The Dinosaur Club

by William Heffernan

  Grisham offered a broad shrug. “But it could. Depending on circumstances.” He leaned forward. “I noted that you made no mention of any adulterous affairs you engaged in. Were there any that your wife is privy to?”

  “No.” Fallon shook his head, as if clearing away cobwebs. “I mean I never had an affair.”

  “Not even a one-night stand? On a business trip, perhaps?”

  Again, Fallon shook his head. “No.” He paused, thought of Samantha, and his growing desire. “Until the last year or so, our sex life was never a problem.” Another pause, coupled with embarrassed uncertainty. “At least not for me.” A renewed testosterone attack—the exposed cuckold.

  Grisham sat back in his chair, tilted it precariously. “Well, if you remain celibate throughout the divorce, it could be important.”

  Samantha again rushed to Fallon’s mind, that slim—albeit foolish, he was sure—hope of a budding romance. “What difference does it make if I sleep with someone, now that she’s run off with Howard?” Fallon demanded.

  A small, knowing smile played on Grisham’s lips. He sat forward again, patiently coaching Fallon in this new, horrific game. “In the eyes of the court it would be the same thing,” he intoned. “The timing would be inconsequential. The whole question of adultery would become—shall we say—a wash.” One finger shot upward. “If, however, you remain celibate while your wife enjoys her adulterous affair—and feathers her love nest with your hard-earned possessions—then she becomes the villainous party. Do you understand?”

  Grisham waved one hand in a circular motion, stopping any response. “All of this, of course, depends on the judge we draw. Certain judges, especially some of the men, are more inclined to look favorably on a man who’s been vilified. Some women on the bench, however…” He rocked his head from side to side. “But that, of course, is where I come in. I shall endeavor to get a judge favorable to our view.” Pursed lips. “Your wife’s counsel, of course, will attempt to do the same.” A small chuckle. “That’s why judges wear those billowing black robes,” he added. “So opposing lawyers can climb up beneath and kiss their asses.”

  Fallon thought about the illusion, shook his head. “So, what do I do?” he asked.

  “Several things,” Grisham began. “First, try to keep your trousers zipped.” Another chuckle. “If you can’t …” A shrug. “More importantly, when you are served, contact me at once. I expect that will be relatively soon. If not, of course we can file. If you are approached by your wife’s attorney, say nothing. Just refer him to me. Next, there are certain steps you must take. You must close out all joint bank accounts, investment accounts, whatever, and place the proceeds in new accounts in your name only.” He watched Fallon wince, smiled at the reaction. “Mr. Fallon,” he soothed. “You may well find that your wife has already done that, and that there is nothing left to safeguard.”

  Bile surged again, and Fallon stared at him in disbelief. Would Trisha do that? He thought of Howard wearing his Bill Blass robe.

  “Next,” Grisham went on, ignoring the reaction, “cancel all joint credit cards, and take out new cards in your name only.” Another regretful smile. “Again, you may find that your wife has already run up some extraordinary purchases. We will fight them, of course, but in the end you’ll probably be screwed.” He said the last with a certain glee—thinking from the other side, no doubt, Fallon decided.

  “Jesus Christ,” Fallon hissed.

  “Indeed,” Grisham replied. “We are at war, Mr. Fallon. Have no doubt of it.”

  “How about we just split everything down the middle?” Fallon offered. Grisham gave him a smile—the kind one would give a particularly stupid child.

  “As you may already know, the law in New York is equitable distribution. But what is equitable to the courts may not seem so to you.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that,” Fallon said.

  “That brings me to my final point,” the lawyer said. “You must decide what you want to fight over. And you must be aware that the degree of fighting we do, both in and out of court, will directly affect how much this divorce will cost you.” Another solitary finger shot into the air. “I, of course, will be pleased to fight for everything. But you must look at it from the viewpoint of what you actually need.” He sat back again, stared at Fallon through steepled fingers. “For example. How are you going to live after the divorce? Do you plan to remarry, begin a new family, with a new partner? Or do you plan the less involved life of a bachelor?” He rocked his head from side to side. “Serious questions, and also important. If, let’s say, your needs will be those of a small but comfortable apartment, then fighting over every stick of furniture becomes a foolish enterprise. And a needlessly expensive one.”

