Justice Hunter

by Harper Dimmerman

  EIGHTEEN

  By the time Hunter hit Rittenhouse Square, he’d already looked over his shoulder three or four times, sensing he was being followed from the office. Each time, there was no one suspicious. The park was already packed with families and locals eager to squeeze in another beautiful day before the monotony of daily life re-entered the equation. It was probably more humid than the day before, too. Hunter felt the thin layer of sweat covering his skin as he walked. He tried to mask the paranoia as he scanned the faces of the park’s occupants. He didn’t know exactly whom he was looking for, although his mind kept meandering back to the image of the tough-looking guy from the restaurant. Hunter kept his iPod off. He wanted to hear everything.

  Sheila had left a note on the table by the door back at his apartment. As he picked it up, he looked over at Sam on his favorite chair, who opened one eye and arched a brow as if to say, “You’re so sappy. It’s really a bore.” The note, scribbled on a random napkin from one of his countless late-night dinner deliveries, read:

  Hunter,

  Great time last night. Or shall I say very good time? Anyway, I left a message for the DA. Will keep you in the loop. I’m entering an order—don’t let that case get the best of you.

  PS, the bed was almost warm, strike that, hot when you returned. You have the drunken dialer from this morning to thank.

  Your main squeeze,

  S.

  Hunter smiled at Sheila’s playfulness and considered her admonition. Don’t let the case get the best of me? What exactly did she mean by that? Was she saying that he shouldn’t put everything he had into it in the way of preparation? Or ignore the possible link between the Vito’s case and the other recent events like the mysterious bullet or the incident in Chinatown the night before? She couldn’t have been referring to Andy’s attack because presumably she couldn’t have known about it yet. He hadn’t spoken to her since last night.

  He crumbled the note and headed to the office, thinking about her referring to herself as his main squeeze. In her e-mails, Sheila never used a phrase to sign off. It was always just “S” for her name. This was the first time he recalled her using a term of endearment. Main squeeze? And although it was chock-full of sexual innuendo, it was also a subtle acknowledgment that she was beginning to consider their whatever-you-want-to-call-it as something more than just an inconsequential fling. Hunter was intrigued by the possibility that Sheila might just be willing to give love another shot with the likes of him. That was a big deal.

  The various pleadings, motions, and miscellaneous papers sat atop his glass desk in a relative state of disarray. He quickly gathered them up and held the receiver of the beige phone to his ear. It was one of those cheap phones, the outdated standard-issue-looking ones with a long, arched receiver that rested atop the base. A tangled cord dangled next to his ear as he continued to stuff the documents into the redwell folder while he listened for the message.

  When he heard Mancini’s voice, he immediately froze. How the hell did Mancini get this number? Then he remembered that he must’ve provided it to Whitman’s HR Department at some point, probably when he still romanticized his job and pictured himself being awoken in the middle of the night by a frantic partner with a crisis. And of course, the only one in the firm with the superpowers to solve it would’ve been the most revered associate himself, Hunter Gray. These days, Hunter was far too jaded to be seduced by such a wet-behind-the-ears and eager-to-please associate fantasy. The law, despite the rhetoric spewed by the most eloquent equity partners, with a couple minor exceptions, was all part of a flawlessly executed business plan. The more the associates chased their idealistic dreams, the more money the firms generated in billable hours. Years could go by before an associate stopped to survey the landscape of his progression or more fittingly, lack of progression. Yet, by that time, it was too late to alter one’s course. Then it just became a matter of making equity partner, a virtual impossibility, or taking his nonportable, nonexistent book of business and legal acumen to a lesser-caliber firm, enticed by the promise of partnership status elsewhere. Yet everyone there would always know the truth about that Whitman or Kruger associate—he just wasn’t big firm material.

  At a moment like this, Hunter regretted ever having provided his home number in the first place. Mancini’s message was brief, and he sounded pissed. He claimed to have e-mailed Hunter’s work account “not once but twice” within the past few days, once late Friday afternoon and again Saturday mid-day. How is that possible? Admittedly, Hunter wasn’t the greatest when it came to checking e-mail over the weekend. But this weekend he had forced himself to do it, and there was certainly nothing from Mancini. There was not a snowball’s chance in hell he would’ve missed something like that, either. Not replying to a Mancini e-mail was tantamount to career suicide. On the message, Mancini urged him to return the call before day’s end to discuss the Vito’s case. Apparently there was a new development Mancini wanted to be sure Hunter was aware of.

  Hunter couldn’t believe he was in this predicament. Even the truth—that he never got the e-mails—would come off as bullshit. In Mancini’s mind, Hunter must have been avoiding him, unprepared to discuss the case cogently, although it was merely days away. And even if he somehow managed to persuade Mancini otherwise, the damage had already been done. The mere fact that Mancini had to find his home number to place a frustrated call on a Sunday morning would stick in his craw for a very long time. Hunter’s chances at making partner had just gotten a little bit slimmer.

