Year Zero

by Rob Reid

  “Dammit, that’s right. But why isn’t he dialing in? I mean, didn’t he go to Albania? Or Taiwan, or something? It’s gotta be ten at night for him. He’s done with dinner, right? So he should dial in—and bang … the bride … after … the call.” This last bit was slow and overenunciated, as if it was a basic point of etiquette that we all learn as kids.

  An awkward silence followed.

  Then, “Jesus, I’m kidding, people. Even I’m not that much of a bitch.” There were chuckles all around, and everyone relaxed just a notch. Judy really isn’t that much of a bitch. But she’s awfully close, and she knows that we know it, so she goads us with jokes that we’re scared to laugh at until we’re completely sure she’s kidding. They say that Idi Amin had a similar sense of humor.

  “By the way—nice look, General.” This came from Greta, a brash, pretty third-year associate out of Duke. Today’s outfit was a high-waisted gray skirt, a white blouse, and pumps made from the skin of some endangered reptile. Wardrobe flattery works well with Judy. Greta also got bonus points for using Judy’s sanctioned nickname. General invokes her distant ancestor, William Tecumseh Sherman, whose march through Georgia prefigured her own scorched-earth assault on copyright infringers throughout the world.

  Judy smiled. “Thanks, Greta. The devil wears Chanel today.” Specifically, Chanel in a size 2, because Judy has a tighter body than most college girls. It’s topped with a flowing black mane whose gray streaks confidently acknowledge her maturity. This inspires her unsanctioned (and much more popular) nickname—Cruella, after the villainess in 101 Dalmatians.

  “Okay, gang,” Judy continued, while shooting me an unprovoked withering look. “Time to play some defense. Any trouble in paradise this week?” Playing defense is a euphemism for flagging developments with the potential to offend or spook our clients into taking pricey legal action against someone.

  As usual, Errol Stanton had something up his sleeve. “A new TiVo-for-radio system was just reviewed on Tech-Crunch. It’s particularly targeted at Sirius/XM subscribers.” In other words, some nitwit had shipped a product that would make it simpler for people to record radio broadcasts for later playback.

  Judy shook her head in mock disbelief. “God, it’s the gift that never stops giving. Don’t these dolts ever learn?”

  It was a good question. We had already sued three start-ups out of existence for launching virtually identical products. And that should have made it clear to one and all that the music companies don’t want people recording radio broadcasts.2 Not that there’s a law against it. But there doesn’t have to be, because legal bills can destroy a company just as thoroughly as Senate bills. We’ve shut down countless other operations that probably weren’t breaking any laws over the years. They include companies that made products to record free Internet broadcasts, to fetch lyrics to songs playing on a computer, to back up store-bought DVDs to hard drives—the list is long. We just claim there’s a slight chance that a company is hypothetically violating a sub-clause in some arcane copyright law, and our prey immediately starts suffocating on legal expenses.

  The start-ups we go after are usually penniless. But that’s fine, since the music labels and movie studios pay us by the hour to strangle them in their cribs.3 For their part, our clients never expect to collect any damages. The fees they pay us are investments in a reputation for deep-pocketed ruthlessness that will keep tomorrow’s investors and entrepreneurs away from their turf. It was scary to think of how hard they’d fight if there was actual money to be clawed out of one of these lawsuits. I could see them fighting to the death before compromising. Perhaps to the death of the human race.

  As Errol was wrapping up his rundown of the new TiVo-for-radio company, a text came in from Manda:

  Clippy more resilient than Freddy Kurger. Can’t get rid of him, focusing on mastering stereopticon

  Dammit. The original concierge could have told us about Özzÿ’s organization, explained how our music fit in with the rest of the universe, and a lot more. Hopefully Manda would have better luck learning how to wield the stereopticon, so that we could use it to recruit Judy. I imagined Özzÿ’s orb blasting out of the whiteboard, and commanding her to do my bidding. What fun!

  I dragged my attention back to the meeting when Judy asked for another new business idea. If nobody volunteered one, she’d point at someone and tell them to start talking. And in light of Randy’s warning that I might be due for a little trial by fire, it could well be me.

