Special Circumstances

Special CircumstancesbySheldon Siegel
A NOVEL BY
Sheldon Siegel
Chapter 1
A license to print money “Founded in 1929 and headquartered in SanFrancisco, Simpson and Gates is the largest full-service law firm basedwest of the Mississippi. With over nine hundred attorneys in eighteenoffices on four continents, Simpson and Gates is recognized as aninternational leader in the legal profession.”
—simpson AND gates ATTORNEY RECRUITING BROCHURE.
“For three hundred and fifty dollars an hour, I’d bite the heads offlive chickens.”
robert holmes jr.” CHAIRMAN, simpson AND gates CORPORATE DEPARTMENT.welcoming
REMARKS TO NEW ATTORNEYS.
For the last twenty years or so, being a partner in a big corporate lawfirm has been like having a license to print money. At my firm,Simpson and Gates, we’ve had a license to print a lot of money.
At six-fifteen in the evening of Tuesday, December 30, the printingpress is running at full speed forty-eight floors above CaliforniaStreet in downtown San Francisco in what our executive committeemodestly likes to call our world headquarters. Our 320 attorneys arehoused in opulent offices on eight floors at the top of the Bank ofAmerica Building, a fifty-two-story bronze edifice that takes upalmost an entire city block and is the tallest and ugliest testimonialto unimaginative architecture in the city skyline.
Our two-story rosewood-paneled reception area is about the size of abasketball court. A reception desk that is longer than a city bus sitsat the south end of the forty-eighth floor, and I can see the GoldenGate Bridge, Alcatraz Island and Sausalito through the glass-enclosedconference room on the north wall. The gray carpet, overstuffedleather chairs and antique coffee tables create the ambiance of aclassic men’s club, which is entirely appropriate since most of ourattorneys and clients are white, male and Republican.
Even in the evening of the customarily quiet week between Christmas andNew Year’s, our reception area is buzzing with a higher level ofactivity than most businesses see in the middle of the day. Thenagain, most businesses aren’t the largest and most profitable law firmon the West Coast.
Tomorrow is my last day with the firm and I am trying to shove my waythrough three hundred attorneys, clients, politicians and otherhangers-on who have gathered for one of our insufferable cocktailparties. I hate this stuff. I guess it’s appropriate I have to walkthe gauntlet one last time.
In the spirit of the holiday season, everybody is dressed in festivedark gray business suits, starched monogrammed white shirts and redpower ties. A string quartet plays classical music in front of theblinking lights of our tired-looking twenty-foot Christmas tree. Thesuits have gathered to drink chardonnay, eat hors d’oeuvres and paytribute to my soon-to-be ex-partner, Prentice Marshall Gates III, theson of our late founding partner Prentice Marshall Gates II. PrenticeIII, one of many lawyers in our firm with roman numerals behind hisname, is known as Skipper. He is also sailing out of the firmtomorrow. The circumstances of our respective departures are, shall Isay, somewhat different.
After my five years as an under productive partner in our white-collarcriminal defense department, our executive committee asked me to leave.I was, in short, fired. Although the request was polite, I was toldthat if I didn’t leave voluntarily, they would invoke Article Seven ofour partnership agreement, which states, and I quote, that “a Partnerof the Firm may be terminated by the Firm upon the affirmative vote oftwo-thirds (2/3) of the Partners of the Firm, at a duly called and heldmeeting of the Partners of the Firm.” In the last three years,fourteen of my partners have been Article Sevened. I have graciouslyagreed to resign. On Monday, I’ll open the law offices of Michael J.Daley, criminal defense attorney, in a subleased office in a walk-upbuilding in the not-so-trendy part of San Francisco’s South of Marketarea. Welcome to the modern practice of law.
Skipper’s story is a little different. After thirty years as an underproductive partner in our real estate department, he spent threemillion dollars of the money he inherited from his father to win amean-spirited race for district attorney of San Francisco, even thoughhe hasn’t set foot in a courtroom in over twenty years. My partnersare thrilled. They have never complained about his arrogance, sloppywork and condescending attitude. Hell, the same could be said aboutmost of my partners. What they can’t live with is hisfour-hundred-thousand-dollar draw. He has been living off his father’sreputation for years. That’s why all the power partners are here. Theywant to give him a big send-off. More importantly, they want to besure he doesn’t change his mind.
The temperature is about ninety degrees and it smells more like alocker room than a law firm. I nod to the mayor, shake hands with twoof my former colleagues from the San Francisco Public Defender’s Officeand carefully avoid eye contact with Skipper, who is working the room.I overhear him say the DA’s office is his first step toward becomingattorney general and, ultimately, governor.
