A Young Lawyer's story

by John Ellsworth

  A Young Lawyer’s Story

  John Ellsworth

  Subjudica Press

  Contents

  A Young Lawyer’s Story

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Also by John Ellsworth

  About the Author

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  A Young Lawyer’s Story

  1

  The résumé was the $39.99 version without Goals and Hobbies.

  "He has no goals," said the Assistant U.S. Attorney.

  "He has no hobbies, either," said the Chief of Staff.

  They looked down and resumed reading.

  The U.S. Attorney's office was hiring in D.C., except the job wasn't advertised, there was only one applicant and the job description wasn't published anywhere. The applicant had only found out about the opening when an FBI agent knocked on the door of the dingy apartment he shared with three law students and invited him into the hallway.

  "You're Thaddeus Murfee?" The agent flashed his badge in one smooth motion.

  The new law grad's knees buckled and his breath caught in his throat. He could feel his face suddenly go hot and his eye-blink rate double. Nobody ever wanted the FBI to come to the door, especially not when you were smoking pot while studying for the bar exam every night.

  "Yes," said Thaddeus. "I'm Thaddeus Murfee. Am I in trouble?"

  "The U.S. Attorney wants your résumé. Can you have it ready in an hour?"

  Thaddeus Murfee looked puzzled. "Who are you? Are you with the U.S. Attorney?"

  At that point, the agent badged the young lawyer a second time, just in case he had missed the first. "FBI. I'm here on a mission from the U.S. Attorney."

  The young lawyer's eyes narrowed. His mind raced back over his class in criminal procedure. "Am I in trouble?" He knew there had been too much pot smoking last night. It had grown loud and some classmates--girls--had dropped by. The last music finally went silent just before sunrise.

  The FBI agent frowned. "You're not in trouble. At least not that I know of."

  "Then why--"

  "Your availability for an interview came to our attention."

  "Oh." He didn't ask how. You didn't ask the FBI questions. Not when you had just turned twenty-three, had no contacts in the legal community, and were behind on your rent and resorting to pot to calm your bar exam nerves.

  "Georgetown Law's employment office gave us your name."

  "Why would they do that?"

  "Because you graduated third in your class and One and Two have already accepted offers."

  "Oh. I was number three? Really?" He had only just graduated. Class standings weren't even posted last time he looked.

  "Number three. So what do you say? Can you have a résumé for me in one hour?"

  "I guess so. Yes. Do you want to come in?" He hoped not. The place reeked of marijuana and unwashed gym socks. Not your best entree into the world of government law.

  "I'm going to hit Benjy's Diner down the street. I'll be back at half-past-two."

  "It will be waiting."

  The young man extended his hand to shake, but the agent had already turned away and was leaving. The deal had been struck, his backside said; they would meet again, soon.

  Three days later, Thaddeus went to the interview as directed. Not as invited, as directed, by the same FBI agent.

  The meeting was held in secret that mid-May afternoon at the Attorney General's office in Washington, D.C. Thaddeus had been warned not to mention it to anyone, not even to Bud Evans, the owner of the suit he was wearing. The receptionist offered water and coffee; Thaddeus declined. His hands were shaking so bad he was afraid he might slop any liquid down the front of his white shirt. So he waited.

  On the other side of the door, three people were meeting. They were an Assistant U.S. Attorney, a chief of staff, and an FBI agent. They had all just finished up with the applicant's dossier, provided by the FBI.

  "Well," said the Assistant U.S. Attorney, Melissa McGrant. "He's a kid from a broken home. Family scattered to hell and back. So there's no one around to keep track of him."

  All heads nodded. It was good, good that he was alone in the world.

  "He's totally broke. Two hundred bucks to his name," said Harold Stuttermeyer, Chief of Staff of the U.S. Attorney's office. Which means he's desperate. We could set him up in a broom closet with a forty-watt bulb and he'd be happy."

  "His girlfriend just moved to L.A.," said Naomi Ranski, the FBI agent. "He's lonely and feeling abandoned. He needs to belong somewhere. This is a good time to nab him."

  They resumed flipping through the dossier. Naomi Ranski sat idly by, flipping pages without reading; she had put it together. She had also put together the psychological profile, based on surveillance of the new grad and based on his student records at Georgetown Law. He was very introverted with average social skills as he'd never learned how to interact with people of varied social status as most kids would learn by growing up in families. The broken home had definitely stunted his development, said the report. So had the foster homes in his early teens. He was perfect; the Agency preferred introverts with underdeveloped social skills for the kind of job it had in mind for the young applicant. They weren't losers, these kids, not exactly, but they weren't going to turn out to be giants of industry, either.

  So far, he was a fit. Now to find out if he could walk and chew gum.

  The applicant was brought into the room. No one smiled at him and only McGrant looked up.

