by Mark Gimenez
‘Three thousand hours a year.’
Nadine gasped. ‘OMG.’
Dunn chuckled. ‘A common reaction among our new associates.’
‘That’s what, two hundred fifty billable hours a month?’ Book said. ‘Doesn’t seem realistic.’
‘Reality is, Professor, I start billing when I wake up in the morning and stop when I fall asleep that night. I’m always thinking about my clients. And that’s what I’m paid to do: think.’
‘It’s easier once you can rationalize it, isn’t it?’
‘Much.’
Book had met many senior partners at many large law firms; when they visited the school, the famous Professor Bookman was always part of the dog-and-pony show, a circus act to attract endowments. Senior partners were more Wall Street than Main Street, more businessmen—every senior partner he had met had been male—than lawyers. Perhaps the law was just a business these days, and lawyers were in the business of buying and selling the law. Some firms boasted thousands of lawyers and billions in revenues. Billable hours were inventory, and young lawyers fungible commodities. Book had never regretted his decision to forgo the private practice of law. He hadn’t gone to law school to be a businessman. He had gone to be a hero like his dad, but wielding the law instead of a gun.
‘So you rode four hundred miles on that Harley to investigate Nathan’s death?’
‘With me on the back,’ Nadine said.
‘That’s not why I came.’
‘Newspaper said that’s why you came.’
‘Nathan wrote a letter to me.’
Book handed Nathan’s letter to Dunn. He sat down behind his desk, put on reading glasses, removed the letter from the envelope, and read. Book pulled out the funeral photo and circled Dunn’s face, as he had circled the faces of all the other locals they had met. He then surveyed Dunn’s office. The same interior decorator must design every law office in America, or at least every one he had been in. The furniture, the rugs on the floor and the art on the wall, even the photos scattered about seemed to be from a stock lawyer template. Perhaps lawyers were comforted by conformity, soothed by sameness, as they fought boredom and billed hours. Book could not imagine himself in Tom Dunn’s chair. Dunn removed his glasses and exhaled heavily, as if he had just learned that his wife was cheating on him; or worse, that she had embezzled funds from their joint bank account.
‘Nathan wrote this?’
‘He did. I’ve learned that Billy Bob Barnett was the client he referenced.’
‘Professor, I don’t know what Nathan thought he found, but it wasn’t evidence of groundwater contamination. Frack well holes are encased in redundant layers of steel and cement. Billy Bob doesn’t cut corners with his drilling.’ He chuckled. ‘Hell, Billy Bob’s a walking Aggie joke—he’s too dumb to be a crook.’
‘But he’s rich enough to hire your firm. How much does he pay you each year?’
‘That’s confidential, Professor.’
But he couldn’t restrain a thin smile.
‘Eighteen million last fiscal year.’
‘That buys a lot of loyalty from a lawyer.’
‘Part of the job description.’
‘Nathan said in his letter that he brought your client’s contamination to your attention.’
‘He didn’t.’
‘Wonder why he said he did?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘May I look in his office?’
‘You know better than that, Professor. Client confidentiality.’
Tom Dunn stood and walked to the window. He was a tall, gray-haired man who seemed as hard as the land. He gestured at West Texas beyond the plate glass.
‘See all those pump jacks pumping oil out of the ground twenty-four/seven? You know what that means around here, Professor? Jobs. Midland–Odessa, we’re booming again. One hundred and fifty thousand producing wells in the Permian Basin. Thirty-six billion a year in revenues. That pays a lot of wages to a lot of workers. But not that long ago those pump jacks were still, the wells shut in, workers sitting idle, oil field equipment rusting on the side of the interstate. Old wells and low prices, couldn’t produce enough oil to make economic sense. Billy Bob changed all that.’
‘How?’
‘Fracking.’
‘On oil wells?’
