Primary Justice (Ben Kincaid series Book 1) (2 page)

“Oh, an out-of-state hire,” Alvin said. “That explains it.”

“I did a year of undergraduate at UNM,” Ben said.

“Really?” Greg smiled that marvelous smile again. “Frat man?”

“No. Well, not for long, anyway.”

“You hang out with any frat guys?”

“Actually, I tried to have as little to do with that crowd as possible.” Ben hoped he didn’t sound rude. He didn’t want to alienate the one relatively normal person he had met so far.

“Personally, I like
Marianne
,” Greg said, shifting his attention to her.

Marianne’s eyes brightened. “You think it sounds professional?” she asked.

“No, it reminds me of that good-looking wench
Gilligan’s Island
. Man, I used to love her.”

Marianne was not amused.

By 9:15, Ben had examined every detail of the Raven, Tucker & Tubb reception area with microscopic scrutiny. The lobby was decorated in a style that seemed both ornate and direct, the look of a firm that wanted to tell its clients it was both no-nonsense and expensive. Dark brown hardwood floors with rich burgundy accent rugs. A white wool sofa defining a continuous semicircle around the entire reception area. And in the center of it all, the bronze, human-size statue of Justice, a tall woman dressed in a toga and a blindfold, with her scales balanced in perfect equanimity.

“This really isn’t how I envisioned spending my first day at work,” Ben said, glancing again at his watch.

Greg arched an eyebrow. “You were expecting maybe tea and crumpets, with a personal address from Arthur Raven?”

“Not likely. Raven is in semiretirement,” Alvin informed them. “Of counsel.”

“Thank you for setting us straight, Alvin.” Greg winked quickly at Ben.

“Do you know who your supervising attorney is, Alvin?” Ben asked.

“Yes. Thomas Seacrest.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Well, I conducted an analysis of likely candidates, based upon the firm’s historical distribution of assimilation assignments.”

Ben took a deep breath. “Yes, but how did you find out?”

Alvin cocked his head slightly. “I asked the recruiting coordinator on thirty-nine.”

Ben suppressed a smile. “Have you checked in with your supervisor?”

“Yes,” Alvin said, leaning back against the sofa. “I got here early.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t. I think I’ll run upstairs for a moment and find out who mine is. Don’t let them start without me.”

“You got it, buddy.” Alvin slapped Ben on the back as he rose. Whatta guy, Ben thought.

Ben walked to the elevator bank and pushed the
UP
button. He was relieved to be out of the reception area. Despite the apparent amiability, the tension in there was thicker than the statue of Justice. Eight overambitious cauldrons waiting to spew forth their juices and prove themselves. What a nightmare.

The elevator did not come. It seemed foolish to wait for an elevator just to go up one floor, especially when orientation might start at any moment. Ben opened a door to the right of the elevators. It was the stairwell. He climbed the flight of stairs leading to the thirty-ninth floor and tried to open the door.

The door wouldn’t budge. It was locked from the outside. A sinking feeling crept through Ben’s body. He ran up another flight of stairs and tried to open the door to the fortieth floor. The doorknob would not turn.

Ben began to panic. Somehow, he had known this would happen. He didn’t know exactly when or exactly how, but deep down he had been certain he would make an utter and irredeemable fool of himself before his first day of work was over. He bolted up another flight of stairs. The door would not open.

His first instinct was to shout and pound on the door, but he checked the urge. What if someone came? Was this really the image he wanted to present on his first day? True, not every floor of the tower was inhabited by Raven, Tucker & Tubb, but about ten floors were, and in the flush of panic and adrenaline Ben found it impossible to remember which were and which were not. He was on the forty-ninth floor before it occurred to him that he was running up a dead end.

Ben remembered Alvin. Alvin was his buddy, right? Alvin would be looking for him. If not Alvin, then Greg. Well, it was possible, anyway.

Ben turned and began to race at breakneck speed down the eleven flights of stairs between himself and the other new associates. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was now 9:24. Great. Orientation had surely begun by now.

He began to feel sweat soaking through his starched shirt and trickling down his collar. His heart was pounding like something out of Edgar Allan Poe. Finally, he jumped the last flight of steps and slammed down on the thirty-eighth floor landing. He pounded his fists against the door and bellowed: “
Alviiiiin!
”

A tall, elderly man with a crown of white hair opened the door and peered down at him. Ben recognized him in a heartbeat. It was Arthur Raven. As in Raven, Tucker & Tubb.

