“Which one?” I asked, and then it clicked. “Oh, no. Insurance law?”
He nodded grimly. Benny and I hate insurance law.
“What did you tell him?” I asked.
“I told him I’d rather spend a weekend in a dog collar as Rush Limbaugh’s boy toy.”
“What kind of toy?” my mother asked.
“Never mind, Mom.” I patted Benny on the hand. “It could be worse.”
I noted that the female patrons at several nearby tables were eyeing Benny warily. His outfit certainly didn’t allay their concerns. Although he had donned a blue blazer in technical compliance with the law school faculty dress code, he was wearing it over a black T-shirt, baggy khaki slacks, and green Converse All-Star high-tops. The black T-shirt, one of his favorites, bore the legend I Am That Man From Nantucket. For that final dash of sartorial elegance, he hadn’t shaved. As a result, Benny looked ready to answer Central Casting’s call for an overweight Bolivian drug courier. Surely none of the apprehensive women at the nearby tables would have guessed that this fat, swarthy, curly-haired phenomenon was actually a hotshot professor with a growing reputation in the field of antitrust law. (Justice Stephen Breyer had recently cited one of Benny’s articles in a concurring opinion in United States v. Beal Fuel Co.—a form of recognition that is the law school professor’s equivalent of an Oscar.)
Nevertheless, Professor Benjamin Goldberg was, by any standard, crude and vulgar and obnoxious. But he was also ferociously loyal, wonderfully funny, and—most important—my best friend. I loved him like the brother I never had, although he bore the same resemblance to my dream brother as Divine did to Tinkerbell.
Fortunately, the waitress arrived with a menu. Benny’s mood improved noticeably as he scanned the selections. After he placed his order, my mother launched into her plan for student volunteers. By the time I left for court ten minutes later, he was scoffing down a roll while my mother was, quite literally, on a roll.
“What do you mean ‘maybe’?” she said to him. “If those kids have any ideals, they should jump at the chance to work on a case against such goniffs.”
***
I arrived at Judge Wagner’s chambers at five minutes to two. Kimberly Howard was already there, seated primly in the waiting area, back erect, legs pressed together, Little Miss Posture Perfect. She was studying a set of papers.
“Hello, Kimberly,” I said coolly as I took a seat across from her.
She looked up from her papers and nodded precisely. “Good afternoon, Rachel.”
On either side of Kimberly sat the mandatory smug associate, each in a dark suit and starched white shirt, each wearing tortoiseshell glasses. Kimberly didn’t bother introducing Frick and Frack, and I didn’t bother acknowledging their presence. I was familiar with the routine. Kimberly would be the sole mouthpiece for Beckman Engineering. Frick and Frack would take voluminous notes during the proceeding, say nothing in the judge’s presence, smirk when any ruling went against me, and probably not be seen again in the case for weeks. They were here today primarily because Roth & Bowles was a large law firm. Lawyers in large firms are like wolves: they prefer to travel in packs.
On this case, Kimberly was the leader of the pack. She was a litigation partner at Roth & Bowles, a powerful St. Louis firm, and her specialty was defending employment claims, especially claims of racial discrimination. She was also the firm’s only black partner. Today, as always, she was elegantly dressed and perfectly coiffed. She exuded the cool poise of a former beauty queen, and with good reason. Nearly twenty years ago, Kimberly had been the first black contestant crowned Miss Teenage Missouri.
The composure and tenacity that made her a pageant queen had served her well in her legal career, which began as a law clerk to a then obscure U.S. Circuit Court judge by the name of Clarence Thomas. Unlike Judge Thomas, however, Kimberly could not claim humble origins. Her father was a prominent radiologist at Barnes Hospital. Her mother was a genteel product of the Chicago black middle class who was active in several St. Louis charities and had served an unprecedented two terms as president of the Junior League. Kimberly was their only child. She grew up in the wealthy suburb of Frontenac, prepped at Villa Duchesne (a snooty Catholic girls’ high school), and earned her B.A. in economics at Smith College. She met her first husband at St. Louis University Law School, divorced him during her clerkship with Judge Thomas, married her second husband during her years in the general counsel’s office of the Department of Commerce, and shed him before returning to St. Louis. She was now thirty-eight and unmarried, although one of the gossip columnists had linked her to Barry Silvermintz, a local urologist who, if memory serves, either did Geraldo Rivera’s vasectomy or reversed it.
