“And a good morning to you, Paula.”
She covered her eyes with one hand and handed me a FedEx package with the other. “And this just came for you. It must be your citation for a Congressional Medal.”
I studied the shipping docket. The sender was a firm of attorneys, large and Washington-based.
Inside the plastic sheath was a paper envelope with my name and office address on it. And inside that was a single-page letter. It didn’t take me long to catch its drift. Sandy Richter, partner of Marshall, Forrester, Kellerman, and Hirsch, said he acted for an insurance company that had written an umbrella insurance policy for JJ. To the extent that victims of JJ tried to claim against the policy, they would deny liability, but should they ever be ordered to pay anything, they would look to me for reimbursement. I was on notice. As far as they were concerned, I should never have allowed JJ behind the wheel of my McLaren F1, and I was liable for the whole damn thing.
He also said that he had received a call from my insurer.
My insurer? I didn’t have insurance, except a few thousands’ worth for the contents of the apartment and some incomprehensible health policy.
But apparently I was insured, according to Sandy Richter; a policy underwritten at Lloyds of London through a company called Clerkenwell Associates. Richter left me with the strong impression that I’d better pray my insurance was significant, and copper-bottomed. I’d be needing it.
He wanted a response within seven days outlining my view on life at a granular level.
“Not good?” Paula ventured.
I shook my head.
She perched on my desk. “I’m sorry if I seemed flip about this stuff, but my mom always said that you had to show adversity your teeth, with the corners of your mouth turned up.”
“Can you get me the number for a Clerkenwell Associates in London, please,” I said, trying to take her mom’s advice.
“Sure. I’ll bring you a coffee too.”
I scanned my desk. “Where’s my crossword?”
Paula toyed with the silver crucifix that hung in the shadows of her cleavage. “Jessica said she didn’t have time to send it anymore.”
One lousy page with my name scribbled on it. My Red Cross parcel. It wasn’t the betrayal of Jessica; a dozen different people had sent me the crossword over the years. It was Clay & Westminster—the institution as a whole—that was closing me down. The tubes were sliding out, the respirator was being turned off.
I put in a call to Carol, conjuring the image of her, airbrushing out the dog leash.
Voicemail. Some routines didn’t change. I left a message for her to get back to me.
I called Chase Manhattan.
“It’s Fin Border here. May I speak with Karen Bardak, please?” My account relationship manager. Sixty thousand dollars hadn’t rated much of a relationship. Ten thousand probably wouldn’t even qualify me for a Chase Christmas card.
“Mr. Border, and how are we today?”
I didn’t tell her.
Instead, I explained how fifty thousand had disappeared from my account and it wasn’t me that had taken it. I tried to remain succinct and even-toned. I’d give Ms. Bardak a chance to tell me it was all a terrible mistake; the fifty thousand was still there, tucked up safe.
Then maybe I’d scream.
There was no mistake. The money was gone and Manelli had already spoken with her. She’d said nothing, preserved my confidentiality, but they’d looked into the background paperwork in the meantime. It checked out. I had come into the bank in person and signed an instruction. The signature looked good.
“It wasn’t me that signed the form,” I insisted. “What’s the date on it?”
“The twelfth.”
Wednesday. I did go to the bank on Wednesday. Some bills to pay. Forms? One or two. But not a transfer instruction for fifty thousand fucking dollars.
“I want that money back in my account pronto,” I said. “Or else it’s with the police, the regulators, and my attorneys.”
Calm flowed down the line; Ms. Bardak wasn’t easily spooked. “Sir, like I said, it’s already with the police. As for the regulators, our compliance people will handle that—we’ll write to you today outlining your rights. Maybe it would help if you gave me the name of your attorneys so I can pass it on to legal for you.”
I didn’t have an attorney. So little had happened outside work for five years, there’d been no call for one. No divorce, no house, nobody had sued me.
It looked as if I was about to make up for lost time.
