No Time To Run (Legal Thriller Featuring Michael Collins, Book 1) (8 page)

“
Just listen to me.”

Andie folded her arms across her chest. “They’re trying to kill me.”

“
But they can’t,” Michael said. “That’s my point, the State of New York doesn’t allow for the death penalty. In 2004, the appellate court found the state statute u
nconstitutional, and that’s why the United States Attorney was here. She’s a federal prosecutor, and she wants to take your case, because the federal government allows for the death penalty. They get to circumvent the state.”

Andie took a step back, and turned away from him. She wasn’t listening any more, but Michael continued.

“
In the 1930s and 1940s, as the power of the federal Congress expanded into areas like employment, education, antitrust, gambling and drugs, the federal court system was forced to deal with all of these new federal laws, which often overlapped and sometimes conflicted with the state laws.”

“
I don’t care.”

“
They say that you killed Helix Johannson as part of a drug trafficking enterprise,” Michael said. “That violates both the traditional state laws and the federal 'drug kingpin' laws.”

“
Kingpin? I’m not a drug kingpin.”

“
I know,” Michael said, “but he was.” He took a step closer to Andie. “I’ll oppose the transfer, but you saw what it’s like in there. They’re overwhelmed. Any judge would be happy to get this case off his desk.”

“
I didn’t kill him.” Andie’s eyes focused on an invisible spot on the floor, her voice soft. The anger was gone now. Her tone was flat.

It was one thing for Andie to know in the abstract what was going to happen. It was quite another to experience it: the handcuffs, the jumpsuit, the guards, and the looks as you enter the courtroom and see that everybody is there because of you and everybody thinks you are guilty, because only guilty people are charged with crimes.

“
We’re going to have to work harder.” Michael stepped toward her. “That’s all.”

###

They had been waiting for him, that much was obvious. Cameramen and reporters rushed toward Michael as he emerged from the courthouse. They had congregated at the bottom of the steps, and it took everything in Michael’s power not to turn and run back inside.

But he didn’t.

Michael took a breath, straightened his shoulders, lifted his head up, and decided to take the opportunity to educate the jury, whoever they would be. All he needed was a theme.

Every case was a story, and he needed to have one sentence, phrase, or word that would be repeated so often that every juror would know it by the end of the trial. Whether the juror believed it was a different proposition.

Ten more steps and the reporters had him surrounded.

“
Aren’t you too young to be handling this case?”

“
Is it true your client has ties to the mob?”

“
Did your client sleep with him? Were they lovers?”

“
Have you ever handled a death penalty case before?”

“
Is it true that Gadd is running for Senate?”

The questions came from every direction, some silly and some not. They baited him to respond, but Michael let the questions go unanswered. He stood there. His back straight and jaw clenched, looking as if he did this all the time and hadn’t, in fact, woken up hungover on the beach just a day before.

Michael lifted up his hand, still unsure of what he was going to say, and the reporters stopped talking.

Michael waited another second more, and then decided to do something remarkable –  he decided to tell the truth.

“
Andie Larone was set up,” Michael said. “I intend to prove it and in the process make these so-called ‘protectors of the public’ look like a bunch of asses.”

When it was clear Michael was not going to continue his remarks any further, the questions came back at him even harder than before.

Michael raised his hand, and the crowd grew quiet once, again. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s the only statement I have at this time.”

He began walking, and initially, it didn’t look like the reporters were going to allow him to pass, but at the last moment a cameraman stepped aside.

Michael continued down the steps. His heart pounded, and his fingers tightened around the handle of his old, battered briefcase.

A few of the reporters trailed behind him with microphones and softer questions, but Michael wasn't talking. Finally, when he reached the sidewalk, a black Crown Vic pulled to a stop in front of him.

The car’s driver got out and walked around the front.

“
Mr. Collins.” The driver opened the rear passenger door and ushered Michael inside.

“
Thank you.” Michael put his briefcase in front of him as the door was closed. Still a little shaken from the media onslaught, he was thankful to be hidden behind the tinted glass and have a moment to breathe.

“
Hell of a first day.”

Michael turned and saw Lowell Moore sitting beside him. He looked tan and fit. His balding head was bald no more. In the past two years, Lowell had gotten hair plugs. His teeth had been whitened, and the crow’s feet around his eyes had been pummeled with multiple Botox injections.

“
Thanks for bailing me out. It would’ve been embarrassing to try and hail a cab in that mess.”

“
It’s just good to see you.” Lowell smiled, extending his hand. “And good to have you back.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The elevator doors opened on the top floor of Hopper Tower in Midtown Manhattan.

“
Just like you left it.”  Lowell
winked
. He allowed Michael off of the elevator first, and then followed behind.

They walked past the large, illuminated painting of a younger version of Lowell Moore and the firm’s other two named partners, and then into the main foyer and reception area of Wabash, Kramer & Moore. The foyer itself was something of a legend. Over the years it had taken on a life of its own, as if it was a person rather than just the main entrance of a law firm.

There were rumors about the cost of the modern art that hung on the walls, and stories about the psychologist that the firm retained to advise the architects and designers on how to maximize the intimidation and awe that was supposed to overcome all who stepped foot in the place. There were other tales about the marble, which the founding partners had personally flown to Italy to select, and the furniture that had been designed and built exclusively by a husband-and-wife team in Greenwich Village – yes, that same husband and wife team who had designed and built the desk and chairs for President Clinton’s home office in Chappaqua – and, finally, there were the rare teak panels harvested by hand from the Brazilian rainforests that framed every doorway and every window, set off by imported brass and ironwood accents from Zimbabwe.

