Mistress of Justice (20 page)

This was an executive of McMillan Holdings, which was Hubbard, White’s biggest client. The company was Burdick’s client alone and he took home personally about three million a year from McMillan.

“Trouble?” Burdick asked quickly.

“Apparently not. Wendall hasn’t approached them about the merger.”

“Good,” Burdick said. “He doesn’t even know the board’s meeting in Florida this week or if he does he hasn’t made any rumblings about going down there.”

Burdick had assumed that Clayton wouldn’t waste the time trying to sway McMillan since it was so firmly in the antimerger court.

“But the board’s been talking among themselves. They’re wondering if the merger’d be good or bad for them.”

“Bill’s wife knows that?”

Vera nodded matter-of-factly. “She’s sleeping with one of the board members: Frank Augustine.”

Burdick nodded. “I wondered who he was seeing.”

Vera said, “I think you have to get down to Florida and talk to them. As soon as possible. Hold their hands, rally them against the merger. Warn them about Clayton.”

“I’ll go this weekend. It’ll be a good excuse to miss
Clayton’s party on Sunday. Last thing in the world I want to do is spend time in that pompous ass’s house.”

Vera smiled. “I’ll go,” she said cheerfully. “One of us should be there, I think. Just to keep him a little unsettled.”

And, Burdick thought as the elevator door opened, you’re just the woman to do it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ms. Lockwood:

We cannot thank you enough for the opportunity to review your demo tape
.

Taylor hurried to her apartment from her building’s mailroom, clutching three return envelopes from three record companies. She’d called Dudley and told him that she wanted to change before seeing him for dinner at his club in Midtown and that she’d meet him there.

As she walked down the hallway she fantasized about the contents of the envelopes.

It so captivated the initial screener that he sent it to our A&R department, where it made the rounds in record (forgive the pun) time. Your masterly reinterpretations of the old standards in juxtaposition with your own works (masterpieces in fusion) make the tape itself worthy of production, but we would propose a three-record project of primarily original material
.

Enclosed you will find our standard recording contract, already executed by our senior vice president, and, as an advance, a check in the amount of fifty thousand dollars. A limousine will be calling for you.…

Not able to wait until she got inside, she ripped the envelopes open with her teeth, all of them at once. The torn-off tops lay curled like flat yellow worms on the worn carpet behind her as she read the form rejection letters which were a far cry from the one that her imagination had just composed.

The one that said the most about the music business, she decided, began with the salutation “Dear Submitter.”

Shit.

Taylor stepped out of the elevator and tossed the letters into the sand-filled ashtray next to the call button.

Inside her apartment, she saw a blinking light on her answering machine, and pushed the replay button as she stripped off her coat and kicked her shoes in an arc toward the closet.

Her machine had a number of messages:

Ralph Dudley, giving her the address of his club again.

Sebastian, confirming dinner tomorrow.

Reece, confirming dinner on Saturday.

Danny Stuart, Linda Davidoff’s roommate, apologizing for not getting back to her but suggesting they meet for lunch in the Village tomorrow.

Three dinners and a lunch. Damn, how
do
spies manage to stay trim?

One more message remained. She hit play.

“Hello, counselor. Got some news. I’ll be in town in a week or so and I’m going to take my little legal eagle out to dinner. Call me and we’ll make plans.”

Taylor instantly looked around her room to see how straightened up it was—as if the phone contained a video camera beaming the images directly to her father’s law office.

She sat down slowly on the arm of the couch, Samuel Lockwood’s call reviving a question Mitchell Reece had asked yesterday.

So how’d you end up in New York?

Taylor recalled perfectly sitting in front of her father two years ago, the man of medium build, jowly and pale—by
rights, he should have broadcast an anemic image, but he filled the living room of their house in Chevy Chase, Maryland, with his powerful image.

She tried to gaze back at him.

But couldn’t, of course.

Finally, the sound of spring lawn mowing from outside was broken by his asking, “You can simply try it, Taylor.”

“I have other priorities, Dad.”

“ ‘Priorities,’ ” the lawyer said quickly, pouncing. “See, that very word suggests that there are several directions you’d want to go in.” A smile. “In the back of your mind you’re already entertaining the possibility that you’d like to be a lawyer.”

“I mean—”

What
had
she meant? She was too flustered to remember.

“My talent—”

“And you
are
talented, darling. I’ve always recognized that. Your grades … Honey, A’s in every government, politics, philosophy course you’ve ever taken.”

And in music composition, music theory, improvisation and performance.

“Music too,” he added, with perfect timing, diffusing her anger. Then he laughed, “But there’s no way in Satan’s backyard that anyone would ever make any kind of serious money playing music in bars.”

“I don’t do it for the money, Dad. You know that.”