“Yes?” Raven inquired.

“Oh, God.” Ben exhaled all the air in his body. He slapped his hand against his forehead and wiped away a layer of sweat.

“Speak up, would you, son? I don’t hear as well as I used to.” Raven chuckled. “Nothing works like it used to.”

“I—I—” Ben swallowed and tried to catch his breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Raven. I was trapped in the stairwell. I—”

“Stairwell?” the old man repeated. “You shouldn’t be in there. Doors only open on the outside.”

“Really? I’ll remember that.” Ben looked into the lobby. All the other new associates had vanished. “Sir, I need to—”

“Well, that’s not true, strictly speaking. You can get out on the first floor and the fiftieth. Fire codes require that. But it’s a long way down to the first floor. I remember when we first moved into this building, I thought there ought to be some kind of a back door, so a lawyer could slip out while some client he’s trying to avoid cools his heels in the lobby.”

“Sharp thinking, sir.” Ben tried to edge himself through the door. “Well, I really must be going—”

“But I was overruled. The Executive Committee was afraid the associates would use the door to slip out without being observed by their supervising attorneys.” The old man grinned. “You wouldn’t do that, would you, eh … what did you say your name was?”

It was the crisis point. No matter what Ben did, either the orientation attorney or Mr. Raven was going to be angry. Raven was undoubtedly higher in the firm hierarchy. He also seemed less likely to remember anything about it tomorrow.

Ben gave the old man a gentle push and forced his way through the door. “Sorry, sir. Must dash. Let’s talk again.” Ben waved cheerily and ran toward the reception desk.

“Which way did they go?”

The receptionist smiled. She spoke in a soft, soothing British accent. “Orientation is taking place in the northwest conference room.”

“Where’s that?”

She pointed. “There.”

Ben bolted. He had no use for subtlety now. There was just a chance that if he arrived before the meeting was truly underway, he might be able to slip in quietly and wouldn’t have to explain where he had been. Ben cruised down the long hallway, zeroed in on the open conference room door, and was just about to scramble through the door … when a blond man carrying a coffee cup stepped through the door and began scanning the hallway. He saw Ben a split second before impact.

The two collided with a force that would have left a crater on the moon. The blond man fell backward into the conference room. Both coffee and cup followed a parabolic arc into the man’s face. He screamed.

Ben leaped to his feet and gave new meaning to the phrase
apologized profusely
.

“Never mind the apologies,” the man grumbled. The coffee had stained his shirt, his tie, and his suit in countless places. His face was dripping. “Give me a towel.”

Ben grabbed several paper towels from the box next to the coffee pot warmer, then helped the man up from the floor. As he did so, Ben noticed that the man was wearing a toupee and that it had been so dislodged by the collision that it hung over his forehead like a sun visor.

“What are you staring at?” the man asked angrily.

“Nothing, sir. I mean—” Ben saw the sixteen young lawyer eyes trained on him. “I mean—nothing, sir.”

“I take it you’re Kincaid?”

“Yes, sir. Well, I can’t deny it, can I?” He laughed awkwardly. And alone.

“No,” the man replied. “Much as you might care to.” He brushed off the front and back of his suit trousers. “Where have you been, Kincaid?”

Ben watched the toupee droop even further forward. He could tell from the jabs and whispers around the conference table that he was not the only one to have noticed. “It’s really a long story, sir. I was trapped.”

“Trapped?”

“Yes, sir. In the stairwell. And then there was Mr. Raven.”

“You were trapped in the stairwell with Mr. Raven?” The hairpiece slipped another inch. It seemed as though it must be dangling before his eyes.

“No, no, I—”

“Never mind!” he barked. “Let’s get on with the business at hand.”

“Great,” Ben said, taking an empty seat next to Greg. He smiled enthusiastically. “What’s on our agenda toupee? I mean to
day—
”

It was too late. Ben’s slip was followed by suspended silence, as the other associates sucked in air and tried to control themselves. Ben saw Greg cover his face with his hand, while Marianne looked absently out the window. It was no use. All at once, the room exploded with laughter.

