by Alan Hruska
Caddy Breen, rising to shake hands, is shorter than Alec, as most people are, and maybe fifteen years older, but there is something about him that’s unmistakably boyish. His gray hair springs in ringlets all over his head. His complexion is smooth and on the red side of pink. And he’s bouncy: literally, Alec thinks, as if popping out of a box.
“Sit down, sit down!” This said by Breen exuberantly. “I’ve heard so much about you from the many good friends we have in common. And I’m agog to hear of your first impressions.” Big laugh. “Not of me, of course. Of the case.”
“ You come highly credentialed,” Alec says. “We share a driver.”
“Schlomo? He drives you too?”
“Pretty often. And just now, as it happens.”
“I’ll have to pump him,” Breen says.
“He thinks I’m an old soul. He just told me.”
“Are you?”
“Probably,” Alec says. “Whatever that means. According to Schlomo, you have to speak Yiddish to know.”
“I’ll find out for you. I’m fluent.”
“In Yiddish?”
“What do you think I’m doing here, Alec? I’m building a firm. You want moneyed clients, you speak their language. You should hear my Arabic. And my Japanese.”
Alec smiles. “I’ve got a lot to learn.”
“Me too. From you. So,” Breen says. “About the case.”
“We have to get rid of Mark Porter,” Alec says.
“Oh yes? Do you plan to shoot him? He’s a federal judge. He’s appointed for life.”
“Not to our case.”
“You think he’s disqualified?” Breen says. “On what grounds?”
“Bias.”
Breen gives Alec a look of amused tolerance. “Obviously, he’s biased. You think any judge isn’t? But my dear fellow. Disqualification motions are sent to another judge of the same court. None will grant this motion. And if you try to mandamus to the Court of Appeals, they will ream you out. And they will never let you forget it. Or the rest of the bar.”
“I agree,” Alec says.
“Then why make the motion?”
“I have no intention of making the motion.”
“Then what are we talking about?”
“Talking to him,” Alec says. “To Porter. Telling him what we think. In private. In chambers. With the other side there.”
“Okay,” Breen says slowly, giving this thought. “I assume you appreciate how such a meeting might blow up in our faces. So what do you know you’re not telling me?”
“For one thing, the guy himself. Mark Porter. He was a visiting professor at Yale when I was there, and we worked on an article together for the Yale Law Journal. Great guy, very smart, obviously, and very proud. Including pride in his objectivity.”
“The latter surprises me,” Breen says. “We run a book on judges. In every case Porter sits on, he makes his mind up the first thirty seconds. And he never changes it. It’s like a trap door snapping shut. You’d think he knew himself well enough to know what he was doing.”
“He thinks that’s his brilliance,” Alec says. “Not his emotions.”
“What else?”
“First case I worked on was a price-fixing case in the pharmaceutical industry.”
“Pharmex, I know it,” Breen says. “You represented Biogen and won.”
“But afterward, Estes Kefauver conducted a Senate subcommittee investigation of the same facts. Got headlines every day. Screaming ‘Identical Prices, Huge Gross Profits.’ Put enough pressure on the feds to convene a criminal grand jury. We had already won, but ours was a civil case, so there was no double jeopardy. The feds were free to move and felt compelled to do so. The defendants were convicted; the judge was Mark Porter; and the verdict was overturned by the Court of Appeals.”
“I remember this too. The Court of Appeals slapped him down.”
“Big time. Public scolding. For railroading the defendants, effectively depriving them of a jury trial.”
“It was a different case, Alec.”
“Not that different. Big companies charging identical prices. Absolutely no evidence that anyone met or talked or communicated in any way about prices, much less conspired to fix them. Also volumes of evidence showing that net profits were a small fraction of the gross, and prices were the same for the simple reason it was entirely self-defeating for any company to cut them. Not a reason for which anyone sheds tears, but not a conspiracy either. None of that meant anything to our friend, Mark Porter. His mind was shut. He wasn’t ‘going to let the bastards get away with it.’ Our case? This judge? We’re already dead in the water.”
“So what do you tell him?” Breen says. “You were biased in that case, so you’re necessarily biased in this one? He won’t buy that. Your case involved little fungible products: pills of the identical chemical substance. Any seller who cut the price would get all the business, so no other seller could let him do that. Which meant any price cut would be matched; would therefore be self-defeating; would therefore not be anything any sensible seller would do. Turbine generators are a bit larger than pills. And they sure as hell aren’t fungible products.”
“But there are only two companies in this country that make them. Neither of which could allow the other to cut prices without matching the new lower price.”
“I don’t know, Alec. You make this pitch to Mark Porter, you think he politely recuses himself?”
“Yeah. I think he might.”
“His pride, you’re saying. And we take him by surprise. Remind him of the scolding without even mentioning it.”
“That’s the plan,” Alec says.
Breen blows out a big sigh of indecision. “You said you wouldn’t move to disqualify. Do you plan to threaten him with a motion and try to bluff him?”
“No. Wouldn’t do that.”
“Just straight, here’s what we think, and see how he takes it?”
“That’s right,” Alec says.
