Three Classic Thrillers (10 page)

“How do you know this?” asked Locke.

“Come on, Nat. We’ve got our sources. Plus, we had people all over the island. We do good work, you know.”

“Evidently.”

“Was it messy?”

“No, no. Very professional.”

“How’d the native get in the way?”

“We had to make it look good, Ollie.”

“What about the authorities down there?”

“What authorities? It’s a tiny, peaceful island, Ollie. Last year they had one murder and four diving accidents. As far as they’re concerned, it’s just another accident. Three accidental drownings.”

“What about the FBI?” asked Locke.

“Don’t know.”

“I thought you had a source.”

“We do. But we can’t find him. We’ve heard nothing as of yesterday. Our people are still on the island and they’ve noticed nothing unusual.”

“How long will you stay there?”

“Couple of weeks.”

“What happens if the FBI shows up?” asked Locke.

“We watch them real close. We’ll see them when
they get off the plane. We’ll follow them to their hotel rooms. We may even bug their phones. We’ll know what they eat for breakfast and what they talk about. We’ll assign three of our guys for every one of theirs, and when they go to the toilet we’ll know it. There ain’t nothing for them to find, Nat. I told you it was a clean job, very professional. No evidence. Relax.”

“This makes me sick, DeVasher,” Lambert said.

“You think I like it, Ollie? What do you want us to do? Sit back and let them talk? Come on, Ollie, we’re all human. I didn’t want to do it, but Lazarov said do it. You wanna argue with Lazarov, go ahead. They’ll find you floating somewhere. Those boys were up to no good. They should’ve kept quiet, driven their little fancy cars and played big-shot lawyers. No, they gotta get sanctimonious.”

Nathan Locke lit a cigarette and blew a heavy cloud of smoke in the general direction of DeVasher. The three sat in silence for a moment as the smoke settled across his desk. He glared at Black Eyes but said nothing.

Oliver Lambert stood and stared at the blank wall next to the door. “Why did you want to see us?” he asked.

DeVasher took a deep breath. “Chicago wants to bug the home phones of all nonpartners.”

“I told you,” Lambert said to Locke.

“It wasn’t my idea, but they insist on it. They’re very nervous up there, and they wanna take some extra precautions. You can’t blame them.”

“Don’t you think it’s going a bit too far?” asked Lambert.

“Yeah, it’s totally unnecessary. But Chicago doesn’t think so.”

“When?” asked Locke.

“Next week or so. It’ll take a few days.”

“All of them?”

“Yes. That’s what they said.”

“Even McDeere?”

“Yes. Even McDeere. I think Tarrance will try again, and he might start at the bottom this time.”

“I met him this morning,” said Locke. “He was here before me.”

“Five thirty-two,” answered DeVasher.

The law school memorabilia were removed to the floor and the Capps file spread across the desk. Nina brought a chicken salad sandwich back from lunch, and he ate it as he read and as she filed away the junk on the floor. Shortly after one, Wally Hudson, or J. Walter Hudson as the firm letterhead declared him, arrived to begin the study for the bar exam. Contracts were his specialty. He was a five-year member of the firm and the only Virginia man, which he found odd because Virginia had the best law school in the country, in his opinion. He had spent the last two years developing a new review course for the contracts section of the exam. He was quite anxious to try it on someone, and McDeere happened to be the man. He handed Mitch a heavy three-ring notebook that was at least four inches thick and weighed as much as the Capps file.

The exam would last for four days and consist of three parts, Wally explained. The first day would be a four-hour multiple-choice exam on ethics. Gill Vaughn, one of the partners, was the resident expert on ethics and would supervise that portion of the review. The second day would be an eight-hour exam
known simply as multi-state. It covered most areas of the law common to all states. It, too, was multiple-choice and the questions were very deceptive. Then the heavy action. Days three and four would be eight hours each and cover fifteen areas of substantive law. Contracts, Uniform Commercial Code, real estate, torts, domestic relations, wills, estates, taxation, workers’ compensation, constitutional law, federal trial procedure, criminal procedure, corporations, partnerships, insurance and debtor-creditor relations. All answers would be in essay form, and the questions would emphasize Tennessee law. The firm had a review plan for each of the fifteen sections.

