Justice Hunter

by Harper Dimmerman

  “I think I’ll pass,” replied Hunter, holding up his coffee.

  “Dude. What the fuck’s your issue?”

  As it turned out, the break Hunter finally agreed to take, even if it meant focusing on Andy’s mugging and Dillon’s philandering, turned out to be exactly what Hunter needed. They were welcome distractions from the meshugas, as Hunter’s father used to say, associated with the Vito’s case. He and Dillon both speculated about the identity of Andy’s attackers. And despite the evidence presented by Hunter, Dillon seriously doubted the Mafia was involved in “something so tangential to their typical business interests.” He thought it was a stretch and that the violent beating was an entirely unprovoked, random act of Philadelphia violence. Hunter had just started to tell Dillon about the e-mail fiasco with Mancini when Todd Stevens queued up.

  “Just look at that fucking ape,” Dillon observed.

  Hunter really didn’t want anything to do with him. As far as he was concerned, Stevens was an arrogant rainmaker at the firm who just so happened to date his ex, Monica Fine. That’s it. Hunter grinned diplomatically. “We should probably head back.”

  “He’s such a pompous ass, though.” Dillon shook his head. “Clueless to boot. He’s probably got no idea I’m hooking up with his girl.”

  “You’re probably right. But didn’t you mean to say hooked up, past tense? That was only a one-time thing, wasn’t it?”

  “Of course,” replied Dillon insincerely.

  “Dillon.”

  “All right, Dad.”

  “You’re a real degenerate. You know that?”

  Dillon grinned devilishly, as an uptight stockbroker-type in suspenders begrudgingly held open the door for them. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  It had been over an hour since Stephanie promised the final draft. Hunter considered going down to her office but eventually decided against it. He hadn’t heard from her, which was a good sign as far as he was concerned. Had she hit a snag, assuredly she would have contacted him by now. The break with Dillon actually helped him to clear his head a bit. But just when he was starting to make some real headway on the Vito’s case, his concentration was interrupted by the sound of a voice buzzing in on his office phone. The direct page originated from Debbie’s desk. Hunter responded on speakerphone.

  “Debbie.”

  “It’s actually Loretta,” came the reply in a raspy voice. Loretta was a fixture in the office, and she also happened to be Dillon’s paralegal—a career paralegal in her late forties with a pasty complexion and oily, light brown hair. Her most identifying characteristic was that she was a ravenous chain smoker, which explained the gruff voice. Come hell or high water, she could be found outside in front of the building during every conceivable break “choking on a bone,” as Dillon liked to say.

  “Hi, Loretta. Any news on Debbie this morning?”

  “No. Sorry, hon. I just go where I’m told,” she said with a subtle hint of cynicism and civil disobedience. Employees like Loretta were generally treated like chattel by the non-equity partners and business-school types in human resources and finance, so they liked to make a point of staying silent and watching as the mistakes were made. Although they had more experience than anyone, they just kept their mouths shut. That’s what was expected, simply because they had a less-prestigious title, ranked lower on the totem pole. “HR sent me. Told me to do my letters and everything for Dillon and stay here to answer your phones.” Most attorneys still dictated their letters and memoranda to the various files they worked on.

  “Sounds good.”

  “Anyway, you’ve got somebody from Judge Russo’s chambers downstairs in the lobby waitin’ to see you. Been there for about fifteen minutes, according to Markita.”

  “You didn’t say Russo, did you?”

  “Yes, I did,” whipped Loretta as if she was taunting him. Hunter was convinced all the support secretly had it in for the lawyers. To them, they were all just a bunch of spoiled brats.

  “Shit. Tell Markita I’ll be right down.”

  Hunter, slightly winded, tried to stay composed. Judge Russo’s law clerk, stocky with a baby face and crew cut, was engrossed in the lobby copy of The Legal Intelligencer, the leading daily law publication in Pennsylvania. Hunter didn’t have the foggiest what the clerk was there for. He figured it related to the Mediacast case. And then it hit him with the force of an adversary’s crafty pretrial motion. What if Russo’s messenger was here about the sanctions order? Did Russo send someone to exact his pound of flesh? “I’m Hunter Gray. Are you here to see me?”