“If he doesn’t recuse, we’re totally screwed.”
“You think we aren’t screwed anyway? If we let Mark Porter try this case?”
“There’s nothing to lose, you’re saying?”
“Maybe something to be gained,” Alec says. “Even with him.”
“If we tell him we know he’s biased, he’ll lean over backward to avoid it?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“Okay,” Breen says, though not totally convinced.
“So you’re good with this?”
“Sure. Why not? It’ll be fun. I mean, working together.”
“No doubt,” Alec says, meaning it. “Now let’s sell it to our clients.”
“Mine’s risk-averse,” Breen says.
“You know any who aren’t?”
“Yeah,” Breen says with a laugh. “This’ll be fun.”
Sarah is having tea at the Soup Burg with her friend Cissy Madden, a transplant from the UK. Two boys she’s never seen before walk in. One of them is muscular and pimply; the other, good-looking and very tall. She says to Cissy, “Left shoulder, one o’clock.”
Cissy swivels around in the booth and turns back. “Yeah, the tall one,” she says.
“I saw him first.”
“Yeah,” Cissy says, “but I know who he is.” Cissy, raised in London and living in New York for only two years, seems to know everyone.
“Oh?”
“He’s a bit old for you, Sarah. He’s a senior.”
“Where?”
“My brother’s school, Trinity. He’s a big jock there.”
“What the hell’s he doing here?” Sarah whispers.
“Maybe he lives here. Lot of Upper East Siders go to Trinity.”
“We’ve never seen him here before.”
“I dunno, Sarah. Maybe he’s got a game.”
“Then he wouldn’t be eating at the Soup Burg.”
“Jeez,” Cissy says. “If you’re so interested, go ask him.”
“Right. Like I
would.”
“Then I will!” Cissy declares, her wide face brimming with determination.
But looming over them suddenly is the subject of their curiosity. “So you two talking about me?” he says.
“You?” Sarah shrugs, though her red face gives her away. “Your friend. Cissy here thinks she knows him.”
“Oh, yeah?” He drags the other boy over. “This is Mortimer. He hates the name, but it fits him, so it sticks. Looks like a Mortimer, dontcha think?”
“Dunno,” Sarah says. “Not familiar with the species.”
“You never been to the zoo?”
The boy called Mortimer responds to that remark with a smirk, which he casts down on the girls. “We staying in this place or what?”
“Yeah,” Tino says. “Let’s sit here. With your friends. We’ve been invited.”
“These kids? They’re sophomores. That’s Neeko’s sister. A Brit.”
Tino, uninterested in Neeko or his sister, pushes his way in next to Sarah. “Hi,’ he says. “I’m Tino.”
“Sarah,” she says, as if bored with the courtesy of giving her name.
“Don’t mind Mort. Poor man’s got no couth.”
“And you do?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m loaded with it.”
“We were just leaving,” Sarah says. “So, if you don’t mind….”
“Leaving? Your teacup’s half full.”
“I see,” she says, as if learning something important. “You’re an optimist.”
“Always,” he says.
“Your friend wants to leave,” she says, looking at Mort, who’s still standing.
“We going or what?” Mort says.
Tino smiles at Sarah. “Once that man’s got an idea in his head, he’s like a dog with a bone.”
Mort isn’t amused. “What the hell we doing here, man?”
“Sit down, be cool.”
“Shit,” Mort says and heads for the door.
Cissy says, “Big decision, Tino. Robbing the cradle means losing your friend.”
Tino wags his head with regret while sliding out of the booth. “That guy’s too sensitive.” He starts to leave, then comes back. “As for you,” he says, looking at Sarah. “I don’t see any cradle. Do you see a cradle?”
“No,” she says. “I lost it. A very long time ago.”
“So I’ll see you around.”
“I could say, not if I see you first.”
“But you wouldn’t mean that, would you?”
She says nothing, but he holds her look.
“Good,” he says, and leaves.
After a moment, Cissy says, “What are you doing, Sarah?”
All innocence. “I’m just sitting here.”
“That guy’s notorious. He’s slept with every halfway-decent-looking girl his age in Manhattan, so now he’s trawling for younger? And you’re falling for it?”
“What’s his name?” Sarah says. “Last name?”
Cissy sighs. “I knew, but I forgot. He’s Italian.”
“Ask your brother, okay?”
“Boy!” Cissy says disapprovingly.
A little past ten at night. Alec’s alone in his office. Papers encircle him, on the desk, on the floor. The phone rings. He picks up reluctantly.
“’Lo.”
“Alec? It’s Jesse.”
“Hey. How are you?”
“Fine.”
Didn’t sound it. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just interviewed for a job. You got a minute?”
“Where are you?”
“In a phone booth,” she says. “William and something.”
“William and anywhere, you’re a few blocks away. I’m on Water Street. Come on up.”
“You probably want to go home,” she says.
“In which case I wouldn’t have invited you to my office. Let me tell you how to get here.”
“I know Water Street, Alec. Just give me a number.”
He meets her in the elevator hall upstairs.
“Pretty fancy,” she says, whistling at a sea of marble, dark green and amber.
He laughs. “You, what? Called the apartment?”
