by Nick Stone
Sid Kopf was a tall man, about my height. He was eighty-two, but could have passed for twenty years younger. He was big on exercise. Only last year he’d done the London Marathon. And he’d run the New York version the year before that. He’d finished both in slightly under four hours. He cycled to the office on good days. He still had most of his hair, which was so white it appeared to hover slightly above him, glowing like a molten halo. His skin was lined and craggy, but still firm. I wondered if he hadn’t had work done, but he didn’t seem the type to get hung up on personal vanity.
I’d come with a pen and pad, more as props to steady my hands than in expectation that this meeting was anything but a dismissal. I wondered if I’d get any severance. I hoped so. I was a week away from getting paid for the month.
Kopf picked up a document from his desk and flicked through it. Three pages, stapled. My CV.
‘How long have you been with us?’ he asked.
This already sounded bad.
‘Going on four months,’ I said. My mouth was dry and my palms damp. I’d gone from mid-level panic to high alert in the space of a minute. Just get it over and done with, I thought. I was already envisaging going to temping agencies this afternoon.
‘Hasn’t even finished his probation,’ he said to Janet.
I’d have to be working here another two months before the firm decided whether they wanted to keep me on or not.
He tossed my CV back on his desk with a scowl.
‘Do you come from money?’ he asked me.
‘What?’
‘Are your parents rich?’
I was confused. What did my parents have to do with this?
‘No. Why?’
‘What do they do?’ he asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘What do your parents do for a living?’
‘They’re retired,’ I said.
He looked at me like I was stupid.
‘What did they do?’
I didn’t like this. I didn’t like his questions. I didn’t like his sneering tone. And I really didn’t like him.
‘You’re not allowed to ask me that,’ I said, straightening up in the chair.
That gave him pause for a millisecond.
‘I just did,’ he said.
‘I’m not obliged to answer,’ I retorted.
‘Only in an interview situation. Which this isn’t. If it were you’d have lost me at “Hello”.’
So, I was definitely getting fired. OK, fuck him, I thought. Go down swinging.
‘What’s the point to your question?’
A hint of a smile flashed across his face.
‘Your CV belongs to someone else. Some brat with wealthy parents. A pampered slummer who doesn’t understand the concept of working for a living. But who it doesn’t belong to is you,’ he said.
So they’d found out about Cambridge. I braced myself for the chop.
‘You’re a comprehensive kid. You overachieved at school. Straights As in everything. Then, instead of going to university, which would have been the natural thing to do – and the right one – you went to work. And you’ve been polishing the bottom rung of the career ladder ever since. Now you’re here. That’s worrying.’
Kopf had one of those polite accents redolent of money and good breeding, of country retreats and Mediterranean villas.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘We don’t carry people here.’
‘I don’t think I’m being carried,’ I said. ‘I made the wrong decision when I was young, that’s all. I couldn’t see the point of more studying. I wanted to work. What did I know?’
He stared at me without blinking. He had small blue eyes, framed by white lashes, which made his stare even colder. I held his gaze.
‘My dad was a welder,’ he said, breaking the glaredown. ‘I used to pick metal splinters out of his palms every evening when he got home. I had to use a hot needle to get under his skin. He was a good man, but I looked at him and his sore bleeding hands and decided I wasn’t going to be him. That’s what being born poor’s about. Not becoming your parents. How old are you?’
What was he playing at? A little humiliation before he kicked me out? Why not just get straight to it? What did he have to prove?
‘It’s in my CV,’ I said.
He glanced at Janet. Something passed between them. He nodded slightly to her. Had she told him to wrap this up now?
‘Thirty-eight,’ he said. ‘Same age as our newest client, Vernon James.’
‘Give or take a few months,’ I said. I could hear my heart pounding away.
‘And look where he is today?’ Kopf went on. ‘Millionaire, top of his tree, a few spare homes —’
‘And presently in police custody on suspicion of murder,’ I interrupted. ‘I’d say he’d happily trade places with me right now if he could.’
Sid Kopf smiled. His teeth were the same shade as his hair. A bright cosmetic white that looked ridiculous against his furrowed skin. He sat back a little and studied me, a distinct gleam in his eye.
I felt sweat beading on my back.
‘This is already a media-intensive case. It’ll probably become a media-intensive trial. Do you know what that entails?’
‘I have an idea,’ I said.
‘Let’s say you have no idea,’ Kopf retorted, leaning forward. ‘You haven’t handled a media-magnet before. They’re a nightmare. There you are, trying to do the best for your client, and all the while you’ve got to keep the tabloid hacks just about on side so they don’t write the kind of prejudicial stories that’ll turn a jury. You’ve got to manage information, give them morsels, a taste but no swallowing. It’s a fine balancing act. Bella Hogan has worked media cases, twice before. And both times she’s come through with flying colours.’
‘Are you saying you’d like me to step aside?’ I said.
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’
I couldn’t quite believe it. I almost smiled. I felt like punching the air and kissing the old man’s feet. Relief broke out in me. So I wouldn’t get to see VJ burn after all, but at least I’d have my job. I couldn’t wait to ring Karen. She’d laugh her head off at the irony, that I’d been unwittingly saved by my office nemesis.