  “Mr. Gray,” he replied condescendingly as he turned his head and got to his feet. Mr. Gray, thought Hunter to himself. Who does this little shit think he is? “Very swanky digs, I must say. I’m impressed. In the spirit of full disclosure, I should concede this is my first time here.” He tried to sound wise beyond his years, which was probably mid- to late-twenties. Instead he came across as a pompous ass.

  Do you want a fucking tour? “Right. So how can I help you?”

  “Of course,” he said as he tinkered with his nostril, giving it a little public pick. “The judge is quite perturbed about what he’s deemed as your brazen disregard for his scheduling.”

  “If this is about last week, I sincerely apologize. Please convey to the judge that it won’t happen again.”

  “Right,” he answered smugly. “I wish it were that simple.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re driving at.”

  “No need to be coy, Mr. Gray.” This guy should thank his lucky stars he’s the judge’s clerk. “You were due in chambers this morning at nine sharp.”

  “Is this some sort of joke or something? I never got notice of a conference.”

  “Are you accusing me of not fulfilling my obligations?”

  “I’m not accusing anyone. I just never got the notice.”

  “Admittedly, the conference was called a bit late in the day on Friday. And for that reason, in addition to faxing,” he said, as he held up what purported to be a fax transmission report, “I personally called your office. I had the pleasure of conversing with your paralegal, a very nice young lady by the name of Debbie Jones. She took down the details and went so far as to provide your mobile phone, where I was forced to leave a message.” Hunter had checked his voicemail over the weekend and never got a message. Yet the fact of the matter was that the clerk sounded credible. What would be his incentive to make something like this up?

  “I can assure you I never received any notice—”

  “Save it for the judge, counselor,” interrupted the clerk. “We expect to see you this afternoon at one o’clock. In chambers. I urge you to join us this time and perhaps make a list of anyone with access to your personal messages.”

  “I’ll be there,” he assured the little prick as he rifled through his memory for anyone with permission to check his calls. The only person who even remotely came to mind was Dillon. Once in a blue moon Dillon used to prank him by hacking into his mailbox, getting off on guessing his passwords.

  “Good,” he replied as he turned to walk off. “Oh, yes. And I almost forgot. Please bring any and all documentation related to the payment of sanctions. The judge is curious, shall we say, to know where your firm is with that.”

  “Of course.” I’m completely screwed—as in fired.

  Hunter wiped his face dry with paper towels as he stood over the sink in the luxurious office bathroom on one of the associate floors. “You look like crap,” Hunter said under his breath, staring at his own reflection in the mirror and considering possible solutions to the sanctions issue. All of them led to the same road—his legal career at Whitman being flushed down the toilet. He pulled himself together before heading back to his office.

  “Everything okay, hon?” asked Loretta, as he passed. She sounded concerned but was more of a Chatty Cathy than anything else. She probably had the e-mail to the other paralegals and secretaries drafted already. She was
just waiting to fill in the subject line.

  “Swell. Thanks,” replied Hunter sarcastically, shutting her down. He stopped in front of Debbie’s desk, where Loretta sat temporarily. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Nah.”

  Hunter caught a whiff of the cigarette odor emanating from her direction. Even if something did happen, such as Mancini dropping by for the inevitable showdown, she would’ve never known anyway. She was probably downstairs the whole time gabbing with the smoking posse. “Any word on Debbie?”

  “Nope.”

  “All right. Stay tuned, though. I’ve got an important brief I’m finishing up. Before lunch, I’ll need you to help get the exhibits and copies together and get it into the hands of a messenger. Give Jack Rabbit Messengers a call and give them a heads up.”

  “Will do.”

  Hunter caught a glimpse of Debbie’s desk, which was in a relative state of disarray. “And sorry to be a pain. But sort through that stuff,” added Hunter, gesturing toward the papers. “In particular, check for any messages or faxes from Judge Russo’s chambers. It would’ve been from Friday.”

  “Got it.”