  Luckily Josh Weisner raised his hand. He’s a quiet, brainy guy—the sort that either washes out instantly or goes on to great things at our firm. So far, he was showing no signs of washing out. “Well, Judy,” he said, in that professorial tone of his. “I think it’s time that we built upon some of your own landmark legislation.”

  Judy gave him an intrigued look. “Which piece?” She’s been the de facto author of many laws over the years, and spends at least an hour working Washington for every hour she spends on client business. The laws we care about all pass through the Judiciary Committees (both the House and the Senate have one). And no client, however lucrative, gets the kind of service and attention that Judy lavishes on those committee members and their senior staffers.

  “I’m thinking of the Copyright Damages Improvement Act,” Josh said. Judy basically wrote this legislation verbatim on behalf of a Judiciary Committee staffer who was conveniently distracted with wedding plans back when it was wending its way through the Senate. Passed in 1999, it famously legislates penalties of up to $150,000 for each and every copy of an illegally downloaded song (or film, TV show, etc.). It has enabled the industry to sue over 35,000 individual Americans for swapping music files—some into bankruptcy.

  “I’m all ears, Josh,” Judy said. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

  “I think it’s time to expand the footprint of the piracy we address. To include luxury brands—and consumer products.” Now that was a pin-drop moment. Our firm has always done great business with media companies and patent holders. But we’ve never gotten anywhere with the giant consumer brand companies—an injustice that causes our partners many sleepless nights.

  “Do you really think we could advance Proctor & Gamble’s interests by modifying the copyright laws?” Judy asked, after a long (and rather dramatic) silence.

  “Sure. After all, media isn’t the only thing that greedy consumers are stealing,” Josh said, with contempt that most people reserve for otter molesters. “What about anyone with a fake Louis Vuitton handbag? Or a phony Rolex? Or a bogus box of Pampers, for that matter? The people who sell those things aren’t the only crooks. The consumers themselves are willfully stealing the brand marrow. That’s what you’re paying for when you buy the real thing. And that’s what people are pillaging when they buy a knockoff.” It was a clever pitch, and that “brand marrow” term was ingenious. I could see it spreading like swine flu among marketers and management consultants.

  “So you’re proposing that we amend the laws to criminalize the ownership of fake consumer goods?” Judy asked excitedly. By now, several people around the table were frowning and nodding slowly—aping the way the mighty Frank Carter used to show approval back when he was still running the firm. Like many of our founding partner’s mannerisms, this one had leached clear through to the firm’s lowest echelons.

  “Yep. And it would only take a few hundred words to do it.” Josh handed her a printout of his proposed text. “Fido could slide it into an omnibus spending bill, and no one would even notice.”

  “Please,” Judy chided. “Let’s not call the senator ‘Fido.’ People might get the feeling that he’s our lapdog, or something.”

  That one was definitely a joke, so we all chuckled merrily.

  “But kidding aside,” she continued, “you’re telling me that if someone walks down Lexington in fake Nikes, your modified legislation could nail him for a hundred and fifty grand?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Now everyone was frowning and
nodding, as excitement rippled through the room. If Josh was right, and if the major brands would play ball, entire law practices could be built around this idea.

  “But what if someone doesn’t know they bought a knockoff?” Randy asked. He has this thing for fairness, which does his career no favors.

  “Stupidity’s no alibi,” Judy snapped. “If it was, Kato Kaelin would be walking the streets today!” Of course, ol’ Kato is walking the streets, just as he always has. But no one dared to point this out, as bizarre non sequiturs are another Judy trademark. Some whisper that they point to a mild case of Tourette’s syndrome. But since they never pop up in client meetings, I’m sure she’s just messing with us, Idi Amin–style.

  Judy turned to the man of the hour. “Write this up, Josh. I want to present it at the next partners’ meeting. It’s a brilliant idea.” And with that, she spun on a heel and faced me. “But who knows? Maybe Nick Carter is even smarter than you are. We’ve always wondered.”

  I felt like my elevator just lost its cable on the hundred and somethingth floor. Was Randy right? Had the firm decided to give me a final test, to see if I was worthy of receiving The Omen and sticking around? Or did Judy just want to pummel me one last time before showing me the door?

