Justice Hunter (15 page)
D
ebbie still wasn’t at her cubicle, and that was a bit unusual for a Monday morning. The plain wall clock outside Hunter’s office read 8:25 a.m. Normally, by now Debbie would’ve already been at her desk for close to an hour or so, getting a jumpstart on the week ahead. Hunter’s first thought was a commuting delay, which happened every so often. Typically a car wreck or construction break, which pretty much counted as construction these days, down on the other side of the Ben Franklin Bridge, wreaked havoc on the rush-hour commuters. He scanned the other dozen or so desks, only to find a couple of the other New Jersey contingency pounding away on their keyboards, bracing for the torrent of work and stress about to be unleashed upon them by their respectively assigned attorneys.
It was possible that Debbie had come down with something. But in the five years they’d been working together, she’d only been out sick once. In Hunter’s mind, that left just one other possibility: marital trouble. Debbie’s husband, Kevin, an immature biker type, worked as an auto mechanic at the Chrysler dealership along auto row in Turnersville, New Jersey. Hunter only knew the location because the dealership was on the Black Horse Pike, one of the most popular alternate routes down to the Jersey shore. That stretch of South Jersey highway was also responsible for 90 percent of the points on Dillon’s driver license. Once in a while the pair hit the Atlantic City casinos, which in Dillon’s eyes was just another excuse to break the speed barrier in his M3 BMW coupe. Dillon relished the opportunity to put on his black leather racing gloves, which looked ridiculous. Debbie and Kevin lived a few towns over from the dealership in Hammonton, one of those incestuous little South Jersey communities with a Main Street, a shit-kicking sheriff, and dilapidated
American Gothic
stylized homes. The semi-rural town’s claim to fame was the distinction of being the blueberry capital of the world.
Kevin was a character, no doubt about that. And Debbie probably could’ve done much better for herself. Looks-wise, he was well built and had a face
like
Patrick Swayze’s—
like
being the operative word. With his rolled-up white tees and Levi 501s, he looked like he’d just stepped off the set of an off-Broadway production of
Grease.
He was a Harley guy, with a nasty boozing problem and a hot head to go with it. Debbie never came straight out and admitted it, but Hunter was pretty sure Kevin hit her when the world looked especially bleak—like when the Eagles lost Super Bowl XXXIX to New England.
Hunter sipped on a piping hot cup of Starbucks coffee as he powered on his office desktop. Mindful of Murphy’s Law, he was anxious to get the Vito’s brief into a messenger’s hands before lunch. It was due today, and he still hadn’t laid eyes on the final product. He reminded himself they were in good shape, based in large part on what he had seen yesterday. Hunter quickly dialed Stephanie’s extension, but she didn’t answer.
What time would someone like Stephanie get in?
She could’ve been one of those overly confident associates who strolled in casually at nine on the knuckle.
That has to be it. It makes sense.
Hunter listened to his messages and rifled through the mostly unimportant e-mails that had accumulated in his inbox over the weekend. There was nothing else from Mancini.
Apparently.
Since the last time he checked, there had been a dozen or so firm-wide e-mails concerning Andy. Hunter regretted not making it back to the hospital last night. He did call that morning, though. Andy’s wife Pam had received promising news from the doctors, which was a huge relief for everybody. Apparently there was also a break in the investigation being led by Detective Risotto. Hunter scrolled down to the most recent e-mail from the office administrator, sent early that morning. The e-mail explained that Andy had improved even more throughout the night and listed the hospital’s visitor hours. The firm had arranged for a shuttle for anyone who wanted to head over to the hospital during lunch. The phone startled Hunter. The caller ID read: Stephanie Diaz.
It’s about time!
“Hunter Gray.”
“Hi. It’s Stephanie.” Hunter immediately detected a sense of urgency in her voice.
“Everything okay?”
“Actually, no.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve already started fixing it. So please don’t panic.”
“Fixing what? Stephanie, I need to see the final version of the brief stat.”
“That’s actually…”
“Don’t tell me.”
“I swear I don’t know how it happened. This has never happened to me before.” She paused before dropping the bomb. “The files were corrupted. The original and the backup. It’s impossible,” she added, seething with anger and frustration.
“Don’t panic.” Hunter was getting ready to lose it.
“Look, here’s the good news. This all happened late last night. That’s when I intended on proofing the final version and printing it out. Fortunately, I caught it then. So I’ve been up all night reconstructing it.”
“Why didn’t you call me? What were you thinking?”
“I didn’t want you to be pissed.”
“Didn’t you realize I’d be pissed either way? This is nuts.”
“I know. Look, give me another hour, tops. I think I can have something even better than yesterday’s draft by then.”
“One hour. E-mail me the file as soon as you finish.”
“Got it.”
A hurried click was audible on the other end of the line. Hunter just sat there, feeling entirely powerless. He kicked himself for delegating out such a crucial task in the first place. Yet now, thanks to a fleeting interval of laziness, his chance of making partner, possibly even his career at Whitman, was in the hands of a bright yet unproven associate. The day had barely started, and he was already wishing it were over.