  “Thanks. And unless it’s a partner or it’s related to the Vito’s Pizza case, I’m unavailable.” Hunter’s door closed behind him, leaving him alone to strategize his next move.

  THIRTY

  “I told you. I’m taking care of it,” said Dillon on his cell phone, returning from the courthouse at a snail’s pace.

  “What the fuck are you waiting for?” asked Hunter.

  The dissonant sound of fire engine sirens made it difficult to hear. “Hold on for fuck’s sake,” Dillon said in frustration.

  Even fifteen stories up, Hunter could hear the same blaring sirens, much too loud for a city like Philadelphia, a compact, heavily concentrated echo chamber of office buildings and hotels. “You still there?”

  “Right here.” Hunter was leaning back in his desk chair, feet atop the desk and BlackBerry up to his ear. He had purposefully stayed off the company lines for this conversation, just in case Big Brother was eavesdropping. Hunter flexed his toes underneath his white running socks, which took his wrinkled khakis from potentially professional to barely. That was just Hunter’s style. Conforming to the bow ties and Brook Brothers outfits wasn’t his bag.

  “Good,” said Dillon. “Hey, I was just by Russo’s chambers, incidentally. I actually considered making a quick detour and beating the shit out of that little bitch.”

  “Not sure if that would’ve been the best solution,” Hunter acknowledged, playing along.

  “Why wouldn’t it be? The world would be a much better place, and I’d have my ticket out of this crappy gig.”

  “You’d be an early Christmas present for the boys at Graterford.” Graterford was Pennsylvania’s largest maximum-security prison.

  “I don’t think so. Anyway. Hold on…” added Dillon, proceeding to flirt with two female Kruger lawyers heading toward the courthouse. “They’re so fine,” he whispered, making Hunter his co-conspirator. Dillon mentioned a Happy Hour that night at The Blarney, sounding more like a South Beach promoter-slash-sleazeball than a yuppie-slash-married-man. Flirtatious giggling ensued, but apparently the women didn’t bother stopping. Hunter was just about to hang up, jabbed by another pang of anxiety. “Look, I’ll talk to you about this in a few when I get back,” Dillon resumed. “The way I see it is you’ve got three options. It’s relatively simple. Tell a partner with authority to okay the check and you’re fucked. Find your own creative way. Or trust me.”

  “Right,” Hunter acknowledged.

  “Christine down in accounting would do anything for me. You know who I’m talking about? The brunette. She’s probably cutting the check for me as we speak.

  “Oh. And I forgot. There’s a fourth option. Like I said, I’ll advance you the five K, interest free. I’ll just need the money by Christmas-ish. I’m surprising Meredith with a trip out to Vegas.”

  “How romantic. Staying in one of your old rooms, too? Same vibrating bed?” Dillon had been to Vegas on multiple occasions before he tied the knot. According to him, he also had been the fortunate beneficiary of numerous sexual escapades with “outright freaks.”

  “Hilarious. Keep pushing. I’ll revoke the offer. Call my girl and tell her to call the whole thing off. Make you open up door number one: manning up to Mancini and telling him about the sanctions.”

  “What? You’re the one who apparently made a name for himself out there in the desert.”

  “Can’t a brother make amends?” Dillon asked rhetorically.

  “I guess anything’s possible.”

  “I believe you’re correct, Mr. Gray.” The cool words, which emanated from Hunter’s office, near the doorway, startled Hunter.

  “There you go,” replied Dillon, still on the line. And then an extended pause. “You there? Hunter?”

  Hunter stared at Mancini, who feigned patience as he perused the personal contents of Hunter’s office. He amused himself momentarily with one of the bobbleheads. As Hunter debated whether to remove his feet from the desk, wanting to avoid the impression of looking guilty, he couldn’t help but notice how much pleasure Mancini appeared to be getting by vigorously shaking David Beckham’s synthetic likeness. “Right. Gotta go,” added Hunter calmly. “One of the partners just walked in. But like I said, call Mom and just tell her you’re all right.” And then Hunter ended the call, with a perplexed Dillon still mid-sentence. Loretta, who had clearly dropped the ball in not forewarning Hunter about Mancini, momentarily stepped into Hunter’s sightline wearing an exaggerated, apologetic expression.

