Upon A Pale Horse (11 page)

Jeffrey considered the question, his heart rate increasing as the discussion became more serious. “Probably two weeks. But I could see about cutting it shorter. As long as I offered some sort of a transition plan where I could offer guidance to the team, they might let me go sooner.”

“We have considerable sway, Mr. Rutherford. If you’re selected as the candidate, I’ll make a phone call. I know your senior partners very well. That likely wouldn’t be a deal killer.”

Jeffrey hesitated. “I think it would make more sense for me to fly out on Friday night or Saturday morning, so that if this proceeded to consummation, we could knock it out over the weekend. If you fly out here, I’d still need to meet the group you represent before they hired me, correct?” Jeffrey asked.

“True. Very well, then. I’ll make travel arrangements for you and email them. Figure on a very early flight on Saturday, which would put you here by two, and meeting with me by three. If all goes well, we can do a dinner meeting Saturday evening, and have you back in San Francisco by mid-day Sunday.”

Jeffrey thought about the proposition. That was insane money as a guaranteed salary, given his age and experience, and the bonus made it even better. His throat clenched as he imagined the increase – no more riding a bike to work and trying to nurse his ten-year-old Honda Accord along for a few more years. The car had been a gift from his mother and Keith when Jeffrey had passed the bar, but even then it had been three years old when they’d bought it, with forty thousand miles. Now, with a hundred and twenty, it was limping more than running.

He looked out at the skyline, the sun sinking below the tops of the neighboring buildings, and made a snap decision.

“Sounds like a plan. By the way, where’s the firm located?”

“I’m sorry. I thought I mentioned that. It’s in Washington, D.C.”

TWELVE

The Interview

Saturday morning, Jeffrey was at the private jet terminal at San Francisco International Airport, walking across the tarmac to a waiting Citation X, still trying to get over the surprise of being told he was going to be flown cross country in a private jet chartered by the law firm that was interested in him. It was 5:45 a.m., and the first hesitant glimmers of dawn streaked the sky with watercolor hues as he approached the stairs. A uniformed stewardess next to it, perky as if she’d been up for hours, greeted him with a warm smile and motioned to the stairway.

“Good morning, sir. We’re ready for takeoff. There’s hot coffee, juice, and a variety of breakfast items on board. My name’s Jennifer, and I’ll be your attendant for the flight. May I take that?” she asked, gesturing to his carry-on bag.

“No, I’m fine. If we can find someplace to stow it in the cabin, that’ll be good.”

“Of course. Watch your step.”

Jeffrey mounted the stairs, pausing to nod to the two pilots in the cockpit who were completing their pre-flight checklists.

“Good morning,” the older one said, turning to him. “Ready to get going?”

“Absolutely.”

Jennifer directed him to a chocolate leather seat and indicated the recliner across from him for his bag. He placed it on the seat and she ran the seatbelt through the handle before buckling it.

“Just in case we hit some bumpy air. Which is unlikely. We’ll be well above the weather. Our flight plan has us at forty-three thousand feet most of the way, so it should be smooth sailing,” she assured him. “Can I get you something to drink while we’re waiting to taxi?”

“No thanks. Maybe some coffee once we’re airborne.”

“Very good, sir,” she said, and moved back to close the exterior door.

Jeffrey sank into the plush leather in wonder. He’d never flown in a private plane before, and this one oozed expensive refinement, with heavy burled walnut paneling lacquered to a high gloss, leather everything, and a state-of-the-art monitor mounted forward with a U.S. map and an icon of the plane blinking on the screen.

Ten minutes later they were in first position for takeoff, and he was pushed back into his seat by the thrust of the powerful engines as they launched down the runway and then streaked up into the sky, climbing at a seemingly impossible angle before banking over the fogbank that cloaked the bay and heading east.

The trip was everything he imagined it would be, Jennifer waiting on him as if he were a visiting dignitary, anticipating his every need. He declined the offer of a cocktail, preferring to stay sharp for his meeting that afternoon, and instead focused on catching up on work, still badly behind after his three-day sabbatical. And now, here he was, winging his way back to Washington, a city he’d only been to twice before in his life.