‘You bet. See, he grew up in Odessa, his dad was a roughneck. Billy Bob decided he wanted to own the oil not just work the oil. So he went to A&M, got a degree in petroleum engineering. Learned about hydraulic fracturing. Fracking’s been around sixty years, but no one thought about reworking these old oil wells with fracking, going deeper, going horizontal, to open up the reservoir to let more oil out faster. Billy Bob did. Now everyone is. Then he started fracking for natural gas before anyone else. He knows more about fracking than anyone in Texas, which means anyone in the world. Fracking started right out there.’
He turned from the window.
‘Point is, Professor, folks around here are real happy to have work again. They need the jobs. They’re not going to take kindly to some liberal law professor messing with their livelihoods.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘An observation.’
‘I’m not liberal.’
‘You’re sure as hell not conservative.’
‘What’s Billy Bob?’
‘Rich.’
‘He’s taking people’s land for his pipelines.’
‘Which is perfectly legal in Texas, as you well know.’
‘Legal doesn’t mean right.’
‘Please, Professor, this isn’t first-year law school.’
‘I heard the landowners aren’t too happy.’
Tom Dunn shrugged. ‘Hell, I wouldn’t be either.’
‘Nathan was handling those lawsuits. Think one of the landowners might’ve run him off the road because of that?’
Dunn shook his head. ‘Too much trouble. If they wanted to kill Nathan, they would’ve just shot him. This is West Texas, Professor. Everyone’s got a gun. Or ten.’
‘Mind if I meet with your client?’
‘Yes, I do mind.’
‘Well, since we’re not opposing lawyers in litigation or a transaction, I guess I can meet with him whether you mind or not.’
‘I’ll let him know to expect you.’
Book stood. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr. Dunn.’
‘Professor, why do you care so much about Nathan Jones?’
‘I owe him.’
‘Must be a big debt, to come way out here. That’s why I avoid owing anyone.’
‘Even your biggest client?’
Book walked to the door; Nadine followed. But Book stopped and turned back.
‘You know, Mr. Dunn, if a lawyer aids and abets a criminal violation of the federal environmental laws, he gets to share a prison cell with his client. Most lawyers aren’t willing to go to jail for their clients. I wonder how much money a client would have to pay a lawyer to get him to risk prison time. What do you think, maybe eighteen million a year?’
Dunn fixed Book with a searing glare, as if he were a young associate who had failed to bill his monthly quota—for the second consecutive month.
‘First, I’m not in your Con Law class, Professor, so don’t lecture me. And second, I hope that’s a law professor’s hypothetical fact situation and not an accusation because if you’re accusing me of a crime, I’d have to pick up that phone and call the UT law school dean and express my displeasure, which might have repercussions for the professor making those false and defamatory accusations.’
‘I’m tenured, Mr. Dunn.’
‘I’m pissed, Professor.’
‘And Nathan’s dead.’
‘I didn’t kill him, and neither did Billy Bob. The sheriff said it was an accident.’
‘Then neither you nor your client has anything to fear.’
‘From what?’
‘Not what. Whom.’
‘From whom?’
‘Me.’
‘
I thought that went well,’ Nadine said. ‘Is that what you call stirring the pot?’
‘It is.’
‘Do you do that often?’
‘I do.’
‘Has anyone ever taken offense?’
‘Define “taken offense.”’
‘Attempted injury upon your body.’
‘They have.’
‘Was there gunfire?’
‘On occasion.’
‘How many occasions?’
‘A few.’
‘Define “a few.”’
‘Seven.’
‘People shot at you seven times?’
‘Maybe eight.’
His intern sighed heavily. ‘So in the newspaper reports, I’ll be the “innocent bystander caught in the crossfire.”’
‘I promised to protect you, Ms. Honeywell.’
Sit on a bench in downtown Austin for five minutes and five panhandlers would’ve already hit on you. Not so in downtown Midland. Law and order—mostly order—prevailed. They sat on a bench outside the Dunn Building, taking a breather before riding back to Marfa. The West Texas wind funneled between the buildings and threatened to blow them over. Pedestrians leaned into the wind, making it seem as if the earth had tilted on its axis. Young men in suits and women in dresses walked past and into the building, apparently lawyers returning from lunch.
