by Mike Farris
When I arrived just before the meeting started, the auditorium was already full. Charlene Nelson saw me enter and approached.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m able to sit up and take a little nourishment.”
She laughed then grabbed my arm and gave it a squeeze. “Good to see you’re still a smartass.”
She returned to her seat, and Alvin called the meeting to order. All but five of the partners were present, one of the five being Tripp Malloy. Nobody had heard anything from Tripp in several days, so Alvin dispatched Steve McGinnis to Tripp’s house to check on him.
“All right,” Alvin said, after Steve had left. “We’ve got a lot to do tonight, so let’s get started. The first item on the agenda is a motion, duly signed by three partners, to expel Bay Muckleroy from the partnership. I’ll read the motion, then we’ll let Muckleroy make a statement. After that, he’ll leave the room, and we’ll have an open discussion, then a vote.”
I stood. “I’d like to remain in the room during the discussion.”
“That’s not the procedure.”
“The partnership agreement doesn’t say anything, one way or the other, on whether I have to leave. It just says I can’t vote.”
“Let him stay, Alvin,” Charlene said. “He may be able to fill in details.”
“We’ve always had the partner being voted on leave during the discussion,” Alvin said.
“Since we’ve only done this once in the firm’s history, and the partner being voted on voluntarily stayed away from that meeting, who’s to say what we’ve always done before?” I said. “I’m not leaving.”
“All right, fine” Alvin said. “It’s your funeral.”
“And where is Tripp?” I asked. “He’s my chief accuser. He should be here to make his charges. Anything else is just hearsay.”
“He doesn’t have to be here,” Oscar said. “This isn’t a courtroom, and the rules of evidence don’t apply. Besides, with all the trouble you’ve caused him…which is why we’re having this vote in the first place…it’ll be a wonder if he hasn’t gone out somewhere and put a bullet through his brain.”
I remained standing, debating whether to respond. If anybody had caused Tripp trouble, it had been himself. And if he really had put a bullet through his brain, he had done far more to put himself in that state than anything I could have ever done. I opted to let it pass, so I simply sat down.
Alvin pulled a document out of a folder and placed it on the lectern. He adjusted the microphone then began reading.
“Whereas Baynham Ronald Muckleroy, a partner at Black West and Merriam, may have revealed confidential, proprietary information to outside sources, and whereas Baynham Ronald Muckleroy may have instigated a Department of Justice raid on Black West and Merriam, and whereas Baynham Ronald Muckleroy may have conspired with a former associate to engage in legal action against Black West and Merriam, and whereas Baynham Ronald Muckleroy may have provided confidential information and documents to that former associate’s attorney, and whereas Baynham Ronald Muckleroy may have violated the confidence of his partners, and whereas such conduct, if true, would constitute a breach of Baynham Ronald Muckleroy’s fiduciary duties to the firm and his partners, we, the undersigned, move under section 8.1 of the Black West and Merriam partnership agreement that Baynham Ronald Muckleroy be expelled from the firm, effective immediately. Signed, Oscar N. Hamilton, R. Tripp Malloy, and Matthew H. Cunningham.”
*
“I listened very carefully to the motion that Alvin read to you,” I said.
I stood at the front of the room, behind the lectern. This was too important to stand at the back and make my partners turn around. I had even worn my best blue suit, with a wine pinstripe, a white button-down oxford, and a red tie—my jury argument suit. I needed to show them that I took this very seriously. The room was deathly silent except for my voice.
“I was struck by two things. One was something I heard, the other was something I didn’t hear.”
I scanned the copy of the motion that Alvin had left on the lectern.
“Let’s start with what I heard. What I heard was that I may have done a lot of things that at least three partners think were bad. Let me repeat those words again. May have. Anytime you hear someone say ‘may have,’ they’re telling you something else. They’re also telling you ‘may not have.’ You can’t have one without the other. So think about that before you decide my future with the firm. No one has told you anything I actually did that violates my fiduciary duty. No one has told you anything I actually did that caused harm to this firm. There is no proof, no evidence. Just a lot of may haves.
“And now let’s focus on what I didn’t hear. I heard that I may have provided confidential information to outside sources. What I didn’t hear is that the supposed confidential information was that partners in this firm were destroying evidence that had been subpoenaed. Since when did illegal conduct become confidential information?
“And I heard that I may have conspired with a former associate to engage in legal action against the firm. But what I didn’t hear was how this firm fired her without cause and then dragged her name through the mud while she lay in a coma in a hospital bed.
“And I heard that I may have provided confidential documents to that associate’s attorney. But what I didn’t hear was that those documents I allegedly provided had already been subpoenaed by that attorney and that the firm had provided an altered version.
“Lastly, I heard that I may have violated my partners’ confidence. But what I didn’t hear was that this firm has no legitimate interest in obstruction of justice.”
I paused for a moment and surveyed my audience. They still seemed to be listening intently, but I couldn’t tell whether I had their agreement. My mouth went dry, my knees weak. I sought out Charlene. She nodded slightly and offered an encouraging smile.
