Mistress of Justice

Burdick and Stanley watched the poised black man, in a di

The conversation lasted only four minutes.

Burdick absorbed the information, closed his eyes and, thinking that in Roman days the messenger would have been killed had he delivered news like this, nonetheless politely thanked the caller.

He dropped the receiver into the cradle The valet appeared instantly and removed the phone.

"What the hell was that?" Stanley asked.

"The lease," Burdick said, shaking his head.

"Oh, no," Stanley grumbled.

Burdick nodded. "He did it. Somehow Clayton deep-sixed the lease."

The caller had been an underling of Rothstem's, the head of the real estate syndicate that owned the building where Hubbard, White & Willis was located. The syndicate had suddenly withdrawn from the negotiations for the expensive long-term lease and was going to let the current lease lapse.

This meant that it would now make much more financial sense to merge the firm with Perelli and move into the Midtown firm's space.

Damn! Burdick clenched his fist.

"Clayton's telling Jews what to do with their Manhattan real estate?" Stanley barked. There was no need to lower his voice. The only non-Protestant sect represented in the club was Papist and none of the three Catholic members was here tonight. "How the hell did he do it?"

Burdick didn't know and didn't care but, as his wife had admitted not long ago, he couldn't help but admire Clayton. He hadn't thought that the partner even knew about the negotiations, let alone that he could put together some bribery – or extortion – plan to sabotage the lease this quickly.

Now, with the lease gone, all Burdick had left to use as leverage was urging McMillan Holdings to take a stand against the merger.

"I'm going down to Florida tomorrow," he said.

"McMillan?" Stanley asked.

Burdick nodded. "Their board meeting I'll do whatever I have to to make sure they let Perelli know where they stand."

"That'll help some, I guess." Then Stanley muttered something that Burdick couldn't hear.

"What was that?" the partner asked him.

"I said, 'Remember the days when all we had to do was get clients and practice law?"

"No," Burdick replied sourly. "That must've been before my time."

CHAPTER TWENTY

The law professor and legal philosopher Karl Llewellyn wrote a book called The Bramble Bush. The foliage in his title was a metaphor for the study and practice of law and his meaning was that this field, in all its many incarnations, is endless. In that book he wrote that "the only cure for law is more law," by which he was suggesting that you ca

The law, he was suggesting, is an infinitely complex, uncompromising mistress.

Wendall Clayton thought of Professor Llewellyn's writing now as he sat across his desk from Randy Simms, late Sunday morning at the firm.

The smarmy young lawyer had just delivered troubling news. They had managed to sabotage the long-term lease that Burdick had been trying to put into place. But some of the old-guard partners at the firm were refusing to vote in favor of the merger. Burdick's win in the St. Agnes trial had heartened them and a bit of cheerleading on Bill Stanley's part had gotten them to switch their votes back to Burdick's camp.

Which meant that there was now some doubt that Clayton would have enough votes, come Tuesday, for the merger to be approved.

"How close is it?" Clayton asked.

"Pretty evenly balanced Right down the middle, more or less."

"Then we have to make it less pretty even."

"Yessir."

"Stay on call I'll be right back." Clayton rose and walked down the stairs to the paralegal pen.

To his surprise he found Sean Lillick was not alone.

The pretty boy was standing with a girl, another paralegal in the firm.

Clayton didn't understand what Lillick saw in her. She seemed shy, timid, unassertive. A bit, well, rotund too.

A consolation fuck at best.

When they saw him coming they stepped apart and Clayton noticed, though he pretended not to, that they'd been fighting about something. The girl's eyes were red from crying and Lillick's otherwise pasty face was flushed.

"Sean," the partner said.

The boy nodded. "Hi, Wendall."

"And you are?"

"Carrie Mason."

"Ah."

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Clayton said.

"No. Not at all."

Carrie said quickly, "We were just talking."

"Ah. Talking. Well, if you'll excuse us, Carrie. Sean and I have some business."

Neither of them moved. Lillick looked at the floor. Carrie cleared her throat and said, "We've got some documents to copy. For the SCI deal."

Clayton didn't say anything. He just stared from one to the other.

Lillick said to her, "Why don't you get started."

She hesitated then hefted an armful of papers and walked moodily down the hall on her solid legs.

Clayton said, "You'll be at my party tonight, won't you, Carrie? My place in Co

The girl looked back and said to the partner, "Yeah, I'll be there."

"I'm so pleased," the partner said, smiling.

When she'd vanished, Clayton said to the young man, "We've got some problems. About the vote. I need some information. Good information. And I need it fast. The vote's day after tomorrow."

It was, of course, the paralegals – and the support staff – who had the best access to information at the firm. As with the butlers and maids on Upstairs, Downstairs, the higher echelons of the firm babbled like schoolgirls in front of the hired help at Hubbard, White & Willis. This is why Clayton had swooped down on poor Lillick last year and began bribing him for information.

Lillick swallowed and looked down. "I think I've already done enough."

"You've been very helpful," the partner agreed smoothly.

"I don't want to help you anymore." He looked in the direction Carrie had disappeared.

Clayton nodded. There were times to push and times to placate. "I know it's been tough for you. But everything you've done has been for the good of everybody who works here." He rested his hand on the boy's shoulder. "We're very close, Sean, close to wi

When the paralegal said nothing more Clayton said, "There've been some defections. I need any unusual phone calls that Burdick might've made. Travel plans. Anything like that. He's a desperate man and desperate men are his enemy's best friends. Know why? Because they make mistakes. You understand that?"

"Yessir."

"You're grasping it, you're committing it to memory?"

"Yes."

"Good. Find something and it'll be worth a lot of money. I mean five-figure money."

Clayton said nothing further but just leveled his eyes at the boy. After thirty seconds Lillick said slowly, "Let me look around. See if I can find something sort of helpful."

"Ah, wonderful," Clayton said. "Actually, though, it really has to be very helpful. I don't have any time left for subtleties."

Every color clashed.

Taylor Lockwood looked over the apparel of the crowd milling in the living room of Wendall Claytons country home in Redding, Co

She saw madras!

Her mother had told her about madras: In the ancient regime of the sixties, star-burst tie-dye marked the hippies; madras flagged the nerds.