A Walk Across the Sun (10 page)

Thomas blanched. He had no idea the coal company had taken the issue so far.

“In any event,” Junger went on, “I'm sure your perspective of what happened is different from Mark's. But none of that matters. Mark has taken a beating, and the client needs to be reassured. There were some who suggested drastic measures, but I intervened. I told them it wasn't your fault. It was the fault of the firm. We made the mistake together.” Junger held out his hands magnanimously. “And we have to bear the consequences together.”

Junger paused and then changed direction. “Thomas, do you know why I love your father so much?”

“No, sir.”

“He's brilliant, yes, and he's loyal and a damn good lawyer and judge. But more than that, he's relentless. He never stops until his work is perfect. I see that same quality in you. I know how much you've devoted to the Wharton case. I admire your tenacity and your skills. But I think it fair to say that your personal circumstances have had an effect on your work product. Wouldn't you agree?”

Thomas thought no such thing. He had told Mark Blake that the Samuelson case had been appealed. He told him that the Third Circuit was expected to hand down a decision soon. He strongly advised him to share that fact with Judge Hirschel. In the end, Blake humiliated himself because he was too stubborn to listen. But Thomas couldn't say that. Not to the managing partner. Not with a $900 million verdict and a malpractice suit hanging over their heads.

As much as it galled him, he submitted to Junger's assessment. “I imagine you're right.”

Junger nodded. “I don't fault you for it. But the bottom line is that you need a break. So I'm offering you two options. The first is a vacation. I checked. You have over eight weeks saved up. Go to Bermuda or Bali. Sip mai tais on the beach. Spend time in the bedroom with Priya. Find your compass again.”

Thomas was fuming, but he held his tongue. “And the second option?” he inquired, hoping for a penance he could serve without disappearing from the face of the earth.

Junger smiled. “The second option may suit you better. A parent never gets over the loss of a child. But there are ways to move on with your life. You have to put your mind on something worthwhile.”

Junger paused and folded his hands on his knee. “As you know, every year Clayton gives a pro bono scholarship to one of our associates. An all-expenses-paid trip to any corner of the world. Pro bono associates interface with the United Nations, the European Union, and top-flight NGOs. The selection process for the coming year is over, but the partners have agreed to create an honorary scholarship for you. If you want it, that is.”

Thomas was stunned. He could almost see Priya smirking at him. A year-long sabbatical with a nonprofit? He felt like a leper.

“I appreciate your sincerity, sir,” he said, “but this feels a lot like being sent to Siberia.”

Junger shrugged. “Call it whatever you want. The choice is yours.”

Thomas took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay, let's say I take your advice and go somewhere for a while. How are you going to spin it in the firm? People will wonder.”

Even as he asked the question, Thomas knew the answer.

“We'll tell them you took a leave of absence for personal reasons,”

Junger said. “Everyone knows about your daughter.”

Junger's moves had been perfectly planned. Check and checkmate. “What will happen when I get back?” Thomas asked wearily.

Junger put out his hands. “I will see to it that you are placed on the best assignment the firm has to offer. It won't be long until no one remembers you were gone.”

Thomas looked out the window and tried to piece together his shattered pride. “I'll think about it and let you know.”

Junger's expression didn't change, but his shoulders relaxed. “That's all I ask.”

At six o'clock that evening, Thomas left the offices of Clayton|Swift with no intention of returning for a long time. A freezing rain was falling, and the sidewalks were slick with ice. He avoided the clump of associates headed to happy hour at the Hudson Restaurant & Lounge and caught the Metro at McPherson Square. He got off at Foggy Bottom and hailed a cab into Georgetown. The first snowflakes began to fall as he reached his house.

He left his sodden shoes in the foyer and went upstairs to change. He was about to head back down to the kitchen to fix dinner when his BlackBerry chimed, indicating he had a new e-mail. The message was from Andrew Porter, an old law school classmate and a lawyer at the Justice Department.

Porter had written, “
Hey, buddy, we still on for tennis tonight? Seven o'clock at EPTC?
”

Thomas kicked himself. He'd scheduled the match a month ago. He toyed with the thought of canceling but quickly decided against it. Playing tennis was far more appealing than moping around.

After scarfing down a tuna sandwich and an apple, he locked the house and crossed the sidewalk to his Audi. The drive into East Potomac Park took longer than expected, thanks to the weather. Porter was waiting for him in the locker room. His friend was slightly shorter and stockier than Thomas, but he was a fitness junkie and his body looked like it was sculpted out of marble.

Porter shook his hand and issued a friendly challenge. “You ready to get slaughtered? Wait till you see my new serve.”

“Nice to see you, too,” Thomas replied. “Before you run me over, I have to work out a little rust. How long has it been? Two months?”

“Two months for you. A week for me. Clayton doesn't let you have a life, buddy.”

“You don't know the half of it.”

Thomas changed into his tennis clothes, and then he and Porter took their gear out to the court. The East Potomac Tennis Center was a vast facility with nineteen outdoor courts and five indoor courts enclosed in an inflatable tent affectionately called “the Bubble.” Though it was snowing outside, the temperature inside the Bubble was a comfortable seventy degrees.

