“How foolish of me to omit the word ‘friend.’ At least I got the ‘Yo!’ right.”
Listening to his own words, Hunter couldn’t overlook Hall’s visceral reaction. And sitting across from Clarence, a brilliant and distinguished partner, who just so happened to be African American, the words had never sounded uglier. He thought he detected sadness in Hall’s eyes, sensing the statement resonated with his own life experience. A wall-mounted family photo caught Hunter’s eye, particularly the innocent expressions on the faces of Hall’s children, taken in his much younger days.
“Pretty vile speech, if you ask me.”
“I originally thought so too.”
“But you don’t anymore?” A long pause. “What’s this really about, Hunter? You certainly didn’t come here for me to translate this nonsense for you. If you’re afraid of losing and foiling your partnership bid, you might need to rethink your choice of careers, young man.”
“What if I am? You’re telling me you never thought about that sort of thing?”
“That’s correct. And I’d be lying if I said I was batting a thousand before I was voted in. That’s an inescapable and oftentimes frustrating reality in the life of a litigator. The result isn’t always commensurate with the effort. It can be somewhat arbitrary.”
“Have you looked at the ordinance, though?”
“Sure. It’s as unconstitutional as the day is long,” observed Hall. “Your point being?”
“Maybe I’m out of my comfort zone. But isn’t that a problem for the city?”
“Only if you let it become one. I haven’t seen the pleadings, but I guarantee you Vito’s legal team is playing that angle to the hilt.”
Hall was right. “It’s a red herring, though, Mr. Gray,” he added. “And until the highest court in the land declares it to be unconstitutional, it’s not your concern. Or mine, for that matter. Your job is simply to enforce it to the best of your ability. Illegal immigrants are people too, after all. And we both know that’s really what this is all about.” Hall’s words were reminiscent of Dillon’s the night before.
Hall went on, “We both know there’s no such thing as a perfectly drafted law. Plus, what do your instincts tell you? At some point, that’s all we really have now, isn’t it? Does any business owner have the right to refuse to serve pizza, for God’s sake, to any paying customer? Male, female, black, white, green, blue? We all get hungry now and then, don’t we, Mr. Gray?” he asked, tongue-in-cheek.
Hall’s words resonated with Hunter. It wasn’t the outcome he came here for, but maybe subconsciously he came to Hall to be persuaded. Hunter’s decision had just gotten a whole lot more difficult. Now it wasn’t just about backing out. It had become about copping out, something that didn’t sit well with him. Putting Mancini’s motivations aside, maybe he needed to do this for himself.
Hunter heard movement behind the door. Hall peered out curiously.
“Mr. Wright. May I help you?” What the hell is Dillon doing here?
“I was just looking for…”
Hunter turned.
“There you are,” Dillon said.
“Here I am, Dillon,” Hunter replied firmly, hinting that the meeting hadn’t ended. Dillon was acting less perceptive than usual, standing at the doorway.
Hunter got to his feet, sparing the three any further awkwardness. “I should probably be going anyway.”
“You have some work ahead of you,” Hall said.
“Thanks, though,” said Hunter.
“This better be very good,” Hunter cautioned Dillon as soon as they hit the hallway.
“It is. I’m so screwed, dude.”
FOURTEEN
“What were you doing, by the way? Groveling about the sanctions thing?”
“Fuck off.”
“Chill, man. I told you, I’m taking care of it. I already spoke to that hottie in accounting. Plus I’ve got a foolproof backup plan up my sleeve just in case.”
“Do I even want to know?”
“No.”
“All right. But just hurry up already,” replied Hunter. “Because it’s gonna come out any second, and I won’t have a chance to plead before I get axed.” A deliberate pause. “Now what’s this dilemma of epic proportions that just couldn’t wait?”
“I’m sworded,” said Dillon, gravely. “That’s all there is to it.”
“And why’s that?” asked Hunter impatiently. Hunter wondered what could possibly be worse than being entirely unprepared for a major trial his partnership bid hinged on. In less than a goddamn week.
