“Is everything all right?”
“I think so. It’s just there’s a guy over there who keeps staring. It’s sort of creeping me out,” she said.
“Does he look familiar? A lawyer, maybe? A defendant?” Hunter turned but didn’t see anyone particularly suspicious looking.
“No. I don’t think so. That’s strange,” she observed, her neck still craned. “He’s gone.”
TWELVE
Hunter whipped around in the other direction and then stood, trying to get a line on the entranceway, which doubled as an exit. He couldn’t see anyone at first. The steam, which lent the glass a greasy opacity, and the neon signage clouded his view. Rising and then inching his way toward the door, he peered out and observed a dark, late-model sedan stopped in the middle of the street in front of the restaurant. He remained oblivious as he moved, imprisoned by his curiosity. In the back of his mind, he suspected that Sheila’s observation was no mere coincidence but had something to do with the Vito’s case. He nearly stumbled into a table as curious patrons slurped and bugged out their eyes in wonderment.
And as he made his way outside onto the concrete steps, he observed a lone man—the same guy from inside. Even with traffic at a standstill, with horns blaring, the mystery man leaned calmly into the street-side rear door, coolly dangling a toothpick between his teeth. He had not a care in the world—the epitome of fearlessness. Although the lighting was poor, Hunter could make out hardened features and pockmarked skin. The guy wore a flamboyant double-breasted suit, which struck Hunter as somewhat odd. They locked eyes for an instant, his menacing glare taunting Hunter. Clearly he wanted to be noticed, burn a frightening image into Hunter’s memory.
Hunter drew closer, confronting his own demons, literally. He was unwilling to back down. If only he could get a plate number. But with Swiss quartz precision, the Mafioso-looking goon eased into the backseat and swung the door closed. Never diverting his gaze, he smiled wickedly as the vehicle sped away lawlessly. Desperately, Hunter made a dash for it, his bum knee giving out. Fuck! A wave of frustration and anger overcame him. He caught his breath and tried to compose himself. All there was left to do was return to his table and concentrate on getting obliterated.
Feeling as if he’d been run over by a Mack truck, his head throbbing from a night of binge drinking, he lifted his head, dreading the intensity of the day about to unfold. The digital clock read 9:15. Sheila, who could hold her liquor better than any Irishman he’d ever met, was long gone, probably drafting an opinion for one of her important cases or feeding her kids breakfast. He had some Celtic blood pumping through his veins on his mother’s side. But that didn’t seem to count for much, as far hangovers went. He had his father’s family to thank for that. They were Russian Jews, drunk on guilt and narcissism.
He looked around his bedroom, the disaster zone that it was, and wondered how a woman like Sheila could tolerate such deplorable filth. He couldn’t even stomach it, for Christ’s sake. In fact, he was feeling claustrophobic and in desperate need of something like a mental enema. Hunter’s bedroom was small and plain, with bare white walls, like the rest of the apartment. An ill-conceived smattering of 1980s track lighting protruded from the ceiling, giving off glare, at awkward angles to boot. Assuredly it was overcompensating for the dearth of natural lighting, the only source being the two rear windows, which backed up to the sordid alley. A simple black, faux-wood dresser stood unpretentiously in the corner and matched the black double bed. A pile of unfolded clothes, jeans, boxers, and sports socks—obviously meant for the drawers someday—lay atop the coarse, beige Berber carpet.
The mere sight of the Vito’s file, planted in the corner of the room like a dirty bomb, aroused a slight panic attack. Why the fuck isn’t the Zoloft working? How many more months am I supposed to give it? Today was the day Hunter had to either shit or get off the pot. Sheila and the brazen observer from last night had sealed it in his mind. Sheila was right. He had to get out. Plus, the red flag about Mancini was officially at full staff. As much as he wanted to believe the assignment was purely based on Mancini’s confidence in him, soliciting the talent of the only associate in the firm capable of turning around a dog of a case, he couldn’t help but wonder whether there was more there. Something much more sinister. Perhaps it was just a bit of garden-variety paranoia setting in. But in truth, who gave a crap?
