by Alan Hruska
“For what? Not that case Harry Hanrahan’s been dicking around with.”
“Harry’s retiring,” Mac says.
Alec, still standing, looks from one man to the other, finding no refuge in either face. “It’s a sleeping giant, that case.”
“The giant has awakened,” Mac says, thrusting forward with a thud of his chair.
“It’s not getting me,” Alec says.
“Little history lesson,” Braddock says, turning his attention at last from the window. “Human beings selling heavy electrical equipment—turbine generators and the like—will, it seems, conspire with their competitors to fix prices.”
“Always?” says Alec skeptically.
“Always,” Braddock repeats. “Invariably and inevitably. The problem is, not only do the damn things cost millions to make, the plants to make ’em in cost billions to build and maintain. The risks scare the shit outta these people. So to reduce the risks, they rig the market. And then get caught. Mac here,” Ben says, inclining his head toward Macalister, “represented Allis-Benoit years ago, when half the top management went to prison. Apart from those criminal cases, our client and their co-conspirators got sued by the buyers of these machines—which means every public utility in the country. The utilities won every case and walked away with more than a billion dollars in damages.”
“I remember,” Alec says.
“How the hell’d you remember?” Mac says. “You were ten years old.”
“I was in law school,” says Alec. “Kind of thing people took notice of, CEOs, VPs being manacled in their offices and hauled off in chains.”
“We’ll have none of that here,” Mac says. “In your case. No one talked to anyone, let alone conspired in hotel rooms. They did it—”
“In the newspapers!” Braddock laughs, and heaves himself to his feet. As he makes to leave, Alec restrains him.
“Judge, stay,” Alec says. Braddock is so addressed, since he sat for years on the United States Court of Appeals in New York.
“Mac will explain it,” says Braddock.
“I’m not taking on another case,” Alec says. “I’m too goddamn busy.”
“Aren’t we all,” Braddock says airily.
“Then maybe we should turn this one down,” Alec says.
Braddock lets out another laugh, shakes his head as if at an absurdity, and shuffles out of the room.
Mac says, “We’ll redistribute some of your smaller stuff.”
“I’m already not attending to my smaller stuff. You know what my hours were last year?”
“There’s no one else, Alec. Not for this.” Mac waves off Alec’s questioning glance. “Here’s the situation. Allis-Benoit’s already in deep shit. Getting sued for reneging on a multibillion-dollar coal-supply contract. Different case. We’re not representing them on that.”
“Why not?” Alec says. “I thought they’d been our client for a hundred years.”
“Yeah, well. We advised them not to renege.”
“We?”
“Me,” Mac says, with a note of belligerence.
Alec now remembers the story. “Which is why you’re not doing the new one.”
“Right.”
Alec finally sits in his desk chair, thinking about his early years working for Macalister. At the time Mac was the rising star, handling most of the important cases in the office. A larger-than-life Texan, he had the personality John Wayne enacted in movies and was about the same size and build. His intellect was a lot sharper than one might have expected from such an appearance, and he was famous for his audacity and “gut” judgment. He always knew what was bothering a judge and, more importantly, how to fix it. And he read every juror like a shrink. What dimmed his star, and nerve, was an unquenchable thirst for Jack Daniels. When Mac drove his car into the big oak off his country club driveway, Alec, then still an associate, took over the trial that propelled him to partnership. Recovery has salvaged Mac’s wits, but leaving those huge hard cases for others has left him feeling, despite the bravado, taken down and depressed. Now Alec, the major beneficiary of Mac’s frustration, sits wondering what else he might give up in his life to spend a little time with his daughter.
