Subpoena Colada

by Mark Dawson

  ‘Daniel.’

  Cohen elbows me.

  My attention snaps back into sharp focus. Everyone is looking at me. I noisily swallow the last of the Danish. The icing sticks to my teeth.

  ‘Glad you could join us, Mr Tate. And, now you’re here, let’s have that update on the Fey case you promised us.’

  Bugger. Fulton asked me to fill in the rest of the group on Brian’s defence - I was hammered somewhere in Soho during the time when I’d been planning to prepare it.

  ‘Um, well,’ I falter. Dawkins leans forward avidly, hungrily; I can’t help thinking of a vulture circling above carrion. ‘The case’s going as well as could be expected, in the circumstances.’

  Fulton raises his eyebrows, expecting more. ‘A little background for the others?’

  Regurgitate: ‘Brian Fey lost the case against the rest of the band six weeks ago, like you all know. They were suing him for the return of an advance they said he wasn’t entitled to. This after they’d sacked him. Anyway, as it turns out the court went along with them. We fought as best we could but it was hopeless. The result was pretty inevitable.’

  ‘But you’re managing the client’s expectations?’ asks Blaine Fisher, the stuck-up public-school cow who handles our crime stuff.

  (‘Managing the client’s expectations.’ Jesus, what is the world coming to? The entire group has started to use phrases like that, ever since Fulton came back from a week at a business school somewhere in Massachusetts with a whole new corporate vocabulary. Now people ‘do’ lunch, but only if they can find a suitable ‘window’ to do it in. They talk about ‘downloading’ ideas, putting ‘ballpark figures’ into the ‘factual matrix’. Fulton once said, when discussing potential marketing strategies for the group, that he’d ‘run that idea up the flagpole to see how it fluttered’. Mixing his public school/military experience with these absurd new buzzwords; you see what I have to put up with? It’s a point of honour with me to avoid these nonsenses.)

  ‘The client was OK in the circumstances,’ I answer carefully. ‘I think we kept his feet on the ground.’

  There. A good, old-fashioned English cliché. Much better.

  ‘So what happens now?’ asks the Dork.

  ‘They want to execute their judgment. They want their money back. But our instructions from the record label are to hold on to it for as long as we can. They want us to try and settle.’

  ‘I didn’t think we were acting for the label.’

  ‘We act for Brian. But the label’s said they’ll stand behind him, and since they’ve been paying our bills they’ve been telling us what to do.’

  Blaine: ‘Chances of settling?’

  ‘Zero,’ I reply honestly. ‘The Dahlias’ position is too strong.’

  ‘More positive, Daniel,’ Fulton urges. ‘We need to get Fey out of this without any more damage. The label won’t be happy if we lose any of his other assets. We’re treading a fine line here.’

  ‘There’s a hearing tomorrow,’ I say. ‘I’m going to try and lift the Freezing Order: That might help things.

  The very evil Victoria Wilson chips in. ‘Make sure you’re properly prepared for it.’

  ‘I’m working on it today.’

  IMMEDIATE SUPERIORS

  I’m too slow leaving the conference room. Wilson collars me in the lift. She’s responsible for most of my work at the moment. Unfortunately, she doesn’t like me very much.

  The doors close, sealing us in.

  Wilson is a slight and dainty lady of late middle-age, as well preserved as you’d expect a woman earning the thick end of half a million a year to be. Cosmetic science hasn’t cured everything: her mouth sags like a cantaloupe rind (her permanent expression is sour), and crow’s feet reach back almost to her ears from the comers of her eyes. On the surface she’s demure, the sort of woman you might imagine cooking world-class fruit cakes while taking sips of sherry in her silver-haired dotage. A favourite aunt, perhaps? This appearance is deceiving: it hides a toxic heart.

  But at least you can say this for Wilson: if Fulton disguises his offensiveness behind a mask of urbanity, then Wilson is completely open about it. She makes no bones about the fact that she is an intemperate, irascible old witch.

