanne explained that he was interviewing in Washington, DC, and the caller, his sister Terri, told her that their father’s car had been struck head-on by a drunk driver on US 88 in eastern Iowa. By the time Terri was done describing the massive head and chest injuries, they were both crying. The doctors were not sure that he would make it through the night.
“Do you have any idea where he is?” Terri finally asked.
“I think he was interviewing at the Office of Legal Counsel today, but I don’t have the number. You should try his hotel and leave a message. I’m so sorry.” Suzanne pulled Arthur’s itinerary down from the refrigerator and read off the phone number. “He said it’s by the airport, so he might be able to grab a quick flight.”
Suzanne went out to the front porch and sat on the stoop. The air outside was cool and mild. The maple tree in her neighbor’s yard set the whole street aglow. She said a short prayer for Arthur’s father and then a longer one for him. This is too much death for one season, she thought. Gottlieb had taken much more out of Arthur than he was willing to admit, and news of his father’s accident would be devastating. She could feel him starting to drift away.
Like a silent little monk, Maria found her mother on the porch and leaned heavily against her.
“What’s wrong, Momma?”
“I’m just worried about Arthur.”
“He’s a long way away today, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is. A very long way away.”
* * *
Arthur sat c
onfined on the plane, stuck between two self-absorbed businessmen and wondering what his father would have thought about his recently concluded visit to the halls of the mighty in Washington. The old farmer might have gotten a kick out of explaining to his cronies at the grain elevator what his son was doing. His dad would never volunteer the information, but eventually his friends would be unable to resist asking whether his boy would be coming back to Iowa to practice law, maybe even join a firm in a big city like Des Moines. Then, he would be forced to reveal in his laconic manner that Arthur would be working at some alphabet agency in Washington, trying to talk some sense into the folks who ran the federal government.
He had spent one day interviewing at the Office of Legal Counsel, the home of the president’s own lawyers, and the next at the Environmental Protection Agency. Although his commitment to environmentalism remained strong, he had decided that prosecuting the owners of leaky landfills would not be quite as exciting as telling senators which presidential documents they could examine and which were protected by executive privilege. Of course, his chances at OLC were about one out of fifty, while his chances at the EPA were about two out of three.
Now, his father would never find out where his life would lead. He remembered the last time they had spoken, a brief conversation while he was at the beach. He could not remember what they talked about. The beach replayed itself in his mind and spiraled him back through law school and Julia and college, back to the farm and fresh snow crunching underfoot on the long walk down the driveway to catch the morning school bus. He wondered what would happen if he retraced those steps, rode the bus, and sat quietly in the back of the kindergarten classroom knees to chest in a tiny chair.
Arthur’s father had earned a degree in agricultural economics but had been an accountant working in Chicago when a childless uncle died, leaving him sole heir to his grandfather’s farm. Tired of the city and his job, he saw farming as an honorable escape and a chance to make a fresh start. Hal and his wife turned out to be natural farmers, relishing the variety of challenges that six hundred acres provided. But the farm was his parents’ domain, and soon after Arthur boarded his first bus, he made Evergreen County Comprehensive School his main stage. His favorite summer game was playing war in the thick grove of hickory and walnut trees behind the school. In the winter, he would beg his mother nearly every day to drive him to the sledding hill that gently sloped down from the gymnasium. He had long considered being a teacher instead of a lawyer …
“You’ll have to flip your tray up, sir, while we descend.” The stewardess took a full cup of Coke and unopened bag of peanuts from him, and he turned to watch the snow-powdered corn stubble blur past his window.
When he got off the plane and emerged from the gangway, he could see his sister waving, by force of habit offering a thin smile to accompany her hand in spite of the dreadful cause of their reunion.
Terri belonged in Iowa. Her pleasant, broad face bore no makeup, blond hair pulled back with a simple rubber band. A worn gray sweater and blue jeans proclaimed lack of pretense that made her Arthur’s favorite sibling.
“He’s still alive.” She gave him a quick hug. “But he’s in a coma. The doctors want to sit down with us this afternoon and talk about his condition, but even an idiot can look at the EEG and see nothing’s happening.” She grabbed the smaller of his two bags and started walking through the terminal.
“Well, how much brain activity is there supposed to be when you’re in a coma?” he asked as he caught up to her.
“I don’t know. We can ask the doctors … I’m just trying to get you ready to see him. It’s pretty bad, and as you can imagine, Mom’s a mess.”
“How are you and Buddy doing?”
“I haven’t had time to think about me. I’ve been doing all of the talking to the doctors and Dad’s friends who want to know what’s happening. Buddy may be a grown man out in the fields, but he’s only nineteen and he’s barely holding himself together right now. He’s not ready to face the possibility that he’s losing his father, business partner, and best friend all at the same time.”
