Bertha’s brow creased. She looked pointedly at her husband.
“How soon do you need to know something?” Jonathan asked.
“The sooner the better. I’d like to have an affidavit on file with the court before the Friday hearing.”
“All righty. I’ll call you as soon as I have any information.”
Jonathan and Bertha rose to leave. Ben handed the man one of his freshly printed business cards and asked Maggie to bring Emily back to his office.
The little girl seemed in good spirits. “Hello,” she said, looking at Ben. “Have I ever met you before?”
Bertha smiled faintly and took the girl by the hand. The three of them left his office.
Ben plopped back into his chair. The gnawing sensation in his stomach seemed stronger. Why couldn’t he have something normal for his first case here? A simple debt collection case maybe, just to get the ball rolling.
He sighed. He tried to analyze the legal ramifications of the case, but found himself daydreaming about Emily, and wondering what life must be like for her. For Emily, he thought with some admiration, everything was now, this instant, present tense. No memory, no guilt, no regrets. An entire life spent in a fixed moment of time.
5
“SO TELL ME THE truth, Alvin,” Greg said. “Have you really computed all these demographics about the firm or were you just trying to impress us?”
Ben, Alvin, Greg and Marianne sat in a semicircle on the floor of Ben’s apartment. Not for the sake of togetherness but for the sake of necessity—Ben had no furniture, a fact that slipped his mind when he invited them over for a late-night pizza and first-day gossip fest.
“It’s the truth,” Alvin said proudly. “I take my career very seriously. And why not? Did you see all the new associates today? They were worried sick. Why should I waste my energy worrying when there’s a way to find the answers to the questions I’m worried about?”
Alvin turned to Marianne. “How much time have you spent in the last few weeks wondering what names the other female attorneys at Raven were using?” His gaze shifted to Ben. “And how much time have you spent wondering what associate salaries were at various stages of the eight-year associateship? Well, I didn’t just sit around speculating. I found out.”
Greg placed his hand over his heart. “Alvin Hager,” he said solemnly, “the All-American Boy.”
Alvin ignored him. “I stayed late today, watching everyone leave, trying to see if I could distinguish the associates from the partners.”
“Could you?” Ben asked.
“Easy. The shareholders all strolled out carrying a nice black leather briefcase, if anything. The associates all left loaded down with books and papers and legal pads. It’s their way of crying out, ‘Look how hard I work! Shouldn’t I be a shareholder, too?’ ”
Marianne eyed him suspiciously. “You may be a little too smart for my taste, Hager. You’re not going to be one of those associates who are always sucking up to partners, are you?”
Alvin waved the suggestion away with his hand. “Of course not. That’s not the ticket to success. The up-and-coming associate learns to blend devout servitude with the appearance of independence. You don’t want to make the partners uncomfortable, after all.”
Ben shook his head. “Too much for me to handle,” he said.
The doorbell chimed and, almost simultaneously, the phone began to ring.
Ben headed toward the door. “Greg, would you get the phone?” Greg nodded.
Ben opened the door to find the smiling, sweaty face of the delivery boy from Antonio’s. He passed the boy a check and took the pizza box.
“I don’t know about this,” Marianne said. “We’re young urban professionals now. Seems like we should be eating pasta in a classy restaurant with a maître d’ named François.”
Greg returned and dove into the pizza. “It was your mother, Ben,” he said. “She asked you to call her back later.”
“Which reminds me,” Ben said abruptly to Marianne. “What name did you decide to use on your doorplate?”
Marianne fixed her gaze on the pepperoni slice inches below her nose. “Well, none, actually. I went with initials. M. H. Gunnerson.”
Alvin nodded. “Very professional.”
Ben suppressed a grin. “M. H., eh? What does the H stand for?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Aha! Now here’s a puzzle,” Greg said, jabbing Ben in the ribs. “Must be really dreadful.”
“Harriet?” Ben asked.
“I’m betting on Hildegaard,” Greg said.
“Perhaps Hermione,” Alvin suggested.
“Stop,” Marianne said, giggling. “I won’t tell.” She reached for another slice of pizza. “I heard starting associates are expected to bill two hundred and twenty-five hours a month.”
“That’s incredible,” Ben said. “That can’t be right. Did your supervising attorney tell you that?”
“Nope. My secretary. So it must be true.”
“That’s over fifty hours a week!”
“What do you think we’re here for?” Alvin said with a sort of short. “We haven’t got any expertise or clientele. We’re here for one reason and one reason only. To make the shareholders rich.” He paused for effect. “And the only way we can do that is work, work, work—and bill them hours.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary to become a total workaholic just to make the firm profitable,” Ben said.
Alvin made a tsking noise. “Uh-oh. Attitude problem. Well, don’t worry, Ben, I won’t file a report with your supervising attorney. This time.”
“At this point, Alvin, there’s nothing that could make him think less of me than he already does.”
Greg took a bite of pizza and shook his head. “If you’re talking about that toupee incident, don’t worry about it. It’s not that big a deal. I bet he’s already forgotten about it.”
Ben looked at him, then at Marianne, then at Alvin. They looked back. Simultaneously, all four erupted with laughter.
“Yeah, right,” Ben said, wiping his eyes. “What’s to remember?”
The phone rang again. Ben frowned. Greg started to rise.
“That’s all right,” Ben said quickly. “I’ll get it.” He took three slow steps to the telephone, then lifted the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”
“Hello, Ben. It’s Mike. Your brother-in-law.”
“Ex-brother-in-law. You divorced Julia, remember?”
“Let’s not dredge up painful memories, kemo sabe.” In the background, Ben could hear the sounds of traffic. Mike must be calling from somewhere outdoors. “How long have you been in town?”
“Just since Saturday night. I’ve been meaning to give you a call—”
“Yeah, right. So, you busy right now?”
“Well, I’m snarfing a pizza with some fellow associates.”
“Very upwardly mobile,” Mike said. “Why don’t you come meet me—”
“Mike, I’d really like to see you, but I think it would be rude—”
“This isn’t a social invitation,” Mike interrupted. “I’m working. I’ve got a corpse here that looks like he got the bad end of an argument with a Cuisinart.”
“My God,” Ben muttered. “Who is it?”
“Beats hell out of us. I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Me? Look, Mike, I know I helped the police a few times when I was at the D.A.’s office in OKC, but it’s almost eleven and I have to be at work at eight in the morning—”
“You don’t understand, Ben. We’ve got clues.”
Ben hesitated. “What clues?”
“Well, just one, really, but it’s a zinger. The murderer stripped this poor slob clean—no wallet, no I.D. But he missed something. Something we found in the corpse’s shirt pocket behind one of those plastic pencil pouches you see on nerds and accountants. A business card.” He paused. “Actually, it was your business card, Ben.”