A wave of panic started to swell. And Hunter needed a distraction—fast. So he diverted his attention to a few random news sites and tried to enjoy a leisurely sip of coffee. It was futile, though. The anxiety continued to smolder. As he sat there in escapist mode, the constant awareness of what he was trying to do, ignore the panic, only made it worse. He must have been stuck in that state of anxiety limbo for a half hour or so before a voice startled him out of his trance.
“Dude, what’s going on?”
Jumpy, Hunter turned his gaze toward the door. Dillon stood there, Red Bull in one hand, redwell file in the other, looking slightly disheveled. His creased, white dress shirt was partially untucked and his necktie loose. Hunter saw right away that Dillon’s eyes were as red as a bloodhound’s, not entirely atypical for a Monday morning or any morning these days, for that matter. Dillon was just one piss-drunk night away from AA.
Hunter tried to play it cool, more for his sake than anything else. “Hey. I was just catching up on some news.” Hunter stared past Dillon to Debbie’s cubicle. She still wasn’t there.
“I don’t know how you read that shit. Between Wall Street and the presidential campaigning, it’s unbearable. Same old crap over and over again. Sensationalized smut. And the Americans just eat it up, waiting to be spoon fed their very next thought.”
“We didn’t wake up on the wrong side of the bed today, did we?”
“Okay. So I’m a little bitter. Our best friend, Andy Smith. You might’ve heard of him. He was beaten to a pulp yesterday morning, and we’ve got to endure another week in this shithole.” Dillon slyly looked over his shoulder to check for partners in earshot. “Coffee break? The usual?” So long as they weren’t in court, Dillon, Andy, and Hunter typically headed down to Starbucks on Monday mornings. It had become a ritual of sorts. They swapped stories about their weekend as they eased into the inevitably brutal workweek that lay ahead.
“I think I’ll pass,” replied Hunter, holding up his coffee.
“Dude. What the fuck’s your issue?”
As it turned out, the break Hunter finally agreed to take, even if it meant focusing on Andy’s mugging and Dillon’s philandering, turned out to be exactly what Hunter needed. They were welcome distractions from the meshugas, as Hunter’s father used to say, associated with the Vito’s case. He and Dillon both speculated about the identity of Andy’s attackers. And despite the evidence presented by Hunter, Dillon seriously doubted the Mafia was involved in “something so tangential to their typical business interests.” He thought it was a stretch and that the violent beating was an entirely unprovoked, random act of Philadelphia violence. Hunter had just started to tell Dillon about the e-mail fiasco with Mancini when Todd Stevens queued up.
“Just look at that fucking ape,” Dillon observed.
Hunter really didn’t want anything to do with him. As far as he was concerned, Stevens was an arrogant rainmaker at the firm who just so happened to date his ex, Monica Fine. That’s it. Hunter grinned diplomatically. “We should probably head back.”
“He’s such a pompous ass, though.” Dillon shook his head. “Clueless to boot. He’s probably got no idea I’m hooking up with his girl.”
“You’re probably right. But didn’t you mean to say
hooked
up, past tense? That was only a one-time thing, wasn’t it?”
“Of course,” replied Dillon insincerely.
“Dillon.”
“All right, Dad.”
“You’re a real degenerate. You know that?”
Dillon grinned devilishly, as an uptight stockbroker-type in suspenders begrudgingly held open the door for them. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I
t had been over an hour since Stephanie promised the final draft. Hunter considered going down to her office but eventually decided against it. He hadn’t heard from her, which was a good sign as far as he was concerned. Had she hit a snag, assuredly she would have contacted him by now. The break with Dillon actually helped him to clear his head a bit. But just when he was starting to make some real headway on the Vito’s case, his concentration was interrupted by the sound of a voice buzzing in on his office phone. The direct page originated from Debbie’s desk. Hunter responded on speakerphone.
“Debbie.”
“It’s actually Loretta,” came the reply in a raspy voice. Loretta was a fixture in the office, and she also happened to be Dillon’s paralegal—a career paralegal in her late forties with a pasty complexion and oily, light brown hair. Her most identifying characteristic was that she was a ravenous chain smoker, which explained the gruff voice. Come hell or high water, she could be found outside in front of the building during every conceivable break “choking on a bone,” as Dillon liked to say.
“Hi, Loretta. Any news on Debbie this morning?”
“No. Sorry, hon. I just go where I’m told,” she said with a subtle hint of cynicism and civil disobedience. Employees like Loretta were generally treated like chattel by the non-equity partners and business-school types in human resources and finance, so they liked to make a point of staying silent and watching as the mistakes were made. Although they had more experience than anyone, they just kept their mouths shut. That’s what was expected, simply because they had a less-prestigious title, ranked lower on the totem pole. “HR sent me. Told me to do my letters and everything for Dillon and stay here to answer your phones.” Most attorneys still dictated their letters and memoranda to the various files they worked on.
“Sounds good.”