  “Why don’t we find out, Nick,” she was saying in a steely, even tone. “Top Josh’s idea. Now.” And with that, Judy achieved the impossible, and drove all thoughts about alien incursions completely from my mind. I was suddenly fully grounded in my ordinary, daily life. And it sucked.

  I looked at Judy as calmly as I could. “Music and movie piracy …”

  I slipped into a dramatic pause as I desperately tried to come up with some idea, any idea. I scanned the room for inspiration, briefly glimpsed Randy and—I had my answer.

  “… are terrorism.”

  Randy shot me a horrified look. I was about to lay out a notion that he once dreamed up over beers. It was just a sick joke between sophomoric colleagues, and Randy clearly thought I’d get fired immediately if I presented it as a serious proposition. He was right to worry—but this was the only thing I could think of that was more audacious, grasping, and twisted than Josh’s idea of suing secretaries and college girls into bankruptcy over their fake Chanel bags. And Judy might just love it.

  “I’m all ears,” she said levelly.

  “As you know, our legal system has traditionally viewed several specific crimes as being acts of terror,” I said, as my calming superpower kicked in. “So why not slide a few paragraphs into the Patriot Act to put music piracy and peer-to-peer file sharing right up there with dirty bombs and hijacked planes? We could give Fido some political cover by cooking up a story about al-Qaeda using BitTorrent to transmit their nefarious communiqués.”

  The room was perfectly silent as everyone waited for Judy to signal whether they should love or loathe this idea.

  “A change in the law would oblige Homeland Security to redirect at least part of its budget to the new ‘file-sharing front’ in the war on terror,” I continued. “So the country might end up with a few less police radios and TSA agents. But some portion of the redirected funds would inevitably accrue to this firm, in the form of legal fees.” I didn’t betray a shred of the yawning horror that I felt. This had to be career hara-kiri. But I was doing it with style.

  I went on to cite three relevant rulings, as well as the sections of the Patriot Act that we’d need to tweak. After I’d laughed so hard at his original joke, Randy had written the whole thing out for me in legalese, complete with this supporting detail. It was so funny and comprehensive that I remembered it all clearly. I now felt cheap and guilty to be presenting his ideas as my own—silly, I guess, given that there was zero chance that he’d ever want to use them at work himself. But Judy’s scathing performance review said that I did “NO original thinking,” and this was clearly a case in point. Still, I could sure do a gorgeous job delivering someone else’s ideas, and that was (slightly) better than nothing.

  As soon as I fell silent, Judy started circling the table predatorily, like Robert De Niro in The Untouchables. “Nick, I … don’t know what to say.”

  Step. Step. Step.

  “Other than that your idea is demented. It’s warped. And it’s—well, it’s a cry for help.” She paused for a good five seconds as she continued to circle. “We’re in a state of war.” Pause. “A global crisis.” Pause. “One of the few good things to come from this is that Congress occasionally sets aside its greed long enough to do something for the common good.” Pause. “And you’re proposing that we exploit this fact, so as to cynically promote the parochial interests of our paymasters.”

  “That’s an excellent summary,” I said. It really was.

  Judy halted her pacing, and stood right behind me. “Maybe it’s true that our firm … manipulates the system. Occasionally. Strictly to serve our clients’ interests, of course. Cynics might even accuse us of profiteering from it. But you’re recommending that we willfully pervert it. On an utterly base level.”

  By now people were gazing intently at various points between their noses and the conference room table. Just as the tension was peaking, Judy cracked an ironic smile. “But the real problem with your idea is that it’s so fucking obvious we’ve already tried it twice, with no luck. So I need you to come up with something more original. And cunning.”

  Everyone relaxed, and I basked in a warm, giddy surge of relief.

  “September 11th was years before you started here, so you’re off the hook for not knowing what we tried back then,” Judy said, now smiling almost kindly. “We were so close. We’d put together a whole package of measures that would have lumped Napster and Kazaa right in there with truck bombs. And they were actually in the working draft of the Patriot Act. But then the press got wind of it. And after that, not even Fido could push it through.” The awkward hush morphed seamlessly into a memorial silence for that great, lost opportunity.

