On December 30 of each year, X-Com meets to give themselves a collective pat on the back and to determine "the Estimate," which is their best guess of firm profits for the year. More importantly, they allocate each partner's percentage interest in the profits of the firm, or "points," for the upcoming year. The Estimate will be announced with great ceremony at a partners’ meeting at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I've always thought we could streamline the process by putting a tote board like the one they have on the Jerry Lewis telethon in our reception area. This suggestion has not been well received over the years. At the meeting, each partner will receive a check and a memo indicating the partner's points. Theoretically, everybody will begin the new year in a good mood. Unless you're like me, and your points have been reduced in each of the last four years.
I'm not sure why I've been summoned on the night of all nights. I'm pretty sure they can't fire me again. I take a seat beneath the portraits of Leland Simpson and Skipper's dad. They grimace at me. I feel like I'm surrounded. Patton glares at me and growls, "I wanted to discuss your departure."
Uh-oh.
Patton's huge bald head, Nixon-like jowls and Brezhnevlike eyebrows overwhelm the rest of his tiny face. His red suspenders strain to hold his ample gut. At sixty-two, his gravel baritone is commanding, but its forcefulness has been tempered by forty years of cigars and single-malt scotch. At times, he's capable of playing the role of the genial grandfather. Last year, he was Santa at our Christmas party. The next day, he fired his secretary because there was one typo in an eighty-page brief. That's part of his charm. On any given day, you never know if you'll get the puppy or the pit bull.
In law-firm-lingo, he handles complex civil litigation. Of course, I've never met a lawyer who admits he handles litigation that's anything less than "complex." In reality, he represents defense contractors who get sued when their bombers don't fly. To Art, every case is a holy war of attrition. He showers the other side with paper. Fortunately, his clients have the resources to wear down their opponents. He responds to every letter with his own version that rearranges the facts in his favor. He follows up every phone call with a letter that bears only passing resemblance to the matters that were discussed. Around the firm, he's known as the Smiling Assassin. He's one mean son of a bitch.
He stares over my right shoulder. He begins with the grandfatherly tone. "I know we have had our disagreements, but I would like to think we can work things out and remain friends."
As if. I look right through him and remain silent. Let him talk. Don't react.
His condescending smirk makes its first appearance. "Here is our proposal. If anyone asks, we will portray your departure as voluntary. We will say you left to pursue a different direction. You will agree not to say anything bad about us. We will return your capital contribution tomorrow." Upon election to the partnership, every partner must make a capital contribution to the firm. The amount depends on the number of points you have. Baby partners like me contribute seventy-five thousand dollars. The power partners like Patton have ponied up about a quarter of a million bucks.
"That's it?"
"That's it. Except for one thing. As a matter of good practice, we want you to sign a full release of the firm. We ask all departing partners. Just housekeeping."
"That's it?"
He nods. "That's it."
Keep the tone measured. "Let me see if I have this straight. I won't piss on you, and you won't piss on me. That's fair. And that's the way it will work because we're smart enough not to say shitty things about each other. San Francisco is a small town. And you will pay me back my capital."
"Yes."
"Good. Because our partnership agreement says you have to pay me back whether or not I agree to say nice things about you and even if I don't sign your release. I have no intention of suing you, but if I change my mind, I don't want you waving a release in my face."
Gotcha. If I were in his shoes, I'd ask for the release. If he were in mine, he'd say no. I'm glad Joel showed me the section in our partnership agreement that says they have to return my capital.
He shifts to the half grin. "We figured you might say that," he says. "We are prepared to make a one-time offer of twenty thousand dollars for your cooperation. Take it or leave it."
Visions of paying off my Visa bill and a year of rent dance in my head. "Not enough," I say. "Make it a hundred and we may have something to talk about."
Chuckles shakes his head. "Too much, Mike. No can do."
Patton trots out his "mad dog" persona for a preemptive strike, if only for effect. His act loses some of its impact when you've seen it as many times as I have. "Look," he says, "if it had been up to me, I would have thrown your sorry ass out of here at least two years ago."