Hunter threw off the white duvet cover. The section at the base of the bed didn’t budge, though. Sam rested at the foot of the bed, from side to side, his nearly hundred-pound body, like a tree stump, weighing it down. Sam barely lifted his head. He just opened his expressive black eyes enough to shoot Hunter an annoyed sideways glare, followed by a crocodilian yawn. Wearing only royal-blue-striped boxers, the rest of his body toned, Hunter sat up and turned to the side, draping his legs over the bed. Resolved to exercise and manufacture some much-needed endorphins, he figured he’d shower and everything when he got back.
As he excavated the small mountain of clothes at the foot of his bed, searching for anything remotely resembling running gear, he resigned himself to the fact that he had to do anything he could to get out of taking the Vito’s case without committing career suicide. And that would be no easy feat. Feathers would be ruffled, undoubtedly. Plus, Mancini, for whatever reason in addition to pecuniary motives, had taken a special personal interest in the case. Hunter’s hunch was that it was simply a matter of control. He slipped on his knee brace and worn-down Asics, as he’d done hundreds of times before, and started off toward the Schuylkill Banks trail, the eponymous exercise path winding to the art museum, the steps made famous by Sly Stallone in Rocky. Hunter had injured his kicking leg as an undergrad at Temple during a game against UMass and was eventually forced to have it scoped to repair the anterior cruciate ligament. That career-ending injury dashed any hopes of ever going pro. Sam, who undoubtedly would’ve preferred to remain comatose, stuck on the habitually repeating equivalent of a doggie’s wet dream, trailed, testing the limits of the tattered hemp leash.
The pair finally hit their stride by the time they got to Kelly Drive, a scenic four-mile stretch winding along the banks of the Schuylkill River and named after Olympic rower John Kelly, brother to the screen legend Grace Kelly. Hunter’s tattered nerves finally started to calm. As they passed Boathouse Row, preppy scullers unloaded gear and made their way to the various clubs in preparation for a vigorous morning of crew. It was already humid as hell and shaping up to be another unseasonably hot day. Other joggers, bikers, and rollerbladers were out en masse, smiling as they passed one another, brimming with a sense of productivity and the knowledge that they’d made the right choice, enjoying the outdoors as opposed to virtual exercise within the dreary confines of their local gyms.
Even Sam cracked an intermittent smile, getting into an exercise groove. He flirted with a white standard poodle, which pranced by, sporting its sexiest gait. She would’ve been wearing stilettos if she could. Her owners were a primped and wealthy-looking couple in their forties, decked out in the latest designer exercise duds, arguing as they walked. The dog was a thousand-dollar fashion accessory. Eventually Hunter and Sam reached Falls Bridge, the turnaround point, where they caught their breath alongside other winded runners.
After a brief respite, Hunter started up again and led them down the initial slope, back toward center city. He was relieved when he realized he hadn’t thought about the Vito’s case since their run started. Instead his weary mind had been wandering aimlessly from his sister and her hopelessly self-destructive behavior and then back to images of primal sex with the judge. Although Hunter and Sheila had only been romantically involved for a few months, his feelings for her were undeniably strong. Frankly, he had never expected it. She was a divorcee and mother of two, after all, two factors typically perceived as deterrents.
Since his breakup with Monica Fine, Hunter had spent close to the last decade basking in his independence. At least that was one way of rationalizing his all-consuming car
eer. His rigorous and oftentimes unpredictable work schedule made commitment a virtual impossibility, even if the feelings were there to warrant it. The few times he actually did take a liking to someone, when he gleaned the potential for something more fulfilling than stimulating conversation and great sex, he always managed to sabotage himself. As much as it pained him to admit it, he was forever at the mercy of the Whitman partners. He needed them a lot more than they needed him. And they knew that. They thrived on it, in fact. Respectable bonuses were certainly fulfilling. But the feeling of invincibility, the kind that came with the latitude to demean greenhorns, was priceless. Meanwhile, Hunter was still knee-deep in his federal loans. At the rate he was going, his estate would be stuck with ungodly amounts of interest long after he croaked.