“I’ll get back to you with a name.”
“Sure,” Ms. Bardak said amiably. “I don’t think I can help you further right now on the withdrawal; it’s kind of out of my hands. But is there anything else we can do for you today?”
Paula poked her head around the door and crooked her index finger in a signal for me to end the call.
“No thanks,” I said to the phone. “You’ve done quite enough.”
“Mendip wants you,” Paula said. “Now.”
Charles Mendip sat behind a small desk in a cubicle near reception. He always said that he didn’t want his New York visits to disrupt the smooth routine of the office by commandeering something more in keeping with his status of senior partner. As long as there was a phone and the coffee was good, he’d be fine.
He looked like he always did: creased, off-the-rack suit, grubby shirt sleeves, indifferent shoes, neither shiny nor dirty. But the face was alert, like a whippet. It was the face of someone accustomed to being in charge, unless he happened to be standing next to Jim McIntyre.
Mendip had a habit of flicking his index finger across his cheek and I could hear it rasp as he said good morning to me.
I squeezed myself onto the only other chair in the room. If I’d been Ernie, my stomach and chins would have smothered the desk.
There were no windows, no pictures. So my only view was of Mendip’s face. It seemed to ripple with anxiety.
“Good flight?” I asked.
“They ran out of cornflakes.” He toyed with a thin brown folder onthe desk. A dossier on me and JJ? If it had been compiled by Keenes, the spin would be so severe Mendip would have to hold it down.
Mendip’s piercing gray eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t make very happy reading.”
“I’ve also received this.” I handed him the letter from Marshall, Forrester.
Charles glanced at it for a second and slowly handed it back. “Seen it,” he said wearily. “Mr. Richter sent us a blind copy, no doubt to raise the chilling prospect of their claiming at some point that you were in the course of your employment with Clay & Westminster when you let Mr. Carlson spread himself across the FDR Drive—thereby rendering this firm liable for your stupidity. Bad law in all probability, but a good tactic nonetheless.”
Charles riffled through the pages of the folder as if he was looking for a hint of good news among the bad.
“Have you completed the list of your work in progress for Sheldon?”
I wondered if Ernie had managed to speak to Charles and to plead on my behalf for getting some of my clients back. “Pretty much,” I said.
“Well done,” Charles said. If Erniehadspoken to him, it had obviously made no difference.
“Do I have to come off the merger as well?”
Charles seemed to be studying the blank cover of the folder and then lifted a single hair that had settled on it. He turned it between his thumb and forefinger before letting it spiral to the floor. It was as if the rogue strand were the source of all the trouble, the hair in the soup, the fly in the ointment. “I fear so,” he said. “I have to be realistic.” He looked up at me. “So do you. This unholy mess has kicked you firmly in touch for the foreseeable future.”
He looked so sad, sapped of energy. Neither angry nor supportive, just preoccupied with the weight of being senior partner, the merger, Keenes baying for blood. And me. But did I weigh him down in my capacity as godson or as a troublesome employee?
“I need a defense, Charles, a good attorney, this isn’t my field. I was thinking of maybe using . . .”
He held up his hand to silence me, the hint of a sympathetic smile bending his lips ever so slightly.
“We have already chosen your attorney,” he said. “Pablo Tochera of Schuster Mannheim. He’s very good and Jim McIntyre trusts his judgment completely.”
“Don’t I get a say in the matter?”
Charles squinted, as if he was having trouble focusing on me from a distance of two feet. “Jim is very concerned by what’s happened. It’s important that the situation is managed by a strong team and one led by an attorney who knows what he’s doing. Schusters is the best—that’s why we’re merging with them.”
“That’s not what I asked, Charles.”
“I had expected you to be more grown-up about this, Fin and realize that we all have the same objective. If you want to pay for your own attorney, then I can’t stop you. I would speculate that your assets would cover about twenty billable hours. In other words a statistically insignificant fraction of what this matter will involve.”
