The Inglorious Arts

by Alan Hruska

  “Harvey…” Alec says into the phone, “Let me sleep on this.”

  “You do that. Me? I’m just gonna sit here all night pondering who you might be doing that with.”

  “Whom,” Alec says reflexively, hanging up, paying attention to Jesse. “Where’d you come in?”

  “On Sarah,” Jess says. “Or maybe just the sound of your voice, I don’t know.”

  “Light sleeper.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Sometimes. What the hell’s happening?”

  Alec goes to the refrigerator, looks in. “Want something?”

  “Information.”

  He shuts the refrigerator door, leans against it. “If I tell you, you’re in danger. If I don’t, you’re pissed off.”

  “I’m already pissed off,” she says. “What’s going on? Something Tino told you, right? The evil uncle? He’s threatening Sarah? She’s rich, is that it? The uncle wants her money? So… what’s his—” Her next thought comes with a muffled scream. “He’s going to kidnap her?”

  “That didn’t take long.”

  “That’s it?” she says. “That’s what Tino said?”

  “He suspects it. With good reason. Sal asked him to do pretty much the equivalent, and he refused.”

  “Jesus!” she says, thrusting spread fingers into her hair. “What kind of world…?”

  “Can get primitive, the one Sarah was born into.”

  “Tino told you this plan, good for him. But now he’s at risk too.” She pulls out one of the kitchen stools and plunks down on it. “So you’ll call the police? The district attorney?”

  “Wouldn’t stop Sal Angiapello. Might even help him. Would certainly prevent Tino from helping us.”

  Jesse’s stare seems to go right through him. “Okay,” she says. “You want a tail? Now I’ll take the job you’ve been offering. But she has to be told.”

  Alec shakes his head, more in resignation than denial. “This is so damn unfair to her.”

  “Otherwise it’s impossible, Alec. If she’s not aware of the danger—”

  “I get it, and agree,” Alec says with distaste. “And we have to bring in Tino. She can’t be allowed to go wandering off with him.”

  Jesse is still plotting. “There’s another solution. She could give away all her money. To some causes a lot better than the Mafia.”

  “Someday,” Alec says. “Maybe that’s what she’ll want. Not now.”

  “What’s wrong with now?”

  “It’s too much money.”

  “Like… tens of millions?” Jesse says, as if a figure that high would be preposterous.

  “Ten times that,” Alec says. “When she’s your age, she can decide what to do with it. She’s too young to know enough now.”

  “Hundreds of millions?”

  “And growing.”

  “I really think you should go to the police,” Jesse says. “They’ll give her protection. Or go to court. You’re a lawyer. Get some sort of order against this creep.”

  Alec gives a sad laugh. “Believe me, I’ve been through this. When Phil Anwar was hounding your sister and me, I remember the advice I got. ‘Sure, go get an order. When he violates it, they’ll protect you. Of course, by then you won’t need protection; you’ll be dead.’ ”

  Jesse looks up in disbelief.

  Alec says, “We need protection, we provide it ourselves.”

  “So you want my help?”

  “Of course. I need your help. But the risk to you is not small. If Sal wants to snatch, he could snatch both of you. So I’m bringing Harvey in.”

  “He was with you and Carrie in Maine. Fighting the bad guys.”

  “And got shot, yeah.”

  “Right,” Jesse says. “ That’s the kind of world this is, where ordinary people get shot.”

  “Nothing ordinary about Harvey Grand,” Alec says.

  “Carrie liked him.”

  “They were good friends, yes.” Alec takes off his jacket. “So, after all, you’re here for a while more.”

  “I guess I am.”

  “We’ll speak to Sarah in the morning.”

  “Good,” she says.

  They stand for a very awkward few moments without speaking.

  “Night, Jess.”

  “Night, Alec.”

  “Those pajamas….”

  “You don’t have to say it.”

  “It’s just—”

  “I know what it is,” she says. “I have a bathrobe. Next time I’ll put it on.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Honorable Charles B. Metzner. A real judge in real chambers, who is known to do serious work there. The man is not physically imposing, with his thin shoulders and slightly stooped posture. He also looks a bit older than his sixty-one years, with his gray-streaked hair, lined face, pale blue eyes. And his intellect is not in your face. He just knows what the hell he’s doing, thinks Alec, listening to Judge Metzner take charge of the case.