Macalister goes to the window. For this large man, with his prodigious head, coat-hanger shoulders, and still bright-eyed smile, talking while standing is much more his thing. “After the prison sentences, and the treble-damages cases brought by the public utilities, which, as Ben said, were bloodbaths, almost all the manufacturers went belly-up. That left only two American companies still making turbine generators: our client and the dominant company, Edison Electric. It must have occurred to them, or at least to Edison: with only two competitors, no need to meet, no need to talk—about anything. So one fine day, Edison issued an announcement. In the press, letters to customers—however they could disseminate the word. We’re publishing a new price book, said Edison. And henceforth, the prices set forth in that book will be the prices at which we will actually sell. You want a turbine generator from us, you will buy it at the published price. No discounts, no free goods, no under-the-table anything, no special deals. And our sales books are open to anyone. Send in your accountants, we’ll be happy to open those books. You spot any deviation from our published prices—any discount whatever to any customer—then you and every other customer in the world will also get the benefit of that discount.”
“All of which,” Alec says, “is perfectly lawful.”
“To be sure. And everyone waited to see how Allis-Benoit would respond. The wait wasn’t long, and the result not surprising. Five days later, Allis-Benoit announced exactly the same price policy on exactly the same prices.”
“Tricky.”
“Signaling,” Mac says. “At least that’s the theory. No need to meet in hotel rooms. Do it publicly. As good as an explicit agreement.”
“The same effect, maybe, but different legally.”
“Which is our defense,” Mac says.
“Uphill to make a jury believe it.”
“Which was apparently the thought of Mid-Atlantic Power & Light—largest public utility in the world and the largest buyer of turbine generators. The case we’re talking about is the one they brought. They’re suing Edison and Allis-Benoit for price fixing and conspiracy to monopolize. And they’re asking for treble damages in the hundreds of millions. Their lawyer is the inimitable Frederick Musselman, the Harvard law professor who made a fortune representing public utilities in the last go-around. You know him?”
“A friend of mine took his course. Thought his name was I. Frederick Musselman. Because that’s how he started every sentence in class.”
Mac laughs and says, “Freddy’s a problem. Mid-Atlantic’s a problem. But there are much bigger ones hanging over us. Just like in the last war. Besides Mid-Atlantic, there are 125 public utilities in the United States. Like Mid-Atlantic, they’ve all bought turbine generators from both Edison and Allis-Benoit. If the manufacturers conspired to fix prices, not only does Mid-Atlantic have a claim, they’ve all got claims—125 potential additional cases under the Clayton Act, which, as you well know, rewards successful claimants with three times their actual damages. Total actual damages would be astronomical. Trebled, they’d bankrupt our client.”
“Why haven’t those 125 other utilities already sued? The statute of limitations is only four years.”
“Hanrahan negotiated a tolling and standstill agreement. The utilities organized themselves into a committee and retained your old friend, Marius Shilling. He agreed to stand still—i.e., not to sue until the Mid-Atlantic case was terminated—in exchange for our agreement to toll the running of the statute of limitations until thirty days after the end of that case.”
“Brilliant.”
“Except there’s a catch. And that’s the second Damocles sword. The government—the Antitrust Division of the U.S. Department of Justice—is considering suing as well. They’ve just sent us a demand for documents. If they do sue, the 125 utilities are t
hen freed up to sue as well; it’s the one loophole in that brilliant deal.”
“Why’s the giant awakening now?”
“New judge assigned. Mark Porter. Also formerly Harvard faculty. Smartest judge in the system.”
“And for this case,” says Alec, “the worst.”
“You know him?”
“Oh, yes. And Mac,” Alec says. “Many thanks. You’ve just fucked up my life. I’d guess for at least five or six years.”
Jesse Madigan is out of place, and feels it, waiting with the mothers in the cold on East Ninety-First Street, right off Fifth Avenue. Apart from being merely an aunt, she sees herself as a tourist in this city, her home city, having lived in Ireland for the past ten years.
She’d dropped her bag off in Alec’s apartment. Before leaving for work, Alec had instructed the doormen to “just let her up.” The rooms, of course, were full of him. As she entered and closed the door behind her, she felt something intangible, the air stiff with warning. She should not have come back. She had stayed a long time in Ireland for good reason, and she should have stayed longer.
Her first meeting with Alec was so casual. Like Carrie herself, for whom everything spelled fun. Jesse had returned briefly to New York soon after her graduation from college. “This is my sister,” Carrie had said. “She’s the smart one, I’ve told you.”