For an instant, I think Leland Simpson's picture is going to spring to life. "Yeah," he'd say, "I would have thrown your sorry ass out of here at least three years ago."
Patton isn't finished. His bald dome turns red. "Use your head for once and take the fucking money," he bellows. I'm told he can actually make his head explode.
I place my fingertips together in my best Mother Teresa imitation. "Arthur," I say slowly, "if you're going to lose your temper, you're going to have to go to your office and take a time-out." I've been waiting five years to say that to him. I stand and walk toward the door, where I turn and face them. "Gentlemen, I'll see you in the morning. I wouldn't want to miss the reading of the Estimate."
When I arrive at the office at seven the next morning, I have voice-mail messages from five associates who are furious about the decision on bonuses. Three ask me to be a reference. As always, the first person I see is Anna Sharansky, a Soviet refugee who begins every day by brewing enough Peet's coffee to fill the sixty coffeepots placed around the firm. S&G spends over a hundred thousand dollars a year on coffee. We exchange pleasantries. She never complains. I'll miss her.
At seven-forty-five, I walk to a sparsely furnished conference room on the forty-sixth floor to get a seat for the reading of the Estimate. The ceremony usually takes place in the PCR. We have moved downstairs because Bob Holmes won't move the closing documents for Russo's deal. It smells like a French pastry shop. Croissants, muffins, scones and fruit are lined up in neat rows on silver platters. Anna has filled the coffeepots and set out the bone china bearing the S&G logo. In the center of the table sit ninety envelopes, each with a partner's name on it. They look like seating assignments at a wedding.
By 7:55, the room is full. I pour myself a cup of coffee and take a croissant with the sterling-silver tongs. The blue sky frames the Golden Gate Bridge. Several partners wish me well. Let the exercises begin.
Patton always wears his tuxedo to the reading of the Estimate. He seems to think this lends a festive mood to the occasion. I think he looks like a maitre d'. At precisely eight o'clock, he makes his grand entrance, his face glowing. For Patton, this is what it's all about. For fifteen minutes a year, we look like everything our recruiting brochure says we are: a big, collegial family of highly trained professionals who admire, respect and trust one another. He beams from the head of the table. We clap politely. "Thank you for coming at this early hour," he says. "I know how hard it is for some of you to get here when you've been out partying all night." Forced laughter. "I want to get Bob Holmes down here to report on Vince Russo's deal. We will start in just a couple of minutes."
He asks Chuckles to find Bob. Chuckles seems pleased he won't have a speaking role today, and he darts out. The sound of clinking china resumes. Several partners take calls on their cellular phones. I focus on the envelope in the middle of the table that bears my name.
Ten minutes pass. Chuckles and Joel appear outside the glass door. Chuckles looks more gaunt than usual. Joel looks distraught. Chuckles opens the door and says in a barely audible voice, "Art, can I see you outside for a minute?"
The room goes silent. Patton motions Chuckles in. Chuckles tries to convince him to step outside. After a moment's hesitation, Chuckles c
omes in and whispers into Pat-ton's ear. Patton's eyes get larger. I hear him mutter, "Jesus."
Patton faces nobody in particular, strokes his jowls and says, "It is my unhappy responsibility to make a sad announcement. Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy were found dead in Bob's office a few minutes ago. I have no other information. The police have been called."
We sit in stunned silence.
"Obviously," he continues, "we may have a little problem with the closing of the Russo deal. Any discussion of the firm's results for this year would be premature and out of place. I will provide further information later today. Meeting adjourned."
More silence.
After a moment, I hear Patton whisper to Chuckles, "He couldn't have fucking killed himself. We're completely fucked. He had a fiduciary duty to us to close the deal."
Leave it to Arthur Patton to try to explain a man's death by citing a legal doctrine.
As always, Chuckles is more sanguine. He says to Patton, "I suspect Bob wasn't thinking about his fiduciary duties last night."
Without another word, we file out, pausing only briefly to pick up our envelopes.