The concept of a work-life balance was little more than a fiction spewed by the in-house HR people who secretly conspired with the partners to make one’s life a living hell. Most of these guys were either unhappily divorced or unhappily married, which spoke volumes about the sad state of affairs at places like Whitman. They were miserable in love; thus, those taken under their wing were forced to check their romantic ideals in at the door. In fact, Sheila’s ex-husband, an anal-retentive dentist, claimed to be a living testament to the impracticability of taking up vows with a lawyer. According to Sheila, he’d never stopped bitching and moaning about how she put her career first, placing her family on the backburner while she pursued a coveted partnership slot. And although their marital woes proved far more elaborate, she conceded that her work schedule was not awfully conducive to raising a family. But the asshole was the one who wound up deserting the kids in the end. Maybe it took another lawyer’s empathy for one of these relationships to survive. Even judges, with all their autonomy and leadership, were still at the mercy of their trial dockets.
Hunter had met Sheila last year. He tried a case in front of her. That litigation involved libel claims against one of the city’s local weekly papers. The plaintiff was a car dealer with a God complex. According to Dillon, Sheila was “far too hot to be wasting away on the bench.” And part of him tended to agree. Sheila’s striking appearance was difficult to ignore. Sultry hazel eyes stared out inquisitively as she ruled on objections. Naturally pouty lips moved decisively, seductively. She had dark brown hair, shoulder length and not over-stylized. She looked more Parisian than Pennsylvanian. Her athletic figure could’ve easily belonged to a twenty-five-year-old, not to a woman in her late thirties. What was probably once a fashion model type beauty in her youth had evolved into a provocative confidence and fiery intensity, which made Sheila far more sexy than pretty as a woman.
THIRTEEN
Inspiration came to Hunter in the shower, which was typically the case. The deck was stacked against him concerning the Vito’s case, and he decided the lesser of two evils was getting out. Losing was far too risky in light of his partnership aspirations. Plus, he had an ally in another influential partner at the firm, Clarence Hall. And if there was one person at the firm who wasn’t afraid of going head-to-head with Mancini, it was Hall. Hall, a former Black Panther and nationally renowned civil rights activist, always worked weekends, which could be a good thing, as much as Hunter dreaded going in. Mancini, on the other hand, never did, so Hunter didn’t have to worry about crossing paths with him. Sporting cargo shorts and Teva sandals, Hunter made his way to the office. En route he formulated the best arguments for the firm to turn down the case. If he persuaded Hall the city didn’t stand a chance against Vito, he’d be in good stead. If everything went smoothly, he’d have the only real advocate he needed in his corner.
He scanned his key card in the lobby and rode the elevator up alone. Then he dumped his bag in his office and checked his voicemail. The first, marked urgent, came from Melissa Zane, calling about the Mediacast case; the sound of her voice made his stomach turn. No matter how much he did to block out the stress, litigation was an endless series of battles, with a few nuclear wars sprinkled in for good measure. With the stakes so high, unfortunately the Mediacast case was already shaping up, much too quickly to boot, to be World War III. That was the Kruger firm’s modus operandi, after all. Every case, deficiencies or not, was fought much in the same way. Kruger was the legal world’s most arrogant superpower. Scorched earth tactics with capitalist motives in the name of democracy and justice were the norm.
The next few messages were internal. Hunter always had his hands in a few litigation pots, collaborating with associate colleagues on discovery and motions practice. The next message was from a first-year named Stephanie Diaz. Hunter had only met her a handful of times in passing, but since she was exceedingly attractive and quirky, in an artsy-fartsy sort of way, she wasn’t the type who could be easily forgotten. She left an extension and didn’t say much. But she did reference the Vito’s case. Hunter naturally assumed she’d been assigned to help with some of the research, which would’ve been fine with him if he were sticking with the case. Hunter pushed save and made a mental note that he’d have to deal with her sometime before Monday. In a perfect world, he’d be giving her the name of his replacement.