  “All right,” the judge says, “you’ve got two weeks to work out a discovery schedule. I suggest you not waste time in a case like this with interrogatories. Document production comes first, then depositions. Final witness lists and trial briefs to follow. If you can’t agree on a schedule or resolve objections to document requests, take your differences before Magistrate Koulas. I’ll hear appeals from his decisions—but let me tell you, your arguments better be good. I’m giving you six months to get it all done. Trial immediately thereafter. It’s a complex case—I understand that—I’m allowing four weeks. No adjournments, no extensions. That’s the program. We’re all going to have to live with it.”

  Dead silence.

  The judge smiles. “Freddy? You represent the plaintiff. You have anything to say?”

  “Sounds good, Judge.”

  “Caddy? Alec?”

  They look at each other. Caddy speaks. “They can do it, we can do it.”

  The judge looks to Alec, who nods.

  “Okay,” says Judge Metzner. “Freddy, you draft the order, send it around. No objections, it’ll be signed. Good to see you fellows. Looking forward to this.”

  Out on the street, Cadigan Breen signals Alec toward a bench in Foley Square Park. Thumping down on it, Alec says, “We need a way to derail this train.”

  “Yeah, well,” Breen says, “bigger train’s coming.”

  “The 125 other utilities are tired of waiting? They’re going to sue too?”

  “That disaster will inevitably follow,” Caddy says, still standing.

  “So you’re saying what? The Department of Justice, Antitrust Division?”

  Breen grimaces. “Them’s the ones, yeah.”

  “They’re going to sue us now?”

  “Any day,” Breen says.

  “Criminal case or civil?”

  “That appears to be their question. Unfortunately, their only question. I got the call as I was leaving for court.”

  “Call from whom?” Alec asks.

  “A friend. Inside. It’s better you don’t know who.”

  “Can he get us a meeting?”

  “Doubt it. He’s too low.”

  Alec’s thinking fast. “The head of the Antitrust Division—Eric Stapleton—you know him?”

  “No.”

  “He’s from Chicago,” Alec says. “Stigler would know him.”

  Breen looks shocked. “You’ve got George Stigler?”

  “Just happened. Sorry. Was going to tell you today.”

  “No, it’s great. Stigler! He could win the case for us.”

  “You know… beating the government… not really the issue right now. What we’ve got to do is to stop them from suing.”

  “Any ideas?” Breen asks.

  “You mean, apart from telling them what a lousy case they have?”

  “Be nice if that could work.”

  “Be nice if that were true,” Alec says.

  “I thought you were a believer.”

  “Still in the hope phase, Caddy. Be nice if I’d had time to l
earn the actual facts.”

  Ben Braddock sits back with a caustic expression. “You know, until now, we had some time to save our client. The public utilities knew that if Mid-Atlantic won, they all would get the benefit of it. Under the law, we’d be stopped from protesting our innocence again, and the only issue in the other utilities’ cases would be how much we owed them. So they were content to sit and wait for the Mid-Atlantic case to end. Now, if the government sues, up go the floodgates. Especially if the DOJ files a criminal complaint. Damn public utilities will stream into court. PUCs won’t let them hold back. And Allis-Benoit will float dead in the water. Belly-up before any suit goes to trial.” Nothing new in that prediction, but Braddock, with his heels rammed against the top edge of his desk, his legs tented in black flannel, delivers it like a pronouncement of doom.

  Alec had come into Ben’s office upon returning from court. Frank Macalister, who has joined them, says, “You or Caddy going to call Stapleton?”

  “I’ll call,” Alec says. “I think he’ll take it. And give us the meeting.”

  “He may be too pissed,” Braddock says. “That you even know about it.”

  “Yeah, he’s likely to be pissed. That’s one of the reasons he’s likely to see me.”

  “Because he thinks you’ll give up your source,” Ben notes. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “And since I’ve no idea who the source is, it’s a good reason for me to go down there, not Caddy.”

