Mistress of Justice (28 page)

The law professor and legal philosopher Karl Llewellyn wrote a book called
The Bramble Bush
. The foliage in his title was a metaphor for the study and practice of law and his meaning was that this field, in all its many incarnations, is endless. In that book he wrote that “the only cure for law is more law,” by which he was suggesting that you cannot dabble at the profession. When you are overwhelmed by the case, the business deal, the jurisprudential study, when you are exhausted, when you cannot bear the thought of proceeding one more moment, you can find salvation only by pushing forward, deeper into the tangle.

The law, he was suggesting, is an infinitely complex, uncompromising mistress.

Wendall Clayton thought of Professor Llewellyn’s writing now as he sat across his desk from Randy Simms, late Sunday morning at the firm.

The smarmy young lawyer had just delivered troubling news. They had managed to sabotage the long-term lease that Burdick had been trying to put into place. But some of the old-guard partners at the firm were refusing to vote in favor
of the merger. Burdick’s win in the St. Agnes trial had heartened them and a bit of cheerleading on Bill Stanley’s part had gotten them to switch their votes back to Burdick’s camp.

Which meant that there was now some doubt that Clayton would have enough votes, come Tuesday, for the merger to be approved.

“How close is it?” Clayton asked.

“Pretty evenly balanced. Right down the middle, more or less.”

“Then we have to make it less ‘pretty even.’ ”

“Yessir.”

“Stay on call. I’ll be right back.” Clayton rose and walked down the stairs to the paralegal pen.

To his surprise he found Sean Lillick was not alone.

The pretty boy was standing with a girl, another paralegal in the firm.

Clayton didn’t understand what Lillick saw in her. She seemed shy, timid, unassertive. A bit, well, rotund too.

A consolation fuck at best.

When they saw him coming they stepped apart and Clayton noticed, though he pretended not to, that they’d been fighting about something. The girl’s eyes were red from crying and Lillick’s otherwise pasty face was flushed.

“Sean,” the partner said.

The boy nodded. “Hi, Wendall.”

“And you are? …”

“Carrie Mason.”

“Ah.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Clayton said.

“No. Not at all.”

Carrie said quickly, “We were just talking.”

“Ah. Talking. Well, if you’ll excuse us, Carrie. Sean and I have some business.”

Neither of them moved. Lillick looked at the floor. Carrie cleared her throat and said, “We’ve got some documents to copy. For the SCI deal.”

Clayton didn’t say anything. He just stared from one to the other.

Lillick said to her, “Why don’t you get started.”

She hesitated then hefted an armful of papers and walked moodily down the hall on her solid legs.

Clayton said, “You’ll be at my party tonight, won’t you, Carrie? My place in Connecticut.”

The girl looked back and said to the partner, “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“I’m so pleased,” the partner said, smiling.

When she’d vanished, Clayton said to the young man, “We’ve got some problems. About the vote. I need some information. Good information. And I need it fast. The vote’s day after tomorrow.”

It was, of course, the paralegals—and the support staff—who had the best access to information at the firm. As with the butlers and maids on
Upstairs, Downstairs
, the higher echelons of the firm babbled like schoolgirls in front of the hired help at Hubbard, White & Willis. This is why Clayton had swooped down on poor Lillick last year and began bribing him for information.

Lillick swallowed and looked down. “I think I’ve already done enough.”

“You’ve been very helpful,” the partner agreed smoothly.

“I don’t want to help you anymore.” He looked in the direction Carrie had disappeared.

Clayton nodded. There were times to push and times to placate. “I know it’s been tough for you. But everything you’ve done has been for the good of everybody who works here.” He rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We’re very close, Sean, close to winning. And if we win, well, that’ll be … rewarding for the whole firm, you included.”

When the paralegal said nothing more Clayton said, “There’ve been some defections. I need any unusual phone calls that Burdick might’ve made. Travel plans. Anything like that. He’s a desperate man and desperate men are his enemy’s best friends. Know why? Because they make mistakes. You understand that?”

“Yessir.”

“You’re grasping it, you’re committing it to memory?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Find something and it’ll be worth a lot of money. I mean five-figure money.”

Clayton said nothing further but just leveled his eyes at the boy. After thirty seconds Lillick said slowly, “Let me look around. See if I can find something sort of helpful.”

“Ah, wonderful,” Clayton said. “Actually, though, it really has to be
very
helpful. I don’t have any time left for subtleties.”

Every color clashed.

Taylor Lockwood looked over the apparel of the crowd milling in the living room of Wendall Clayton’s country home in Redding, Connecticut. She saw plaid. She saw lemon yellow with orange. She saw lime shirts with red slacks.

She saw madras!

Her mother had told her about madras: In the ancien régime of the sixties, star-burst tie-dye marked the hippies; madras flagged the nerds.

To be fair, the collision of hues was almost exclusively on the frames of the older lawyers. The younger crowd of associates were in chinos and Izod shirts or skirts and sweaters. A lot of pearls, a lot of blond hair, a lot of pretty faces.

It was Sunday, around five-thirty, and Reece and Taylor had cruise-controlled their way here along the wide parkway in a car he’d rented. They had found Clayton’s place after asking directions twice and, after they’d parked, had walked into the house without knocking. They stood, unnoticed, in the entrance foyer.

“We’re overdressed,” she observed.

Reece pulled his tie off and stuffed it in his pocket. “How do I look?”