  Assistant U.S. Attorney McGrant was a New Yorker with a take-no-prisoners approach to handling the government's legal business. She worked the counter-espionage side of the street. She was firm and she was cagey and she never forgot or allowed those around her to forget that they were sworn to defend the laws of the United States and to uphold the U.S. Constitution regardless of the cost. She would be the first to pull the trigger on an enforcement action and the last to leave the courtroom when the prosecution was concluded.

  She was in charge of the meeting and no one doubted it. She told Thaddeus to take a seat.

  He sat down as ordered and clasped his hands on the table. Then he looked up.

  To his right was Harold Stuttermeyer, Chief of Staff for the U.S. Attorney. Stuttermeyer was a fifteen-year lifer on the U.S. Attorney's staff, a man more suited for administrative matters than the trial of criminal cases before juries. McGrant explained that Stuttermeyer sat at the U.S. Attorney's right hand and knew everything about everyone in the office. He had his methods: particularly cyber-surveillance and telephone taps. Thaddeus made a mental note to avoid the guy at all costs should he somehow get hired.

  Naomi Ranski was seated directly across the table from the applicant. Ranski was African-American and was heavily muscled across her shoulders and upper arms. She was FBI, but not the same FBI who three times had appeared at the young lawyer's door. She had served on the team that outwitted and arrested Robert Hanssen, the m
ost devious CIA double-agent who had ever betrayed the United States in its entire history. Hansen was currently serving fifteen consecutive life terms at ADX Florence, the federal government's supermax prison at Florence, Colorado. It was rumored Agent Ranski visited Hanssen twice a year, following up on anything new he might be willing to reveal about his spying that could help undo the blows he had dealt his country.

  "We're glad you could meet with us," McGrant said to the applicant.

  "Do you know why you're here?" asked Stuttermeyer.

  FBI agent Ranski answered for Thaddeus. "He only knows that he was selected for the interview based on his class standing. He also knows the job wasn't posted on Georgetown's Law Jobs Board but he's okay with that."

  "You know I'm okay with it? Really?" asked Thaddeus. He was surprised at her answer, her claim to know he was okay with the secrecy surrounding the job.

  Ranski gave the young lawyer a hard look, a look that telegraphed that she had the goods on him. "Our job is to know where you're going before you even climbs on your Vespa. Our job is to know who's calling before your prepaid cell rings. Our job is to know where you'll bed down even before some lucky girl accepts your offer of a Dutch date. And we're damn good at our job."

  "What about you, Stutters?" said McGrant. "Can you sell him to Broyles as a new hire now that you've seen him?"

  "I can sell him," said Stuttermeyer. "He’ll clean up well and look just like one of us. Speaking of, Mr. Murfee, lose the ponytail. Federal judges don't do ponytails."

  They all looked at Thaddeus. The ponytail’s time had passed. He was wearing a troubled navy suit. The coat was a full shade darker than the pants. The sleeves were far too short. Even worse, the pants were a full inch-and-a-half short which, with the coat, left him looking like a desperate scarecrow.

  Then, "Mr. Murfee, I'm Assistant U.S. Attorney Melissa McGrant, the gentleman on my left is Harold Stuttermeyer of the U.S. Attorney's office, and this lady across from you is Naomi Ranski, Special Agent, FBI."

  A puzzled look crept across Thaddeus' face.

  "Forgive me, but FBI? Am I being investigated just for an interview?"

  McGrant smiled and shook her head. "We asked you here to talk about the U.S. Attorney's office and an opening."

  His puzzlement deepened so he continued, heeding roommate Bud Evans' instructions to him to be pushy and let them know he meant business. "It's a job as a lawyer in the U.S. Attorney's office, right?"

  "Yes," said Stuttermeyer, "you would be part of my staff in the U.S. Attorney's office.

  "And what part is that?" Thaddeus asked. "Criminal or civil?"

  "I'm administrative," Stuttermeyer said, leaning in and speaking conspiratorially, which, to Thaddeus, sounded odd since "administrative" and "conspiratorial" didn't much hang together.

  "Would I be going to court?"

  "Eventually. But at first your duties would be the common first-year duties: research, writing, liaison with the FBI and U.S. Marshals, trial preparation. Even the chance to second-chair some motions and evidentiary hearings. That would be about a third of your hours. The other two-thirds would be administrative. You'll get the full run-down your first day."

  "But I wouldn't have my own file assignments?"

  "Not initially. But that would come. Assuming you stayed on beyond the probationary period, of course."

  He narrowed his eyes at Stuttermeyer. "Why wouldn't I?"

  Stuttermeyer leaned back in the luxurious green leather chair.

  “Sometimes public service isn't a fit for some people. We all have to find our own niche."

  "All right. What about salary and benefits? I have to ask. I've been starving for three years." He held up both arms. "Even this suit is borrowed because I can't afford one of my own." Thaddeus sat back and waited. He was grateful that Bud Evans had told him to get right down to the question of salary. "Nothing else matters," Bud had said. "We need income around here before the sheriff starts putting our stuff out on the street."

  "Law school must have been very difficult," McGrant said softly. "I'm sorry it's been so hard for you."

