“What do you think we ought to do?” Sullivan asked.
“Not we. You. I’m sending the file back to you. It is your case. The case came in to you and I just signed it up. When I saw the video, I thought there was a chance at a quick fee. What is the old saying about something that looks too good to be true? I’ll do you a memo about what all has transpired.”
We both took a sip of our wine.
“Hold off on the memo,” he said, and I nodded. That is what I thought he would say. I also knew that there was no way he would tell the adjustor, unless of course Sullivan could use the goodwill to his benefit on another case. He might not sign the settlement documents. Probably some other young lawyer would get called in to sign those while Sullivan sat drinking Sea Breezes at Damian’s.
We sat sipping our wine for another moment, waiting for the other one to say something first, to start the cross-examination that we both knew was coming. There was only one way I knew to avoid it. Even then I knew that I couldn’t avoid it entirely, but I could put it off a little while longer. With apologies to the gravel-voiced poet priest Leonard Cohen for the slight change in wording, “all I ever learned from ‘law’ was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you.”
“Are you moving to Jackson Hole, also?” I asked.
“How do you know about Jackson Hole?” he asked. He seemed taken aback by the directness of my question.
“I’m guessing that’s where Riza is now,” I said. Tim didn’t respond. I pressed on. “I’m guessing that you are finally about to sever your ties with Mr. Peters and the other partners in the firm and become the sole shareholder in your own firm.”
“You know I’ve been thinking about doing that for some time . . . starting my own firm . . . having a few associates whom I like,” he said, regaining his composure.
“Yes, I know,” I said. “I always thought that I’d like to be one of those associates. This is good,” I said, handing him my cup for a refill. He filled both of our cups.
“It is good,” he said, “though not as cold as I would prefer.”
“I always wondered why you were waiting before branching off. I guess I assumed that you were waiting for a big fee to come in so that you would have a cushion as you made the transition. I thought maybe the Kentucky case might be the ticket.”
“Admittedly, I had hoped as much,” he said.
“That’s why it baffled me when you didn’t seem at all upset when I told you about how badly the case was going. I told you months ago that the defendant was going to get our expert struck, and you seemed to just shrug it off. We were putting all of that money into the case. It didn’t hit me until I was downstairs having my head stitched. The money going into that case was the firm’s money,” I said.
Tim smiled, and sipped the chardonnay while I continued. “At first, I thought that maybe the firm needed to show a loss for tax purposes or something, but nobody needs that big of a loss. Then it occurred to me that by investing the firm’s money, only a percentage of which is yours, into a case and publicizing the firm’s involvement, you were creating an expectation that the defendant was about to suffer a major loss.”
Again, Tim didn’t say anything. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. I noticed that his British tan loafers were polished to a high gleam. His shoes always matched his belt, that is if he wore a belt instead of braces, which always matched his watchband. He alternated watches not watchbands. Sullivan referred to this principle of haberdashery as a “leather agreement.” He smiled, waiting for me to continue.
I put my cup down on the pew. “Of course, you and I knew the case was a loser, but nobody else did. The fix was in. Boyd even got its own judge to preside over it. My fellow associates were jealous of me getting to work on the case. When I told them it was a loser, nobody believed me. They all thought that I stood to make partner because I was handpicked to work up the TENORM case. I was handpicked, alright.”
Tim refilled his glass, and offered to refill mine, but I put my hand over the cup and shook my head.
“Of course, even I, the hard-charging, dim-witted soldier noticed that all of the big oil executives raced to their cell phones when the special master commissioner, whatever that is, issued his rulings. No doubt their stock surged on the news.” I paused, waiting for him to tell me what I already knew.
“What about the plaintiffs? What about Woodrow Carter? I thought we might be able to help him and his family. Now they’re stuck on a plot of earth that has little value and no use. What chance do they have?” I asked. “On top of it all, I feel like I let them down.”