Kimberly’s strategy in this case had been obvious from the start: wage a war of attrition. I was outgunned and outmanned. We both knew that I couldn’t risk a full-scale battle out in the open, and she exploited that knowledge by objecting to all of my requests for information, swamping me with her own discovery requests, contesting virtually every action I took in the case, and generally doing whatever could be done to make my pretrial preparations unpleasant, arduous, and demoralizing.
We sat in silence across from each other until Judge Wagner’s secretary announced that Her Honor was ready for us. With Kimberly in the lead, we filed into the chambers of the Honorable Catherine L. Wagner.
Like their courtrooms, the chambers of U.S. District Court judges are built on a scale for pharaohs. This one had high ceilings and dark paneling. Her Honor was seated in a high-back leather chair behind an imposing desk. She stood as we approached.
“Greetings, Counsel.”
Catherine Wagner was in her mid-forties, a tall, willowy blonde, with long hair, piercing blue eyes, and a ski-slope nose. She had been a renowned beauty in her early twenties, and she still cut quite a figure when striding into the courtroom with that long blond hair cascading down her black judicial robe. In her chambers, the black robe hung on the brass rack in the corner. She was wearing a cream-colored silk blouse and a maroon wool skirt. Up close you could see the bags under her eyes and the worry lines on her forehead—the wear and tear of a hectic career squeezed on top of life as a divorced mother of two adolescent boys, whose framed portraits hung on the wall above her credenza.
“Good afternoon, Your Honor,” Kimberly answered cheerfully.
“Hello, Kimberly. Good to see you.” Judge Wagner nodded at me with somewhat less enthusiasm. “Ms. Gold.”
I returned the nod at the same level of zeal. “Hello, Judge.”
Although Catherine Wagner was known as a tough but fair judge, the playing field never felt quite level with Kimberly Howard present. The two were active members of the St. Louis University Law School alumni association. They also shared another important bond: the Republican Party. Catherine Wagner’s GOP bona fides had been impeccable when she was appointed to the bench eight years ago, and Kimberly Howard was an increasingly visible member of the Missouri Republican Party. Indeed, her name had started popping up when political pundits talked of the next round of elections; some picked her to challenge the incumbent Missouri Attorney General.
“Well, well,” Judge Wagner said in a voice laced with sarcasm after we’d taken our seats, “my favorite case.” She looked at Kimberly and then at me. “To what do I owe the pleasure today, ladies?”
“Judge,” Kimberly began solemnly, “we have grave concerns about Miss Gold’s conduct.”
Judge Wagner nodded as she lifted a copy of the letter Kimberly had faxed to me earlier in the day. “You’re referring to the ex-employees and their nondisclosure agreements.”
“That’s certainly one important item on the agenda,” Kimberly said. “However, there are others. For starters, we have Miss Gold’s outrageous attempt to serve Mr. Beckman with a subpoena in the middle of an awards ceremony on Sunday night.”
We were off and runni
ng. Although I hate squabbling with opposing counsel in front of a judge, Kimberly and I were at each other before long. As for my efforts to contact former employees of Beckman Engineering, she wanted an order requiring my investigators to issue a Miranda-like warning to each prospective witness informing him of the nondisclosure agreement and providing the ex-employee with the name and telephone number of a Beckman Engineering attorney with whom he could consult without charge before answering any questions. In addition, Kimberly wanted twenty-four-hour advance written notice of each witness contacted.
“Your Honor,” I said, trying to maintain my composure, “this is nothing less than an attempt to use the power of this Court to intimidate potential witnesses and, in the process, to invade the confidentiality of my trial preparations.”