But, of course, here and now, I had to feign disappointment. Play at muted outrage, restrained hurt. Accepting his decision with a mere shrug and rollover would look like I was giving in too easily, lacked the ambition and fibre to stay in the job, wasn’t fit to be any kind of lawyer. I tightened my lips and jaw, to make believe I was propping up a drooping mouth – the old ‘stiff upper lip’ routine that never went out of style.
‘What about the ownership rule?’ I said.
‘I’ve made exceptions before.’
‘OK…’ I shrugged.
‘“OK”?’ he snorted. ‘Is that it? I’ve just suggested I might kick you off the biggest trial in the country, and that’s the best you can come up with?’
‘What else can I say?’ I said. ‘Your company, your rules. You don’t want me on this, fine. That’s your prerogative.’
Kopf looked to Janet again. I didn’t know if she was smiling or frowning.
‘This isn’t a reflection on you or your abilities, Terry. Janet tells me you’re good. I’d like to believe it, because she wouldn’t have hired you if you weren’t,’ he said. ‘But you’re a wild card. And we don’t deal those in a case like this. We use what we know. The right barristers, the right solicitor and the right clerk. You’ve had no experience in this kind of trial.’
‘I understand,’ I said.
‘But…’ He raised his hand to silence me. ‘Janet insists you’re up to the job. So I want you to tell me – are you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Why shouldn’t I give this to Bella?’
‘I can’t answer that. I’ve never worked with her,’ I said. That was the wrong thing to say. I should have turned into her cheerleader – extolled her track record, bigged up her experience at the expense of mine
, persuaded him to reassign me. But I couldn’t bring myself to help out the office viper. She’d bite me anyway.
‘You work alongside her, don’t you?’
‘No. I sit opposite her. That’s the extent of our professional involvement,’ I said.
Kopf smiled again – archly this time, telling me he knew damn well I couldn’t stand her. I think he liked my honesty. And, unfortunately, I also think he was starting to like me.
‘Do you want in?’
‘Of course,’ I said, immediately – even though my head was screaming
NOOOOOOOOOOO!
He looked at Janet again, then back at me.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then welcome aboard.’
Eh?
He reached out his hand. Somewhere through my confused daze, I saw myself shaking it and heard myself thanking him for the opportunity he’d just given me. Meanwhile my heart sank all the way to my guts, and every happy relieved feeling I’d had followed it down.
What had just happened? I thought I was off the hook. Now I was back on it. Kopf had been messing with me, seeing what I was made of, if I could take the heat. Had he even intended giving the job to Adolf?
Here’s the joke of it:
If it had been anyone other than VJ, I’d have probably failed his test there and then, fallen at the first hurdle, jumped at the first bark. I’d have fought my corner, of course, but I wouldn’t have projected the indifferent cool that had obviously won Kopf over. He’d have seen right through me; seen that I wanted the job because I wanted the degree, because I didn’t want to come to work in a cobbled-together suit I’d put on in a council estate I couldn’t wait to leave.
‘Interesting cufflinks,’ he said, still holding my hand.
‘My children gave them to me,’ I said. My talisman hadn’t worked. I was in deep shit.
‘I thought so,’ he smiled, releasing my hand.
As he leaned away from me and back in his chair, I noticed that the wall behind him was covered with about a dozen of his black-and-white photographs. They were different from the others around the office. Each one had been taken at sunset, so all the buildings were almost completely reduced to solid silhouettes. The most striking of the photographs was in the middle. It was of a sunburst over a warehouse. A clear ray of daylight had broken through a hole in an overcast sky and lit up the corners of the building brightly and clearly, while the rest remained in darkness. He was obviously proud of the picture, because it was twice as big as the others and formed the centrepiece of the exhibition.
‘Let’s roundtable when we get back,’ Janet said to Kopf, and stood up. ‘Terry, get your things.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Charing Cross nick. To meet our new client.’
‘Didn’t you see him yesterday?’ I asked.
‘No. They kept me waiting for three hours and then told me there were no free rooms. So let’s go.’
9
We took the Tube. It hadn’t yet gone nine and there were still plenty of people making their way to work, so it was standing room only.
Janet was in her beige mac and dark trouser suit combo, hair tied back and zero jewellery. She never wore her wedding ring when meeting clients, either because she wanted to keep her professional and private lives separate, or she didn’t want her clients knowing too much about her.
I thought about VJ. In the next hour, I’d be walking into a police interrogation room and coming face to face with him again.
How long would it take him to recognise me?
It wouldn’t be instant, but it’d be quick. I hadn’t changed all that much physically – a little thicker here and thinner there. That was it. So I gave it all of ten minutes max before he spoke my name and pushed a wrecking ball into my livelihood.
Then what?
Could I still come through this with my job intact?
OK, yes, so I’d lied on my CV. But didn’t we all, one way or another? Janet and Kopf might even see the irony of my predicament: a lot of people would’ve killed to have Cambridge on their CVs – even if it was just a year – whereas I’d kept it off. Yet, as I’d told Karen, personal credibility was all in the legal profession. Get caught in one lie, and no one ever believes you again.