“You mean fifteen of these?” Mitch asked as he lifted the notebook.

Wally smiled. “Yes. We’re very thorough. No one in this firm has ever flunked—”

“I know. I know. I won’t be the first.”

“You and I will meet at least once a week for the next six weeks to go through the materials. Each session will last about two hours, so you can plan accordingly. I would suggest each Wednesday at three.”

“Morning or afternoon?”

“Afternoon.”

“That’s fine.”

“As you know, contracts and the Uniform Commercial Code go hand in hand, so I’ve incorporated the UCC into those materials. We’ll cover both, but it’ll take more time. A typical bar exam is loaded with commercial transactions. Those problems make great essay questions, so that notebook will be very important. I’ve included actual questions from old exams, along with the model answers. It’s fascinating reading.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Take the first eighty pages for next week. You’ll find some essay questions you’ll need to answer.”

“You mean homework?”

“Absolutely. I’ll grade it next week. It’s very important to practice these questions each week.”

“This could be worse than law school.”

“It’s much more important than law school. We take it very seriously. We have a committee to monitor your progress from now until you sit for the exam. We’ll be watching very closely.”

“Who’s on the committee?”

“Myself, Avery Tolar, Royce McKnight, Randall Dunbar and Kendall Mahan. We’ll meet each Friday to assess your progress.”

Wally produced a smaller, letter-sized notebook and laid it on the desk. “This is your daily log. You are to record the hours spent studying for the exam and the subjects studied. I’ll pick it up every Friday morning before the committee meets. Any questions?”

“I can’t think of any,” Mitch said as he laid the notebook on top of the Capps file.

“Good. See you next Wednesday at three.”

Less than ten seconds after he left, Randall Dunbar walked in with a thick notebook remarkably similar to the one left behind by Wally. In fact, it was identical, but not quite as thick. Dunbar was head of real estate and had handled the purchase and sale of the McDeere home in May. He handed Mitch the notebook, labeled
Real Estate Law
, and explained how his specialty was the most critical part of the exam. Everything goes back to property, he said. He had carefully prepared the materials himself over the past ten years and confessed that he had often thought of
publishing them as an authoritative work on property rights and land financing. He would need at least one hour a week, preferably on Tuesday afternoon. He talked for an hour about how different the exam was thirty years ago when he took it.

Kendall Mahan added a new twist. He wanted to meet on Saturday mornings. Early, say seven-thirty.

“No problem,” Mitch said as he took the notebook and placed it next to the others. This one was for constitutional law, a favorite of Kendall’s, although he seldom got to use it, he said. It was the most important section of the exam, or at least it had been when he took it five years ago. He had published an article on First Amendment rights in the
Columbia Law Review
in his senior year there. A copy of it was in the notebook, in case Mitch wanted to read it. He promised to do so almost immediately.

The procession continued throughout the afternoon until half of the firm had stopped by with notebooks, assignments of homework and requests for weekly meetings. No fewer than six reminded him that no member of the firm had ever failed the bar exam.

When his secretary said goodbye at five, the small desk was covered with enough bar review materials to choke a ten-man firm. Unable to speak, he simply smiled at her and returned to Wally’s version of contract law. Food crossed his mind an hour later. Then, for the first time in twelve hours, he thought of Abby. He called her.

“I won’t be home for a while,” he said.

“But I’m cooking dinner.”

“Leave it on the stove,” he said, somewhat shortly. There was a pause. “When will you be home?” she asked with slow, precise words.

“In a few hours.”

“A few hours. You’ve already been there half the day.”

“That’s right, and I’ve got much more to do.”

“But it’s your first day.”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’ll be home later.”

The starting engine awakened Dutch Hendrix, and he jumped to his feet. The gate opened and he waited by it as the last car left the lot. It stopped next to him.

“Evenin’, Dutch,” Mitch said.

“You just now leaving?”

“Yeah, busy day.”

Dutch flashed his light at his wrist and checked the time. Eleven-thirty.

“Well, be careful,” Dutch said.

“Yeah. See you in a few hours.”