Judge Wagner agreed and disagreed. She granted Kimberly’s request for the Miranda-style warning, but ruled that I did not have to let Kimberly know who I contacted. I told myself that I could probably live with that—as if I had any choice in the matter.
I fared worse with the Conrad Beckman subpoena. “Ms. Gold,” Judge Wagner announced sternly, “the Court is not unmindful of the fact that Mr. Beckman is an extremely busy executive. Reluctantly, I will allow you to depose him. However, I will limit that deposition to exactly two hours.”
“Two hours?” I said, incredulous. “I don’t think I could complete it in two days.”
Judge Wagner responded with an imperial shrug. “Deal with it. The mere filing of a lawsuit does not give a plaintiff the unfettered right to depose a busy chief executive officer.” She paused to jot a note on her docket sheet. “You’ll have two hours.” She turned to Kimberly. “Anything else?”
“Unfortunately, yes, Your Honor. Given that the trial date is now just two months away, I must remind Ms. Gold that we are still awaiting new dates for her client’s deposition.”
Judge Wagner looked at me. “Is there a problem?”
“There most certainly is,” I said, my temper flaring. “Kimberly has already subjected my client to twelve days of deposition. Twelve days.” I shook my head in disbelief. “While Ms. Howard squeals in panic at the thought of having Conrad Beckman deposed for two hours, she thinks nothing of subjecting my client to day after day after day of completely irrelevant lines of questions. At some point—”
“That is preposterous,” Kimberly said, acting shocked.
I spun toward her. “Let me finish,” I snapped. I looked back at Judge Wagner. “Judge, enough is enough. The defendant is using discovery as a weapon to make this case as painful as it can for the plaintiff. It’s a scorched-earth tactic, Your Honor—an attempt to turn the discovery process into a trial by ordeal.” I shook my head angrily. “And meanwhile, more than six months have elapsed since defendant was supposed to produce its documents to me. Six months, and I have yet to see a single piece of paper. Ms. Howard is trying to sneak to trial without having to reveal a thing.”
Kimberly put on a show. She was “incredulous” and “insulted” and “offended” by my accusations. We argued back and forth until Judge Wagner raised her hand for silence.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she announced, turning to me. “You’re going to make your client available for one more day of deposition before month end.” She looked at Kimberly. “The Court appreciates the efforts you are making to review your client’s documents. However, Ms. Gold has a point: six months is a long time. Perhaps we can prioritize the tasks. It seems that the documents plaintiff needs most urgently are those having to do with the bids. Get those to her by the end of the week.” She looked at me. “That ought to keep you busy for a while.” She turned back to Kimberly. “Get the rest of the documents to her in, let’s say, three weeks. By December eighth.” She looked at both of us. “Okay?”
“Your Honor,” I said, “we’re talking about hundreds of thousands of documents. It’ll take me weeks to review them, and I’ll still have an awful lot to squeeze in before trial, especially with the Christmas holidays.” I paused. “Judge, if the current trial schedule stands, Beckman Engineering will have gained an unfair advantage through its tactics. I request that the Court continue the trial to the spring.”
“Oh, no,” said Judge Wagner with a chuckle. “No way.” She shook her head firmly. “I’m getting this case off my docket. Come hell or high water, we’re picking that jury on January twenty-third.”
She leaned back in her chair and checked her watch. “That’s all for today, ladies. I have a sentencing in ten minutes.”
As I waited for the elevator, my blood pressure gradually returning to normal, I tried to remind myself that there was nothing personal or spiteful in Kimberly’s strategy. It was standard operating procedure. Her goal was to use her client’s substantial economic resources to grind me into the ground. My goal was to avoid needless skirmishes and somehow survive until trial. As for today’s brawl, my plan had been even simpler: survive without heavy casualties. I had.
Barely.
In the courthouse lobby downstairs, one of Kimberly Howard’s smarmy underlings came over. “Here,” he said, holding out a slip of paper with dates written on it. “These are the days that we’re available to take your client’s deposition.”