He had allowed my mother to choose the Cotswold cottage, which decorators to use, the kind of annuity she’d receive. Clay & Westminster had even let her pick, and had paid for, the basset hound she so desperately wanted to replace the husband, my father, who had left her—us—nothing. My mother was a grace and favor widow of Clay & Westminster. But at least she’d been given swatches of the shackles to select from.
“With respect, Charles, that’s rather unethical. I should have a say.”
Flicking his chin with one hand, he motioned to the folder on the desk with the palm of his other, as if he was cleaning a spill. “And you’re going to report me to the Law Society, the New York Bar Association. For heavens sake, Fin, I’m trying to help. In any event, are you anticipating that your interests and those of Clay & Westminster may diverge at some point, that there may be a conflict? If so, you’d better spit it out now.”
“I didn’t own the car, Charles.”
Charles grunted.
“Can’t you bring yourself to say that you believe me?” I asked.
“What I believe is neither here nor there.” He picked up the folder and dropped it back down onto the desk. “What matters is that we sort out this unholy mess—quickly. I have a merger to consummate and the futures of fifteen hundred staff to worry about.” He lifted the folder again and I thought for a moment he was going to ding me with it. “My God. Your father came near enough to destroying the reputation of this firm. What is it about your family? Brilliant but . . .”
More chin flicks. “There is only one way you will scramble from this wreckage alive and that is to do exactly as you’re told. Myers Myerling are confident they can keep your name out of the press for a few days. But it won’t be for long and, in the meantime, Pablo Tochera will be working on your case. You must follow his instructions to the letter, do I make myself clear? I need hardly spell out the consequences for us all if Jim McIntyre takes the view that you aren’t taking your medicine. This is about trust, Fin.”
“Medicine?” I stammered. “I don’t . . .”
Paula opened the door. Mendip seemed relieved.
“Sorry to disturb you,” she said. “But Mr. Keenes was wondering when you would be through.”
Keenes had sent Paula, so that his own secretary wouldn’t get flattened if Charles got mad at the intrusion.
But Charles’s face opened out; he stood up, smiling. “Hello, Paula,” He shook her hand across the desk. This was the charming Charles.
“And how are you and that lucky husband of yours?”
Charles could be good at paying top market wages, he could be compassionate about sick leave and the like, but when it came to caring small talk with junior staff he usually got into a mess. He usually left that kind of thing to Ernie Monks.
Ernie would have remembered that Paula’s husband was dead.
Paula’s face froze. She glowered at me like it was my fault.
“I’ll let Fin fill you in on what’s been happening in my life before the next time we meet. He seems to know zilch too, but it might help you get some of your facts straight.”
She left the room, slamming the door.
“Dear me,” Charles said.
“Paula’s husband, Doug, died of cancer six months ago.”
“I see.” He paused. “I’d better run along now.”
“Paula’s desk is outside my office in the open area.”
Charles looked at me quizzically. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “I’m not going afterher. I’m going to see Sheldon. I won’t be long. Stay here until I’m back, please. We can carry on with our little chat.”
He edged his way around me and left the room.
I called Paula on the phone.
“Sorry about that,” I said.
“Whatever,” she said flatly. “I’m one of the little people, I know that.”
“So am I, Paula.”
“That’s why I like you, honey.”
“Can you call Pablo Tochera at Schuster and schedule a meeting with him for as soon as possible, preferably this afternoon?”
“Is this about the merger? I thought you were off the case.”
“Thanks, Paula. No, it’s not about the merger. My de-merger, more like. Is there anything you don’t know about me?”
“No,” she said and hung up.
I tore a sheet of paper from the virgin writing pad on the desk.
I drew a small circle and wrotemein it. My pen doodled around the circle for a moment, awarding it a corona. I screwed up the sheet and pushed it to one side, tearing off a fresh one.