  He considered waiting until he returned to the office before logging onto his work e-mail account. But he couldn’t wait that long. He obviously needed to search through his “Spam” and “Deleted” folders to see whether Mancini’s e-mails had somehow inadvertently been diverted there. He told himself it was possible. It wasn’t as if he was receiving e-mails from Mancini routinely. Maybe the server just mislabeled it as spam. That didn’t make sense, though. He was certainly no computer genius, but he was almost positive the system would guarantee safe passage to any communications bearing the WhitmanPacker.com domain.

  He could log on to the system from his laptop in the other room, which was exactly what he decided to do. He checked his watch and was still okay for time. At worst, he’d keep Stephanie waiting just a couple minutes. He got on without incident and quickly pulled up his account. He moused over to the “Spam” folder first and scanned by date. Mancini’s voicemail said late Friday afternoon and Saturday, mid-day. Nothing in “Spam.” He clicked onto the “Deleted” folder and began scrolling. Just as he got to Friday, though, his screen momentarily froze, and he was booted off the Whitman system. Once in a blue moon the connection between his home computer and desktop failed, some sort of glitch in the software. When it happened, he just logged back in. This time he couldn’t, though. Something was wrong with his computer. He opened a browser in another window, but the default URL, espn.com, didn’t come up. He quickly typed in philly.com, the local online news source, and again the URL couldn’t be found. Realizing his Internet connection was down, he slammed his fist in frustration and got to his feet. Now he had no choice but to resume his search at the office, which only meant even further delay until he got back to Mancini.

  NINETEEN

  Back at Whitman, after finding no sign of an e-mail from Mancini anywhere, Hunter clicked over to the firm’s Intranet to pull Stephanie’s extension. Still pondering his next move with Mancini, he quickly keyed her numbers into the phone. She answered after the first ring.

  “Stephanie Diaz.” She sounded slightly annoyed and obviously knew it was him. He was close to twenty minutes late. Strike two.

  “Stephanie. It’s Hunter.” He decided to play it off. “I’ve got the whole file. I was thinking we could set up in one of the conference rooms on four?”

  “Works for me,” she replied, all business.

  “Good. See you down there in five.”

  They met in front of the elevator bank on four and dec
ided on the very first conference room they stumbled upon. Because it was Sunday, they could pretty much take their pick. The fourth floor was packed to the gills with conference rooms, most of them compact and intended for doc reviews and other labor-intensive projects. Several others were much grander and primarily used to impress potential clients and for the occasional deposition. The grandiosity of these tended to scare the shit out of other parties, plaintiffs’ lawyers included. There was art worthy of a MoMA exhibition, rows of modern metal and glass chandeliers bearing down on the occupants from the twenty-foot-high ceilings overhead, and cutting-edge technological accoutrements—all of which conveyed a powerful message: “We have unlimited resources at our fingertips and will fucking destroy you if necessary!”

  Although he was preoccupied with Mancini, Hunter decided to delve right into the most-pressing issues. They couldn’t afford any further delay or distractions. He was already cutting it dangerously close.

  “I think I can get something together by dinnertime,” responded Stephanie as she leafed through the ironclad and lengthy motion filed by Vito’s lawyers. Her expression was naturally sexy and confident. They were seated a professional distance apart, face to face, at a somewhat compact utilitarian yet modern oak table.

  Frankly, Hunter wasn’t expecting her to take on such a Herculean task alone this early on in the process. Part of him questioned whether she underestimated her opposition, always a potentially fatal response. Harvard lawyer or not—Stephanie had finished at the top of her class there—it was a virtual impossibility she had the chops to put something cogent and effective together that swiftly. Most partners couldn’t pull it off without a team of senior associates. Until she volunteered it, the thought of a novice constructing arguably the most critical brief in the case hadn’t entered his mind. He intended on having her research the law and handle some of the drafting but was planning on bearing the brunt of the work. He had to ensure their case wasn’t tossed out altogether, without their even getting to trial. Plus the possibility that Mancini was setting him up and would play so loose and fast with his partnership bid weighed heavily on his mind.

  “That’s all right. Take some time and sift through their brief with a fine-tooth comb. Let’s do it that way. That way we can vote on the approach together. Mark it up and put together an outline.” In the back of his mind, he also hadn’t eliminated the possibility that Stephanie had been brought in by Mancini to sabotage the case. He read her reaction closely.

  “Whatever you say,” she responded in a cutesy “you’re the boss” sort of way. If she was disappointed, she certainly didn’t let on. To the contrary, she seemed relieved he planned on collaborating. Based upon her short-lived experience at Whitman, she was probably expecting him to take her up on her offer. She delved right into her assignment, and Hunter began to outline his case, knowing in the back of his mind he was jumping the gun.

  He wrote the word “Opening” on a legal pad, resorting to his fallback technique. Typically, he’d digest the facts in his subconscious, give them a chance to marinate for a few days. By the time he put pen to paper for the actual trial preparation, a compelling and persuasive story would have come into relief in his mind’s eye. It was a litigator’s version of divine inspiration. But with his mind clogged with paranoid thoughts and the knowledge that he needed to meet the players in the case, a bolt of anxiety struck him. My meds are definitely off. How on earth did he expect to build a smart case without interviewing the man who allegedly was denied service, Ruben Hayek? Who was he? How did he get to the commission? Was there any truth to the affidavits of the witnesses claiming that he and the rest of the “posse” were there that night to start trouble, not eat?