My job wasn’t supposed to have lasted this long anyway. I’d gone in as a temp at the start of November, to fill in for my predecessor who’d been fired. I was meant to be there a fortnight while they recruited a full-time replacement.
‘You handled yourself well with Sid,’ Janet said. ‘Most people crumble.’
‘He wasn’t that bad,’ I shrugged.
The train stopped at Westminster and the carriage emptied by half.
‘Can I tell you something in confidence?’ Janet asked.
‘Of course,’ I said. She gave me a harder look. ‘Cross my heart and all that. Who am I going to tell?’
‘Sid never wanted to employ you,’ she said. ‘He thought you were too old.’
‘Why did he, then?’
‘Because I insisted. I thought you were ideal. Still do,’ she said.
Oh. Shit…
When VJ exposed me as an (almost) well-educated liar and suspected thief, Janet would look bad. I didn’t want that. She was a pretty good boss. Tough, prone to snappiness at times of stress, but basically fair and actually quite fun when she wasn’t being biked from crisis to crisis. Her position in the company was rock solid, and she wouldn’t lose her job over me, but it would look like she was a bad judge of character – which, myself excluded, she wasn’t.
‘So you twisted his arm?’ I said.
‘As much as anyone can twist Sid’s arm, yeah.’
‘Why? Clerks are ten a penny.’
‘You’re a natural, Terry. And I don’t see many of those in this line of work, believe me. It’s just graduates with their senses of entitlement and five-year plans. Keen little drones who know exactly where they’ll be in 2016. Who needs that?’
‘Was that you once?’ I asked.
‘Probably. I really can’t remember,’ she laughed.
‘Would you encourage your kids to go into law?’
‘It’s a noble profession.’
‘Spoken like a true lawyer,’ I smiled. ‘As in: you didn’t answer my question, you deflected it.’
‘Would you steer your kids towards law?’
‘More deflections.’ I laughed. ‘I wouldn’t steer my kids anywhere they didn’t want to go.’ And I absolutely meant it. I wasn’t going to push them into fulfilling my failed ambitions.
‘You know Sid’s thinking about expanding our division?’ she said, lowering her voice and looking around. ‘Next year we’ll be taking on heavier work. Which means we’ll be recruiting a few more people, and quite possibly promoting some too.’
She looked at me pointedly when she said that.
‘What about Bella? She’s been here a lot longer.’
‘I’m glad you picked up the phone yesterday,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll make a hell of a lawyer.’
‘That’s very flattering,’ I said. ‘But I’m still on probation.’
‘You’re exactly what we need in KRP.’
This should have made me feel good, but it made me feel even worse. I had to tell her about VJ. Put a stop to this before she lost face in front of both him and Sid Kopf.
I opened my mouth to say ‘Look, there’s something you should know before…’
But the words hadn’t finished forming in my head when the train stopped at Embankment and the doors opened. Janet picked up her briefcase and quickly stepped out. I followed her. We were going to change here and grab the Northern Line one stop to Charing Cross. I still had time.
But Janet headed for the exit instead.
‘What are we doing?’
‘I need to make a couple of calls and have a smoke.’
Which meant I wouldn’t have a chance to talk to her after all. ‘A call’ for her meant at least three; and, as we walked into the police station, she�
��d be getting her gameface on, which meant psyching herself up to meet both her client and the people who had him in custody. When she did that she shut out all external distractions and went into a trance. I could tell her the worst things about myself and she wouldn’t even hear.
10
If you have to get arrested, you could do far worse than be taken to Charing Cross. London nicks really don’t get much grander. To the blissfully unaware it’s a five-floor cream Georgian building, triangular in shape, stuck on its own island between William IV and Agar Streets. Formerly a hospital, its current identity and purpose are only hinted at by the quaint blue lamps on the street corners, the small blue bulletin board displaying crime awareness and missing persons posters, the irregular sighting of police vans entering or leaving the premises through separate gateways, and the building’s name, spelled out in stark but small black metal lettering over the columned entrance. The entrance itself is tucked away on the kind of sidestreet people either find themselves on by accident, or dash down blindly as a shortcut to the train station.
We walked up the stairs and went inside to the reception area. To the left, in a corner, and out of immediate sight, was a solid plate of bulletproof glass, behind which stood two middle-aged women in pale blue blouses. In the background was a big open-plan office, not dissimilar to any other white-collar hothouse, except for the marked lack of energy or urgency. If you were on the right side of them, police stations were always a bit like this – unremarkable, messy and quotidian; people hunched over desks, tapping away at computers, answering phones, half-expecting something big to happen, quietly hoping it wouldn’t.
Janet produced the ID card she’d been issued last night, which had her client’s name and the case number written on it. The receptionist tapped away at the computer and brought up the details. I then had to identify myself with my driving licence so I could be logged into the system.
We were told to wait, that it would be a while before someone came to fetch us. They had to bring the client up from the subterranean cells to an interview room, provided one was free. Charing Cross had the busiest custody suite in London, handling not just its own intake, but the overspill from smaller local nicks, as well as the most high-profile suspects.