When Michael had started at the firm, the foyer had represented his arrival. He had finally escaped the world he had grown up in. The government-subsidized apartment buildings and jobs involving either grease, dirt, cleaning detergents or all of the above were gone, replaced by the Wabash, Kramer & Moore foyer. 

Even though his office had been on a different floor, he had looked for excuses to come up to the top and walk through on a daily basis. The foyer had kept his ego inflated, and had motivated him to work harder.

Michael looked around. It now seemed like nothing but a waste.

“
You remember where my office is?” Lowell guided Michael past the receptionists and around the corner to the attorney offices that lined the outside of the tower.

It was set up like every other law firm in town. The higher the floor, the more important the person was to the firm, and each floor was a series of concentric circles that preserved a structured caste system. First, a ring of lawyers lined the outer offices with windows (associates in the middle and partners in the corners). Second, working toward the center, there was a smaller ring of offices with no windows. This ring warehoused the firm’s paralegals, and scattered on the edges were cubicles for legal secretaries. Third, in the very center, there was a small ring of copy clerks and tech support. It was the legal world’s version of Dante’s Inferno. 

Lowell pointed as they stood in the doorway of his office.

“
Taking over Hooten’s office was what really transformed this space. I was able to knock out a wall, creating more storage, and put in those French doors leading to the terrace for some occasional fresh air. Not a day goes by that I’m not thankful that old man Hooten finally retired.” Lowell paused and turned to Michael. “Well, he didn’t really retire. You know how that goes. Have to trim the fat sometimes.”

“
Trim the fat” was an expression used by the firm to get rid of partners who no longer generated enough revenue. In the old days, once an attorney made partner, he or she was untouchable. Unlike a typical employee, partners owned a piece of the firm and traditionally, it was difficult to get rid of them. That, however, was not the Wabash, Kramer & Moore way.

Each partner was expected to, personally and through their cadre of associates, generate at least $10 million per year. Failure to meet that goal two years in a row, and the partner could be fired by a simple majority vote of the five-member executive committee; a committee comprised of Lowell Moore’s puppets.

The system kept every partner on edge. They were always looking for the next pay-off, whether it was a defective drug, boiler explosion, or airplane crash. The never-ending hustle was motivated by a fear of losing the penthouse on the East Side or the house in the Hamptons, the $300 dinners, and the $2,000 suits. If they lost the lifestyle of a Wabash, Kramer & Moore partner, then what would they do? Who would they be? The firm’s paycheck and foyer were all they had.

“
I staked a claim on the visiting attorney’s office just down here for you.” Lowell walked a little further down the hallway.  “When you make your decision to stay, maybe I can convince the Executive Committee to let you keep it.” He winked.

Michael nodded politely, as if the location of an office still mattered. He continued to follow Lowell around the corner to an office in the middle of the hallway. Three paintings by the portrait artist Chuck Close hung on the wall outside the door. They were three of his more recent paintings, but each was probably still valued at $350,000 to $700,000.

“
Well.” Lowell glanced at his watch. “I have to get back to work. Have a conference call at four-thirty. Maybe we could grab a bite to eat tonight? Catch up?”

“
I think I have a lot of work to do,” Michael said. “But maybe coffee tomorrow morning?”

Lowell smiled and nodded.

“
That’s the old Michael Collins I know. A ‘prize workhorse’ is what I told Patty the other day, not anything like these new attorneys straight out of school.”

Lowell tuned, took a step away, and then turned back.

“
Val told me you came by the house last night.” Although no formal introductions were made, Michael assumed that Val was the scantily dressed woman who had identified herself only as Lowell’s wife.

“
Yeah.” Michael hesitated to say anything further. “It seemed like …”

Lowell raised his hand, cutting Michael off.

“
I love her.” Lowell put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Sometimes she can be difficult, and I’m not just referring to the credit card bills.”

Images of Val Moore dancing around the hot tub with two other men popped into Michael’s head.

“
I cleared up any confusion she may have had.” Lowell started to turn and walk away again. “But you can still stay in the guesthouse if you’d like.”

“
Thanks, but I should find a place of my own.” Michael smiled. The lies came easy. He watched Lowell disappear around the corner, and hoped the man had a good prenuptial agreement, primarily out of pity. Then he turned his attention to his new office.

It was standard issue: the polished dark brown mahogany furnishings, the latest laptop computer, digital dictation device, a standard-issue BlackBerry PDA, one potted plant, and an array of office supplies (one black Wabash, Kramer & Moore engraved stapler, six Wabash, Kramer & Moore logo pens, twelve Wabash, Kramer & Moore notepads, three boxes of paper clips of differing sizes, one Wabash, Kramer & Moore tape dispenser, etcetera, etcetera) each neatly arranged in a row on the top of the desk, along with a box of business cards and personalized stationary.

Michael walked around the desk and sat in the large leather chair. It felt familiar, but a part of the past.

He turned and looked out the window at the jagged New York skyline, and then at the yellow cabs darting through the traffic below, little bumblebees returning to the hive. Michael closed his eyes and thought of the beach. He listened to the waves falling, and pretended he was lying in bed at Hut No.7 with Andie. There were no alarm clocks or schedules. They would get up when they wanted to get up, beholden to nobody. That was his life. That was their life.