The BMW turned onto Front Street and raced away into the night. A few hours, thought Dutch. The rookies were indeed amazing. Eighteen, twenty hours a day, six days a week. Sometimes seven. They all planned to be the world’s greatest lawyer and make a million dollars overnight. Sometimes they worked around the clock, slept at their desks. He had seen it all. But they couldn’t last. The human body was not meant for such abuse. After about six months they lost steam. They would cut back to fifteen hours a day, six days a week. Then five and a half. Then twelve hours a day.

No one could work a hundred hours a week for more than six months.

O
ne secretary dug through a file cabinet in search of something Avery needed immediately. The other secretary stood in front of his desk with a steno pad, occasionally writing down the instructions he gave when he stopped yelling into the receiver of his phone and listened to whoever was on the other end. Three red lights were blinking on the phone. When he spoke into the receiver the secretaries spoke sharply to each other. Mitch walked slowly into the office and stood by the door.

“Quiet!” Avery yelled to the secretaries.

The one in the file cabinet slammed the drawer and went to the next file cabinet, where she bent over and pulled the bottom drawer. Avery snapped his fingers at the other one and pointed at his desk calendar. He hung up without saying goodbye.

“What’s my schedule for today?” he asked while pulling a file from his credenza.

“Ten a.m. meeting with the IRS downtown. One p.m. meeting with Nathan Locke on the Spinosa file. Three-thirty, partners’ meeting. Tomorrow you’re in
tax court all day, and you’re supposed to prepare all day today.”

“Great. Cancel everything. Check the flights to Houston Saturday afternoon and the return flights Monday, early Monday.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mitch! Where’s the Capps file?”

“On my desk.”

“How much have you done?”

“I’ve read through most of it.”

“We need to get in high gear. That was Sonny Capps on the phone. He wants to meet Saturday morning in Houston, and he wants a rough draft of the limited partnership agreement.”

Mitch felt a nervous pain in his empty stomach. If he recalled correctly, the agreement was a hundred and forty-some pages long.

“Just a rough draft,” Avery said as he pointed to a secretary.

“No problem,” Mitch said with as much confidence as he could muster. “It may not be perfect, but I’ll have a rough draft.”

“I need it by noon Saturday, as perfect as possible. I’ll get one of my secretaries to show Nina where the form agreements are in the memory bank. That will save some dictation and typing. I know this is unfair, but there’s nothing fair about Sonny Capps. He’s very demanding. He told me the deal must close in twenty days or it’s dead. Everything is waiting on us.”

“I’ll get it done.”

“Good. Let’s meet at eight in the morning to see where we are.”

Avery punched one of the blinking lights and began arguing into the receiver. Mitch walked to his
office and looked for the Capps file under the fifteen notebooks. Nina stuck her head in the door.

“Oliver Lambert wants to see you.”

“When?” Mitch asked.

“As soon as you can get there.”

Mitch looked at his watch. Three hours at the office and he was ready to call it a day. “Can it wait?”

“I don’t think so. Mr. Lambert doesn’t usually wait for anybody.”

“I see.”

“You’d better go.”

“What does he want?”

“His secretary didn’t say.”

He put on his coat, straightened his tie and raced upstairs to the fourth floor, where Mr. Lambert’s secretary was waiting. She introduced herself and informed him she had been with the firm for thirty-one years. In fact, she was the second secretary hired by Mr. Anthony Bendini after he moved to Memphis. Ida Renfroe was her name, but everyone called her Mrs. Ida. She showed him into the big office and closed the door.

Oliver Lambert stood behind his desk and removed his reading glasses. He smiled warmly and laid his pipe in the brass holder. “Good morning, Mitch,” he said softly, as if time meant nothing. “Let’s sit over there.” He waved to the sofa.

“Would you like coffee?” Mr. Lambert asked.

“No, thanks.”

Mitch sank into the couch and the partner sat in a stiff wing chair, two feet away and three feet higher. Mitch unbuttoned his coat and tried to relax. He crossed his legs and glanced at his new pair of Cole-Haans. Two hundred bucks. That was an hour’s work
for an associate at this money-printing factory. He tried to relax. But he could feel the panic in Avery’s voice and see the desperation in his eyes when he held the phone and listened to this Capps fellow on the other end. This, his second full day on the job, and his head was pounding and his stomach hurting.