  He shook his head. "I'm not after sympathy, Ms. McGrant. I only brought it up because I need to start right away in order to keep from getting evicted."

  "Would Monday be soon enough?" asked Stuttermeyer.

  Thaddeus' jaw fell open. "Yes. I mean, yes!"

  "So you accept?"

  "I accept? Hell yes!"

  "Payday two weeks later. And I'll make sure you have enough cash to last until then if I have to float you a loan myself."

  "Oh, no, no, I'm not after a handout," Thaddeus said. "But thanks. I have just enough to make it two weeks. But then I'm on the street."

  Stuttermeyer held up a hand. "No need for that. Come in Monday at eight sharp and we'll get you right over to HR."

  "I accept," Thaddeus said eagerly. "I need this."

  "I'll need to spend about an hour with you after we're done here," said Agent Ranski. "Fingerprints, background, mug shot--all the usual stuff. Let's get it out of the way so you can hit the ground running on Monday."

  "Whatever you need," Thaddeus agreed. "I'm all yours."

  "Wait," said Assistant U.S. Attorney McGrant. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

  Stuttermeyer spoke up. "One-hundred-forty-five thousand per annum. With all federal benefits."

  The air caught in Thaddeus' throat and he coughed.

  "Excuse me. I'm making one-forty-five starting Monday?"

  "Yes," said Stuttermeyer. "I'm sorry we can't go any higher."

  "No--I can get my own place if I want."

  "Yes. Georgetown is expensive, but there are areas farther out."

  "Thank you," Thaddeus said. "Thank you so much. I won't let you down. You have my word."

  "We know that," said McGrant. "We knew we could count on you."

  A look passed between Ranski and McGrant. They had known all along he was down to his last two hundred dollars in student loan money. They had it all: bank balances, names of friends, favorite eateries, favorite beer, records from the foster homes where he'd spent his youth.

  He didn't press them any further about the exact nature of his duties. He couldn't; he was too far into picking out furniture for his new apartment. New clothes to wear to work. Maybe a car, as he didn't own one. Selling the used Vespa scooter to some naive freshman.

  It was only on the way home on the bus that he realized he hadn't asked them diddly-squat about the job. Only how much and what department. Who would he be reporting to? What kind of insurance would he receive? What about opportunities for advancement?

  He hadn't asked and they hadn't offered.

  But he was sure it would all work out. After all, it was a government job. The only thing he knew about the government at that point was that it handed out drivers’ licenses and paid him survivor's benefits because his parents were dead. It never occurred to him that having no family was part of the non-existent job description.

  No one would know anything about him and he still knew zip about them.

  Which was exactly how his government wanted it.

  2

  A roommate named Winnie cut his hair. The cut cost ten bucks plus Thaddeus did the dishes all weekend.

  She took off the ponytail with a momentous snip of the scissors. She held it up for Thaddeus to view. He only shrugged. "Keep going," he said.

  Thirty minutes later he was in style. In style in a city where one out of every twelve residents was a lawyer and everyone looked the same, from the Brooks Brothers suits to the tassel loafers. Washington, D.C. For three years he had survived there while in law school. Now he was joining the ranks of the employed who served at the altar of the government.

  His roommates and friends took up a collection. He rode his Vespa to Men's Warehouse. The suit cost $111 but the store threw in another suit and a sport coat free. The sport coat was a mix and match with both suit pants. Two white shirts were $42 and a blue tie and a red tie were thrown in fr
ee.

  Next, the roomies handled his transportation needs. A two-week Metro Blue Line pass from Alexandria to D.C. ran him $33.33. Which left him with a hundred and fifty dollars to last two weeks. It was cutting it close, but he knew he could sneak away at lunch and grab a three-dollar meal at Burger King--a law school standby.

  Then it was Monday morning and everyone had an opinion about which suit with which tie. In the end, Bud Evans contributed his favorite Club Tie to the mix and Thaddeus headed out for the bus stop. "You're the real deal, Murf," Bud told him. "Now don't take any shit off anybody."

  By 7:45 a.m. he arrived at 4th Street NW and ten minutes later was waiting in the U.S. Attorney's reception area for Mr. Stuttermeyer. He was still waiting at eight-thirty when the woman who had interviewed him swept into reception and led him away down a long hall to a dark conference room. She switched on the light and took the chair on the far side of the small table. At the hiring meeting last week Melissa McGrant had smiled every now and then; this morning she wasn't smiling at all--not even once. She motioned for him to shut the door and he closed it behind him and took the seat across from her. He studied her as she opened a folder, probably his employee file, he guessed. She read for several moments and he watched. He knew her name was Melissa McGrant. She was tall, a woman who favored necklace pendants that lay in the hollow of her throat, and tiny diamond earrings, barely more than chips. She wore very little makeup around her violet eyes and just a hint of blush above ruby lip gloss that emphasized her perfect bow of a mouth. Anymore than that about her was pure guesswork.