I studied his smug face. He was a typical product of the big firm litigation department—that macho subculture most closely akin to a street gang, except that this gang carries notebook computers and dictaphones instead of knives and guns. I knew the type. After all, I’d come of age within a big firm litigation department. We were the guerrillas, the SWAT teams of the law. Although there are few battlefields more stylized and bloodless than a courtroom, you’d never know that from the jargon of the big firm litigator. You don’t simply “win” a motion to compel, you “blow the other side out of the water.” You don’t ask a witness difficult questions at a deposition, you “drill him a new asshole.” You don’t reject a low settlement offer, you “piss all over it.” It’s a weird warrior cult where men with soft hands and tasseled shoes swagger into court as if they were wearing battle fatigues and ammo belts.
I stared at this Brooks Brothers tough guy with his slip of paper and for a moment I was mightily tempted to suggest a different place for him to stick it. But why play that game again? It was one of the reasons I left Abbott & Windsor in the first place.
I gave him a tolerant smile. “What’s your name?”
He seemed taken aback. “Uh, Arthur Brenton.”
I took the slip of paper and dropped it into my briefcase without looking at it. “Thank you, Arthur. I’ll call your boss after I check my client’s schedule.”
Chapter Three
Jonathan Wolf leaned back in the booth and scratched his beard pensively. “Gloria Muller doesn’t match any profile,” he finally said.
“How so?” I asked.
“White, heterosexual, Presbyterian.” He shook his head, frowning. “That is not a typical skinhead target.”
“Are the Hammerskins typical skinheads?”
Jonathan nodded. “Absolutely.”
We were having dinner at Cardwell’s in Clayton. That afternoon, after returning to the office from Judge Wagner’s chambers, I received a call from one of the Springfield homicide detectives to let me know that they’d arrested two men and charged them with first-degree murder in Gloria Muller’s homicide. One was an auto mechanic, the other worked on the loading dock of a Springfield factory. Both had rap sheets more typical of hooligans than gunmen: arrests for peace disturbances, barroom brawls, vandalism, and common assaults. But they shared something else: both were members of a local neo-Nazi group known as the Springfield Aryan Hammerskins. Although the police didn’t understand the skinhead connection with the murder, they were positive that they had the right men. In one of the car trunks they’d found a shotgun that matched the one used in the parking lot and a trench coat with powder burns. They also had a witness who’d overhear
d the two bragging about the shooting at a local bar.
Our dinners arrived—a spicy Thai pasta concoction for me, grilled salmon for Jonathan. Like many who kept kosher in their homes, Jonathan ordered only fish or vegetarian dishes when dining out.
The waitress was all titters and fluttering eyelashes as she asked if she could bring him another Anchor Steam beer. He shook his head distractedly, oblivious to her flirting. With a playful giggle she told him she’d check back in a few minutes to see if he was thirsty. I watched her sashay away, shaking my head. Jonathan tended to have that effect on woman, and on juries. It was part of what made him such an effective trial lawyer. Although one might think that a Brooklyn accent and an embroidered yarmulke would be a drawback in front of a St. Louis jury, he was one of the preeminent criminal defense attorneys in town.
Jonathan Wolf was New York City born and bred. He’d been raised an Orthodox Jew, and as a child attended a Jewish day school steeped in bookish traditions. Nevertheless, he somehow fell in love with boxing, and by the time he was eleven years old he’d demonstrated enough skill and mettle to induce one of the black coaches at the neighborhood gym to work with him. From his bar mitzvah on, he fought in every Golden Gloves competition in the area. At the age of seventeen, he won the Brooklyn title and traveled to Madison Square Garden to compete against the title holders from the other four boroughs. He beat them all, and Jimmy Breslin tagged him “the Talmudic Tornado.”
He started his legal career in the U.S. Attorney’s office in St. Louis, his wife’s hometown. During his prosecutor days, he’d been a classic intimidator—a righteous crusader whose bond with the victims seemed almost obsessional and who earned the nickname “Lone Wolf” for the long, solitary hours he spent preparing his cases. For nearly ten years, he’d stalked criminal defendants in the courtroom as if they were prey in his lair, boring in on them with rapid-fire questions, his green eyes radiating chilled heat.
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