They proceeded past the other dark and deserted offices on the partner floor leading to the elevator bank.
“You’re pissed, huh?” Dillon paused. “What the hell did I interrupt? Were you proposing or something?”
“Hilarious. How long were you standing out there anyway?”
“You’re fucking paranoid. You know that?”
“Maybe,” replied Hunter.
“Anyway, don’t tell me you went to Hall hoping he would persuade you not to do the case.”
“Just tell me how you fucked up. I’ve got to figure things out.”
“Dude. You need to chill the fuck out.”
“What’s up?” asked Hunter with as much patience as he could muster. The elevator door opened. They entered alone.
“All right. We’ll come back to you in a second.” A pause. “Anyway, Meredith’s pissed.” Meredith was Dillon’s wife, a sweet, attractive medical resident at Penn. A couple years his junior, she grew up in Villanova, a swanky Main Line neighborhood about a half hour outside the city. Her father managed a hedge fund, and her family was exceedingly wealthy. The two met while they were undergrads at Penn.
“I’m afraid to even ask.” Dillon possessed a variety of self-destructive tendencies: alcohol, drugs, gambling—you name it. He also had a habit of straying.
“Give me a break. I’m not that bad.”
Hunter stared at him disbelievingly.
“Okay. You’ve made your point, Mr. Wonderful. Anyway, Meredith thinks I cheated.”
“And did you?” The elevator came to a graceful stop, and the doors glided open. “Can’t you see I’m waiting with bated breath?” Hunter added, cynically.
“Pretty much,” conceded Dillon, feigning shame.
“What the hell does ‘pretty much’ mean?”
“I was too shit-faced to remember exactly what happened.”
“Did you wake up next to her naked?”
“Whoever said it was a she?” lisped Dillon.
“I don’t have time for this shit. Seriously.”
“All right. Yes. And I’m pretty sure it was killer sex. It’s hazy, but I seem to remember this girl being a total freak.”
“Well, does this freak have a name? Candy? Trixie? Or did you not get her name?”
“She does, and you’re gonna be totally irate.”
“Why’s that? I can’t stop you from torturing your completely devoted wife. God only knows why she hangs around to endure the abuse.”
“It was Monica Fine.”
“You’re joking.”
“See. I knew you’d be pissed.”
“I’m really not.” A pause. “I think it’s kind of pathetic, actually.”
“Please. You should be thanking me.”
Hunter grinned. “Thanking you? For what?”
“For confirming that she’s not really into Stevens.”
Hunter recalled seeing the pair together at The Blarney Stone on Friday night. “I’m over her.”
“Bullshit.”
“Seriously.”
“Oh, I forgot. You’ve graduated to cougars.”
“There’s something to be said for cougars.”
“I’ve dabbled, and I beg to differ,” replied Dillon. “Entirely overrated.”
“So, incidentally, is Meredith still trying to get pregnant?”
“That’s all she ever talks about anymore. I can’t remember the last time we’ve just sc
rewed. It’s always procreative. Feel like a goddamn sperm donor. And her fertility issues. Jesus Christ!”
“You’re cruel.”
“What?” he asked defensively.
Trying to explain was futile. “Then don’t have kids.”
“I told her we would.”
“Not a good reason.”
“You’ll see.”
“And I’ll be sure to remember these prophetic words.”
Despite Dillon’s brazen attitude, he did look somewhat remorseful, a major feat for him.
“Why are you even with her?” asked Hunter.
“She idolizes me, and of course, there’s the money.”
“Seriously.”
“She’s a good girl.”
“Don’t fuck it up, then. Keep it in your pants. It’s not worth it.”
“So you’re really not gonna thank me. It doesn’t give you even the slightest amount of satisfaction knowing that she couldn’t give a shit about that buffoon.”
“Maybe she cares as much as she’s capable of caring.” The words were really intended for Dillon.
“Maybe.”
“Anyway, don’t say anything to Andy. He wouldn’t get it.”
“If you say so.”