In your dreams, Skipper.
I’m trying to get to our reception desk to pick up a settlementagreement.
Ordinarily, such a document would be brought to me by one of our manyinhouse messengers. Tonight, I’m on my own because the kids who workin our mailroom aren’t allowed to come to the front desk when the VIPsare around. I sample skewered shrimp provided by a tuxedoed waiter andelbow my way to the desk, where four evening-shift receptionistsoperate telephone consoles that have more buttons than a 747. I leanover the polished counter and politely ask Cindi Harris if she has anenvelope for me.
“Let me look, Mr. Daley,” she replies. She’s a twenty-two year-oldpart-time art student from Modesto with long black hair, a prim noseand a radiant smile. She has confided to me that she would like tobecome an artist, a stock-car driver or the wife of a rich attorney. Ihave it on good authority that a couple of my partners have alreadytaken her out for a test drive.
A few years ago, our executive committee hired a consultant to spruceup our image. It’s hard to believe, but many people seem to perceiveour firm as stuffy. For a hundred thousand dollars, our consultantexpressed concern that our middle-aged receptionists did not look“perky” enough to convey the appropriate image of a law firm of ourstature. In addition, he was mortified that we had two receptionistswho were members of the male gender.
At a meeting that everyone adamantly denies ever took place, ourexecutive committee concluded that our clients—the white, middle-agedmen who run the banks, insurance companies, defense contractors andconglomerates that we represent—would be more comfortable if ourreceptionists were younger, female, attractive and, above all, perkier.As a result, our middle-aged female and male receptionists werereassigned to less-visible duties. We hired Cindi because she fit theprofile recommended by our consultant. Although she’s incapable oftaking a phone message, she looks like a model for Victoria’s Secret.S&G isn’t known as a hotbed of progressive thinking.
Don’t get me wrong. As a divorced forty-five-year-old, I have nothingagainst attractive young women. I do have a problem when a firm adoptsa policy of reassigning older women and men to less-visible positionsjust because they aren’t attractive enough. For one thing, it’sillegal. For another thing, it’s wrong. That’s another reason I gotfired. Getting a reputation as the “house liberal” at S&G isn’t greatfor your career.
Cindi’s search turns up empty.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Daley,” she says, batting her eyes. She flashes anuncomfortable smile and looks like she’s afraid I may yell at her.While such wariness is generally advisable at S&G, it shows she doesn’tknow me very well. Jimmy Carter was in the White House the last time Iyelled at anybody.
“Let me look again,” she says.
I spy a manila envelope with my name on it sitting in front of her.
“I think that may be it.”
Big smile.
“Oh, good,” she says.
Success. I take the envelope.
“By the way, have you seen my secretary?”
Deer in the headlights.
“What’s her name again?”
“Doris.”
“Ah, yes.” Long pause.
“Dooooris.” Longer pause.
“What does she look like?”
I opt for the path of least resistance.
“It’s okay, Cindi. I’ll find her.”
I start to walk away. She grabs my arm. I turn and look into herperplexed eyes.
“Mr. Daley,” she says, “are you really leaving? I mean, well, you’reone of the nice guys. I mean, for a lawyer. I thought partners neverleave.”
Cindi, I’m leaving because I have more in common with the kids who pushthe mail carts than I do with my partners. I was fired because mypiddly book of business isn’t big, enough.
I summon my best sincere face, look her right in her puppy eyes andmake believe I am pouring out my heart.
“I’ve been here for five years. I’m getting too old for a big firm.I’ve decided to try it on my own. Besides, I want more time forGrace.” My ex-wife has custody of our six-year-old daughter, but weget along pretty well and Grace stays with me every other weekend.
Her eyes get larger.
“Somebody said you might go back to the public defender’s office.”
I frown. I worked as a San Francisco PD for seven years before Ijoined S&G.
The State Bar Journal once proclaimed I was the best PD in NorthernCalifornia.
Before I went to law school, I was a priest for three years.
“Actually, I’m going to share office space with another attorney.”Without an ounce of conviction, I add, “It’ll be fun.” I leave out thefact I’m subleasing from my ex-wife.
“Good luck, Mr. Daley.”
“Thanks, Cindi.” It’s a little scary when you talk to people at workin the same tone of voice you use with your first-grade daughter. It’seven scarier to think I’ll probably miss Cindi more than I’ll miss anyof my partners. Then again, she didn’t fire me.
I know one thing for certain. I’ll sure miss the regular paychecks.
I begin to push my way toward the conference room in search of Doriswhen I’m confronted by the six-foot-six-inch frame of Skipper Gates,who flashes the plastic threemillion-dollar smile that graces fadingcampaign posters that are still nailed to power poles across the city.He is inhaling a glass of wine.