  The rest of the meeting passed in a blur. I was only half there, my brain fogged over from lack of sleep, cold medicine, the drubbing I’d just taken from Judy, and (oh yeah!) agitation about the incipient alien threat to my planet.

  Judy wrapped things up around ten by saying “Okay, everyone but Nick—bug off.” Aliens, my monster cold, and sleeplessness fell from my mind again as the room cleared out.

  As soon as we were alone, Judy said, “That was brilliant stuff, Nick. Very creative, very topical. And you pulled it out of thin air. But enough about you—here’s something cool about me. When I realize that I’ve been wrong about something, I don’t fuss about it. I just embrace the new reality. Pronto. I’m always triangulating, readjusting. And it looks like I was wrong about you.”

  I just stood there—less shocked than when Carly atomized my iPhone, sure, but not by much.

  “And that frankly changes everything for you,” Judy continued. “The rest of the partners like you. But I was a holdout, and we all know I can veto anything. And now you’ve won me over. So, yay-rah—go you.”

  I nodded, although Judy wasn’t looking at me (uttering some of the most momentous words that a young attorney could hear within these walls, she was meanwhile checking email on her old school BlackBerry).

  “So you know the drill from here,” she said. “Fido’s coming through New York tomorrow, and I have a ten o’clock meeting with him. Bastard!”

  For a moment I thought she was denouncing our main patron in Washington. But she was just irked by an email. She fell silent, her thumbs thrashing a retort into the keyboard.

  “Anyway,” she continued, actually looking at me now. “It’s my monthly one-on-one with Fido, but you’re coming. It’s time for you to start meeting the folks who are the firm’s bread and butter. So as to establish personal relationships with them to the mutual benefit of yourself and the partnership, blah, blah, blah.”

  So this was it. The Omen. I was actually getting the call.

  “And this’ll be a doubleheader,” she added. “The Munk’s
in from L.A. tomorrow, too. We’ll be dropping in on him right after Fido.”

  I nodded again. She was referring to the CEO of a vast music label—one who famously clutches apples and other loose food with both hands when he eats, chipmunk-style.

  “You sit closer to the elevators than me, so I’ll come by your office at nine-thirty tomorrow, and we’ll head out,” Judy finished. “Got it? Oh, and since you’ll be meeting Fido, why don’t you spend the afternoon trying to score him some Milk Bone?”

  * * *

  1. Actually, make that “to dramatically benefit our clients,” because we wake, toil, and breathe with the sole purpose of promoting our clients’ interests. Any advantage that accrues to us as a result is incidental. And you should pity the fool who implies otherwise (particularly in writing).

  2. The fear is that if people record radio (particularly digital radio), they’ll surely record some music shows, which can easily lead to music piracy, which itself leads swiftly to meth addiction, human cannibalism, and societal collapse.

  3. Although of course we prefer it when our quarry is able to fight long enough to run up the bills for a while. That said, we never feel great when they go bankrupt with lots of unpaid debts. After all, defending counsel deserves to get paid, too.

  SEVEN

  AVATARD

  Like all pets, Fido loves his treats. So every so often, we try to give him one. “Milk Bone” is our internal code for the little goodies that make him feel cherished. And since he has unusual appetites, they’re notoriously hard to arrange. Most senators are happy if you rally lots of funding for their campaigns. Others can be wooed with decadent junkets fueled by thousand-dollar single malts. But Fido’s a devout Mormon with no funding concerns, so none of that works.

  He does, however, have a mad inner craving that we can help satisfy—a primal desire he shares with most red-blooded American men. Which is to say that conservative, God-fearing, and borderline elderly as he is, Fido secretly wishes he was a rock star. To be clear, his rock ’n’ roll fantasy is more Osmond than Osbourne. But he takes it incredibly seriously—so much so that he has actually released several albums over the years (mainly on religious and patriotic themes). So, if part of your job is making Fido happy, you occasionally strong-arm someone into putting a snippet of his music into a movie. Or, you get a Nashville D-lister to leave him an admiring voice mail. Or, you blackmail somebody into performing one of his songs in a concert.