“Sarah’s fine.” She hands him her parka. “She’s apparently used to your hours.”
“Right.” A sore point.
Through glass doors, into reception, where he hangs up her coat, she stands transfixed. It’s a two-story gallery, now a darkened interior. And in the high windows looms a glittering Manhattan, as if seen from an incoming plane.
“This is breathtaking, Alec!”
“Yeah, is,” he says, leading her down the hall. “You wouldn’t believe we were bribed to move in here.”
“I can see that,” she says. “Giving the place class, like you do. Lawyers in waistcoats and braces.”
“Our uniform,” Alec says with a grin. “I’m in here.”
He opens the door for her. She glances at his upriver view, then down to the circle of papers. “What’s this?”
“New case,” he says. “And new client, at least for me. I’m in Cleveland tomorrow. Something to drink?”
“Thanks, I’m good.” She plunks down on the sofa, spreads her arms out to be admired in her high-collared white cotton blouse and Irish linen skirt. “My uniform. For interviewing.”
“So how’d that go?” he says, settling on the front edge of his desk. “Ten offers?”
“I might have had. But I met with only four people. The last was down here. A guy I think you may know. He at least knows you. Or who you are, anyway. Karol Stash.”
Alec says, “He was Stashinsky in law school.”
“You do know him?”
“Barely. He was in some classes I usually cut. Talked a lot.”
“He still does,” she says.
“Well, he litigates for the dark side.”
“He said you’d say something like that.”
“He tell you why?” Alec asks.
“He said he represents large classes of shareholders injured by your big clients and too poor to bring cases on their own.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“What’s the other way?”
“It’s complicated, and it’s late,” Alec says. “Stashinsky’s made an offer you’re considering? That’s what you want to talk about?”
“Yeah,” she says. “He has. Way more than the other offers.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Apparently, he has a problem kid. Ten-year-old boy who’s already been expelled from two schools. Karol says he was being bullied and fought back, but admits the kid is a bit weird and has a short fuse.”
“Karol?” says Alec.
“He said to call him Karol.”
“This a live-in job?”
“Wow,” she says.
“I’m just asking.”
“There’s only one question here. Would taking this job be awkward? For you? Since you litigate against this guy, I gather. And I was your sister-in-law.”
“You’re still my sister-in-law,” Alec says.
“Okay. So maybe it’s worse.”
Alec shoves to his feet, goes to the swivel chair behind his desk. “Why would you want to work for this guy? He’s a creep.”
“Really? Tall, good-looking. Dresses well. Vest and suspenders, just like you guys.”
She’s baiting him, and he knows it, but says nothing. Looking at Jesse, arms spread on the top of his sofa, thin fabrics on her slender frame, he thinks mainly about how it would feel carrying her—maybe into an idyllic forest, or on a beach, or possibly over the threshold to his bedroom.
Her expressive face shows impatience. “And it’s like I said. He’s almost double the other offers.”
“What’s his wife like?” Alec asks.
“He’s divorced.”
“That a fact.”
Silence.
“So about what I asked you,” Jesse starts to say, “about whether taking this job—”
“Sarah just blur
ted this out,” Alec says, interrupting, “but I’ve since thought about it, and… I think you should move in with us. Look after her. I’m never home, you’re witnessing why. And she’s at school half the day. You’d have the time to look for a job you want.”
Jesse gives a short sad laugh. “Thanks. You’re kind.”
“Not at all. It’s good for all of us.”
Smile and a head shake.
“You won’t do it?” he says, not surprised.
“No.”
“Reason? Real reason?”
She presses her lips together, which highlights their rim.
“Which you don’t wish to tell me,” he says.
“I have told you.”
“Everything?”
“Enough.”
“Leaving me to imagine the rest.”
“I can’t stop you from imagining.”
“You’re hot for Stashinsky.”
Jesse bursts out with a laugh and rises from the sofa. “So,” she says. “Where was it you stashed my coat?”
“You won’t want to stay there, Jess.”
“All I need to know—is there some conflict, moral, ethical, that I’m not seeing? Or some conduct you know about—know, not imagined—that should put me off?”
“No.”
“Okay, then. And if I don’t want to stay there, I’ll leave.”
“May not be that easy,” he says. “A troubled kid? You’ll be good for him, he’ll depend on you, your leaving will do him damage.”
“I’ll deal with it.”
“With Sarah and me, there’ll be no downside to leaving.”
“Ha!” she says.
“You’re suggesting we’d resent it?”
“I’m suggesting I’d rather not talk about it.”
Why can’t I let this go? he thinks, at the same time getting up to confront her. “This has something to do with Carrie?”
“It has everything to do with Carrie,” she says. “Dammit, Alec, we’ve already talked about it. More than I wanted to.”
“And less than there is.”
With a vehement look, she brings her small freckled face up to his. “You loved her, right? Totally. Blissfully. To the exclusion of all others.”
“You know I did.”
“Yes. I saw it. Which makes you and me the worst possible combination. I look like her. I am like her. But I’ll never be her. So, for you, I’ll always be less. And a goddamn constant reminder. Of loss!”