‘Thomas A. Dunn,’ Nadine said. ‘The “A” must be for asshole.’
‘Fortunately, it’s not a crime in Texas, or we’d have a lot more lawyers in prison.’
‘Professor, why didn’t you ever practice law? You could’ve been another Tom Dunn.’
‘That’s why.’
Book pointed up, as if to the corner office on the twentieth floor.
‘I knew that life wasn’t for me. Working inside. Wearing suits. Counting my life away by the billable hour.’
‘He looks rich.’
‘I’m sure he is. Each lawyer chooses the life he or she wants, Ms. Honeywell, just as you will have to choose. I chose a life on a Harley instead of in a Mercedes-Benz.’
‘You ever regret that choice?’
‘Only when it rains.’
She smiled.
‘You could’ve worked at a nonprofit.’
‘It’s called teaching law school.’
‘Hey, I read about those forgivable loans.’
‘They made Twitter?’
‘Oh, yeah.’
‘Well, I didn’t get one.’
‘You could’ve done legal aid for the needy.’
‘That’s why we’re here—to use our legal skills to aid someone in need.’
‘But the person in need is dead.’
‘So he is.’
‘Professor, Tom Dunn is an asshole, but he’s right: Nathan’s death was an accident.’
‘Are you just saying that so I’ll take you home?’
‘I want to go home, but I believe it was an accident.’
‘Why?’
‘The sheriff doesn’t seem like a fool. He’s investigated a lot of car accidents. If Nathan was murdered, he’d know it. And why would Billy Bob murder his own lawyer? For money? He’s rich enough to pay eighteen million in legal fees to Dunn. To stay out of prison? How many rich guys go to prison? He’d blame any contamination on his employees, the company would pay a fine, and he’d stay in business. And if Nathan had proof, he would’ve shown it to his wife or his best friend. Professor, you’re emotionally invested in this case. You’re not looking at it objectively. Because Nathan saved your life.’
‘He saved my life, but I wasn’t there to save his. I owe it to him to find out how he died.’
‘You did. Nathan Jones died in an accident.’
‘He shouldn’t have died that way.’
‘And my sister shouldn’t have died of cancer when she was eight.’
‘Eight?’
His intern’s voice cracked. ‘It destroyed my parents. Their marriage. Our family.’
She paused.
‘After she died, we never had a real Christmas tree. My mother bought an artificial one.’
Book’s instinct was to embrace his intern, but he resisted.
‘I’m sorry, Ms. Honeywell. That’s just not …’
‘Fair? One thing I’ve learned, Professor, life is unfair. I couldn’t make it fair for my sister, and you can’t make it fair for Nathan.’
Or his own mother.
‘Professor Bookman?’
Book looked up to a young man smiling down at him. He stood.
‘I’m Tim Egan. I took your class five years ago. What brings you to Midland?’
‘Nathan Jones.’
The smile left his face. ‘Bad deal. He was a good guy.’
‘You work at the Dunn firm?’
‘We all do.’
‘Oil and gas?’
‘Yep.’
‘Fracking?’
‘Fracking is the oil and gas business today.’
‘You know anything about groundwater contamination caused by fracking?’
‘Nope. And I don’t want to know. I do what I’m told and keep my mouth shut.’
Book’s thoughts of disapproval must have registered on his face.
‘Look, Professor, we’re not cops. Our clients hire us to do their bidding, not to turn them in to the Feds.’
‘I take it you didn’t go to law school to make the world a better place?’
‘I went to law school to make money.’
Disapproval turned to—
‘Don’t look so disgusted, Professor. I graduated with a hundred thousand dollars in student loan debt, money I borrowed so UT law professors can make three hundred thousand a year teaching two classes a semester. I couldn’t pay my loans off working at a nonprofit. So you guys are as much to blame for the state of the legal profession as we are.’
‘What grade did I give you?’
‘B.’
‘I should’ve given you a C.’