The last message had been left that morning, about an hour ago. It was from Dillon, which was somewhat atypical. First of all, Dillon, who never even thought about work over the weekend, let alone exerted the energy to place a work-related call, ordinarily texted him or caught him on his cell. And if he were in the building, he would just barge in. Their offices were along the same corridor, Dillon’s being only a few doors down. Dillon asked for a callback. That was all.
Just for fun, Hunter walked by Dillon’s office on the way up to see Clarence Hall. The light and computer were off. There was no sign of him anywhere. Hunter rode the elevator up to the equity partner floor. It was a relative ghost town. Only a few of the offices were illuminated, and luckily for Hunter, one of them was Hall’s. His door was ajar, and Hunter knocked softly. Clarence invited him in.
Clarence Hall, in his mid-sixties, resembled a very graying Denzel Washington. With a warm, paternal smile, he looked up from his work. In a freshly pressed oxford and bow tie, he looked quite the academic.
“Mr. Gray. And to what do I owe this pleasure on such a lovely Saturday?” he said as he set down an opinion on the antique mahogany desk. “Please, sit.” Hall was the only Whitman partner who had decided to keep his old desk when the firm moved. His refusal to conform to the modernist revolution at the firm spoke volumes about his character. To a man like Hall, possessions actually had sentimental value—like the framed maps and the aging, leather-bound law books lining his shelves. They were part of his history, not some aesthetic ideal that could be altered on a whim, just for show.
“Intriguing case?” Hunter asked.
Hall’s zeal for knowledge was written all over his face. “As a matter of fact, yes,” he replied, lowering his tortoise-shell reading glasses. “A surprisingly progressive workplace discrimination decision. It was just handed down by the state Supremes.” After a moment of awkward silence, Hall continued. “So are the rumors true? That you’re dabbling in civil rights these days?”
“I guess you could say that,” said Hunter. “Actually, that’s why I’m here.”
“Oh?”
“I could use your insight.”
“My insight? Well, I’m flattered, I guess,” Hall said to himself. “Go ahead, though. Of course. Anything.”
“Thanks.”
“So what’s on your mind, counselor?”
Hunter felt at ease. “All right. Anyway, you’re familiar with the Vito’s case.”
“I am,” replied Hall.
“Have you formed any opinions?”
“Opinions? To be perfectly frank, my understanding of the facts is relatively superficial. Only what I’ve gleaned from my conversations with Al Mancini. Some of the media coverage. That sort of thing.”
“I understand.”
“You’re handling this matter on behalf of the city. Isn’t that right?”
&nb
sp; “Yeah. Mr. Mancini actually gave me the case yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” he asked, surprised.
“Why? Is there something…?”
Clarence interrupted. “Nothing. I don’t think, at least. It’s just that I thought Mancini said he’d assigned out the case a few weeks ago…” He paused. “Perhaps it was a different matter. Well, anyway.” He let it go. “Now that doesn’t leave you with a heck of a lot of time to prepare now, does it? Al clearly believes in you, as do I, if you’re thinking you can’t mount a respectable case in such a limited time. If anyone can do it, Hunter, you’re the best person for the job.”
Shit. The vote of confidence felt great coming from someone as prominent as Hall. But he sure as hell couldn’t trust Mancini’s motivations. That wasn’t exactly the sort of thing he could divulge to Hall, either.
“Thank you,” said Hunter.
“And I don’t have to tell you how important this client is.”
“The time’s a factor. But that’s not my only concern. Based upon the ordinance, I don’t think the city’s got very much of a case.”
Clarence concentrated on Hunter’s words, his wise eyes X-raying his motivation.
“I just don’t see it. If anything, it feels like some sort of personal vendetta against this Vito guy,” Hunter said.
“A conspiracy?” Hall smiled.
Without evidence, Hunter didn’t bother responding. He knew it would come off as absurd. Hall was far too intelligent to judge anything on hearsay and innuendo.
“Refresh my memory now, Mr. Gray. How does this sign read again? Isn’t it something like ‘Yo! Speak American or beat it!’” he asked dismissively, rolling his eyes at the obvious intolerance.
“I think it’s ‘Yo! Order in American. This is the USA, my friend.’”
Justice Hunter Page 7