  Grisham sat forward, intent now. “You will get some furnishings. But a prolonged battle over unnecessary possessions could easily raise your costs by ten thousand dollars. So you must consider how much you would spend to furnish an apartment anew.” A wise tilt of the head. “Do I make my point?”

  Fallon let out a weary breath. “Yeah,” he said. He decided that law offices, like airlines, should provide barf bags for their clients.

  With Fallon beaten into submission—and dependence—Grisham eased back in his chair. “Now the question of my fee, and the retainer I shall ask you to give me.”

  Fallon closed his eyes; sighed. What the hell, he thought. Take it all. Every cent. Anything that Trisha hasn’t already grabbed.

  Samantha laid the proposal on Carter’s desk and leaned over his shoulder ready to point out various items and the reasoning behind them. Carter felt her closeness, inhaled her scent, and momentarily thought about slipping his arm around her. Then he recalled how firm she had been when she had ended their brief relationship. The idea of another rejection was something he did not want to risk.

  He studied the rough draft, listened to her explanations, and when she finished, blew out a slightly weary breath. “You were feeling very generous when you did this,” he said. “I hadn’t anticipated offering quite this much.”

  She straightened, her tone stiffening like her back. “It’s similar to what other companies have offered, and, more importantly, I think it will help us avoid litigation,” she said.

  “Yes, I can see that. But I don’t want to avoid it to the point of giving away the store.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “I had hoped to have something I could show Charlie Waters today. But this isn’t it.”

  Samantha walked around the desk, jaw tight, and took a seat opposite him. “You’ve really got me working at a disadvantage, Carter,” she began.

  “How so?” His eyes glittered with amusement. She was angry, and it gave her a combative look that he found quite appealing.

  She leaned forward. “First, I have no idea who you have on your hit list.” She immediately regretted the term, but hurried on. “So it’s hard for me to anticipate what legal arguments might arise. I’m working strictly from generalities that deal with age and length of service. It would help if I could go through specific personnel records. It would help me isolate specific problems.”

  Carter pursed his lips. “Just assume everyone close to fifty and above will be going,” he said.

  “Even the executives?”

  “Even the executives.” He raised his eyebrows, as if questioning his own claim. “There may be some exceptions, but for your purposes assume there aren’t.”

  She shook her head in frustration. “That’s hard, Carter.” She decided to push ahead with what she wanted to know. “It would be easier to anticipate problems if I had specific names. As you know, I reviewed random personnel records in order to put together this proposal, and even that haphazard search produced some potential problems.”

  Carter’s face screwed up with doubt. “How so?” he asked.

  Samantha twisted in her chair. “Well, for example, one of the individuals I came across was a war hero. And years ago the company used that fact rather extensively to get military support for
a number of its contracts. That’s something to which the court might lend a sympathetic ear.”

  Bennett shook his head. “I’m not impressed.”

  Samantha bridled at the rebuke. “Well, be that as it may. But a judge might be. This individual was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross. I checked. It’s second only to the Medal of Honor, and the only difference between the two is the number of witnesses you have to the act of heroism.”

  Bennett sat back, gave her a bored look. Then he flashed a wide smile. “Sounds like a great movie. But it still boils down to a second-rate medal. And I’m afraid that’s what most of these people are. Second-rate.” He shook his head, allowed his smile to become one of regret. “If you must know, very few—I repeat, very few—of the people in the age bracket I mentioned will survive this downsizing effort. And the few who do survive will be left on board only temporarily—essentially to avoid any claim of age discrimination. So, you see, I just can’t concern myself with the fact that half a century ago one of them did something that some people might consider extraordinary.”

