Special Circumstances (3 page)

Chuckles sighs.
“You’re not. And Bob was supposed to talk to you about it.”
Chuckles usually doesn’t have to face the music from the associates.Joel isn’t backing off.
“Well, he didn’t,” he snaps.
“This stinks. We will talk after the meeting. Before we do, maybe youshould explain why the associates shouldn’t have their resumes out onthe street tomorrow morning.”
We’ve always had great finesse with these touchy-feely human-relationsissues.
On go the glasses. Chuckles finds his place and continues reading.
“In addition, the firm will not be in a position to pay associatebonuses this year.”
There’s an audible gasp. He looks up at dumbfounded faces. Themore-senior associates are expecting bonuses in excess of thirtythousand dollars. He’s astute enough to realize he’s in trouble. Hemakes the correct move and returns to the script.
“I want to assure you these decisions were made after carefuldeliberation and represent the unanimous view of the executivecommittee as to what is fair and what constitutes the best interests ofthe firm as an institution.”
At times like this, I’ve tried to defuse the tension with a wisecrack.Tonight, I figure it’s time for Chuckles to start getting used toworking without a net.
I write another note to Joel that says, “Now, the explanation.”
“By way of explanation,” Chuckles says, “the partners wanted me to makeit clear that these decisions were not made for economic reasons. Thefinancial health of the firm is excellent.”
Bad move. If we’re doing so great, it means the partners have decidedto keep more money for themselves. I don’t necessarily have a problemwith this because it means my last draw check will be a little bigger.On the other hand, if we aren’t doing great, he’s lying. Either way,the associates are getting screwed.
And they know it.
“With respect to the partnership track,” he says, “we have decided itwould be beneficial to give each associate additional time to workwith as many partners as possible.”
Right. It’s not like we’re just pulling up the ladder.
“With respect to bonuses,” he continues, “we have expended substantialsums to upgrade our computers, a decision made in response to concernsexpressed by our younger attorneys. We believe it is in the firm’slongterm financial interests to pay for our new equipment as soon aspossible. We realize this may not be the most popular decision, but webelieve the computer enhancement is in the best interests of the firmas an institution.”
Especially if the associates pay for it.
The associates turn toward Joel, who has been their spokesman for thelast few years. He takes the cue. He writes a note that says, “Watchthis.” He stands, looks at Chuckles and says, “You realize, Charles,that what you just said is complete and utter bullshit?” Withoutwaiting for a response, he pushes his chair back and calmly walks outof the room.
Chuckles looks over the top of his reading glasses. Sensing the moodis not good, he asks for questions. He pauses for at least a fullsecond before he gathers his notes and practically sprints from theroom. The meeting lasted less than five minutes.
When I return to my office a few minutes later, the gruff voice ofArthur Patton, our managing partner and chairman of the three-man starchamber we call our executive committee, or X-Com, summons me from myvoice mail. As usual, he never wastes a word.
“Michael, Arthur Patton. Come to the executive conference room ASAP.”It would never occur to him that I may not be available.
I walk downstairs to our “executive” conference room, which is locatedon the north wall of the forty-sixth floor in an office that oncebelonged to Skipper’s father. When he died, a cat fight broke out.Skipper laid claim to the office by birthright. Bob Holmes said he wasentitled to it because he had the biggest book of business. ArthurPatton said he should get it just because he’s Patton. After threeweeks of backbiting, Chuckles Stern implemented what is now known asthe Great Compromise, and the office was converted into a conferenceroom. My suggestion of a “one potato, two potato” marathon wasdismissed.
The room has a marble conference table, ten black leather chairs and aview of the Golden Gate Bridge. Portraits of our founding partnershang on the west wall and portraits of our current X-Com—Patton,Chuckles and Holmes—hang on the east wall. Patton and Chuckles lookunhappy as they sit beneath the smiling pictures of themselves.Mercifully, Holmes is nowhere to be found. The usual assortment ofcheese and fruit is on a silver platter.
On December 30 of each year, X-Com meets to give themselves acollective pat on the back and to determine “the Estimate,” which istheir best guess of firm profits for the year. More importantly, theyallocate each partner’s percentage interest in the profits of the firm,or “points,” for the upcoming year. The Estimate will be announcedwith great ceremony at a partners’ meeting at eight o’clock tomorrowmorning. I’ve always thought we could streamline the process byputting a tote board like the one they have on the Jerry Lewis telethonin our reception area. This suggestion has not been well received overthe years.