3
"HE KEPT A LOADED GUN AT HIS DESK"
"The managing partner of Simpson and Gates has issued a statement to reassure the firm's clients that the situation is completely under control."
—KCBS news radio. Wednesday, December 31. 8:40 a.m.
By eight-thirty, all hell has broken loose. Every thirty seconds or so, a man's voice announces on the emergency intercom that there has been an incident and we shouldn't use the elevators. Word spreads quickly and people gather in small groups in the corridors.
My office is on the forty-seventh floor, between Joel's small office and Bob's palatial northwest corner. Joel is talking loudly into the phone as I walk past his doorway. He's trying to find Vince Russo. A policeman is unrolling yellow tape outside Bob's office.
I walk into my office and sit down. The room is empty of my stuff except for a few last boxes and my coffee cup with Grace's picture on it. I listen to the sirens forty-seven floors below. It sounds as though every police car and fire engine in the city is heading toward our building.
Doris walks in a few minutes later. "Is it true?" she asks.
"It's true. Patton said Bob and Diana are dead. Chuckles and Joel broke up the partners’ meeting. I don't know any details."
Tears well up in her eyes. "I can't believe it," she cries.
I give her a hug. She starts sobbing into my shoulder. "It'll be all right," I say feebly.
"It finally got to him. The divorce, the deal, the money. I knew something would happen. And Diana, too. Why Diana?"
"These things happen for a reason." As I say it, I realize this line from my religious training never rang very true. It was one of the reasons I ended up leaving the priesthood. I had a lot of trouble saying the party line toward the end. She wipes her eyes and sits down.
We're silent for a moment and I absentmindedly turn on my computer. It's funny how you revert to habit. I have two E-mail messages. The second message, which I open first, is from Patton, advising that there will be an emergency meeting in the reception area at nine o'clock. The other is from Bob Holmes. It was sent at 1:20 this morning. I get chills. "Look at this," I say.
Doris comes around behind my desk and reads over my shoulder. Bob's final words are concise. "To everyone. I am genuinely sorry for the pain I have inflicted. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me. I cannot go on. I wish you all the best. Bob."
"Jesus," I say. "An E-mail suicide note. This is weird, even for Bob." I get a sour feeling in my stomach. His body is still in the office next door.
My phone rings and I pick up. "Mickey, I'm watching TV." My mother is at home in the Sunset District. "They said somebody got shot at your office. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Ma. Don't worry."
"Thank God, Mickey. Did you know them?"
"Yeah, Ma, I knew them."
"Mickey, be careful."
"I will. I'll call you back a little later, okay?" I hang up and paw through my boxes until I find the five-inch black-and-white TV I kept under my desk to watch sports. I turn to Channel 4 and play with the antenna until I make out a fuzzy reporter standing in the plaza outside the California Street entrance to our building. She's in front of the huge black polished-granite sculpture designed by Masayuki Nagare that the late Herb Caen, the immortal San Francisco Chronicle columnist, dubbed the Banker's Heart.
"This is Rita Roberts. We are live in San Francisco, where police are reporting an incident in the offices of Simpson and Gates, the city's largest law firm. Details are sketchy, but it appears that two Simpson and Gates attorneys have been killed by gunshots. Newly elected San Francisco District Attorney Prentice Gates III was a partner at the firm. Mr. Gates and the mayor were in the firm's office last night. We don't know whether the incident has anything to do with Mr. Gates or the mayor. Moments ago, a spokesman told us that the mayor left the Simpson and Gates suite about nine o'clock last night and arrived at his office this morning at his usual time. We haven't been able to confirm the whereabouts of Mr. Gates. Rita Roberts for News-Center 4."
I'm turning down the sound when a young Asian policeman knocks on my open door and politely says, "I'm Officer Chinn. We're asking everyone to return to their desk."
"We understand," I say. He nods and walks down the hall. Doris looks offended. "He's just following procedure," I explain. "He's supposed to secure the scene and wait for help." In reality he's also supposed to separate us so we can't compare stories. She heads out the door.
