The Up and Comer (3 page)

Like I said, normally we would stagger our exits as we did our entrances. Then again, normally we weren't scrambling around like extras in a monster movie. One after the other we came flying out of the revolving door to the hotel. It was a minor breach in our security; well worth it, I thought, given the circumstances.

FIVE

I came running into the reception area of Campbell & Devine at a minute past two. There was an unmistakable taste of chicken Caesar wrap working its way up my throat. I stopped to catch my breath. As I stood there panting, Josephine, the firm's receptionist, looked up from her magazine. She nodded toward my gym bag, a puzzled expression filling her face.

"You sure are in lousy shape for a guy who works out so often," she said.

I laughed, hopefully not too nervously, and headed back to my office.

"Buzz Donna and have her tell Jack that I'll be by in a minute," I said, passing Gwen.

Most of the time I returned showered after being with Jessica (hygiene aside, remember I was supposedly at the gym). But on those rare occasions that I couldn't, I would resort to the drawer. The Drawer. Any guy worth his salt has one; any woman for that matter too. A desk drawer filled with the essentials of personal grooming in case you should need a touch-up during the day. Me, I kept it simple: cologne, breath spray, floss, hair gel, a comb. All of which I grabbed and used very quickly while proving once again that the most important item hanging on my wall was not my law degree but the mirror behind my door. With every hair back in place and the smell of sex overpowered by Bulgari for Men, I emerged from my office and made my way toward Devine.

* * *

Thomas Methuen Campbell, the Campbell in Campbell & Devine, was a distinguished-looking man with a serene gaze. At least that's what the huge portrait of him in our offices depicted him as. Had I known him, Devine once told me, I would've discovered that his placid exterior was merely a facade. For in fact, beneath it lurked a far darker man.

According to Devine, Campbell was the last of the great sons of bitches, with a soul that would make even the devil blush. When he died of a heart attack in the fall of 1992, the funeral was mobbed. Ten percent were apparently there to mourn, the rest showed up to make sure he was really dead. There was much to be said about his prowess as a litigator, his ability to make opposing counsel seem weak, and his penchant for getting a jury to eat out of his hand. And through bits and pieces, I heard almost all of it from Devine.

Originally, the firm was Campbell & Associates, started by Campbell in 1972 after he left the partner track at Silver, Platt, Brown & LePont. He took one client with him, a small outfit called Procter & Gamble. At the time, Monsieur LePont swore that he would get his revenge on Campbell if it was the last thing he did. As it turned out, the last thing LePont did was to fall down in his shower a year later and kill himself. In the greatest of ironies, he slipped on a bar of soap. Ivory, of course: P&G's flagship brand.

In 1976, Campbell hired Devine fresh out of the University of Vermont Law School. By that point, there were six associates practicing at the firm, all of whom had law degrees from Yale, Harvard, or Stanford. Upon introducing Devine to his colleagues, Campbell announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, I would like you to meet your control group." A lesser man might have been embarrassed, perhaps even insulted. Devine, on the other hand, told me that he thought it was the funniest fucking thing he'd ever heard.

After a few apprentice-type years, Devine went on to what could only be labeled as one hell of a winning streak. He possessed the same ruthlessness as Campbell in the courtroom, the difference being that he did it with a smile. As a team, they were good cop-bad cop at its best, and while the sign on the door may have read Campbell & Associates, to everyone on the street they were soon Campbell & Devine. So it was only a matter of time before Devine asked to make it official. He had a good case, and if there was one thing that Campbell always respected, it was a good case.

With apparently little resistance and even less fanfare, Campbell bestowed the title of managing partner on Devine in 1988. In doing so he asked for only one concession in return. That when Campbell eventually passed on, Devine would agree to face every tough decision with the following question: What would Campbell do?

It was a very clever man's stab at immortality.

* * *

"How is the Devine Gatekeeper doing today?" I asked Donna, smiling straight back to my molars.

She barely looked up from her computer and waved me in like a third base coach on Xanax.

In an article in the
Wall Street Journal
a few years back, a reporter had described Jack Devine as "Patton with a legal pad." Despite the fact that Devine had no military background and didn't conduct himself in a manner that suggested he did, the description was dead-on. The most obvious reason was the physical similarities between the two men. (Though I've always maintained that Devine actually resembled George C. Scott in the role of Patton more than he did Patton himself.) What really made the moniker stick, however, was more intangible. It was twofold, really. First, Devine, like the famous general, possessed the kind of leadership qualities that demanded greatness from others. Be it out of fear or respect, you never wanted to let Devine down if you reported to him. Never. Second, and a logical extension of the first, was that when it came time to do battle in the courtroom — or any room, for that matter — there were few other men if any that you'd want leading the way.*

*A revealing footnote to all this: when he read the aforementioned article, Devine's only reaction was to point out that given the infamous slapping incident that tainted Patton's career, the reporter had left himself dangerously open to being sued for libel.

Devine was on the phone when I entered his office and he motioned for me to take a seat. It was the same seat in front of the same leather-inlaid desk I had sat in when he first interviewed me five years ago. What wasn't the same, or more appropriately, what had developed, was our relationship. Although he had no children of his own, I'll spare you any father-and-the-son-he-never-had analogies. Let's just say the guy must have seen something in me that reminded him of himself. From the get-go it was clear that my doing well was very much a reflection on him.

Fortunately, I didn't disappoint. With Devine as my mentor I rather quickly established myself as a real up-and-comer. Small firms rarely made title distinctions among associates, but Devine did. You came in as an associate. If you did well, you would eventually become a senior associate. From there you either became partner or
of counsel,
the common equivalent of "close, but no cigar."