  ‘Trish Parkes and her new band have had a change of schedule. I’ve arranged for them to come by the office on Wednesday afternoon. Three o’clock sharp, and don’t be late.’

  ‘New band?’ I stammer as we leave the lift.

  ‘Yes, those three young boys. I can’t remember what the record company’s calling them now…’

  ‘Monster Munch?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ she says.

  We arrive at the office I share with Cohen. He’s already here. I catch a glimpse of Solitaire on his monitor just before he alt-tabs to a legal database and tries to make himself look busy.

  ‘They’re flying to Tokyo on Thursday morning,’ Wilson continues, ‘for some tour. She wants us to address a new matter while they’re over there. I left you a memo.’

  ‘I don’t remember seeing anything…’

  Cohen gets up to leave. Wilson’s back is facing him and so she doesn’t notice the sarcastic thumbs-up he gives me.

  ‘Your desk’s an absolute disgrace,’ Wilson comments as her eyes search for my in-tray. She finds it, shuffles through the internal post folders stuffed inside, produces one and tosses it at me. ‘I sent you this, last week. It asks you to research the areas we’ll need to cover.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I begin, ‘I didn’t notice it…’

  ‘Look, Tate,’ she interrupts, ‘don’t apologize. Just do what I asked you to do. I want a briefing note on my desk tomorrow morning, eight sharp.’

  ‘I’ve got the hearing in court on the Fey case tomorrow morning,’ I quail.

  She scowls darkly. ‘Wednesday morning then. No later. I suppose I’ll have to review your note during the morning before the meeting.’ Her tone suggests I’ve put her to considerable personal inconvenience, a crime that will not be lightly forgiven or forgotten.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘What about the recording contract?’

  ‘Recording contract?’

  ‘Yes, the foreign jurisdiction contract. Where was it for?’

  I half-remember. It’s the other work I’m doing for Monster Munch.

  ‘Japan?’ I suggest.

  ‘Yes, Japan. Is it finished?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ I say. ‘It’s, uh, proving to be rather complicated.’

  ‘You’ve had over a week,’ she gripes. ‘And I don’t care how complicated it is. That’s plenty of time for you. A trainee could do it in less than a week.’

  ‘I’ll get onto it right away,’ I tender, even though I’m tempted to suggest she find a willing trainee instead.

  ‘I want that finished on Wednesday morning too. No more excuses.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘I’m not happy about your work on this, Tate,’ she adds sourly.

  This sums up the general state of her recent disposition towards me at the moment. I can’t say I’m surprised.

  ‘I’ll get to work right away.’

  I won’t be getting her vote in the partnership elections.

  But everyone already knows that she holds a candle for Dawkins.

  WHY VICTORIA WILSON AND I DON’T SEE EYE TO EYE

  I did a lot of work for Wilson just after I joined White Hunter. In those halcyon days, she regarded me with the affection she reserves for Dawkins now. She was doing a case for Chris Evans and she asked me for my opinion on an esoteric point of law. I prepared a report that politely disagreed with the way she’d handled the case. She didn’t take it at all well, disagreed, and then disregarded my advice. When the Judge ruled against us, endorsing my proposed approach, she passed the buck and the blame. The partner’s prerogative: reprove the assistant.

  And that, as they say, was that.

  BATTERY LAWYERS

  Cohen returns as soon as Wilson is out of
the way.

  The firm has been growing steadily in recent years but instead of moving to more suitable accommodation - as any sensible business would do - the decision was taken to stay put. Having a prime spot in the right location seems more important than the comfort of the workforce. And Soho and Covent Garden is where the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is for media firms like us. Agents, film and TV companies, publishers, all the best watering holes; everything is here.

  As each new lawyer is added to the practice the available space shrinks accordingly. The walls of the offices are temporary plywood sheets that can be disassembled and reassembled in different configurations.

  We’ve seen our office gradually contract, and now it has the dimensions of a roomy rabbit hutch. We’re .. battery lawyers. We could shake hands across our desks if we wanted to.

  Cohen has tried to humanize his side of the room.