He’d chosen a navy blue blazer and white oxford broadcloth shirt with a conservative burgundy tie that matched his belt and shoes, which nicely complemented his khaki slacks. Once they reached their cruising altitude he took off the jacket, and Jennifer hung it in a small closet at the front of the jet. As they sliced through the sky at six hundred miles per hour he wondered silently at how much the trip cost, and figured it at somewhere around fifteen grand each way, minimum. Whoever the firm was, money was obviously the least of its concerns, which boded well for his pay scheme if he got the job.

That he was interested was a given. It would be years before he would make anything like the figures bouncing around in his head, and even with the crappy East Coast weather, it was worth relocating. And it wasn’t like he was married to San Francisco. Other than a few friends, more weekend drinking buddies than anything, he was footloose and fancy free, most of his college chums having moved away to careers either in New York or Los Angeles. And his romantic life was a shambles, so it wasn’t like he would be making a huge sacrifice.

When they landed the sky was gray. Pregnant clouds lolled over the city, threatening an imminent downpour, which matched his mood from the last time he had been there only three days before. When he negotiated the stairs to terra firma he was assaulted by a gust of icy wind that sliced through him like he was naked. He had a brief vision of nearly nude old men running to dive into a partially frozen lake, an image from a TV commercial long forgotten, and he shivered involuntarily as he walked to the terminal.

A tall, dignified Hispanic man in a black driver’s suit, replete with peaked cap, stood by the building’s double doorway, a laminated red sign with his last name on it lest Mr. Rutherford somehow miss him in the crowd of one. Jeffrey followed him to a black sedan and ensconced himself in the back seat, marveling at the white glove treatment he’d received so far. If the intention had been to impress him, it was working.

The car negotiated the weekend roads with the precision of a guided missile, and in forty-five minutes it glided to a halt in the underground parking garage of a modern building only a few minutes from the White House. The driver, who hadn’t said a word during the entire trip, shut off the engine, slid from behind the wheel, and rounded the vehicle to hold Jeffrey’s door open for him. Jeffrey shouldered his overnight bag and followed him to an elevator, studying the man’s profile as they waited for it to arrive: lean, fit, probably mid-forties, the small puckers of adolescent acne scars the only visible imperfection.

When the elevator arrived at the fourth floor, Jeffrey found himself in the granite-floored reception area of the executive search firm. A ravishing Asian woman wearing a severe business suit gave him a hundred-dollar smile from behind the reception desk.

“Mr. Rutherford? I hope your trip was pleasant?”

“Yes, thanks. Everything’s been perfect so far.”

“Good. Let me ring Mr. Anton and let him know you’ve arrived. Have a seat. Can I get you anything while you’re waiting?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks, though,” Jeffrey said, sitting on one of the tan leather couches.

The woman pressed something on an unseen console and murmured into her headset, then returned her gaze to Jeffrey, who was looking around the offices with polite interest. The furnishings looked expensive, as did the receptionist.

“Mr. Rutherford, please come this way. Mr. Anton will see you now.”

Jeffrey followed her back into a labyrinth of offices – considerably more than he would have guessed an executive placement agency needed; but then again, he had about as much experience with that animal as he did with private jets. They arrived at a koa wood door that was partially open, and the woman gave a courtesy knock and motioned for Jeffrey to enter.

A heavyset man with thick, obviously dyed hair the color of wet straw, wearing a gray pinstripe suit that cost more than Jeffrey’s car, stepped out from behind the desk, hand extended in greeting.

“Jeffrey Rutherford. The man of the hour. Welcome. Roger Anton. You can call me Roger,” he said, eyeing Jeffrey the way an eagle eyes a rabbit.

Jeffrey took his hand and shook it, noting the perfectly manicured nails and the strong but not overwhelming grip. “Pleased to meet you, Roger.”