The man with the toupee gave them all a stony glare, and the laughter quickly dissipated. Wordlessly, the man raised his hand to his hairpiece and pushed it back to approximately its original position. His expression defied anyone to mention what they were observing.

“To answer what I perceive to be your actual question, Kincaid, I had just told each associate the name of the partner who will be acting as their supervising attorney.”

“I see,” Ben mumbled, not looking up. “And who was I assigned to?”

“Me,” the man replied. “My name is Richard Derek. I’d like to see you in my office at ten o’clock. Sharp. And Mr. Kincaid …” He paused. “Walk, don’t run.”

B
EN SAT IN THE
chair opposite Derek’s desk and mourned his existence.

He was trying to shake the feeling that his first day was already a disaster. Try not to think about it, Greg had told him—perhaps the most idiotic advice he had received in his entire life.

Derek chose the crudest of all ways of referring to the catastrophe in the conference room—namely, not to mention it at all. At least not directly.

“Damn back is killing me,” he muttered, a cigarette clenched between his lips. “Acts up whenever my back is subjected to … unanticipated stress. A legacy of my Coast Guard days.”

Coast Guard days? “Were you hurt in combat, sir?” Ben asked.

“No, I was hurt in boot camp, and that’s a damn sight worse.” He dipped his cigarette in the near-full ashtray on his desk. “Goddamn sadists.”

Derek squirmed in the burgundy chair that perfectly accented the large desk meaningfully placed between Ben and himself. Ben noted that there were two visitors’ chairs on the opposite side of the desk, the one in which Ben was sitting and another just beside it. When Derek was talking to a fellow shareholder, or when he wanted to create a feeling of amiability, he could sit on an equal plane with his visitor without the huge desk between them. On the other hand, Ben realized, when Derek wanted to be imposing and autocratic, when he wanted to keep people on edge, he could make them sit alone, on the outside, while he nestled behind his desk and peered out at them. Like now, for instance.

Derek’s eyes roved across his desk and came to rest on a brown piece of linen paper Ben knew must be his résumé. “B.A. in music theory, something every lawyer needs to know, minor in English literature, a year in the Peace Corps, a year as a Goodwill Ambassador for Rotary International. Oh, God. Let me guess. You probably went to law school because”—he exhaled a cloud of smoke and curled his lip—“you wanted to help people.” He smiled broadly.

“Well,” Ben said quietly, “as a matter of fact …”

Derek chuckled. “That’s so sweet. Well, what’s the point of being young if you can’t believe in fairy tales?” Derek stretched, grimaced, and rubbed his back in the alleged sore spot. “Of course, if you really wanted to help people, I suppose you would have gone to work at the public defenders’ office or a legal aid agency, instead of working at the biggest, richest corporate law firm in the state, right?” Derek grinned, obviously impressed with his own penetrating insight.

“I used to work for the D.A. in Oklahoma City,” Ben said.

“Right,” Derek said, nodding. “I see that in your résumé. You worked there a year and a half. Just long enough to make yourself marketable.”

“It wasn’t really like that—”

“Stop.” Derek interrupted Ben with a wave of his hand and a demeanor that told Ben he was about to convey some great nugget of wisdom. “Don’t bother denying it. I’m not criticizing you. I’m complimenting you.” He leaned forward across the desk. “You know what’s really important in the legal world today?”

Ben took a pen from his end of the desk and twirled it between his fingers. “No, sir. What?”

“Marketing. That’s what.”

“Marketing, sir?”

“Yes, marketing. How are you at marketing, Kincaid?”

“Wha—I … I don’t know, sir. They don’t really cover that in law school.”

“Hmmm.” Derek pursed his lips and drew on his cigarette as if he were bringing the smoke in from another county. “I suppose not. They didn’t teach it at Harvard, either. Of course, they don’t really
need
to teach marketing at Harvard. One’s mere presence at Harvard is generally sufficient.”

Derek tapped the Harvard Law School diploma hanging over his desk, just beneath a stuffed and mounted bobcat, poised forever in mid-spring. Funny, Ben thought, Derek doesn’t really seem the hunter type. Looks more like a bridge player.

“Of course,” Derek continued, “that stuff they teach you in law school is of some value, too. But if you aren’t adept at marketing, you don’t have clients, and if you don’t have clients, what good is knowing the law?”