“And Mom’s worse?”
“She’s been vacillating between hysteria and catatonia. It’s horrible for her, even after thirty years of marriage they were still lovestruck teenagers. It’s a total nightmare.”
* * *
Arthur and Terri found their mother and brother slumped ashen-faced in a waiting room outside the critical care unit. Sally looked all of her fifty-five years, and Arthur noticed for the first time how many strands of gray colored the brown hair that her husband begged her to keep long. She looked small and vulnerable with Buddy sitting protectively next to her. He was shorter than Arthur, but his muscular build and handsome face (girls were forever comparing him to Tom Cruise) more than made up for his lack of height. Anyone wishing to disturb his mother would have to go through Buddy first. They had spent the night at the hospital, waiting to hear how the surgery had gone and to catch a brief glimpse of husband and father surrounded by machines in one of the rooms past the nurses’ station. Sally got up and hugged Arthur hard when she saw them come into the room.
“Thanks for coming so quickly … The doctor says he’ll see us soon.” She smiled weakly. “Maybe we can get something out of the docs with a lawyer around.”
“And then you need to get back home and go to bed, Mom. You look exhausted.”
“This is my home as long as your father is here.” She sat back down, fumbled in her purse, and eventually pulled out a hairbrush. She ripped mercilessly through her hair while she gave him the details of the accident
“Some drunk drove right over the median,” she explained in a relatively steady voice, “and plowed into him. He was in the left lane at the time passing someone. He never had a chance. I got a phone call from the highway patrol”—her voice finally started to break—“and they told me there had been an accident and that they were bringing your father here. They wouldn’t tell me anything else, even when I begged them.”
Arthur tried to divert the conversation away from the immediate horror of the accident. He pushed the hair gently back from her face and tucked it behind her ear. Had anyone talked to the pastor about getting Hal on the church prayer list? Was there anything at the farm that needed tending while Buddy was at the hospital? Had the insurance company been contacted? Had the family physician been here and had his wife finally divorced him? By the time the neurosurgeon arrived, he had managed to distract his mother a bit.
Buddy just stared at an ancient issue of Outdoor Life.
Before leading them into a small conference room, the neurosurgeon took them to Hal’s room. Arthur did not recognize his father. The bandages on Hal’s head and the ventilator sticking down his throat obscured all but a small swathe of mottled skin around his swollen eyelids. He waited to be overwhelmed by shock or grief, but no strong emotion came. Dad was gone, and Arthur had no sense of his presence. He cast a quick glance at his mom, but she was in no shape to help him understand.
The doctor gave the family a tour of the electronic equipment keeping him alive. By the time Dr. Perez was done, they could distinguish between the wheezing of the respirator, the beeping of the heart monitor, and the low hum of electroencephalogram.
Arthur reacted with a deepened sense of resignation, while his brother balled his fists and clenched his jaw. His mother seemed to process little of the substance or implication of Perez’s explanations. She sobbed, unable to suffer a technical rhetoric better suited to a mechanic’s discussion of what was ailing the family sedan. Although the doctor had not expressly called their attention to the sick yellow-gray pallor of his skin or the misshapen parody of her husband’s head, his broken body was all she seemed to be taking in. She reached out and stroked the back of his IV-punctured hand before they left the room.
When they got to the conference room, Dr. Perez began detailing the damage caused by the collision, starting with the least serious injuries. “His left leg and arm are bro
ken, the leg suffering a compound fracture which also seriously damaged muscle tissue in his thigh. Four ribs were broken—one punctured his left lung, another damaged the pericardial sac surrounding his heart, the other two were just cracked. The heart wound almost killed him, and it still poses a serious threat if a post-operative infection sets in.
“I’m sorry to say that the worst injury is to his cranium. He suffered a massive concussion with extensive damage to both frontal lobes of his brain. Between the impact itself and the internal pressure caused by cerebral swelling, he’s lost higher-level cognitive function although the portions of the brain governing involuntary motor functions such as breathing and cardiac activity seem relatively undamaged.”
Buddy cut off Perez before he completed his presentation. “So, how long will it take for Dad to get back to work? How much therapy is he going to have to do? I saw a story on 20/20 about a guy who got shot in the head, and he had to relearn how to talk and write and even walk.” Arthur knew that his brother was not stupid. He was either deliberately ignoring the implications of Perez’s diagnosis or simply could not accept that his father, although breathing, was gone forever.
“The highest likelihood is that your father will never talk or write or walk again. You’ve seen the condition he’s in. The EEG indicates minimal brain activity.”
“Could you give us a rough idea of his chances of ever regaining consciousness?” Arthur intervened before Buddy could bluster further.