“Look, you should pursue everything. Lord knows I do.”

And he had. Law, business, golf, tennis, skydiving, sailing, teaching.

“It’s just that it’s easier to get your law degree now. Going back after you’re older … it limits your opportunities.”

Reduced to a child before him, Taylor could think of no logical retorts. Well, the best legal minds in the country had engaged in forensic battle with Samuel Lockwood and lost. She said weakly, “I just feel alive when I play music, Dad. That’s all there is to it.”

“And what a feeling that must be,” he said. “But remember
that we go through stages in life. What excites us now isn’t necessarily what sustains us all forever. I pitched a dozen no-hitters in college. And I never felt higher than being on the pitcher’s mound. What a thrill that was! But making that my life? A pro ball player? No, I had other things to do. And I found getting up in court gave me exactly the same thrill. Even better, in fact, because I was in harmony with my nature.”

“Music isn’t a sport to me, Dad.” She believed she was whining and hated herself for it.

“Of course not. I know it’s an important part of your life.” He then tactically reminded, “I was at every single one of your recitals.” A pause. “I’m only saying that it would be better to excel in a profession—doesn’t have to be the law, not by any means.”

Oh, right …

“And work at the music part-time. That way if the … you call them gigs, right? If they
don’t
happen, well, you’d still have something. Or you could do both. Your music could come first and law could be second.”

He seemed to have forgotten that he’d absolved her from the practice of law just a moment earlier.

Continuing, Samuel Lockwood said, “There’s a whole different approach to practicing nowadays. There are part-time arrangements. A lot of women have other ‘priorities’—families and so on. Firms are flexible.”

“I’m supporting myself playing, Dad. Not a lot of people are.” Not that the eighteen thousand a year she’d made in clubs and playing weddings and a few corporate shows last year could be considered supporting herself.

“And what a feather in your cap that is,” he said. Then frowned. “I’ve got a thought. How about a compromise? What if you got a job as a paralegal at one of the firms in Washington, one of our affiliated firms. I’ll get you in. You can try out law firm life, see if you like it. I’ll put aside some funds for school.”

She’d said no at first but Samuel Lockwood was relentless and she’d finally given in.

“But I’ll get a job on my own, Dad. I’ll support myself. If I like it I’ll apply to law school. But I’ll play music at nights. Nothing’s going to interfere with that.”

“Taylor …” He frowned.

“It’s the best I can do. And not in D.C. I’ll go to New York.”

He took a breath and then nodded his concession to her victory over him. “You’ve got backbone, counselor.”

And he gave her a smile that chilled her soul—because it unwittingly revealed that this “spontaneous” thought of his had been born some time ago and nurtured over many nights as he lay in his twin bed, three feet from his wife’s, trying to figure out exactly how to manipulate her.

Taylor was furious with herself for letting her guard down. He’d never intended that she work in Washington, wouldn’t have presumed to link her with him by getting her a job and would never have threatened her music directly—out of fear that he’d push her away completely.

In the end, even though she’d defiantly resisted him, it turned out that Taylor had played right into his hand.

“You understand I’m doing this because I love you and care for you,” he said.

No, she thought, I understand you’re doing this because the thought of being unable to control the slightest aspect of your life is abhorrent to you.

She’d said, “I know, Dad.”

But, as it turned out, the paralegal life was not as bad as she’d anticipated. Smart, tireless, unintimidated by the culture of Wall Street money and Manhattan society, Taylor had made a reputation for herself at the firm, quickly becoming one of the most popular paralegals, always in demand. She found that she enjoyed the work and had considerable aptitude for it.

So when a cycle came around for applying to law schools and Samuel Lockwood asked her which schools she’d decided to apply to (not
if
she intended to apply), she said what the hell and plunged forward with a yes and basked in the sunlight of her father’s approval.

Taylor, lost in this complex answer to Reece’s simple question, now realized that she was still frozen in place, perched on a sofa arm, her hand floating above her answering machine.

Why exactly was her father coming here? Where could they eat? Would the place she picked please him? Would he want to come see her perform? They sure couldn’t eat at Miracles or one of the other clubs she played at; he’d make a fuss about the menu. Want to know what kind of oil they cooked with, send food back if it wasn’t prepared just right.

The electronic woman in the answering machine told her,
“To save this message, press two. To erase this message, press three.”

She hit two and walked into the bedroom to dress for her Mata Hari date.

This
is a Midtown club? she thought.

Taylor had expected that it would be more, well, spiffy. More of a power, platinum-card corporate watering hole and less of a tawdry college lounge. Well, maybe old money was allowed a little shabbiness. In any case, Taylor Lockwood looked at the fiercely bright lighting, the dusty moose head sprouting from the wall, the threadbare school banners and uncarpeted floor, and asked herself again, This is a club?