  “Caddy won’t like that,” Mac says.

  “I think he trusts me, and he should. Both our clients want the government to stand down. And Allis-Benoit has the better arguments.”

  “So what else you got?” Braddock asks. “To get through the door?”

  “Stapleton is new,” says Alec. “Got there less than a month ago. This thing has been bouncing around the Antitrust Division for more than a year. Someone there jumped him. Talked him into it. Why wouldn’t he want a free look at the other side before taking the plunge? Starting a fight with two of the largest companies in the world? The only two domestic suppliers of turbine generators? When the only people egging you on have already been turned down by the prior head of the division?” Alec looks from Mac to Ben. “I think he’ll see me.”

  “You’ll bring Stigler?” Mac asks.

  “No,” Alec says. “At this stage, it’s more useful to use his name than to have him there. And I don’t think he’d be happy being there.”

  “You going alone?”

  “I’ll bring Bob Curtis.”

  “The CEO of the fucking company?” Mac says. “Whatta you going to do? Have him cry on Stapleton’s desk?”

  “Pretty much,” Alec says.

  Crossing the suite to his own office, Alec tells his secretary, “Get Caddy Breen.” She’s a large young woman, blond, who looks like she’s from Minnesota, and is. Her name is Sweeta Gottsen. She’s saving to go to law school. Alec has been blessed with wonderful secretaries, and she’s the best of them.

  Breen is on in two minutes, and Alec lays out the plan. Breen says, “Not sure I like this, you going alone.”

  “Going first is all it is. And Caddy, this is the Antitrust Division. For what we both want, Allis, the weaker company, has the stronger position.”

  “Of course. But why not go together?”

  “Because they’re charging us with a conspiracy, Caddy. We can act together when we’re talking about how to litigate. Not necessarily when the subject is a possible deal for their not bringing the case.”

  “You’re going down there to deal?” Breen says, now getting aroused.

  “In a manner of speaking, of course,” Alec says. “But I’m going to say things you don’t want to hear, okay?”

  “Really? Maybe I should hear them now.”

  “You should not hear them,” Alec says firmly. “Ever. But listen to me. There’s no way I can undermine your position, even if I wanted to. And I don’t.”

  “You could take a plea to a criminal indictment.”

  “I won’t do that.”

  “I have your word on that?”

  “Absolutely,” Alec says. “They want to go criminal, there’s no deal at all.”

  Long silence before Breen speaks. “It’s a big ask.”

  “Not if you trust me.” Alec says.

  Another long silence. “Okay,” Breen says. “But you call me first thing. Before you even get to the airport.”

  Alec’s next call is to Larry Rilesman, who had been waiting impatiently.

  “It must’ve been some meeting,” he says.

  “With Metzner? No. Scheduling. Took five minutes. What delayed my getting back to you was the news coming out of the DOJ.” Alec briefly summarizes the morning’s discussions and plan.

  “I’m in total agreement,” Rilesman says. “We should get down there as quickly as possible. You and me, right? I expect to be part of this.”

  “Sure,” Alec says.

  “Do you know Eric Stapleton?”

  “Never met him, no.”

  “But you think he’ll see us?”

  “Yeah,” Alec says. “When he knows who we’re bringing.”

  “Bringing?” Rilesman says after a pause. “Who are we bringing?”

  “Bob Curtis.”

  “What?” Rilesman says. “You outta your fucking mind? CEOs do not go to Washington, hat in hand, to see the head of one division of the Department of Justice.”

  “Vale of tears is what I had in mind, but hat in hand will do.”

  “Would you be fucking serious?” Rilesman is now almost screaming. “On top of everything else, Bob Curtis will not be good at this.”

  “Then it’ll be my job to make him better.”

  “Your job? No one prepares the CEO of this company but me.”

  “Okay,” Alec says.

  “Not ‘okay.’ I just told you. He’s not going.”

  “You want to keep your job, Larry?”

  “You threatening me?”

  “Not at all. I’m advising you. General counsel of nothing is not a job. And if Bob’s not in Stapleton’s office with us, nothing is what your company will be.”