“Let’s assume for the sake of argument that I did everything the motion says I may have done. I don’t want to defend myself by arguing that I didn’t do those things, because I think that begs the question. Whether I did or I didn’t is irrelevant. There’s a much bigger issue that you have to decide with your vote tonight. Not whether I did what I’m accused of, but whether telling the truth and whether exposing obstruction of justice and whether standing up for an associate who has been treated unfairly and whether insisting that the firm maintain its integrity…whether those things justify demanding that a partner withdraw from this firm. If you decide that they do, if you decide that honesty is worse than dishonesty, if you decide that integrity is worse than self-dealing, if you decide that exposing crimes is worse than committing crimes, then I will voluntarily withdraw from the firm.”
I looked around the room, making eye contact with as many of my partners as I could. Some looked me in the eye, others looked away.
“It’s your decision.”
I made the long walk to my seat at the back of the auditorium. I didn’t intend to say anything more, no matter what my accusers might say. I knew some would interpret my failure to deny as an admission, which was fine, since to deny would have been to lie. But I didn’t care. I needed to know what my partners thought of integrity.
Alvin resumed control of the meeting. “All right, let’s throw it open for discussion.”
“What’s to discuss?” Charlene said. “I think Bay made the issue clear, so let’s just vote.”
“I think we need to discuss it first. It’s not as cut and dried as Muckleroy made it sound.”
“Why isn’t it?” Charlene asked. “If he blew the whistle on us, then he blew the whistle on us. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: If people in this firm are engaging in illegal conduct, then we have a duty…a duty…to come forward with what we know. And let’s forget about ethics and honesty for a minute. Let’s talk about self-interest. We all can relate to that. If one of my partners is destroying documents or defrauding clients, that puts the whole firm at risk. If that’s what wa
s going on with Tripp, then I think we owe Bay a vote of thanks, not expulsion.”
I heard murmurs of agreement from the women in the center of the room but saw only frowns from the Management Committee members.
“I think you’ve missed the point, Charlene,” Alvin said. “What happens in this firm stays in this firm. We investigate our own and decide what to do. No single partner takes it upon himself, or herself, to be our conscience. And that’s the issue.”
“I understand that Bay approached the Management Committee and that the committee blew him off,” she said. “In fact, if the things I hear are even close to true, the committee not only sanctioned, but it may even have participated in illegal conduct. When the collective conscience fails, the individual consciences take over. I’ll take Bay Muckleroy’s conscience any day.”
Alvin set his jaw “We can’t have partners going around telling everybody in the outside world the firm’s business. And we can’t have partners helping people sue this firm. I haven’t heard you address that, Charlene.”
“What evidence do you have that Bay helped Meg sue this firm?” she asked.
“Her lawyer is a friend of Muckleroy’s. And we all know about him and Kelly.”
“Know what?” Charlene asked. “Has anybody ever bothered to verify that rumor? That’s for starters. But the real issue is whether it’s even any of our damn business in the first place. I don’t think it is, and it doesn’t prove anything.”
“What about her lawyer?”
“If friends of lawyers in this firm couldn’t sue this firm, or this firm’s clients, no one would ever sue anyone. And just because Bay and Meg’s lawyer are friends doesn’t mean he’s helping them sue us. I want to know where the proof is.”
Alvin stood at the microphone, uncharacteristically silent.
“Is there any proof at all?” Charlene asked. She waited a few minutes, but no one responded. “I didn’t think so. I call for the question.”
“I second that,” a voice said from the middle of the auditorium.
“All in favor?” Alvin said.
Hands went up all across the room.
“That looks like a majority. Now let’s vote.”
*
I stepped off the elevator on the second level of the parking garage and pushed the glass door open. Head down, mind still back up in that auditorium, I had no idea what was happening when a whizzing noise buzzed by my ear. The door suddenly shattered in my hand, showering me with shards of glass. Only then did I hear the echo of the gunshot in the cavernous garage.
I spun and looked at the broken glass, my senses dulled. I stood frozen to the spot for no more than a second—but for what seemed like an hour—while I struggled to make sense of what was happening. Instinctively, self-preservation kicked in. I dropped to the floor just as another shot reverberated from the shadows. Again, I heard the whiz of the bullet then a clink as it slammed into the metal elevator doors.
I peered into the garage, unable to ascertain the source of the shots. All I could see were cars, columns, and shadows. I scrambled across broken glass, unaware of any pain as sharp points pricked at my hands. I pushed the button to call an elevator, praying the doors opened before my assassin homed in on me. Gratefully, the doors yawned open, and I scrambled inside just as a third shot slammed into an ashtray by the door.
Blood trickling down my wrist, I reached up and pressed the close button then scooted back into a corner. As the doors closed, mercifully, I heard the squeal of rubber on concrete and the roar of an engine. I pressed the call button for building security.