“And beautiful,” Alec had said. Offhand, but he made her feel beautiful, which was not what she normally felt. They were lunching at the Manhattan Ocean Club, a midtown restaurant of white walls and oak tables that Alec liked. It was two months after the gun fight in Maine and days before her sister’s wedding. Alec and Carrie were trying to move on. Five-year-old Sarah was in therapy. Jesse was not supposed to talk about the incident, although of course she knew; everyone knew. She can’t remember what she said, only what she thought: that she would never get the image of him out of her head. She hardly spoke to him at the wedding. It was not for her—or, indeed, any of the few guests in attendance—a truly joyous affair.
A face-biting wind comes in off the park, and she huddles in her parka. Should have worn a hat, she thinks. And a scarf. It was warmer in Dublin, though much farther north.
Sarah’s out early and recognizes Jesse at once. “I don’t really need picking up, you know. For all practical purposes, I’m already sixteen.”
“I know,” Jesse says, “but I thought you might show me a bit of the neighborhood, maybe have tea or coffee somewhere.”
“The Soup Burg’s good. It’s on Madison, right down the block.”
They walk and talk, Sarah dutifully inquiring about Jesse’s flight, Jesse thinking, She’s learned this, asking polite questions.
They find a table at the window and both order tea.
“So where you staying?” Sarah asks.
“Ah,” Jesse says. “The big question. Somewhere cheap. I still have friends on Staten Island. I think one will take me in. I was hoping to catch on as an au pair in Manhattan.”
“You’ve got a degree from Trinity College, Dublin. In fine arts, for Christ’s sake. You’ll get a job in five minutes. Have you registered?”
“With an agency, yes. You seem to know about this.”
“I was raised by au pairs. A constant stream of them. It was a troubled childhood.”
“Yours? I hadn’t heard.”
“You would’ve been the last to,” Sarah says.
“But you’ve turned out magnificently!”
“The package looks okay. Inside is a mess.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t be saying it.”
Sarah’s too cool to laugh unaffectedly, but that remark does amuse her. “Talk to the shrinks,” she says. “I’ve had a procession of those too.”
“On that you’ve got company,” Jesse says.
“Really. I thought we’d have something in common, other than blood. So you’ll do just fine. I’ll talk to Alec.”
“About what?”
“About hiring you, of course.”
“Tenth grade, and you need an au pair?” Jesse gives her a remonstrative look.
“You can do my homework for me,” Sarah says.
“I’ve no intention of doing your homework!”
“Sure you will. We’ll call it something else… like helping me do my homework. You can be my live-in tutor. A lot of my friends have one.”
“You’re an advanced fifteen.”
“Essentially sixteen. I’ve said. And street smart. You’d have to be, in my shoes. That school I go to? Looks elegant as hell, right? It’s a snake pit. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. Except for the uniforms, and the family fortunes, it’s not that much different from P.S. whatever. And I hang mainly with the public-school kids, anyway.”
“So did I,” Jesse says. “Back in the day.”
“Where’d you go to school then?”
“Catholic school. With your mom.”
Sarah pauses with a measuring look. “You of course knew my birth father.”
“I never met him, no.”
“Really?” Sarah says. “He paid for your school, I thought, in Ireland.”
“He set up a fund for me, yes. But he had no real interest in me. He did that for your mom, when they got married. I’d already gone over there. I was living with my aunt.”
“Well, that’s perfect. You’re my aunt, and now you can live with me.”
“I don’t think that’s a great idea,” Jesse says.
“You don’t like me?”
“I like you fine, Sarah. And I’m sure I will love you. But you may be misjudging me. And Alec’s taste for this idea.”
“Alec’s never been a problem for me,” Sarah says with a smile. “And you?” Her smile broadens considerably. “You’re a pushover. I love you already.”
“Harry, got a minute?” Alec says, intruding on his partner’s notorious preference for privacy. Harry Hanrahan is known to be one who closes his door to keep out not only the random sounds of an office, but any person he hasn’t summoned there, including other partners.