“You and I both know that we didn’t put the radiation on their property. It has been there a long time, and they have been there even longer. The property, absent the mineral rights, was worthless before the radiation was brought to the surface. And, best I can tell, nobody has ever been injured because of the radiation on their property. Is there something you are intending to ask me?” he said in an even-toned voice, and raised his eyebrows.
“You had purchased stock in Boyd, hadn’t you?” I asked. “Well, maybe not you directly. Maybe, the money came through a certain paralegal company. Paralegals Parami. But, it was your stock that skyrocketed today after the hearing, wasn’t it? I don’t know how much you made, but it must have been a lot. More than a lot. Certainly, it was enough for a paralegal to retire to Jackson Hole. And it was enough for a senior attorney to start a new firm comfortably, without having to worry about income while making the transition.”
“But that’s not really what you are intending to ask me, is it?” he said, almost as if he were still coaching me on how to perform an effective cross-examination.
“No,” I said. “Did you know about Beth? Did you know about—I can’t even say the word in front of you—did you know about the herpes? Did you know I would get sick and infect my wife, your daughter?”
“No, of course not,” he said. He looked stunned. “I wanted Beth to keep an eye on you and let me know how the case—as you say, my investment—was coming, but I never knew anything about the disease. I’m only finding out now what I suspected for the first time a few minutes ago. You got herpes from Beth? I don’t understand why you didn’t just tell somebody. Why didn’t you tell Michelle before today? Why didn’t you tell me before now? Why did you wait until the very minute the baby was being born?”
I knew that I wouldn’t be able to escape entirely Sullivan’s cross-examination just because I had taken the offensive. He was waiting for me to finish. He was still gathering information. It was a technique I had seen him use often when taking depositions. Though no doubt the opposing counsel had coached his witness not to proffer information and to answer only the questions asked and nothing more, Sullivan would ask an open-ended question and then act as though he was trying to write down the witness’s answer on a legal pad.
When the witness stopped talking, Sullivan would look up from his pad, hold his pen as if he were about to continue writing, and raise one eyebrow as if asking, “Is that all?” at which point the witness would take off talking again, in essence answering a question that had never been asked but that had been weighing on his mind.
“I don’t know,” I said, exhausted. “I kept thinking that I could figure out some way to fix the mess. My keeping quiet just kept making things worse. I didn’t want Michelle to see me as a fuckup. I wanted her to see me like she sees you . . . perfect, unflappable, successful. I kept waiting for the perfect time to tell her, rather than just telling her. There is no perfect time to tell your wife you had an affair and you got herpes. You can look for the right opening, but there isn’t going to be one.”
Tim smiled at me again, not in a condescending or pejorative way. It was in the way of a colleague who was aware of the ridiculousness of the situation. He shook his head from side to side and said, “The expense of spirit in a waste of shame . . .” His voice trailed off as he observed that I didn’t recognize the reference. Still, I could tell that behind his now forced s
mile he was seething with anger, and it was just a matter of seconds until he would reach his boiling point. “You know what I always say about timing?” he asked.
“No,” I said, and shook my head as I sighed. I really wasn’t in the mood for yet another Sullivanism.
“It’s the key to a successful rain dance.”
I smiled and shook my head again upon recognizing that in the world of the far niente, successful rain dances are contingent upon chance rather than the mercy of a benevolent god.
“I know you have questions, and I will try to answer them,” I said. “Can you please just tell me one thing? Was Beth at the Peabody the last time we were there?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “She met me at the Rendezvous before you and Riza got to town. I don’t know where she stayed on that trip.”
I might not have any evidence of motivation, yet I was a step closer toward establishing means and opportunity for my coauthor.
Then he started. I knew it was coming. I thought I was ready and learned I wasn’t. “I guess buying stock in a company or two that you think are about to receive a windfall through litigation is a lot like betting on the outcome of a case that your firm is trying,” Sullivan said, not waiting for a response. “Were the ceilings in your office not high enough?” Sullivan asked, with just a hint of righteous indignation in his voice.