  Mancini paused deliberately. Hunter just waited for the other shoe to drop. “Everything all right on the old home front there, my friend?” Mancini clearly wasn’t buying it. Who knows how long he was standing outside the door?

  Hunter had to think fast. “So-so. My sister’s been a proverbial thorn in my side for years,” answered Hunter sincerely, making a point of dead eying Mancini. “And lately she’s driving my poor mom batty.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “She your only sibling?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I take it she’s not an attorney.”

  “An aspiring actress.”

  “Interesting,” replied Mancini, pretending to care. “You know, she might fit in well around here,” he said cryptically.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Just that some of the finest trial lawyers I’ve ever encountered are also extremely proficient actors. All the world truly is a stage, with the courtroom being no exception,” philosophized Mancini. “Anyway, you’re a very tough man to get a hold of. E-mails, phone calls. Didn’t Stephanie give you the message? I’ll have to have a talk with her.”

  “She did,” Hunter defended her. “Things have been more than a little crazy lately, as you might’ve heard.”

  “And I bet the last thing you need is a partner like me micromanaging you.”

  “No. It’s all right. I mean, you’re not.” Bullshit.

  “Frankly, that’s not even my style. It’s just that this particular case intrigues me. And I’m not used to that these days. It’s become mundane. These behemoth cases, millions of dollars at stake. No emotion. No passion. Just crunching the numbers, strategizing, and cost-benefit analysis.”

  Hunter tried to be attentive. But the last thing he needed at the moment was a sappy lecture on the emotional hurdles confronting a multimillionaire managing partner.

  Mancini continued, “That’s for another time, though. I actually wanted to share some news, which I thought might be of interest to you. Something that might shed some light on the real history of this case.” Mancini paused. “Before I do, though, how is Andy?” Mancini’s question seemed heartfelt. “I’m sorry,” consoled Mancini. “I know you guys have been pretty close for some time now.”

  “Thanks. Frankly, I’m still in a little bit of shock.”

&
nbsp; “So, how’s he holding up? Last I heard he made a bit of progress over the night.”

  “That’s about all I know, too. The doctors think he’s finally out of the woods, as far as permanent brain damage goes. I was planning on heading up to the hospital after work.”

  Mancini’s BlackBerry buzzed in its belt holster. Mancini whipped it out and stared at the screen, quickly ruling out the need for an immediate response. “Sorry,” he said as he looked back up and re-holstered. “So do they have any leads in the case?”

  “I doubt it at this point. I know for sure there’ve been no arrests. There’s a detective who has been assigned to the case.”

  “Detective Risotto, right?”

  “Yeah. That’s the one.” Hunter was surprised by Mancini’s insight.

  Mancini read him like an open book. “You seem surprised?”

  “No. It’s just that…”

  “Andy’s part of the Whitman family. He’s one of us. In fact, this could’ve been any one of us.”

  “So you don’t think Andy was targeted?”

  “Too early to tell. I’m announcing a fifty-thousand-dollar reward on tonight’s news.” Mancini paused and adjusted the already perfect knot of his silver silk tie. A high flyer like him always had to be prepared for the next power meeting or media appearance.

  Although Mancini seemed to care for another member of the “Whitman family,” Hunter couldn’t help but to think it was just another PR opportunity in his eyes. “That should help.”

  “So long as any witnesses aren’t too chicken shit to come forward.”

  “Fifty grand’s a lot of money,” acknowledged Hunter.

  “True,” concurred Mancini proudly. “At any rate, I’ve already spoken with the DA and the police commissioner. They’re of the opinion, and frankly I think the DA takes the lead from Commissioner O’Brien, that the beating is consistent with the spate of recent subway attacks.” Hunter immediately wondered whether the DA would’ve revealed anything about his own predicament to Mancini. Sheila had just spoken to him about the matter, and it had to be fresh in his mind—even if he was consumed by hundreds of serious cases.