“Like an overdressed lawyer who lost his tie.”

He said, “I’ll take the first floor. You take the second.”

“Okay,” she said quickly. Then she hesitated.

“What’s wrong?” Reece asked.

“We’re kind of like burglars, aren’t we?”

He recited quickly, “Burglary is entering a dwelling without permission with the intention of committing a felony.” He gave her a fast smile. “We’ve got permission to be here. Therefore, it’s not burglary.”

If you say so …

Reece disappeared and Taylor found the bar. The bartender was doing a big business with mugs of sweet, mint-laced Southsiders. Taylor shook her head at the offered drink and got a glass of Stag’s Leap Chardonnay. Before the first sip a man was right beside her, gripping her arm.

Thom Sebastian.

She shivered, hearing in her mind’s ear Sebastian’s comment to Bosk, his warning not to get too interested in her, the dangers it implied.

“Hey,” the pudgy associate said, “you recovered okay?”

“Recovered?”

“From a night out with me.”

“Nothing to report to any official governmental bodies.”

“Excellent.” His eyes were evasive, almost as if he had something he wanted to confess to her. After a glance around the room he asked casually, “You doing anything tomorrow night?”

What was on his mind?

“I think I’ve got some time free.”

“Maybe dinner?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Great. I’ll call you.” He gazed at her, expressionless, for a moment and she believed suddenly, as she looked into his cryptic eyes, that if he
was
the thief he wanted to come clean with her.

And if he confessed and produced the note? What then? she wondered.

Reece or her father … well, they would, of course, destroy Sebastian’s life: force him into leaving the practice of law in New York. But
her
inclination would be to reward a confession with anonymity and to let him go.

But, as she watched him walk down a corridor in search of more liquor, she realized that she was getting ahead of herself.

Find the note first, then we’ll consider justice.…

Taylor made her way through the hallway. As she did she noticed an older woman scrutinizing her carefully, with a look of almost amused curiosity. The woman reminded her of Ada Smith, Bosk’s mother. Taylor tried to avoid her but once their eyes met and held, she felt the power of a silent summons and she remained where she was as the woman approached.

“You’re Taylor Lockwood,” the woman said.

“Yes.”

“I’m Vera Burdick, Donald’s wife.”

“Nice to see you,” Taylor said recalling the name from the newspaper article her father had just faxed to her. They shook hands. The woman must have seen the surprise in Taylor’s face—surprise that the Burdick camp would be represented in enemy territory. Vera said, “Donald had business tonight. He asked me to come in his stead.”

“It’s a nice party,” Taylor said.

“Wendall was kind enough to donate his house for the evening. He does the same for the summer associates in July. It’s a sort of fresh-air outing for lawyers.”

Silence filled the small space between them.

Taylor broke the stalemate with “Well, I think I’ll mingle a little.”

Vera Burdick nodded, as if her examination of Taylor had produced all the information she needed. “A pleasure seeing you again, dear. And good luck.”

Taylor watched the partner’s wife join a cluster of associates nearby.
Good luck?
As the woman’s voice rose in laughter Taylor started again for the stairs. She’d gotten halfway across the hall when she heard another voice—a man’s voice, soft, directed at her. “And who are you again?”

Her neck hair bristled.

Taylor turned to look into the face of Wendall Clayton.
She was, at first, surprised that he was only a couple of inches taller than she. Then she noticed that he was much more handsome up close than he seemed from a distance.

And then her mind went blank. For three or four seconds she was utterly without a conscious thought. Clayton’s eyes were the reason. They were the eyes of a man who knew how to control people, a man to whom it would be excruciating to say no, even if he made his demands with silence.

A man exactly like her father.

“Pardon?” Taylor asked.

He smiled. “I asked who you were again?”

She thought: The same person I’ve always been, no “again” about it, hotshot. Then she got lost in his eyes once more and didn’t try a snappy comeback. She said, “Taylor Lockwood.”

“I’m Wendall Clayton.”

She said, “Yes, I know. I’d thank you for inviting me, Wendall, but I’m afraid I crashed. Are you going to kick me out?” She found a smile somewhere and slipped it on, reminding herself to resist the urge to call him “Mr. Clayton.”

“On the contrary, you’re probably the only person in this crew worth talking to.”

“I don’t think I’d go that far.”

He took her arm. She had never been touched in this way. His grip wasn’t a disciplinarian’s or a friend’s or a lover’s. In the contraction of the muscles was a consuming pressure of authority. As if he’d squeezed her soul. After a moment he lowered his hand.

Clayton said, “Would you like a tour of the house?”

“Sure.

“It’s an authentic 1780s. I—”

“Taylor! You’re here!” Carrie Mason trotted up to them.

“Hello, Carrie.”

“Welcome.” Clayton took Carrie Mason’s hard-pumping hand. “Sean’s not here?”

Carrie hesitated and said, “No, he had something else to do.” It seemed there was a darkness in her face.

“Ah, maybe one of his performances.”

“Carrie,” Taylor said, “Wendall was just going to give me a tour of his house. Join us.”

“Sure,” the chubby girl said.

Clayton didn’t appreciate that they were now a threesome but his reaction vanished as Vera Burdick walked past.

The woman stopped and extended a hand to Clayton.

He smiled and shook it graciously, clasping hers in both of his. “Vera. How good to see you again. Donald made it, I hope.”