For a brief instant, I started to answer.
“Were the bonuses not big enough for you to buy whatever house or car you wanted?” he continued uninterrupted. “Did you grow weary of flying around the country in a private jet, staying at the best hotels, and eating at the best restaurants? Did the tailors fail to alter the three-button suits properly? Did you think that you had done something to earn all of this? What have you done . . . try a couple of cases, cover a few hearings, take notes at my trials? What do you think the average lawyer is paid for that kind of work? Didn’t you understand that the only way you could ever earn all of this, if ever, was over an extended period of time? Do you think there is any future for you with my firm? Was there something else you wanted from me? I didn’t just let you into my practice; I let you into my home; I let you into my family. I gave you my daughter.”
He paused and I realized that he was practically shouting. The walls in the little chapel were still reverberating, when Sullivan asked in a whisper, “This is how you repay me? I know that we sent you to go try some dog cases, but do you think anybody else your age is getting that kind of experience? That experience was a gift. Certainly nobody was giving me at your age the kinds of gifts you have been given. Can you imagine what I could have accomplished in my lifetime if I had received at your age the advantages that you have received?” Sullivan paused again, while the angry red blood that had flooded his face didn’t recede.
As he prepared to launch another fusillade of rapid-fire leading questions, each dripping with prejudice, and to which there could be no response, it occurred to me that in a way, Sullivan was jealous of me. Whereas I had been envious of him and his lifestyle and his success, he was jealous of me. Maybe he was verbalizing that he was jealous of the opportunities that I had, in his eyes, squandered, but what he really was saying was that he was jealous of my youth. Of course, youth was nothing that I had earned and nothing that I could have given to him as repayment for the opportunities he had given to me. Ironically, after this night, I would never think of myself as young again.
At that moment, there was a knock on the chapel doors, and Jonathan stuck his head through them. He looked haggard and was out of breath. “I’ve been looking all over the hospital for this place. A nurse just came out of the operating room and told us the doctor would be out in a minute. You both better come now.”
We left the wine and the wheelchair, and hurried to the doors of the chapel.
Outside, after we crossed the lobby, I paused and turned to face Jonathan and Tim, who were following behind me. We were the only people around.
“Jonathan,” I said, “Riza is in Jackson Hole.” I watched as Tim processed what I had just said, and then he looked at his son. The color drained from Tim’s face. Neither of them said anything. They just stood there looking at each other waiting for the other one to speak. As I turned to get on the elevator by myself, I whispered under my breath, “Hoist with his own petard.” To Tim, I mumbled loud enough that he might have heard me: “O, ’tis most sweet, When in one line two crafts directly meet.” I held the elevator door and nodded at Jonathan to get in. We left Tim standing on the first floor of the Dunn Tower.
“Jonathan,” I said. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner about Riza. I should have. I don’t know why I have been so hell-bent on trying to keep secrets. I shouldn’t have been keeping secrets from you or my wife. The truth is that the two of you are worth more to me than anything. You can be pissed-off at me if you want, but if you want Riza you had better figure out how to get to Jackson Hole before your dad does.” As I talked, the anger and frustration in his face eased. He didn’t say a word to me during our short elevator ride. I assumed that at some point he decided to put aside thinking about Riza because he was focused on his sister.
We got to the waiting area where Michelle’s mom was standing about the same time that Dr. Godsman came through a pair of doors just past the waiting area. Other families, at least the members of other families who weren’t permitted in the operating rooms, were clustered in groups of chairs around the waiting room, and it was impossible to talk without being overheard by all who were in the room. Everyone in the waiting room looked up as Dr. Godsman came into the room.
The doctor nodded to nobody in particular, and then said to me, “There are complications. Serious complications. I am concerned that your son may have contracted a virus in the birth canal. We’re running some tests. We’ll know more shortly. In an adult, the virus would present manageable problems, but in an infant . . . his immune system isn’t fully developed yet . . . he’s being followed by a pediatrician who specializes in infectious diseases. We have a small neonatal intensive care unit here on this floor, on the other side of the building,” the doctor said, pointing. “We can, of course, move the child quickly to the Texas Children’s Hospital. I’ll talk to the other doctors, though I doubt that we’ll do that now. Honestly, I am concerned that he wouldn’t survive the transfer.”