“He’s a fucking Walton.”
“Enough said.”
A pause.
“So what’s up with that case? Enough about me.”
FIFTEEN
Hunter spent the little that remained of his weekend procrastinating within the confines of his moderately claustrophobic and stagnant apartment. He had to escape the jitteriness already beginning to wind its way through the drone floors of the firm. On a Saturday, no less. It was inevitable that once the clock struck twelve noon tomorrow, witching hour, the anxiety and competitive urges would reach a fever pitch among the associates, especially the underappreciated newbies. They vied for partnership approval like rookie pros at summer training camp. The weekend spell would wear off, and the pressure of the billable hour would once again rear its hideous head.
Too ambivalent about the Vito’s case and too overwhelmed to concentrate, Hunter pressed eject on the control panel of his mind and escaped for the park, tempted by the lull of the festive Saturday atmosphere in Rittenhouse Square on an unseasonably warm day—but the distractions, particularly the sunbathing coeds, proved too much. And of course there were Dillon’s parting words back at the office.
Hunter recalled them. “Just be smart about everything. You hear me?”
Hunter knew Dillon was referring to something other than just shrewd litigating. The image of the gangster in Chinatown immediately came into focus.
The ominous words resonated. “The jury’s still out on whether Vito’s connected.”
Genius. Now I’ve got the fucking Mafia on my ass. It’s the only thing that adds up. It has to be the mob.
So Hunter tried to drown out the thought noise by delving into the file—once and for all. The best starting point was the ordinance itself. He read and re-read the public accommodations law dozens of times. Nevertheless, even with a bit of legislative history for context, the law still remained murky. He knew what the ordinance was trying to do. Simply put, the city was attempting to regulate the unfair treatment of those in a protected class—race, color, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, religion, national origin, ancestry, physical handicap, and marital status—in places supposed to be open to the public at large, like restaurants, for instance. It was hard, though, not to be frustrated with the law’s inelegant and somewhat unintelligible drafting, assuredly the work of a bright yet highly inexperienced junior attorney in the city solicitor’s office.
In addition to the clunky ordinance, the Vito’s case also had an unusual procedural posture. First, the suit had been originally brought by the Human Relations Commission itself. From what he could see at least, that was a rare occurrence. In fact, until it was confirmed by the head of the commission, Hunter was pretty sure this case was the only one the commission, in its approximate fifty-year history, had brought on its own.
It wasn’t until several months later, probably when the commission realized the error of its ways, that an individual claiming to be aggrieved suddenly came forward. This alleged victim was Ruben Hayek, a twenty-nine-year-old Mexican immigrant. Once Mr. Hayek emerged, the commission wasted little time in amending its original filing to include his experience with Vito’s as evidence to bolster its claims. A motion to exclude Mr. Hayek’s testimony from trial and have his allegations stricken from the complaint was still pending before the three-member hearing panel that would be deciding the case. That motion presented the affidavits of several witnesses who swore up and down they were there the night Mr. Hayek was supposedly refused service. According to them—regulars at Vito’s and local South Philly residents—Mr. Hayek and a small group came there looking for trouble. These so-called witnesses are probably connected, too. Apparently they were visibly intoxicated and cursing out the Vito’s staff in Spanish. And that’s why they refused to serve them. It had nothing to do with their ethnicity.
Obviously, Mr. Hayek would be a valuable witness, so Hunter made a mental note that he’d try to track him down first thing the following morning and get an interpreter there if need be. But an allegation in the amended filing caught his eye. According to the commission, Mr. Hayek was adamant about not filing his own complaint. Clearly he feared retaliation, which meant that tracking Mr. Hayek down for an interview, let alone getting him to next Thursday’s trial, would be a minor miracle. Subpoenaing him was always an option if push came to shove, but everyone knew subpoenas weren’t worth the paper they were written on. Witnesses frequently disregarded them. And with the recent wave of crime in the city, even victims of major crimes, like rape or attempted murder, refused to come to court to testify against their own attackers.