“Alec!” Hanrahan says, rising in full-suited regalia from behind his Regency desk. “Come in, come in, glad to see you!”
He probably means it, Alec thinks. Ten minutes with me, and he’s officially dumped the worst case in the office.
Alec steps in, taking the chair where he once did time as Harry’s senior associate.
Hanrahan smiles, a smile that always seems to be wan, if not totally bleak. His favorite color is gray, medium shade: suit, tie, shirt, socks, and Alec’s betting on even the underwear, though the man’s skin tends toward a greenish-gray, which makes the pink of his mouth almost shocking. “Ben tells me,” says Hanrahan, reseating his long, pear-shaped frame, “you’ve volunteered for the Allis-Benoit litigation.”
“ ‘Volunteered,’ he said?” Alec’s laugh is that of a man reacting ruefully to his own hanging.
“Yes, well,” Hanrahan says, “I didn’t think you’d be that happy taking it on. I’m not happy saddling you with it. I’ve tried to end it, but the case can’t be settled. Donald Strand, the Mid-Atlantic CEO, is a belligerent bully. And I seriously doubt it can be won.”
“There was actually an agreement?”
“To fix prices? Nice question. They never met; they never talked. But….”
“Right,” Alec says. “ ‘Agreement’ is a meeting of the minds. Offer and acceptance. Doesn’t need speech; can be arrived at by signals. Edison’s announcement of a new price policy was the offer. Allis-Benoit’s announcement of the same policy a week later, the acceptance.”
“That’s Musselman’s theory,” Hanrahan says. “And likely to work. Novel situations give judges leeway. What this looks like to them? Just another in a line of cases in which two giant corporations figured out a new way to screw the poor consumer. Here, the rate-payer.”
The door opens, then vacillates between open and shut. A stooped young man in well-pressed tweeds and horn-rimmed glasses musters himself in and says, “S
orry.”
“Come here, Grosvenor.” Hanrahan’s impatience is regal. “I believe it was you who told me the AT&T contract had been signed on September 15.”
“Ye-es,” Grosvenor says, voice wavering on the second syllable, the associate sensing his likely mistake.
“I now learn it was the seventeenth. You know from whom I learned this? Our client. I had to be corrected on the point by our client!”
“The seventeenth,” the young man repeats, as if receiving a great truth.
“I must say, Grosvenor, you are a veritable fountain of misinformation.”
Grosvenor’s eyes blink twice, then descend on his future. Alec’s own experiences in this office unreel in his brain, like a film flickering on a sheet on a summer camp wall.
Hanrahan dispatches the associate with: “That’s all. You may leave.”
Grosvenor about-faces, without speaking, and shambles off.
Alec says, when he’s left, “I’m not sure he’ll recover from that.”
“We’ll see,” Hanrahan says. “And then we’ll know. About him.”
Alec breathes in on that comment and lets it lie. “You referred to a bunch of cases?” he says.
“Inevitably there will be,” Hanrahan says. “The government will sue. The other utilities will then have to sue.” He leans back expansively. “We are, my young friend, standing at the floodgates. And they are about to burst. Within the year, we’ll have more than a hundred new lawsuits.”
“That all?” says Alec, with distaste.
“And all in your lap, sorry. Judge Porter’s the ticking bomb. He’s just been assigned and can’t wait to explode. He’s never seen a large company he doesn’t hate. The fact that this one gives work to sixty thousand people means nothing to Mark Porter. He’ll rule against us on everything, slant the jury instructions Mid-Atlantic’s way, and the verdict will be binding on us in all subsequent cases.”
“Sounds great.”
“They didn’t tell you, Ben and Mac?”
“Not quite all of it,” Alec says.
Harry’s head wags in commiseration.
“Look,” Alec says. “On this case—I just got here. But some things do occur to me. In the first place, what Allis-Benoit did, it had to do, acting absolutely independently. Edison Electric is the dominant company. They put out a price book; Allis has no choice but to match those prices. If Allis had tried to lower prices, Edison would have matched those, and Allis would have ended up with only the same slice of a smaller pie.”