  There are potted plants, a couple of framed prints, and ornaments and holiday souvenirs on his desk. And there’s a blow-up screen dump from Star Wars stuck to the wall: the scene with Han, Leia, Luke and Chewie trapped in the Death Star garbage compactor, the walls slowly closing in. The partners evidently don’t get the hidden plea.

  I haven’t really reciprocated. All he has to face is me and the dun beige wall behind me, unadorned apart from a stapled-on magazine pull-out poster of the Dahlias from before Brian was sacked. Mid-eighties. They look awful.

  ‘She was in a good mood,’ Cohen says.

  ‘How come I land her as supervising partner? Have I upset someone? Am I being punished for something I did in a previous life?’

  ‘She’s not all bad.’

  ‘Wanna swap with me? I’m sure I can manage the Dystopia case.’

  Cohen smiles sweetly at me. ‘But that’d deprive me of the fun of watching you jump every time the phone rings.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  Cohen’s my best friend here. We joined the firm at the same time and have shared an office together for the last year. We both specialize in litigation. His cases tend towards the cerebral. They usually involve the legal construction of contracts and the application of fine points of law. He likens his work to the slow unraveling of a ball of string: the untangling of knots and snags until he finds the end piece. I liken my cases to a drunken dust-up: he who punches hardest, lowest, first, wins. The clients I represent would rather gut the other side with a blunt instrument than endure the rigmarole of the legal system.

  His big case at the moment is trying to get Alex Culpepper, the ex-manager of Dystopia, out of a nasty contractual bind he’s found himself in. Cohen says Culpepper looks like he’s going to be ruined.

  Cohen has a good reputation among the partners.

  He puts up a good front but I know things about him that only a room-mate could know. For example:

  I know he spends a large portion of the day playing solitaire and minesweeper on the computer.

  I know he spends another large portion of the day baby-talking to his wife on the phone.

  I know he has the enviable ability of looking busy when he’s doing nothing at all. (When I’m doing nothing I just look shifty.)

  You get to know these things when you share an office with someone for ten hours a day. Cohen knows things about me that-even Hannah couldn’t guess.

  But I haven’t told him we’ve broken up yet.

  I switch on my PC and check my diary for today.

  I have a meeting with Michael Barrymore at midday.

  Wonderful.

  I open the folder and review Wilson’s memo. It sets out what she wants before the meeting with Monster Munch on Wednesday. A briefing note on Japanese contract law. And a marketing agreement for use in Asia. It really is that vague.

  ‘Look at this,’ I say to Cohen, tossing the memo over to his desk. ‘She wants this by 8 on Wednesday.’

  ‘And that would be 8 in the a.m, or 8 in the p.m.?’

  ‘The former.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about Japanese law, do you?’

  ‘Nope. But I know a man who does.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You won’t like it.’

  ‘I’m desperate. I’ll try anyone.’

  ‘Anyone?’

  ‘Anyone.’

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘The Dork. He did something similar to this a couple of months ago. He mentioned it in one of the team meetings you missed.’

  ‘I can’t ask him,’ I protest futilely. ‘I mean… I just can’t.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ he says. ‘He is, after all, an arrogant, supercilious shit who’ll remind you for months that you needed his help.’

  ‘It’d be humiliating.’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘I’ll never be able to live it down.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘I can’t ask him.’

  ‘The alternative is to sweat it out in the library all night or throw yourself on Wilson’s mercy…’

  ‘Ohmigod.’

  Which would I prefer: measles or mumps?

  CONTACT WITH THE GUTTER PRESS

  I notice the display on my phone blinking: voicemail. Then the phone rings. I pick up.

  ‘Daniel Tate?’ says the caller.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My name’s Scott Dolan. I do the celebrity gossip column for Extravaganza. You know, the "Guest List", page 17?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve seen it.’

  Extravaganza: it’s almost compulsory reading for us.