Chapter Fifty
On a cloudless night, a black Mercedes slowly pulled into the heart of a copse of trees. It stopped in a clearing near a creek. Its headlights went off, leaving only the dark outline of the car visible.
A light suddenly flashed through the driver’s side window, at the same time a gunshot exploded, piercing the stillness.
Then there was silence again.
*
I stood on Tripp’s front porch, looking like I’d gotten dressed in the dark. The blood on my shirt was a dead giveaway that something more than that was involved. The porch light came on, followed a few seconds later by the sound of the deadbolt being unlatched. Janie opened the door, dressed in her robe, and stared at me.
“Bay, what’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I need to see Tripp.”
“He went to the partners’ meeting. Didn’t you see him there?”
I paused, unsure how much to burden her with my problems. “Do you know what the meeting was about?” I asked.
“Tripp never tells me anything about what’s going on down there.” For the first time, she noticed the blood on my shirt. “Are you hurt? What happened?”
I held out my hand. She took it and examined it closely in the porch light’s glow. “Looks like glass. Were you in an accident?”
“Janie, I need to see Tripp.”
I saw tears fill her eyes. “Bay, please tell me what’s wrong. Is Tripp in some kind of trouble?”
“Has he said anything at all about problems at the firm?”
“No, nothing, but I could tell something was wrong. I tried to get him to talk about it, but he wouldn’t. I just assumed that, whatever it was, y’all would fix it at the meeting.”
“I think he tried to.”
*
Brothers Antoine and Beau Cushingberry, ages eight and eleven, took a shortcut home from the recreation center after an evening of playing basketball. Already hours late getting home, they cut through a grove of trees that bordered a field between their school and their Pleasant Grove neighborhood. A creek cut through the middle of the grove and provided great fun during the wet spring months. It had been a dry winter, so it shouldn’t have been any problem to cross over rather than going down to the street on the far side of the grove.
Beau saw the car first as moonlight glinted off of it. A black Mercedes, deep in the heart of the grove. It looked as if its front tires had gone into the creek. He grabbed his brother’s arm and pointed.
“Hot almighty. Look at that ride.”
“It look like they’s somebody in it.”
“Let’s check it out, man,” Beau said.
“Better be careful.”
With his little brother trailing a few steps behind, Beau approached the car. He had seen dead men before. In his neighborhood, dead men weren’t uncommon. And he could see right away that the white man inside was dead.
“Wait here,” Beau said. It came out in a whisper, as if he were afraid someone would hear him.
Antoine, his face almost white with fear, nodded and came to a dead halt. Beau kept walking toward the car. At last he stood by the window and looked in.
The man was skinny, almost sickly looking. He wore a suit, which Beau could tell was expensive. The man’s hair looked heavily sprayed, nothing out of place in front. But the hair on the back of his head stood straight up, pressed between the back of his head and the deep red headrest. A splatter of blood covered most of the car’s rear window. One of the man’s hands was in his lap, a gun still in it. The other arm sprawled across a laptop computer on the seat beside him.
“Shee-it!” Beau said.
Chapter Fifty-One
After a late night talking to the police, the phone woke me earlier than I would have liked. Rufus growled his annoyance before settling back into slumber. I didn’t have that luxury. I couldn’t just growl and go back to sleep or the darn thing would never stop ringing. I looked at the clock—6:47 a.m. I grabbed the phone, expecting still more bad news.
“Have you seen the morning paper?” Robin asked.
“I rarely see it before I wake up.”
“You were asleep?” She sounded incredulous.
“It’s still dark outside.”
“Bay, the world will pass you by while you’re in bed, if you let it.”
“I guess whether that’s good or bad depends on who you’re in
bed with.”
“You still sleeping with that dog?”
I laughed. “Okay. Point taken.”
“There are already people up and out there thinking and you’re just lying there in neutral. Now, get the paper, Scratch, then call me back. There’s news.”
“But I only just reported getting shot at.”
“The sun doesn’t revolve around you, darlin’—you were shot at?—there’s other news. Get the paper.”
I did as I was told, stopping only to put on a thick robe and to start the coffeemaker. Rufus took advantage of my absence to burrow his way under the covers in my place. It was still too early and too cold for his morning constitutional.
When I returned to the kitchen with the paper, I opened it on the table and picked up the phone. Before I could dial, I saw why Robin had called. Tripp Malloy’s picture stared at me from the bottom right of the front page, just under the headline that said:
DALLAS LAWYER FOUND DEAD, APPARENT SUICIDE
The article described how two young boys had found his body behind the wheel of his Mercedes in Pleasant Grove, shot once through the mouth. I didn’t think Tripp knew where Pleasant Grove was, much less how to get there. It seemed like a strange place for a knight from Camelot to fall on his sword.
Robin picked up on the first ring. “What do you think?” she asked.
“The last time I saw him, he was pretty upset. He was also drunk.”
“I called a friend at the medical examiner’s office, and he said it doesn’t look like alcohol was involved.”
“So a sober Tripp Malloy killed himself? That I don’t buy. Besides, he as much as told me this would happen.”