  “It wasn’t half a century, Carter. And the important point is that the company used this war record to its advantage. A court might consider that.”

  Bennett’s smile faded, his handsome face becoming more thoughtful. “Who is this person we’re talking about?” he asked.

  Samantha had dreaded the question but had prepared an answer she knew Bennett would accept. She shook her head. “I can’t recall the specific name, Carter. I really wasn’t concentrating on who these people were, just ages and particular situations that might prove difficult.”

  Bennett nodded. “Well, it’s all specious as far as I’m concerned.” There was a light snap in his voice now, as he added, “But if it’s a problem, you’ll have to deal with it.”

  Samantha sat back; let out a breath. She had what she wanted, though wished she didn’t. “Well, it’s a problem, but as you say, I’ll deal with it.”

  “You think it’s a problem,” Bennett said. “I don’t.” He softened the words with another smile, a particularly handsome one. He was still hanging on to his argument, and his voice and eyes had grown momentarily hard. He made an effort to soften both; smiled again. “Besides, I don’t think any of these people will be party to any litigation.”

  Samantha cocked her head. “Why?”

  “Because I fully expect most of them will opt to leave before we make any offer. You might say I intend to see that most of them do.”

  Momentary silence. You son of a bitch, she thought, then forced herself to be a lawyer again. “Do it carefully, Carter,” she finally said. “That could be a dangerous game. Legally dangerous.”

  Bennett’s smile widened. It was false, but fully secure. “I do everything carefully, Samantha. Or haven’t you noticed.”

  Charlie Waters’s office was a sprawling suite almost triple the size of Bennett’s; with the added luxury of a private bath. Waters liked space spread out before him, an illusion of something vast under sole command. As usual, Waters was seated behind his desk in shirtsleeves. He stared at the younger man over half glasses and gestured toward a plush leather sofa.

  “You have that buyout proposal for me, I take it,” Waters said. He came out from behind the desk, took a chair opposite, and propped crossed feet on the sofa table between them. He was a large man, three inches taller than Bennett’s own six feet, and his ample middle bulged over his belt. He had a red face, and thinning silver hair, and had the look of a typical aging executive, blithely en route to his first coronary.

  “I’m afraid not,” Bennett said. “My legal beagle came up with a proposal I felt far too generous.” He drew a long breath, shook his head, and gave Waters a disappointed smile. “I sent her back to do it again,” he added.

  Waters grunted dissatisfaction. “Goddamned lawyers,” he snapped. “Shakespeare was right about ‘em. Except if we killed the sonsabitches, we’d all end up in jail.” A hearty laugh. “So when will we have something?”

  “Early next week, hopefully. But I was presented with a problem I thought we should discuss.”

  “Go on.”

  Bennett sat forward and placed a thick manila folder on the table. Waters looked at it as though it were some venomous reptile that had crawled into his office—one he might have to kill with a stick. Thick folders filled with facts and figures were always potential trouble.

  Bennett noted the look and hurried on. “The attorney—Samantha Moore, our deputy general counsel—claims we’re making it difficult by not giving her a list of the people we plan to … disemploy.” Bennett made a small gesture with his hands. “She feels she has to go through specific personnel records, just to be certain there aren’t any unusual circumstances that could cause legal complications.”

  “Such as?”

  “Nothing specific,” Bennett said. “She raised a point about one chap—about his standing as some kind of war hero. Said the company used that status to get some government contracts.”

  “That would be Jack Fallon,” Waters said.

  Bennett tried to hide his surprise. He wondered if Samantha had really forgotten the man’s name, or simply not paid attention to it, as she said. Regardless, he tucked that bit of information away.

  “Fallon’s on your list?” Waters asked.

  “Definitely.”

  Waters stuck out his lower lip. Nodded. “So why not give Ms. Moore the list? No harm there. The names aren’t final until I sign off on them. Just make that clear to her.”