They made a few laps around the court to loosen their muscles and then went on to stretch.

“So how are the heirs of Larry Flynt?” Thomas asked.

Porter laughed. “Flynt's a choirboy compared to the lowlifes I'm dealing with.”

Porter had started his career at the Justice Department prosecuting securities fraud cases. The work, however, had been colorless and mindnumbing, and his superiors had quickly learned that if they wished to keep him around, they needed to give him some real action. So they transferred him to the CEOS—the Child Exploitation and Obscenity Section—and gave him the grisly stuff, the child pornography cases. It was the sort of prosecutorial work that most civilized attorneys wouldn't touch. Porter, on the other hand, seemed energized by it.

“Game on,” Porter said, retrieving his racket. He walked to the baseline and hit a few warm-up serves before powering a flat serve into the corner of the box.

Thomas whistled appreciatively. “Not bad.” He warmed up with a few serves of his own and then walked to the baseline. “Show me what you've got,” he said. Balancing on his feet, racket spinning in his hands, he could almost imagine that his life was normal again.

Almost.

They played two sets under the lights, and Porter managed to win only a handful of games. Thomas could tell that the whipping annoyed him, but Porter's good nature never faltered. At the end of the match, they met at the net.

“You're too good,” Porter said, clasping Thomas's hand. “I've never seen you hit the ball so hard. You sure you're not taking steroids?”

Thomas laughed. “I just needed to get a little aggression out.”

Porter's face turned serious. “How's Priya holding up?”

Thomas weighed his options and decided to trust his friend. He gave Porter a summary of his wife's departure and his conversation with Max Junger.

Porter shook his head. “I'm so sorry to hear about Priya. You guys always seemed to have something special. Any chance you'll get back together?”

“Not likely,” Thomas replied.

“The Clayton thing makes me sick,” Porter said, changing the subject. “I can't believe the firm sacked you like that. Wharton deserved that verdict. If anything, it wasn't tough enough. For them to threaten malpractice is a complete joke.”

“Maybe so, but they've funded the salaries of half of the litigation division this year.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Thomas shrugged. “I have no idea. Any advice?”

“If it was me, I'd get the heck out of the District. It's miserable this time of year. And I'd give thought to the sabbatical. Clayton's drained you. I can see it in your eyes.”

Porter's assessment was surgical in its accuracy, and Thomas didn't have a ready reply. They sheathed their rackets and headed for the locker room.

“Have you ever heard of a group called CASE?” Thomas asked on the way. “I think they have a connection to the Justice Department.”

Porter nodded. “The Coalition Against Sexual Exploitation. They work on trafficking and sexual violence issues in the developing world. The guy who founded the organization was a bigwig at the Civil Rights Division. Why?”

“They were listed on Clayton's pro bono page.”

Porter raised an eyebrow. “You're thinking about an internship?”

Thomas shrugged. “Does that surprise you?”

Porter opened the door to the locker room. “Let's just say the brothels of Cambodia are a long way from K Street.”

Thomas knew his friend was right. A week ago he wouldn't have given CASE much thought. The trade in human beings was a global tragedy, but like child labor and the AIDS epidemic it was irrelevant to his world. The incident in Fayetteville had changed that. Abby Davis had made it personal.

Thomas took a seat on a bench. “Something happened to me yesterday,” he said by way of explanation. “I witnessed a kidnapping.”

Porter stopped unlacing his shoes and looked up. “You're not kidding, are you?”

Thomas shook his head. “The girl was eleven years old.”

He gave Porter a summary of the incident and his conversation with the Judge over dinner the night before.

After he finished, Porter was silent for a while. “Your dad may be right about the trafficking angle. It's anyone's guess. But I'd say there's a real chance she'll be sold.”

“The detective in Fayetteville mentioned that the feds may get involved.” Thomas said.

Porter narrowed his eyes. “It's possible.”

“Would your office get a piece of that?”

Porter looked uncomfortable. “Maybe. We've been working on a number of rings in the Southeast.” He paused. “That's confidential, by the way.”

Thomas nodded, understanding his friend's position. “I don't want any details. Do me a favor, though. If you run across her, let me know.”

Porter nodded. “Sure. But I wouldn't get your hopes up. I don't see many happy endings in my line of work.”

Thomas left Porter in the tennis center parking lot and drove back to Georgetown. When he pulled up to the curb, he saw that his house was brightly lit. He had left in such a hurry that he'd forgotten to turn off the lights. The snow was falling in larger flakes now. Nearly an inch had accumulated while he was away.

He locked his car and walked up the flagstone steps. He didn't hear her until she was next to him, her hand on his arm.

“Hey,” Tera said.

He was caught completely off guard. He looked at her for a long moment, gathering his wits. She was wearing black leather boots, a black-and-white checked city coat that reached to her knees, and a crimson scarf. Her ears were adorned with diamond pendants. She was the most fashion-conscious woman he had ever met.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I tried calling, but you were out. I wanted to see you.” She spoke softly, deliberately, her eyes never leaving his. She took his hand. “I've missed you.”

Thomas stood stiffly for a moment before defaulting to hospitality. “Why don't you come in for a drink?”