  The UK’s first daily newspaper devoted entirely to news of the glitterati. The secrets of the rich and famous served up for you fresh, each and every day. WORLD EXCLUSIVES and plenty of exclamation marks. Pictures of flabby stars caught out in bikinis by paparazzi with long-range lenses. Snaps of people leaving flats they shouldn’t have been in. Kiss-and-tells a specialty. Salacious scandal just the right side of legal. Take one part Hello!, add the worst excesses of the red-tops, blend with the National Enquirer and you’d still be nowhere close.

  And the Guest List, this esteemed organ’s gossip page, is the lowest of the low.

  ‘I’m working on a story and I’d like to ask you a few questions - is now a good time to speak?’

  ‘About what?’ I’m automatically wary. We get calls from the press occasionally, and have strict instructions not to divulge client information. Transgression is a firing offence.

  ‘Nothing heavy,’ he says. ‘Just background stuff.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You’re the solicitor working for Brian Fey, right? In the case against the rest of the Black Dahlias, yeah?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I say hesitantly.

  ‘I’m doing something on John French’s death. I was wondering if I could get a quote from Brian about it?’

  ‘I’m not really the person to be asking. You should be speaking to his manager.’

  ‘What about you, though,’ he says, without pausing. ‘Maybe you could give me something? How about it?’

  ‘I don’t think that’d be appropriate.’

  ‘What do you think about Brian? Could he have had anything to do with it?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Why do you say that? That’s not what I’ve been hearing.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to be having this conversation.’

  ‘How’s he feeling?’

  ‘I’m not going to be drawn on that.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘Well, in case you change your mind, here’s my number.’ He recites a number which I only pretend to take. ‘You’ll give me a ring if you change your mind?’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  A FRIEND IN HIGH PLACES

  As I’m returning from the library with a textbook on Japanese law - hoping against hope there’s enough in here to render an appeal to the Dork unnecessary - I pass Richard Tanner’s office.

  ‘Daniel
,’ Tanner calls out, ‘pop in for a moment, will you.’

  Richard Tanner is one of the senior partners at White Hunter. Mid-forties, always beautifully well-dressed, a brilliant lawyer blessed with a superb rapport with his clients. He and Fulton interviewed me originally when I was thinking about changing firms, and we hit it off straight away. He was one of the main reasons I decided to come here.

  I’ve never been in any doubt he persuaded Fulton I was worthy of an offer. Fulton prefers his lawyers to share his public-school and Oxbridge heritage. He prefers people like Dawkins, the silver-spoon brigade. Tanner, on the other hand, was educated much like me: comprehensive schools and red brick Uni, pulling himself up by his boot straps. He’s been my backer ever since that interview, feeding me great files to make my reputation on. The case I did for Bob Monkhouse last year, when even Wilson had to acknowledge the quality of the work, was all down to him.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he says.

  ‘Really busy,’ I say, sitting down. ‘Wilson’s got me sweating on some tight deadlines.’

  ‘Victoria on the warpath, is she?’ he chuckles. ‘Rather you than me.’

  Mild indiscretion when it comes to his colleagues in the partnership is one of Tanner’s charms.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, ‘touch wood.’

  ‘Look, I wanted to tell you something. I probably shouldn’t say, but I will anyway. You know, with Miles dying, there’s going to be a place in the partnership up for grabs. ‘I just wanted you to know that I’ve put your name forward for it.’

  I feel like punching the air. Tanner comes through for me, yet again.

  ‘Richard, thanks, I don’t know what-’

  ‘You deserve it. You’ve done some great work for me since you left the City. I think you’d make a first-class partner, so I’m prepared to be your sponsor. So, you know, good luck. You know who else’s going to be up for it?’

  ‘If I had to guess? David Cohen. Caroline Lewis. Oliver Dawkins.’

  ‘Dawkins - Jesus,’ Tanner says with a gently derisive laugh. Tanner has told me on more than one occasion how little he thinks of Dawkins. He - alone amongst all of the partnership as it sometimes seems - has seen through him: ‘A toadying, mealy-mouthed, spineless brown-noser’ as he once told me over a pint.