“Sit,” Roger invited, tapping a heavy leather upholstered chair in front of his desk. “Throw your bag by the couch and take a load off.”

Jeffrey did as instructed and sat, waiting for whatever this was to begin in earnest. Roger made a token offer of a beverage, and then dived straight in, reciting the high points of Jeffrey’s mundane legal career from a file on his otherwise immaculate desk, beginning with his grade point average and finishing with his last two major assignments.

“That’s impressive. You really do your homework,” Jeffrey conceded when he’d finished.

“Yes, we do. My company specializes in well-researched assignments, and we pride ourselves on having a stellar track record of satisfied clients. We don’t invite candidates for an in-person interview unless we’re already convinced they’re what the doctor ordered. Fortunately for us both, you fit the bill to a tee. At least on paper. But there’s a lot that a file doesn’t convey, which is why I’ve moved mountains to get you here and give you the once-over before I introduce you to the client – one of the top law firms in this city.”

“Well, fire away. I’m a captive audience,” Jeffrey said with a slightly nervous smile.

The grilling lasted an hour, and Jeffrey was surprised at how well-versed on the intricacies of international corporate and banking structuring Roger was, venturing into arcane areas normally the province of highly specialized attorneys, making a few mistakes Jeffrey was sure were deliberate to test his acumen. At the end, Roger sat back, seemingly satisfied, and then fixed Jeffrey with an intense gaze, the whites of his eyes almost glowing.

“You probably have questions of your own, young man,” Roger invited in a more collegial tone than the rapid-fire questioning to which Jeffrey had been subjected.

“How did you hear about me?”

Roger peered up at the ceiling and frowned. “The corporate world is a small one once you travel in exalted enough circles. Your reputation precedes you. You’ve done work for several clients who are known to me, and they gave you a glowing recommendation. I’m not at liberty to divulge which ones – confidentiality being my stock in trade – but suffice to say their input was impressive enough to warrant considering you when this opening came up.”

“There have to be countless lawyers who specialize in this area.”

“Ah. There are. But most are too old, or have their own practices, or have baggage my client would rather not deal with. As you’ll see this evening, the senior partner of the firm is somewhat of a character, and has very set opinions about what sorts of personnel he takes on. One of his criteria is age – he’s of the opinion that a man’s best years are between the age of thirty and fifty, so he won’t hire anyone over thirty-two. You’re twenty-nine. You’re already in charge of your own, admittedly small, staff. You’re single, so you don’t have two whining newborns and a wife berating you for staying late at the office. And you’re still hungry – I know it when I see it. It’s a given that you’re very smart. All the candidates are. But honestly, you’re the last interview, and in my opinion, the perfect fit.”

“Fair enough. Who’s the law firm?”

“Before we get too far down that road, I need you to sign a confidentiality agreement along with a boilerplate non-disclosure. Purely a formality, but an essential one.”

Roger leaned forward, lifted his handset, and barked a terse instruction. Moments later another woman, this one a brunette in her thirties wearing slacks and a green silk blouse, appeared with a file and handed it to Roger before slipping out wordlessly.

“Take as long as you need to look it over,” Roger said, pushing it toward Jeffrey.

It was a standard blanket NDA, no surprises, and after giving it a careful perusal Jeffrey signed it and sat back expectantly.

“My client is Garfield, Fairbanks, and Lereaux.”

Jeffrey’s face didn’t betray his disappointment. He’d never heard of them.

“They’re not a household name, but I can assure you that their client roster reads like the
Forbes
list. They’re a specialized firm that augments the in-house legal departments of some of the largest corporations in the country. Banks, manufacturers, pharmaceutical giants, conglomerates, you name it. As you might have intuited, money isn’t in scarce supply. Their support role in class action suits alone runs into the eight figures each year, as does their lobbying arm, and that’s not their largest area of expertise. It’s a relatively small group, but frankly, the pay can’t be beaten, and if you do well, within a short period of time you’ll be a seven-figure man.”