  He also needed to contact the chairman of the Human Relations Commission, Dr. Thaddeus Wilson, a former political adviser to the mayor and apparently still a close ally and confidante. Dr. Wilson was the one who actually swore off on both the original complaint and its amended counterpart, deciding to bring the case on the commission’s own initiative. So in addition to Ruben Hayek, he would be the other logical starting point for getting a stronger handle on the impetus for bringing the suit in such an unconventional manner as well as the timing. The case wasn’t commenced for many months after Vito Armani posted the sign at issue. Hunter knew he had to preempt the argument that there was much more to the timing than met the eye. The lag would be presented as firsthand evidence of the conspiracy. The filing was entirely arbitrary and coincided all too well with Vito’s refusal to cave to partisan politics.

  And then there were the other witnesses, one of whom had to be an expert on race relations. Because illegal immigrants were not a protected class under the ordinance, he needed to present a credible nexus between race, national origin, and ancestry. In other words, Vito wasn’t really going after immigrants as much as singling out the types of people who tended to be illegals, primarily Mexicans. There had been a dramatic surge in South Philadelphia’s Mexican population. Hunter surmised that the Italian Americans, who were so embedded in that section of the city, were beginning to feel their territory was being threatened—that they were being forced out of their own neighborhood. Hunter had already done some preliminary research on the expert and had narrowed it down to two. Both were tenured professors, one at Temple University and the other at Penn. As it turns out, the scholar Hunter liked from Penn, Dr. Maya Sinclair, had been discussed in some preliminary correspondences in the file between the chairman and rest of the commission. As one of the nation’s foremost race-relations experts, Dr. Wilson firmly believed retaining her services would be vital to the success of its case.

  Feeling like an immobilized private eye charged with the task of tailing his target, Hunter started to regret his committing to working with Stephanie in the office for the day. Sure, surviving the motion was a big deal. But without a case, surviving it didn’t matter. So late in the game, he had no choice but to take risks. This wasn’t a typical assignment on a manageable track. They were operating at what amounted to warp speed. So Hunter told himself that, at some point in the very near future, he’d have to take a leap of faith with Stephanie. As he turned his attention to the other pending motions in the case, ones that dealt with the defense’s attempts to get in what it wanted and keep out what it didn’t, Stephanie interrupted.

  “Is it just me or are Vito’s lawyers suggesting some sort of political conspiracy?”

  “Why do you say that?” Hunter loved conspiracy theories. JFK and Bobby Kennedy murdered for disgracing the White House by whoring around with Marilyn Monroe. How the landing on the moon was staged on a Hollywood set. Elvis faking his own death, last seen sipping a Mai Tai in French Polynesia reading Danielle Steel and looking like a beached whale. But Hunter didn’t have the time to get lost in them when it came to one of his cases.

  “I don’t know.” Stephanie replied casually, sounding almost blasé. “It’s just that with their due process arguments, they keep referring to the critical nature of the testimony of the mayor and this councilwoman.” Stephanie ran a hand through her hair, concentrating on making sense of her theory. Hunter couldn’t ignore the way her dark, straight locks flowed sensually. “I wonder where they’re going with that. I mean, does it really matter anyway, as far our case is concerned?”

  “Technically, no. I think it’s a red herring meant to distract the hearing panel from the key issues.” A red herring is legal jargon for a factual or legal issue irrelevant to the case at hand. Hunter grabbed a stack of papers and reached across the table, handing them to her. “Here. Take a look at these. They might give you some insight into what Vito’s lawyers are up to.” The papers were discovery motions filed by Vito’s defense team. Early on the team had requested document exchanges and depositions but was denied out of hand by the panel. There was a slight chance the panel committed reversible error, although Hunter was pretty sure they got it right. In point of fact, there was no legal authority directly addressing the issue of pre-hearing discovery in
a case like this.

  Stephanie curiously thumbed through the papers. “How could they not know they’re in an administrative setting? Typical trial rules don’t apply. Even I know that.”

  “Exactly,” observed Hunter with a smile.

  “So why?” But Stephanie cut herself off mid-question, having stumbled upon the answer herself. She nodded, impressed by the tactics of Vito’s legal team.

  “Never underestimate your opponent.” As drained and unfocused as Hunter was, he was still a very good lawyer. Litigating had started to become second nature after so many years as an associate. Osmosis, learning the tricks of the trade, finally started to pay off.

  Stephanie nodded. It was the first time Hunter showed her something, and he was clearly several steps ahead. She still wanted to make sure she had it right, though. It was her determination that had gotten her so far. “So it really is all about appearances?” she asked rhetorically, giving credence to an adage she’d picked up in her travels along the way. “His lawyers are just trying to create the semblance of unfairness.”