Nadine had scooted down the bench when the lawyer had engaged the professor. She now smiled. The professor was growing on her.
‘Nadine?’
She turned to the familiar voice and saw a familiar face.
‘Sylvia?’
She stood, and they hugged. Sylvia Unger had graduated law school the year before. She was holding a venti Starbucks cup.
‘There’s a Starbucks here?’
‘Right around the corner.’
‘Oh, thank God.’
Nadine fought the urge to snatch Sylvia’s cup and suck the coffee into her caffeine-depleted body.
‘I thought you wanted to work in Dallas?’
Sylvia shrugged. ‘No jobs in Dallas, so I came to Midland.’
‘You still dating that lawyer in Dallas?’
‘He dumped me for an SMU cheerleader.’
Nadine shook her head. ‘Guys say they want brains and personality, but what they really want are big tits and a tight ass.’
‘He left me for a male cheerleader.’
Nadine groaned. ‘I hate it when they do that. Leaving you for another girl is bad enough, but for another boy?’
‘Tell me.’
Sylvia was not from San Francisco, so it was probably her first experience with romancing a gay guy. Her expression said she had not gotten over him. Nadine thought it best to change the subject.
‘You like it out here?’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’
The wind tried to blow Sylvia’s dress over her head. She clamped her arms down both sides of her body like a vise.
‘Does the wind ever stop blowing?’ Nadine asked.
‘No. It doesn’t. And the oil smell never goes away.’
‘Is the practice of law fun?’
‘Fun?’ Sylvia almost laughed. ‘Nadine, “fun” and “the practice of law” do not belong in the same sentence.’
‘What kind of work are you doing?’
‘Estate planning.’
‘Do you like it?’
; ‘It’s a living. So what are you doing here?’
Nadine aimed a thumb at the professor. ‘Working for Bookman.’
‘Wait—you’re not his intern?’
‘Uh … yes, I am.’
‘Be careful.’
‘He’s a nice guy.’
‘He’s crazy. He’s got a death wish or something.’
‘We rode out here on his Harley.’
‘See?’
‘Sylvia, did you know Nathan Jones?’
‘We met. I’m up here, he’s in Marfa. Was. He seemed like a nice guy. I didn’t work with him, but he must’ve been a good lawyer, working for the firm’s biggest client.’
‘Billy Bob Barnett?’
‘Yeah. What are you and Bookman doing in Midland?’
‘We came to see Tom Dunn.’
Sylvia frowned. ‘The dark lord. He’s so creepy. When he talks to me, he talks to my breasts.’
‘I noticed. And I barely have breasts.’
‘It’s just the thought of it, for guys like Dunn.’
They shared a giggle.
‘I didn’t see you at Nathan’s funeral yesterday,’ Nadine said. ‘Did you go?’
Sylvia shook her head. ‘Dunn said he was going for the firm, told us to stay here and bill hours. He’s sentimental like that.’
‘Nathan wrote a letter to the professor, said there was some funny business going on with fracking. Is there?’
Sylvia shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Those guys in the oil and gas department, they’re like a fraternity. They don’t talk to us girls in estate planning. And the first thing you learn in the practice is to not ask questions and to keep your mouth shut.’
‘Nathan must have missed that class. Anyone else who might know if anything odd was going on?’
‘Becky.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘Nathan’s secretary.’
‘Nathan treated all the girls like sisters instead of secretaries,’ Becky Oakes said. ‘Most lawyers treat us like slaves.’
Becky had been Nathan’s secretary for the entirety of his legal career.
‘Becky, did you know about the letter Nathan sent to me?’
Nadine had passed on a tour of the Petroleum Museum in Midland, so after a quick stop at the Starbucks—Nadine had drunk a venti frappuccino on the ride back—
‘Don’t spill that down my saddlebags,’ Book had cautioned her.
‘Nobody likes a tidy freak,’ she had responded.
—they had returned to Marfa and caught Becky as she was leaving for the day. She glanced up and down the sidewalk then lowered her voice.