After three years, I was made a senior associate, the fastest that had ever happened in the history of the firm. Said Devine to me on the day of that promotion, "Philip, I've always believed that the title catches up with the man. In your case, that the title had to stop and puke its brains out a few times along the way from exhaustion should only make you feel that much prouder."

I smiled, apparently a little too broadly. Devine let me have it.

"That said, if you let this go to your head, you'll be one young, sorry-assed, out-of-work senior associate."

Back in his office, Devine was now raising his voice into the phone. "Listen, Bob, I don't give a shit what some damn jury consultant is telling us. Dumbing down the twelve is not the way to go." He rolled his eyes while apparently listening to Bob's response. Then it was his turn again. "What would I do if I were you? I'll tell you what. The first thing I would do is start trying to be a lot more like me!"

He hung up the phone and gave it the finger. Looking over my way he muttered, "Good weekend?"

"Yeah, you?"

"Don't ask."

"Why, what happened?"

Devine snarled. "The bitch got caught DUI."

I knew he was talking about Mrs. Devine, though I wasn't about to appear so quick on the uptake. Bitch or no bitch, she was still my boss's wife. I gave him an "I'm not exactly sure who you're talking about" look.

"Nice try, Philip," was his response. Nobody could see through bullshit better than Devine.

"Had she actually been drinking?" I asked.

"Shit, yeah! Broad daylight too. She was at some champagne brunch for the wives at the club, a little too much champagne. On the way home she dialed direct into a telephone pole."

"Is she okay?"

"She's fine," he said. "Though the same can't be said for the car."

"Totaled?"

"Practically." Devine began to shuffle some papers on his desk. It was his way of getting down to business. "So guess what you get to do?"

And to think I thought we'd simply been making small talk.

He continued: "You get to represent her."

"I do?"

One of his thick eyebrows went up. "Why, you don't want to?"

"No, I do. It's just that I thought—"

"You thought that I would do the honors."

"Yeah."

"Philip, I've represented cousins, uncles, a brother-in-law, you name it. Every fucking twig on the family tree. There's one exception, though. I'll never represent someone that I'm sleeping with… wife or otherwise. Do you know why? Because it would jeopardize my objectivity. You follow?"

I followed.

Devine leaned in. "You're not banging my wife, by any chance, are you?"

I loved this guy. "Ah, no, I don't think so."

"Good. That means you'll be able to keep your objectivity. The only thing I'll ask is that you make it, and I stress, as quick and painless for her as possible. Any questions?"

I folded my legs. (It had become my way of getting down to business, though I wasn't sure anyone had noticed yet.) "Just a few," I said, knowing full well that Devine hated questions.

I asked, "Did she call you from the station?"

"Right in the middle of the Yankees game."

"So what happened?"

"I made sure she declined the Breathalyzer in favor of a blood test," he explained. "The more time for the alcohol to metabolize the better."

I nodded. "That must have made the cops happy."

"Tickled," he said with a short laugh. "Nothing like having to waste two hours at a hospital, not that the extra time ended up helping. She still came in at point one six."

"What about the heel-to-toe?" I asked.

"Said she thought she was pretty wobbly."

"Was she wearing heels, maybe?"

"Good question; find out," he said.

"I don't suppose you want her coming by the office?" I asked.

"No. I'll set up a lunch for the two of you, and she can fill you in."

"You don't want to be there?"

"Do you think I should be?" he asked slowly. A trap if I ever did see one.

"I'd prefer you not to be. I wanted to make sure that's okay with you."

"It's fine," he assured me.

"Off on a tangent here, you don't have any interest in going after the country club, do you?"

Devine smiled. Nothing made him happier than a lawyer looking into every angle. "Nah, the club is the one place left where a pariah is appreciated for who he is. I don't want to lose that. Besides, they're indemnified up the wazoo."

Donna buzzed in to tell him he had a call. Someone from the district attorney's office.

"I've got to take this," he said. "Would later this week be good for the two of you to have lunch?"

"Sure," I told him.

"Great. I'll let you know for certain." Devine reached for the phone, and I turned to leave. "Oh, and Philip?"

"Yeah?"

"Not a word about this to anybody."

"About what?"

SIX

Dwight was in rare form.

"So I'm screwing this girl the other night," he began, "and we're going at it like porn stars." He paused and took a quick drag off his cigarette. "So I decide to turn her over and do her from behind, right, when all of a sudden she says to me, Don't you think that's a little presumptuous of you? And I say, Don't you think that
presumptuous
is kind of a big word for a five-year-old?!"

We all laughed. There was a fine line between sick and funny and Dwight Jarvis had pitched his tent there a long time ago. We had met through Connor (who knew him as an undergrad at Michigan), and he was the perfect example of one of those friends you'd never have if not for another friend. By day he was an investment banker, by night an aspiring alcoholic.

Welcome to guys' night out. Mind you, we'd never use such an overwrought cliché to describe our evening, but when you got right down to it, it was just us guys, it was definitely night, and we were out. Out of our minds, to be exact. Due in no small part to the plethora of cocktails we'd had to kick things off at the Monkey Bar. In addition to Dwight, Connor, and me, the group included Menzi.

Joseph Paul Menzi was his full name, though as was often the case with Italians, everyone called him by his last name only. He was tall, around six-four, with jet black hair that recently had begun to recede. Ten years and twenty fewer pounds ago he had been the starting tight end for the Dartmouth football team. (We're talking huge hands; I once saw him palm a watermelon outside a Korean deli.) Menzi was the youngest of nine children and by far the richest. He reveled in it. Despite numerous explanations, however, his parents still had no idea what someone in arbitrage really did. Come to think of it, neither did I.