Sam’s bark interrupted his concentration. Hunter checked his TAG watch and realized that four hours had just passed in what seemed like the blink of an eye, not an unusual occurrence when preparing for trial. He’d barely made any headway, though, and knew the case would be even more difficult to put together than he had originally anticipated. He forced himself to take a much-needed yet undeserved break, hoping to burn off the cloud of disorientation in his mind. So he stood from the ergonomically incorrect chair in his cramped second bedroom turned office and stretched. Sharp pains jolted through his bum right knee. Wonderful, he thought. Not only am I not leading the charmed life of David Beckham, but this is how I’m spending my fucking weekends.
He made his way toward the galley kitchen. He had to pass through part of the living room to get there and couldn’t help but notice the low-slanting late-afternoon light penetrating the front window. Sam was still crumpled up in his favorite chair, already drifting back to sleep. Hunter stood at the water cooler, trying to make sense of Sam’s bark. What caused him to stir? Another dog? That was strange. The apartment was right off the street, and Sam had been desensitized to pedestrian traffic and other loud sounds. He’d even grown immune to animal scents, particularly those emitted by females in heat. Hunter was about to let it go, chalking it up to his own paranoia. Probably a neighbor or a bunch of rowdy college kids boozing nearby. But something compelled him to go to his front door. It was still locked, the chain guard taut. He unlocked it and immediately surveyed the entranceway for any sign of unusual activity. Nothing. As he went to close the door, though, breathing a sigh of relief, he noticed a business-sized envelope leaning against it.
No return address or postmark. Not even his name or address listed. He unsealed it with a kitchen knife as he swigged down a shot of his favorite tequila, Casa Noble Blanco. Anything to take the edge off even more. The letter was folded imprecisely, and there appeared to be a small metal object at the bottom of the envelope. He scanned it quickly. Typed in a generic font, the letter was quick and to the point. He focused on the words as he held the object in his other hand: a lone .22 caliber bullet.
Leave V
ito Armani Alone.
That was it. Just four simple, terrifying words, shaving away his resolve, sliver by sliver. He tried to block them out, make light of them. Yet even a few liberal shots in, they continued to fester, taunting his fear with each passing millisecond. He left a message for one of his undergrad buddies—someone living way out in the sticks—giving him a heads up about the possibility that he might need a place to hide out. In the very near future.
Even if his mind flowed freely and he had the stamina to work straight through to trial on Thursday, twenty-four seven, that still would likely not be enough time to adequately prepare. The media was all over this case, which only made the anxiety bubble over. And the fact that Vito assuredly was connected, and all of the gruesome images that conjured up, kept repeating in his mind’s eye. He needed to stay the course and remember his oath of zealous advocacy. If he got too bogged down with the ordinance’s constitutionality, he’d play right into the defense’s strategy. He had to trust his instincts, typically one of his strengths. Yet this case was toying with him, progressively making him feel more and more out of control. Was it his own sense of dread? Or was the distinct possibility that fucking up this case would guarantee he never made partner messing with his head?
Digging up dirt on Vito was the only chance he had of winning this thing. A law school buddy over at the district attorney’s office didn’t seem to know jack shit. Plus, his contact acted clueless about what the feds might’ve had. But the feds always played it close to the vest. Glory hounds. Another friend, a solo practitioner who used to do some criminal defense for a couple of the local wise guys, hadn’t heard anything, either. Confronting the inevitable, Hunter knew his best bet was tracking down the thug from Chinatown.
SIXTEEN
Groggy, Hunter awoke to the jarring ring of his firm-issued BlackBerry. Sheila, who appeared blissful in her post-coital slumber, stirred lazily. Rewarding himself with her company after progressing as far as he could go on the Vito’s case was his first big mistake from last night. The arid, cottony sensation in his mouth, a symptom of a few too many, was his second. He rubbed his eyes, the circles darker than usual, as he focused on the bedside clock until it came into clear focus: 2:23 shone in oversized red digital numbers. Who the hell? Anyone but Rachel.
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