First heading: “Potential Defendants.” Second heading: “Potential Plaintiffs.”
Under “Defendants”: Me.
And my defense? Not my car.
Then JJ. His defense? None.
His insurers next—I didn’t understand umbrella insurance. One for Mr. Tochera.
My insurers, Clerkenwell Associates.Where was Paula with that phone number?Their defense was easy. They hadn’t really insured me.
Any others? Clay & Westminster might get a place in the pleadings. If it were argued that I was in the course of my employment when I met with JJ. So, if the argument held water, then their defensewould stand or fall with mine. Wait. Clay & Westminster would have insurers. Add them to the list. Wait again. If it was claimed that I was in the course of employment when I met JJ, they might say the same for JJ.
I added Jefferson Trust. And their insurers.
It was getting to be quite a list.
What about the manufacturers of the car? McLaren. Some wiseguy might say there was a defect with the car; that it shouldn’t have done what it did. Crazy. The car was perfection. The argument would never get off the ground, even in the zero-gravity environment of US litigation.
Over to the other side of the page. “Plaintiffs.”
The victims, the estates of the deceased, the families. That was it, wasn’t it? No. The City, bent municipal property, the cleanup. Hey, shouldn’t they be on the list of defendants as well: What if the protection for FDR drivers was shown to be inadequate? A long shot, but a possibility.
There didn’t seem to be any other obvious plaintiffs, but I knew that plenty would come out of the woodwork, professional litigants who were masters at concocting connections and causality, however bizarre or remote.
My eyes glazed over. And I was at the bottom of the mess.
There were some deep pockets: a clutch of insurers, JJ’s estate, Jefferson Trust.
But, in the midst of it all, I would be a lightening rod. JJ was dead, I was alive. Insurers were faceless, Jefferson too. But I had a face. The system would give me horns and cloven feet; it could chew me up and spit out the pieces.
“Excuse me, sir, are you Mr. Border?” A messenger peered around the edge of the door.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Mendip said he’ll be a while yet, an
d you can go back to your office now. He’ll see you later.”
He looked around the room. “He told me to get his briefcase for him.”
Under the desk, lurking but not hidden, was a cheap blackreinforced plastic thing. I’d have recognized it anywhere. Charles had had it for years; my father used to joke about it.
I toed it. “This one?” I said. The messenger’s young, spotty face lit up.
The clasps were open. I was about to warn the messenger to be careful when he grabbed the case and pulled it from under the desk.
“Goddammit,” he said, as the entire contents cascaded onto the floor.
“Is your name Kevin, by any chance?”
The messenger was on the floor now, starting to draw together the scattered contents. He looked up at me like I was psychic.
“How did you know?”
I got down on my knees to help him scoop everything back into the briefcase.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “He won’t notice—he just chucks things in anyhow.”
“You won’t say anything, will you? First day of a new job, and I fuck up.”
“The first day of what I’m sure will be a long and distinguished career at Clay & Westminster.”
Kevin studied me, checking if I were putting him on. Then he grinned. “Thanks.”
I had in my hand an airline ticket, a small pile of papers, and a ring-bound presentation document. I took a quick look; it was Clay & Westminster’s own marketing brochure. I knew it well; I’d drafted the section on the New York office.
The other was a hand-written letter to Charles. I recognized the writing. It was from Ernie Monks.
It was a long letter, about five pages by the feel of it. It looked angry; the thick paper was heavily scored by the flowery swirls that characterized Ernie’s script. And there were a lot of exclamation marks. I wished I could read just a few lines, but his writing didn’t lend itself to a casual scan and I thought I was already pushing my luck. I tossed the ticket, presentation, and letter back into the case.
Kevin had swept up the rest: the cheap ballpoint pens, the aspirin, the Clay & Westminster standard-issue leather diary, a basic pocketcalculator with the Price Waterhouse logo splashed over it, and an inhaler. I hadn’t realized Charles suffered from asthma.
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