  Eric Stapleton seems to have been waiting for Alec’s call.

  “You know who I am?” Alec says.

  “I know who you are, who you represent, and why you’re calling.”

  “Then you must know I was tipped.”

  Stapleton laughs. “Since I was the one who tipped you, yes. Or I at least in effect tipped Caddy Breen. A former associate of his works here. And I told him not to tell anyone, especially his ex-boss. The fact he did tells me two useful things. I can’t trust this young man, which, of course, is what I suspected when I told him. But Caddy trusts you, which means maybe I can as well.”

  “I’d like to come down to see you,” Alec says. “With Bob Curtis. We have things to say you’ll want to hear now rather than later.”

  “You mean before we sue?”

  “Yes.”

  “The complaint is already prepared, Alec. And signed. By me.”

  “That complaint was prepared more than a year ago.”

  Stapleton laughs. “Actually, there are two complaints.”

  “One civil, one criminal?” Alec asks

  “Correct. And what I’m still considering is whether to file one or both.”

  “I think you have other issues,” Alec says.

  “Which you’d like to tell me about. So. How’s day after tomorrow, 10 a.m.?”

  “We’ll be there.”

  “Good. I was holding the time for you. Or, of course, Caddy. That it’s you tells me a third thing.”

  “I won’t disappoint you. Or him.”

  When Alec arrives home, Harvey Grand is perched like a Buddha on a kitchen stool while his keen eye keeps tabs on Jesse at the stove, stirring what appears to be a pot of stew.

  “I thought we were going to order something,” Alec says.

  “So I did,” Jesse says. “And then I cooked it.”

&n
bsp; Alec leans over the pot. “Is that lamb stew?”

  “I thought with three men, they’d probably want to eat meat.”

  Harvey uncoils and joins the inspection. He’s a tall, square, coffee-skinned man—square in the way offensive linemen are square. His features are heavy and thick, but Harvey dresses in fine clothes and moves with grace. And nothing fazes him. He deals in catastrophes—with a job description that includes calming everyone down. “I wasn’t planning on dinner, but this?” he says, peering into the pot, “Irresistible! You wouldn’t also, by any chance, have dropped in some potatoes?”

  “Stew without potatoes?” Jesse exclaims. “What do you think this is? Low-grade cuisine?”

  Alec says, “Glad you two have gotten so convivial.”

  “You’re twenty minutes late,” Harvey says. “What did you expect? We’d wait for introductions?”

  “You’re even beginning to sound alike,” Alec says. Then to Jesse, “You’ve talked to Sarah?”

  “Most of the afternoon,” Jesse says. “While we cooked up this brew. She and Tino are in her room.”

  “She okay?”

  “You’d better talk to her.”

  “Right,” Alec says. “Let’s do this in the living room.”

  Jesse rounds up Sarah and Tino, and the assemblage, including Harvey, seat themselves in the room and look to Alec to start.

  “For what we know, we can thank Tino,” Alec says, and gives a nod in his direction. “He was alarmed by his meeting with Sal, which means we ought to be. You understand that, Sarah?”

  “Of course,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean we have to call up the National Guard.”

  “National Guard,” Alec says. “Good thought. Since Sal Angiapello is a man with an army. But for what this man wants from you, my love, he doesn’t need more than a couple of men. Which is why Harvey is here. He doesn’t have an army. But he has the people we need.”

  “You’re going to have me watched, aren’t you?”

  “You have a better idea?”

  “Yeah,” Sarah says. “Let me take care of myself. Anyone comes near me I don’t like, I start running and screaming.”

  Harvey gives a grunt. “Okay,” he says, “let’s play that out. Best-case scenario. You’re on Madison Avenue. Lots of people. A van pulls up. Three guys jump out. Two lift you into the van, while the other one treats you to a nose full of chloroform. This being New York, we have a reasonable chance everyone keeps walking, no one even calls 911. But if they do, by the time the cop cars arrive, you’re in another vehicle, maybe already in a box, halfway to some private airport, where Sal’s jet will fly you to his island in the Ionian Sea. Where he can do anything to you he wants.”