  Bennett hesitated, uncertain if that meant some names might eventually be struck in some last-minute edict. The idea irritated him, but he could deal with it later. He opened the manila folder and withdrew a computer-generated list of names.

  “I was thinking along those same lines,” he said. “But I wanted you to have a look at this before I gave it to her.” He handed the list to Waters and made a dismissive gesture. “Nothing’s written in stone, of course. This is based solely on financial considerations. You’ll see it includes a percentage of employees in varying lower age groups, whom we’ll need to avoid the appearance of age discrimination. We haven’t identified this additional destaffing by individual yet, just by work area. All of it, of course, right down to the specific saves we make, is contingent on any changes you may want to impose.”

  Waters chuckled. “I like your terminology. Saves, indeed. It makes you sound like a relief pitcher coming in for the final inning of play.”

  Carter smiled, then picked up a second computer printout that had been hidden beneath the first. “Each one who goes saves the company money. I think the terminology is more than supported by these financial projections I’ve worked up. They’re accurate to within half a percent if we follow that first list exactly, and stay within certain parameters in our buyout offer.”

  Waters placed the second printout atop the first and began leafing through its pages. His lower lip came out again—this time in appreciation. “This is impressive, Carter. Very impressive. You’re certain of these figures?”

  “Completely,” Bennett said.

  “And they include the cost of the buyout and any litigation we might face?”

  “Yes.”

  Waters nodded absently, still immersed in the figures.

  “In fact, I think I can even improve them slightly,” Bennett added. He watched Waters’s eyes shoot up. “By reducing the number of people on the list.”

  Waters shook his head. “Now you’re confusing me.”

  Bennett sat back; laced his fingers over one knee. “I think a number of these people—a select number in the higher salary ranges—can be encouraged to leave the company before any buyout is offered,” he said. “This would reduce our costs from the initial settlement side, but, more importantly, from the standpoint of any legal judgment eventually leveled against us.”

  “You anticipate us losing any class-action suit that’s filed, then,” Waters said.

  “I think it’s unavoidable,�
�� Bennett said. “But any judgment would be comparatively insignificant.” A smile. “In the overall financial picture.” He paused a beat. “And, if we’re successful in encouraging a significant number of voluntary separations, the amount of any judgment would be reduced accordingly. In fact, legal action might easily become moot. There simply wouldn’t be enough older employees left to make an adequate case for age discrimination.” Bennett pointed to the list of names he had given Waters. “If you study that list, you’ll find I’ve included nearly all the older employees, but also a significant number of younger staff. That’s designed to further weaken any argument that our decisions were based on age and pension costs.”

  Waters jabbed an emphatic finger. “That’s good thinking. All of it. Excellent.” He let out a weary breath. “Frankly, I wasn’t looking forward to being pilloried in the courts and the press as some money-grabbing bastard who threw his older employees to the dogs. Christ, did you read what they wrote about Al Dunlap, after he cut eleven thousand jobs over at Scott Paper. They called him ‘Chain Saw Al,’ for chrissake.”

  Bennett seized the opportunity. “I think we can easily avoid that with this approach,” he said. “We’ll present our plan as a personnel surplus reduction, or perhaps a redundancy elimination. But the real key to avoiding litigation—and any bad press—will be in forcing some voluntary separations. And I’d like to start encouraging those as soon as possible.”

  “Damn sharp thinking,” Waters said. “Damn sharp.”

  Waters put the list of names aside, concentrating again on the financial projections. “This should significantly improve our picture on The Street,” he said.

  “Without question,” Bennett said.

  Waters dropped the printouts on the table, and served up a wry smile. “That brings me to something else, Carter. Seems a cousin of yours has made some significant purchases of company stock.” He took in the expression on Bennett’s face, and let out a small laugh. “Don’t be surprised, Carter. I have people who keep a rather close watch on any sizable purchases of our stock.” He paused. “Just to safeguard against any subtle attempts at a takeover.”