“Michael,” he slurs, “so good to see you.”
I don’t want to deal with this right now.
At fifty-eight, his tanned face is chiseled out of solid rock, with aRoman nose, high forehead and graceful mane of silver hair. Hischarcoal-gray double-breasted Brioni suit, Egyptian-cotton white shirtand striped tie add dignity to his rugged features. He looks like heis ready to assume his rightful place on Mount Rushmore next to GeorgeWashington.
As an attorney, he’s careless, lazy and unimaginative. As a humanbeing, he’s greedy, condescending and an unapologetic philanderer. Asa politician, however, he’s the real deal. Even when he’s half tankedand there’s a piece of shrimp hanging from his chin, he exudescharisma, wealth and, above all, style.
It must be some sort of birthright of those born into privilege. Asone of four children of a San Francisco cop, privilege is something Iknow very little about.
He squeezes my hand and pulls me uncomfortably close.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving,” he says. His baritone has theaffected quality of a man who spent his youth in boarding schools andhis adulthood in country clubs. As he shouts into my ear, his breathconfirms he could launch his forty-foot sailboat with the chardonnayhe’s consumed tonight.
His speech is touching. It’s also utter bullshit. Instinctively, Ibegin evasive maneuvers. I pound him a little too hard on his back anddislodge the shrimp from his chin.
“Who knows?” I say.
“Maybe we’ll get to work on a case together.”
He tilts his head back and laughs too loudly.
“You bet.” I go for the quick tweak.
“Skipper, you are going to try cases, right?” District attorneys inbig cities are political, ceremonial and administrative lawyers. Theydon’t go to court. The assistant DAs try cases. If the ADA wins, theDA takes credit. If the ADA loses, the DA deflects blame. The SanFrancisco DA has tried only a handful of cases since the fifties.
He turns up the voltage. Like many politicians, he can speak and grinsimultaneously. He hides behind the protective cocoon of his favoritesound bite.
“Skipper Gates’s administration is going to be different,” he says.
“The DA is supposed to be a lawenforcement officer, not a socialworker. Skipper Gates is going to try cases. Skipper Gates is goingto put the bad guys away.”
And Mike Daley thinks you sound like a pompous ass. He sees the mayorand staggers away. I wish you smooth sailing, Skipper. The politicalwaters in the city tend to be choppy, even for well-connectedoperators like you. Things may be different when your daddy’s nameisn’t on the door.
A moment later, I find my secretary, Doris Fontaine, who is standingjust outside our power conference room, or “PCR.” Doris is a dignifiedfifty six-year-old with serious blue eyes, carefully coiffed gray hairand the quiet confidence of a consummate professional. If she had beenborn twenty years later, she would have gone to law school and become apartner here.
“Thanks for everything, Doris,” I say.
“I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll never get another one like you, Mikey,” she replies. I hate itwhen she calls me Mikey. She does it all the time. She absentmindedlyfingers the reading glasses that hang from a small gold chain aroundher neck. She reminds me of Sister Eunice, my kindergarten teacher atSt. Peter’s. She looks at the chaos in the PCR through the heavyglass door and shakes her head.
The PCR houses an eighty-foot rosewood table with a marble top,matching credenza and fifty chairs, a closed-circuit television systemconnecting our eighteen offices and a museum-quality collection ofCurrier and Ives lithographs. Six presidents, eight governors andcountless local politicians have solicited campaign funds in this veryroom. Thirty expandable aluminum racks holding hundreds of carefullylabeled manila folders containing legal documents cover the table. Theroom is littered with paper, coffee cups, half-eaten sandwiches, legalpads and cellular phones. It looks like mission control before a spaceshuttle launch. The grim faces of the fifty people scattered in smallgroups in the PCR are in contrast to the forced smiles at Skipper’sparty outside. Nobody is admiring the lithographs.
“How is Bob’s deal going?” I ask.
“Not so well,” she replies. Doris. Ever the diplomat. She’s workedfor Bob Holmes, the head of our corporate department, for about twentyyears. In every law firm, there’s one individual with a huge book ofbusiness and an even bigger ego whose sole purpose is to make everyoneelse miserable. Bob is our resident nine-hundred-pound gorilla. Hiseight-million-dollar book of business lets him do pretty much whateverhe wants. For the most part, he’s content to sit on our executivecommittee, torture his associates and whine. Last year he took home amillion three hundred thousand. Not bad for a short kid from the wrongside of the tracks in Wilkes-Barre. Although my partners find itdifficult to agree on anything, they’re willing to acknowledge that Bobis a flaming asshole.