Moore: I don’t understand the problem.
Ruffing: We’re going a different way is all.
Moore: But we had a deal. A deal, Mikey.
Ruffing: I’m not happy about it but I don’t got no fucking choice. Bissonette found out about us.
Moore: And I should care about that. He hit two-twenty lifetime, Mikey, two-twenty. We can walk all over him.
Ruffing: There are things about him I didn’t… I got a new investor with a new plan.
Moore: Don’t do this, Mikey. You back out now, your project’s dead. Dead.
Ruffing: My new investor don’t think so.
Moore: It’s that cookie baker, isn’t it?
Ruffing: Shut up. You were taking too much anyway, you know? You were being greedy.
Moore: So that’s it, is it, Mikey? I’m sending my man Concannon down.
Ruffing: I don’t want Concannon.
Moore: You listen, you shit. You talk to Concannon, right? I ain’t no hack from Hackensack, we had a deal. A deal. This isn’t just politics. We’re on a mission here, Mikey, and I won’t let you back down from your responsibilities. You catch what I’m telling you here? You catch it, Mikey?
I worked through lunch, eating a tuna salad sandwich as I listened to the tapes. I had not even touched the six boxes full of documents when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I whirled around and saw standing behind me Prescott, tall, stern faced, dressed in his severe navy blue pinstripes. I nearly jumped when I saw him. He looked like a mortician. I took off the headphones and was disoriented for a moment by the Dolby quiet of reality.
“What do you think?” asked Prescott.
“I haven’t been able to look at everything yet,” I said.
“But from what you saw. Be honest now, Victor.”
“Well, sir, to be honest, the tapes make Jimmy Moore out to be the archetypal grasping politician.”
“I knew you’d catch on,” he said as his stern features eased into merriment. “That’s exactly our defense. Come, Chester Concannon is waiting for us and Jimmy’s on his way. Chester especially is anxious to meet you.”
“Fine,” I said, grabbing hold of my pad and following Prescott out the door. He led me through a maze of hallways and up a flight of steps.
“It’s very important,” he said as I followed, “that Chester agrees to your representation and to maintain our current strategy.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I said, masking my apprehension. This, I knew, was the first crucial moment of my opportunity. I had never met Chester Concannon, had no idea what he looked like, what his manner was, but somehow I had to convince this stranger with his life on the line to hire me as his lawyer and to allow me to follow Prescott blindly.
Prescott brought me through another hallway and into a different conference room, just as elegant and imposing as the one in which I had spent the day, but this one filled with a pack of lawyer types. In the middle, sporting a ragged corduroy jacket, sat a rather ugly man who didn’t fit. His brown hair fell scraggly to his shoulders and he scrunched fat fish lips between forefinger and thumb as he watched me walk into the room. I assumed he was Chester Concannon. You can always tell the client among his lawyers because he looks like the one who’s been forced to pay for everyone else’s worsted wool.
“I’d like you all to meet Victor Carl,” said Prescott when we stood together before the table. Prescott’s arm rested like a father’s on my shoulder. “Victor is a terrific litigator and going to be a big help to us all.”
I smiled the smile I was expected to smile.
“So you’re the mannequin,” said the ugly man in corduroy, his voice loud and sharp, like the bark of a Pomeranian.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“They said they needed a mannequin with a pulse and a clean tie to take over for McCrae,” he said. “So I guess that’s you, Vic. Except I see you don’t have the clean tie. You got a pulse at least, Vic?”
I fought the impulse to check my tie and turned my head just enough so I could look at him sideways without letting him see the tears involuntarily welling. If this indeed was my client-to-be I was in deep trouble. “Last time I checked,” I said.
“Good for you,” he said. “Just take a shower in your wash-and-wear so you’ll be presentable when you pose for the judge.”
“Victor,” said Prescott. “I’d like you to meet Chester Concannon.”
I hesitantly reached out my hand toward the man in the corduroy but he remained seated, his thick lips back to being pinched by his forefinger and thumb. Next to him an African-American man in a tight fitting, expensive suit stood and took hold of my hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Carl,” he said in a strong voice. Chester Concannon was boyishly handsome, with thin shoulders and strong hands. While his smile was bright, his suit was subdued and his tie striped and simple. “I appreciate you joining our team.”
“And this,” said Prescott, gesturing to the man in the corduroy who had called me a mannequin, “is Chuckie Lamb, Councilman Moore’s press secretary.”
Chuckie Lamb gave me a sort of snorting nod and then leaned back in his chair until the chair’s front legs tilted off the carpet.
“I’ve told both Chet and Jimmy all about you, Victor, and the tenacious job you did on the Saltz case,” said Prescott. “They were both enthusiastic about your coming on board. This is the rest of our crew,” he said and introduced me to the Talbott, Kittredge contingent seated around the table, whose names I forgot the instant they escaped from Prescott’s lips. They were finely dressed, perfectly groomed men and women, showily multicultural, as if cast by a politically correct producer for a television series about litigators. There was an Asian-American man and an African-American woman, and there was a blond guy with a perpetual smirk on his face. And then at the end of the table was Madeline Burroughs, who eyed me suspiciously, arms crossed, the fist of her face closed. It was the very picture of the sharp legal team of which I had always dreamed of being a part and on which I had always suspected, somewhere deep down, I didn’t belong.
“Now Victor has spent the day looking through Pete McCrae’s files and the materials provided us by the U.S. Attorney’s office,” said Prescott, “and he assures me that he can be ready for trial in two weeks.”
“What a stunning surprise,” barked Chuckie Lamb. “The mannequin is ready to pose.”
“That’s enough,” said Concannon softly, and Chuckie Lamb quieted immediately.
“Victor’s readiness,” said Prescott, “means we won’t require the continuance the government so desperately wants us to have.”
“I haven’t looked at everything yet,” I said, glancing at Chuckie Lamb for a moment. “But it shouldn’t take me too long to get up to speed.”
There were smiles from all the bright young successes and I smiled back. I was an actor playing the part of a competent and experienced lawyer and doing quite well, I thought. And if they all didn’t believe in what I was presenting they were acting quite well themselves, all except for Chuckie.
“Terrific,” said Prescott. “But maybe, before we proceed any further, Victor should spend a few minutes alone with Chester.” He raised his eyebrows at me, giving me my cue.
“I guess we should see if you really want to hire me,” I said to Concannon with my most ingratiating smile. Chuckie Lamb laughed in my face.
Concannon and I were escorted to an open office. On my way there, without letting anyone notice, I checked my tie. Chuckie had not been lying, a glob of tuna had crusted on the edge. I rubbed it off, leaving a dark oily patch, streaked larger by my thumb.
I closed the door behind us and gestured for Concannon to sit in one of the chairs arrayed expectantly before some Talbott partner’s desk. I sat on the tabletop. Behind the desk was a collection of swords and sabers and battle-axes, the metal edges gleaming. Another litigator’s office.