“That’s right. Well, as you know, she’s in our London office, fifth year there, and doing well. I’ve discussed the Lannak case with her and she’s eager to get involved. She’s been cramped in the office for some time, the ninety hours a week routine, and she wants some fresh air and sunshine. You’ll need several associates for the busywork, and I want you to include Giovanna. She’s very bright and works hard. You won’t be disappointed, Mitch.”
And, as Mitch vividly recalled, she was quite attractive.
It was an easy request. There was plenty of grunt work ahead — documents to read and categorize, discovery to decipher, depositions to plan, briefs to write. Mitch would supervise it all, but the tedium would be delegated to associates.
“Let’s sign her up,” he said. “I’ll call and welcome her aboard.”
“Thank you, Mitch. She will be pleased. I’m trying to convince her to return to Rome, at least for the next year. I need her close by.”
Mitch nodded but could think of nothing to say. The food arrived and they busied themselves with lunch. The piazza was coming to life with midday traffic, as office workers left their buildings in search of something to eat. The foot traffic was fascinating and Mitch never tired of watching the people.
Luca stopped eating as a sudden pain stiffened his back. It passed and he smiled at Mitch, as if all was well.
“Ever been to Libya, Mitch?”
“No. It’s never been on my list.”
“Fascinating place, really. My father lived there in the thirties, before the war, back when Italy was trying to colonize the country. As you probably know, the Italians were not very good at the colonizing business. Leave it to the British, the French, the Spaniards, even the Dutch and Portuguese. For some reason the Italians never got the hang of it. We bailed out after the war, but my father stayed in Tripoli until 1969, when Gaddafi took over in a military coup. Libya has a fascinating history, one worth taking a look at.”
Not only had Mitch never planned to visit the place, he had never been curious about its history. He smiled and said, “I’ll have a PhD by next week.”
“For the first ten years of my practice, I represented Italian companies doing business in Libya. I stayed there often, even had a little flat in Tripoli for a couple years. And there was a woman, a Moroccan.” The twinkle was back in his eye. Mitch could not help but wonder how many girlfriends Luca had kept around the world in his day.
“She was a beauty,” he said softly, wistfully.
Of course she was. Would Luca Sandroni waste time with a homely woman?
Over espresso and the obligatory Italian post-lunch cigarette, Luca said, “Why don’t you stop off in London and see Giovanna? She’ll be thrilled to be personally invited onto the case. And check on her, tell her I’m doing fine.”
“Are you doing fine, Luca?”
“Not really. I have less than six months, Mitch. The cancer is aggressive and there’s little I can do. The case is yours.”
“Thank you, Luca, for the trust. You won’t be disappointed.”
“No, I won’t, but I’m afraid I might not be around to see its conclusion.”
Chapter 7
Two hours before he was to board the nonstop flight from Rome to London, Mitch abruptly changed plans and got the last seat on a flight to New York’s JFK. There were pressing matters at home. Dinner with Giovanna could wait.
Confined to a narrow seat for eight hours, Mitch passed the time as always on long flights by diving into thick briefs so boring they usually led to a long nap or two. First, he reviewed the docket and current membership of the United Arbitration Board and read the bios of its twenty members. They were appointed by one of the many committees at the United Nations and served five-year terms, with a lot of time spent in Geneva and with generous expense accounts. A former member once told Mitch, over drinks in New York, that the UAB was one of the best gigs in the world for aging lawyers with international pedigrees and contacts. As always, its roster was chock-full of bright legal minds from every continent, most of whom had at one time or another passed through Ivy League law schools either to study or teach. Its business was done in English and French, though all languages were welcome and could be accommodated. Two years earlier, Mitch had appeared before the board and argued a case on behalf of an Argentine grain cooperative seeking damages against a South Korean importer. He and Abby spent three honeymoon-like days in Geneva and still talked about it. He won the case, collected the money, and sent a hefty bill to Buenos Aires.
Winning cases before the UAB was not that difficult if the facts fell into place. It had jurisdiction because the contracts, like the one for the bridge project between Lannak and the Libyan government, had a clearly written clause requiring both parties to submit their disputes to the UAB. In addition, Libya, like virtually every other nation, was a signatory to various treaties designed to facilitate international commerce and make the bad actors — and there was never a shortage of them — behave.
Winning was relatively easy. Collecting an award was another matter. Dozens of rogue states willingly signed whatever contracts and treaties were necessary to get the business, with no intention of paying the damages that became due at arbitration. The more Mitch read, the more he realized that Libya had a long history of trying to walk away from deals that looked promising at contract but went sour.
According to Scully’s intelligence, the bridge was a perfect example of Gaddafi’s erratic dreaming. He became enamored with the vision of a soaring structure in the middle of a desert and ordered it built. Then he lost interest and moved on to other important projects. At some point, someone convinced him it was a bad idea, but by then those pesky Turks were demanding serious money.
Luca’s UAB claim ran for ninety pages, and by the time Mitch had read it once he was almost asleep.
The pressing matter at home was a youth baseball game in Central Park. Carter and Clark played for the Bruisers, a serious contender in the Under Eight division of the city’s police league. Carter was the catcher and loved the dirt and sweat. Clark roamed the outfield and missed half the action. Mitch had almost no time to help coach the team, but he volunteered as the bench coach and tried to keep the lineup straight. It was a crucial task because if any kid, regardless of talent or interest, played one inning less than the others, his parents would be waiting in ambush after the game.
After a few light skirmishes with parents, Mitch was already plotting ways to interest the twins in individual sports such as golf and tennis. However, some of those parents were just as terrifying. Perhaps hiking and skiing might be more enjoyable.
The boys stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the foyer as Mitch inspected their uniforms. Abby was worrying about the time; they were already running late. They left in a rush and hurried along Sixty-Eighth Street to Central Park West. The teams were on one of the many fields of the Great Lawn, limbering up in the outfield as coaches yelled and parents huddled in the falling temperatures.
Hiding in the dugout presented its own challenges, but Mitch preferred it to the bleachers where the adults chatted nonstop about careers, real estate, new restaurants, new nannies, new trainers, schools, and so on.
The umpires arrived and the game began. For ninety minutes Mitch sat on the bench, surrounded by a dozen eight-year-olds, and managed to shut out the rest of the world. He kept the score book, made the substitutions, huddled with Mully, the head coach, chided the umpires, ribbed the opposing coach, and treasured the moments when his own sons sat beside him and talked baseball.
The Bruisers crushed the Rams, and at the final out the players and coaches lined up for the postgame handshaking rituals. The staff, Mully and Mitch, were determined to teach their players the virtues of sportsmanship, and they led by example. Winning was always fun, but winning with class was far more important.