At the meeting, each partner will receive a check and a memo indicatingthe partner’s points. Theoretically, everybody will begin the new yearin a good mood. Unless you’re like me, and your points have beenreduced in each of the last four years.
I’m not sure why I’ve been summoned on the night of all nights. I’mpretty sure they can’t fire me again. I take a seat beneath theportraits of Leiand Simpson and Skipper’s dad. They grimace at me. Ifeel like I’m surrounded. Patton glares at me and growls, “I wanted todiscuss your departure.”
Uh-oh.
Patton’s huge bald head, Nixon-like jowls and Brezhnev-like eyebrowsoverwhelm the rest of his tiny face. His red suspenders strain to holdhis ample gut. At sixty-two, his gravel baritone is commanding, butits forcefulness has been tempered by forty years of cigars andsingle-malt scotch. At times, he’s capable of playing the role of thegenial grandfather. Last year, he was Santa at our Christmas party.The next day, he fired his secretary because there was one typo in aneighty-page brief. That’s part of his charm. On any given day, younever know if you’ll get the puppy or the pit bull.
In lawfirm-lingo, he handles complex civil litigation. Of course,I’ve never met a lawyer who admits he handles litigation that’sanything less than “complex.” In reality, he represents defensecontractors who get sued when their bombers don’t fly. To Art, everycase is a holy war of attrition. He showers the other side with paper.Fortunately, his clients have the resources to wear down theiropponents. He responds to every letter with his own version thatrearranges the facts in his favor. He follows up every phone call witha letter that bears only passing resemblance to the matters that werediscussed. Around the firm, he’s known as the Smiling Assassin. He’sone mean son of a bitch.
He stares over my right shoulder. He begins with the grandfatherlytone.
“I
know we have had our disagreements, but I would like to think we canwork things out and remain friends.”
As if. I look right through him and remain silent. Let him talk.Don’t react.
His condescending smirk makes its first appearance.
“Here is our proposal. If anyone asks, we will portray your departureas voluntary. We will say you left to pursue a different direction.You will agree not to say anything bad about us. We will return yourcapital contribution tomorrow.” Upon election to the partnership,every partner must make a capital contribution to the firm. The amountdepends on the number of points you have. Baby partners like mecontribute seventy-five thousand dollars. The power partners likePatron have ponied up about a quarter of a million bucks.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Except for one thing. As a matter of good practice, wewant you to sign a full release of the firm. We ask all departingpartners. Just housekeeping.”
“That’s it?”
He nods.
“That’s it.”
Keep the tone measured.
“Let me see if I have this straight. I won’t piss on you, and youwon’t piss on me. That’s fair. And that’s the way it will workbecause we’re smart enough not to say shitty things about each other.San Francisco is a small town. And you will pay me back my capital.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because our partnership agreement says you have to pay me backwhether or not I agree to say nice things about you and even if I don’tsign your release. I have no intention of suing you, but if I changemy mind, I don’t want you waving a release in my face.”
Gotcha. If I were in his shoes, I’d ask for the release. If he werein mine, he’d say no. I’m glad Joel showed me the section in ourpartnership agreement that says they have to return my capital.
He shifts to the half grin.
“We figured you might say that,” he says.
“We are prepared to make a one-time offer of twenty thousand dollarsfor your cooperation. Take it or leave it.”
Visions of paying off my Visa bill and a year of rent dance in myhead.
“Not enough,” I say.
“Make it a hundred and we may have something to talk about.”
Chuckles shakes his head.
“Too much, Mike. No can do.”
Patton trots out his “mad dog” persona for a preemptive strike, if onlyfor effect. His act loses some of its impact when you’ve seen it asmany times as I have.
“Look,” he says, “if it had been up to me, I would have thrown yoursorry ass out of here at least two years ago.”
For an instant, I think Leiand Simpson’s picture is going to spring tolife.
“Yeah,” he’d say, “I would have thrown your sorry ass out of here atleast three years ago.”
Patton isn’t finished. His bald dome turns red.
“Use your head for once and take the fucking money,” he bellows. I’mtold he can actually make his head explode.
I place my fingertips together in my best Mother Teresa imitation.
“Arthur,” I say slowly, “if you’re going to lose your temper, you’regoing to have to go to your office and take a time-out.” I’ve beenwaiting five years to say that to him. I stand and walk toward thedoor, where I turn and face them.