“Anyway, you’ve got somebody from Judge Russo’s chambers downstairs in the lobby waitin’ to see you. Been there for about fifteen minutes, according to Markita.”
“You didn’t say Russo, did you?”
“Yes, I did,” whipped Loretta as if she was taunting him. Hunter was convinced all the support secretly had it in for the lawyers. To them, they were all just a bunch of spoiled brats.
“Shit. Tell Markita I’ll be right down.”
Hunter, slightly winded, tried to stay composed. Judge Russo’s law clerk, stocky with a baby face and crew cut, was engrossed in the lobby copy of
The Legal Intelligencer
, the leading daily law publication in Pennsylvania. Hunter didn’t have the foggiest what the clerk was there for. He figured it related to the Mediacast case. And then it hit him with the force of an adversary’s crafty pretrial motion. What if Russo’s messenger was here about the sanctions order?
Did Russo send someone to exact his pound of flesh?
“I’m Hunter Gray. Are you here to see me?”
“Mr. Gray,” he replied condescendingly as he turned his head and got to his feet.
Mr. Gray,
thought Hunter to himself.
Who does this little shit think he is?
“Very swanky digs, I must say. I’m impressed. In the spirit of full disclosure, I should concede this is my first time here.” He tried to sound wise beyond his years, which was probably mid- to late-twenties. Instead he came across as a pompous ass.
Do you want a fucking tour?
“Right. So how can I help you?”
“Of course,” he said as he tinkered with his nostril, giving it a little public pick. “The judge is quite perturbed about what he’s deemed as your brazen disregard for his scheduling.”
“If this is about last week, I sincerely apologize. Please convey to the judge that it won’t happen again.”
“Right,” he answered smugly. “I wish it were that simple.”
“I’m not sure what you’re driving at.”
“No need to be coy, Mr. Gray.”
This guy should thank his lucky stars he’s the judge’s clerk.
“You were due in chambers this morning at nine sharp.”
“Is this some sort of joke or something? I never got notice of a conference.”
“Are you accusing me of not fulfilling my obligations?”
“I’m not accusing anyone. I just never got the notice.”
“Admittedly, the conference was called a bit late in the day on Friday. And for that reason, in addition to faxing,” he said, as he held up what purported to be a fax transmission report, “I personally called your office. I had the pleasure of conversing with your paralegal, a very nice young lady by the name of Debbie Jones. She took down the details and went so far as to provide your mobile phone, where I was forced to leave a message.” Hunter had checked his voicemail over the weekend and never got a message. Yet the fact of the matter was that the clerk sounded credible.
What would be his incentive to make something like this up?
“I can assure you I never received any notice—”
“Save it for the judge, counselor,” interrupted the clerk. “We expect to see you this afternoon at one o’clock. In chambers. I urge you to join us this time and perhaps make a list of anyone with access to your personal messages.”
“I’ll be there,” he assured the little prick as he rifled through his memory for anyone with permission to check his calls. The only person who even remotely came to mind was Dillon. Once in a blue moon Dillon used to prank him by hacking into his mailbox, getting off on guessing his passwords.
“Good,” he replied as he turned to walk off. “Oh, yes. And I almost forgot. Please bring any and all documentation related to the payment of sanctions. The judge is curious, shall we say, to know where
your firm
is with that.”
“Of course.”
I’m completely screwed—as in fired.
Hunter wiped his face dry with paper towels as he stood over the sink in the luxurious office bathroom on one of the associate floors. “You look like crap,” Hunter said under his breath, staring at his own reflection in the mirror and considering possible solutions to the sanctions issue. All of them led to the same road—his legal career at Whitman being flushed down the toilet. He pulled himself together before heading back to his office.
“Everything okay, hon?” asked Loretta, as he passed. She sounded concerned but was more of a Chatty Cathy than anything else. She probably had the e-mail to the other paralegals and secretaries drafted already. She was just waiting to fill in the subject line.
“Swell. Thanks,” replied Hunter sarcastically, shutting her down. He stopped in front of Debbie’s desk, where Loretta sat temporarily. “Did I miss anything?”
“Nah.”
Hunter caught a whiff of the cigarette odor emanating from her direction. Even if something did happen, such as Mancini dropping by for the inevitable showdown, she would’ve never known anyway. She was probably downstairs the whole time gabbing with the smoking posse. “Any word on Debbie?”
“Nope.”
“All right. Stay tuned, though. I’ve got an important brief I’m finishing up. Before lunch, I’ll need you to help get the exhibits and copies together and get it into the hands of a messenger. Give Jack Rabbit Messengers a call and give them a heads up.”
“Will do.”
Hunter caught a glimpse of Debbie’s desk, which was in a relative state of disarray. “And sorry to be a pain. But sort through that stuff,” added Hunter, gesturing toward the papers. “In particular, check for any messages or faxes from Judge Russo’s chambers. It would’ve been from Friday.”
“Got it.”
“Thanks. And unless it’s a partner or it’s related to the Vito’s Pizza case, I’m unavailable.” Hunter’s door closed behind him, leaving him alone to strategize his next move.