Amy burst into tears. Dr. Godsman put her hand on Amy’s shoulder, and said to me, “Your wife is doing well physically. She has asked to see her mother. Mrs. Sullivan,” she asked, turning to Amy, “would you like to go back with me now?”
Amy nodded, and the two of them disappeared behind the double doors. Tim walked up. We just stood there looking at each other without saying anything. After a moment, I left him there and walked back down the hallway by myself and took the elevator down to the first floor to the Wiess Memorial Chapel that we had left a few minutes ago.
Alone inside the chapel, I picked up the used Dixie cups and threw them in the trash. I put the cork in the bottle of wine and put it in the trash also. I pushed the wheelchair outside the double doors.
I sat down on a wooden pew in the back of the chapel and tried to pray to God that my child’s life would be spared. I noticed for the first time that the piano music from the lobby could be heard in the chapel. I didn’t know what the doctor had meant by the word “complications.” I could only tell by her grave composure that the worst was possible, maybe even probable. I tried looking up toward heaven, but all I could think about was that cardiology or nephrology or some other specialty was probably on the floor above me.
On a desk at the back of the chapel, printed brochures suggested prayers for Jewish, Christian, or Islamic faiths. I read them over, wondering what doctrinal nuances there were in the different prayers that categorized them into different religions. They all sounded good to me. That is not to say that I am one of those people that say things like, “Although I’m not religious, I am very spiritual,” whatever that means. I really think such statements mean
that the speaker has never investigated his own faith sufficiently enough to determine what, if anything, he believes. Saying “I’m spiritual” is the same thing as saying “I’m thirsty, but I don’t know what I’m thirsty for.”
I didn’t reject the preprinted prayers because they were the wrong denomination, I rejected the prayers because they were preprinted. Similarly, I rejected the slips of paper on the desk at the back of the chapel to be filled out for “prayer requests” and dropped into a container that looked like a suggestion box. This prayer, whatever it was going to be, had to be my prayer.
I found myself drifting in thought and beginning the prayer over and over, but not finishing and never really getting to the part where I asked that the baby and Michelle be protected or where I asked for forgiveness for what I had done or the pain I had caused or the sins I had committed. I knew what I was supposed to say. If I had heard it once back in Sunday school, I had heard it fifty-one times. I should ask God for His tender mercies and for Him to wash away my sins and iniquities. I should implore Him to take away my guilt and promise Him to praise His righteousness. I should show Him that I was broken and that I was contrite and welcome Him into my heart.
Instead, I just kept saying, “God, please don’t punish my child for what I have done. He hasn’t done anything wrong. I have. Please, don’t let him suffer. Please, don’t let Michelle suffer. If this baby is injured or infected, or dies, it will kill Michelle. She doesn’t deserve this, just like the baby doesn’t deserve this.”
Even as I tried to begin the prayer over and over, I felt as though I was trying to negotiate with God. If He would spare the baby and protect Michelle, I alone would suffer the consequences, and that seemed fair because I was the one who had behaved in a manner that deserved punishment. How could a loving god let a baby be born blind or retarded, or die within hours of being born, through no fault of his own? An infant isn’t capable of fault. Shouldn’t he deserve the greatest protection, rather than being the medium through which punishment would be meted out? Michelle’s innocence was as great as the child’s. What was her sin, other than trusting her husband? Why should she suffer the loss of her first child? I doubted, whether or not the child lived, that we would remain married; I knew that if the child died, there was no way things would ever be “normal” again . . . like it was when we were first married. That was over. Killed by me. Why I killed it, I don’t know. I don’t think I meant to, but I must have. I did it.
A Minor Fall Page 33