“Gentlemen, I’ll see you in the morning. I wouldn’t want to miss thereading of the Estimate.”
When I arrive at the office at seven the next morning, I have voicemail messages from five associates who are furious about the decisionon bonuses.
Three ask me to be a reference. As always, the first person I see isAnna Sharansky, a Soviet refugee who begins every day by brewing enoughPeet’s coffee to fill the sixty coffeepots placed around the firm. S&Gspends over a hundred thousand dollars a year on coffee. We exchangepleasantries. She never complains. I’ll miss her.
At seven-forty-five, I walk to a sparsely furnished conference room onthe forty-sixth floor to get a seat for the reading of the Estimate.The ceremony usually takes place in the PCR. We have moved downstairsbecause Bob Holmes won’t move the closing documents for Russo’s deal.It smells like a French pastry shop. Croissants, muffins, scones andfruit are lined up in neat rows on silver platters. Anna has filledthe coffeepots and set out the bone china bearing the S&G logo. In thecenter of the table sit ninety envelopes, each with a partner’s nameon it. They look like seating assignments at a wedding.
By 7:55, the room is full. I pour myself a cup of coffee and take acroissant with the sterling-silver tongs. The blue sky frames theGolden Gate Bridge.
Several partners wish me well. Let the exercises begin.
Patton always wears his tuxedo to the reading of the Estimate. Heseems to think this lends a festive mood to the occasion. I think helooks like a maitre d’. At precisely eight o’clock, he makes his grandentrance, his face glowing.
For Patton, this is what it’s all about. For fifteen minutes a year,we look like everything our recruiting brochure says we are: a big,collegial family of highly trained professionals who admire, respectand trust one another. He beams from the head of the table. We clappolitely.
“Thank you for coming at this early hour,” he says.
“I know how hard it is for some of you to get here when you’ve been outpartying all night.” Forced laughter.
“I want to get Bob Holmes down here to report on Vince Russo’s deal. Wewill start in just a couple of minutes.”
He asks Chuckles to find Bob. Chuckles seems pleased he won’t have aspeaking role today, and he darts out. The sound of clinking chinaresumes. Several partners take calls on their cellular phones. Ifocus on the envelope in the middle of the table that bears my name.
Ten minutes pass. Chuckles and Joel appear outside the glass door.Chuckles looks more gaunt than usual. Joel looks distraught. Chucklesopens the door and says in a barely audible voice, “Art, can I see yououtside for a minute?”
The room goes silent. Patton motions Chuckles in. Chuckles tries toconvince him to step outside. After a moment’s hesitation, Chucklescomes in and whispers into Patton’s ear. Patton’s eyes get larger. Ihear him mutter, “Jesus.”
Patton faces nobody in particular, strokes his jowls and says, “It ismy unhappy responsibility to make a sad announcement. Bob Holmes andDiana Kennedy were found dead in Bob’s office a few minutes ago. Ihave no other information.
The police have been called.”
We sit in stunned silence.
“Obviously,” he continues, “we may have a little problem with theclosing of the Russo deal. Any discussion of the firm’s results forthis year would be premature and out of place. I will provide furtherinformation later today.
Meeting adjourned.”
More silence.
After a moment, I hear Patton whisper to Chuckles, “He couldn’t havefucking killed himself. We’re completely fucked. He had a fiduciaryduty to us to close the deal” Leave it to Arthur Patton to try to expaling a man’s death by citing a legal doctrine. As always, Chucklesis more sanguine. He says to Patton, “I suspect Bob wasn’t thing kingabout his fiduciary duties last night.” Without another word, we fileout, pausing only briefly to pick up our envelopes.
Chapter 3
“HE KEPT A LOADED GUN AT HIS DESK”
“The managing partner of Simpson and Gates has issued a statement toreassure the firm’s clients that the situation is completely undercontrol.”
—KCBS NEWS RADIO. 8:40 A.M. wednesday, december 31.
By eight-thirty, all hell has broken loose. Every thirty seconds orso, a man’s voice announces on the emergency intercom that there hasbeen an incident and we shouldn’t use the elevators. Word spreadsquickly and people gather in small groups in the corridors.
My office is on the forty-seventh floor, between Joel’s small officeand Bob’s palatial northwest corner. Joel is talking loudly into thephone as I walk past his doorway. He’s trying to find Vince Russo. Apoliceman is unrolling yellow tape outside Bob’s office.