My phone keeps ringing. My younger brother, Pete, a former San Francisco cop who works as a private investigator, gets through on the first try. "You okay, Mick? I heard it on the box."
"I'm fine."
"You talked to Ma?"
"Yeah. Told her I'm okay. Mind giving her a call? She'll feel better if she hears from you."
"No problem, Mick. Gotta go. I'm working. I'll see you this weekend." I pity the poor unfaithful husband he's tailing. What he lacks in finesse he makes up for in tenacity.
"Qué pasa, Miguel? You all right?" My ex-wife. Rosita Carmela Fernandez doesn't speak Spanish, except to me. "I heard it on the radio." She grew up in the Hispanic enclave in the Mission District. Her dad was a carpenter. Her mom babysits Grace whenever Rosie's in trial. Rosie was the first member of her family to go to college. She worked her way through San Francisco State and Hastings law school. We used to work together at the PD's office. We were married for about three years. We were a lot better at trying cases than we were at being married.
"I'm fine, Rosie."
"Good. I was worried my new tenant wasn't going to move in."
That was part of the problem when we were married. Among other things, Rosie is good at keeping track of money. I'm not. She's also very organized. Let's just say I'm more flexible. It used to drive her nuts. We got along great right until the time we got married. Then all of my faults came to light. After a couple of years of ceaseless sniping, we finally split up. It was right after Grace turned one. Once the divorce messiness was really over, we started to get along a lot better. Go figure. "I'm moving in just the way we planned," I say.
"Good man. I'll call you later. Adios."
Rosie, you're the best ex-wife a man could have. Damn shame we couldn't stand living together.
Joel pokes his head in while I'm on the phone with my baby sister, Mary, a first-grade teacher in L.A. His hair is disheveled. His eyes are puffy. I motion him to sit down. I say good-bye to Mary.
"Long night, Mike," he says in a hoarse whisper.
I pick up a rubber band. "What can I say?"
"I've never seen a dead body before. We Jewish folks don't do open caskets." He pauses for a moment to compose himself and says, "He practically blew the side of his head off." He looks out the window. "We finished negotiations about nine o'clock and we gave the documents to the word processors. Diana and I went to Harri
ngton's for a quick bite. She went home. I got back around eleven-fifteen. We finished signing papers by twelve-thirty. Everybody was leaving. I went down to the lunchroom for a Coke. I read documents for two or three hours and I took a nap down there. I got up around six and went back to my office. It was quiet. I thought Bob had gone home. Next thing I knew, it was eight o'clock and Chuckles asked me for the keys to Bob's office. That's when we found them."
I swallow the lump in my throat. "Did Russo kill the deal?" As I say it, I realize that my choice of words could have been more discreet.
"I don't know. I can't find him. He was here when we signed the papers. He said he was going back to the Ritz. He stays there when he doesn't want to drive all the way down to his house in Hillsborough. He wasn't sure if he'd authorize the wire transfers to close the deal. He said he was going to sleep on it. He said he might have to go to his backup plan."
"What's that?"
"A flying leap off the Golden Gate Bridge."
"I see."
"I called his hotel. They said he didn't sleep in his bed last night." He sighs. "I just can't believe Bob killed himself, even if Vince decided to pull out. Bob's seen deals go south before."
"The police are going to want to talk to you. I'll drive you home when you're done."
"Thanks, Mike."
This is going to be tough on Joel.
At five after nine, Arthur Patton is still wearing his tuxedo when he convenes an all-hands meeting in the main reception area. Thankfully, somebody's had the good judgment to turn off the lights on the Christmas tree. Patton asks for quiet and says, "As many of you are aware, we have had a great tragedy. Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy were found dead in Bob's office this morning. The police have indicated they died of gunshot wounds. Bob's wounds may have been self-inflicted.
"This is Inspector Roosevelt Johnson of the SFPD, who is in charge of the investigation. I would ask each of you to assist the police. Our office is now closed until Monday, and you are free to go home as soon as the police say you may do so."
MD01 - Special Circumstances Page 3