"So I'll need some help."
"Oh yes. You can't do it alone. When Maynard Tole was executed, we had a lawyer ,.from Jackson staked out at the governor's ;office, one at the supreme court clerk's office in Jackson, one in Washington, and two on '.death row. That's why you have to go fight ;tomorrow, Adam. You'll need the firm and its resources. You can't do it by yourself. It takes 'a team."
"This is a real kick in the crotch."
"I know. A year ago you were in law school, now you've been terminated. I know it hurts. But believe me, Adam, it's just a fluke. It won't stand. Ten years from now you'll be a partner in this firm, and you'll be terrorizing young associates."
"Don't bet on it."
"Let's go to Chicago. I've got two tickets for a seven-fifteen flight. We'll be in Chicago by eight-thirty, and we'll find a nice restaurant."
"I need to get some clothes."
"Fine. Meet me at the airport at six-thirty."
The matter was effectively settled before the meeting began. Eleven members of the Personnel Committee were present, a sufficient number for a quorum. They gathered in a locked library on the sixtieth floor, around a long table with gallons of coffee in the center of it, and they brought with them thick files and portable Dictaphones and fatigued pocket schedules. One brought his secretary, and she sat in the hallway and worked furiously. These were busy people, all of them less than an hour away from another frantic day of endless conferences, meetings, briefings, depositions, trials, telephones, and significant lunches. Ten men, one woman, all in their late thirties or early forties, all partners of K & B, all in a hurry to return to their cluttered desks.
The matter of Adam Hall was a nuisance to them. The Personnel Committee, in fact, was a nuisance to them. It was not one of the more pleasant panels upon which to serve, but they'd been duly elected and no one dared decline. All for the firm. Go team Go!
Adam had arrived at the office at seven-thirty. He'd been gone for ten days, his longest absence yet. Emmitt Wycoff had shifted Adam's work to another young associate. There was never a shortage of rookies at Kravitz & Bane.
By eight o'clock he was hiding in a small, useless conference room near the library on the sixtieth floor. He was nervous, but worked hard at not showing it. He sipped coffee and read the morning papers. Parchman was a world away. And he studied the list of fifteen names on the Personnel Committee, none of whom he knew. Eleven strangers who would kick his future around for the next hour, then vote quickly and get on with more important matters. Wycoff checked in and said hello a few minutes before eight. Adam thanked him for everything, apologized for being so much trouble, and listened as Emmitt promised a speedy and satisfactory outcome.
Garner Goodman opened the door at five minutes after eight. "Looks pretty good," he said, almost in a whisper. "Right now there are eleven present. We have commitments from at least five. Three of Rosen's votes from the subcommittee are here, but it looks like he might be a vote or two shy."
"Is Rosen here?" Adam asked, knowing the answer but hoping that maybe the old bastard had died in his sleep.
"Yes, of course. And I think he's worried. Emmitt was still making phone calls at ten last night. We've got the votes, and Rosen knows it." Goodman eased through the door and was gone.
At eight-fifteen, the chairman called the meeting to order and declared a quorum. The termination of Adam Hall was the sole issue on the agenda, indeed the only reason for this special meeting. Emmitt Wycoff went first, and in ten minutes did a fine job of telling how wonderful Adam was. He stood at one end of the table in front of a row of bookshelves, and chatted comfortably as if trying to persuade a jury. At least half of the eleven did not hear a word. They scanned documents and juggled their calendars.
Garner Goodman spoke next. He quickly summarized the case of Sam Cayhall, and provided the honest assessment that, in all likelihood, Sam would be executed in three weeks. Then he bragged on Adam, said he might have been wrong in not disclosing his relationship with Sam, but what the hell. That was then, and this is now, and the present is a helluva lot more important when your client has only three weeks to live.
Not a single question was asked of either Wycoff or Goodman. The questions, evidently, were being saved for Rosen.
Lawyers have long memories. You cut one's throat today, and he'll wait patiently in the weeds for years until he can return the favor. Daniel Rosen had lots of favors lying around the hallways of Kravitz & Bane, and as managing partner he was in the process of collecting them. He'd stepped on people, his own people, for years. He was a bully, a liar, a thug. In his glory days, he'd been the heart and soul of the firm, and he knew it. No one would challenge him. He had abused young associates and tormented his fellow partners. He had run roughshod over committees, ignored firm policies, stolen clients from other lawyers at Kravitz & Bane, and now in the decline of his career he was collecting favors.
Two minutes into his presentation, he was interrupted for the first time by a young partner who rode motorcycles with Emmitt Wycoff.
Rosen was pacing, as if playing to a packed courtroom in his glory days, when the question stopped him. Before he could think of a sarcastic answer, another question hit him. By the time he could think of an answer to either of the first two, a third came from nowhere. The brawl was on.
The three interrogators worked like an efficient tag team, and it was apparent that they had been practicing. They took turns needling Rosen with relentless questions, and within a minute he was cursing and throwing insults. They kept their collective cool. Each had a legal pad with what appeared to be long lists of questions.
"Where's the conflict of interest, Mr. Rosen?"
"Certainly a lawyer can represent a family member, right, Mr. Rosen?"
"Did the application for employment specifically ask Mr. Hall if this firm represented a member of his family?"
"Do you have something against publicity, Mr. Rosen?"
"Why do you consider the publicity to be negative?"
"Would you try to help a family member on death row?"
"What are your feelings about the death penalty, Mr. Rosen?"
"Do you secretly want to see Sam Cayhall executed because he killed Jews?"
"Don't you think you've ambushed Mr. Hall?"
It was not a pleasant sight. Some of the greatest courtroom victories in recent Chicago history belonged to Daniel Rosen, and here he was getting his teeth kicked in in a meaningless fight before a committee. Not a jury. Not a judge. A committee.
The idea of retreat had never entered his mind. He pressed on, growing louder and more caustic. His retorts and acid replies grew personal, and he said some nasty things about Adam.
This was a mistake. Others joined the fray, and soon Rosen was flailing like wounded prey, just a few steps in front of the wolf pack. When it was apparent that he could never reach a majority of the committee, he lowered his voice and regained his composure.
He rallied nicely with a quiet summation about ethical considerations and avoiding the appearance of impropriety, scriptures that lawyers learn in law school and spit at each other when fighting but otherwise ignore when convenient.
When Rosen finished, he stormed out of the room, mentally taking notes of those who'd had the nerve to grill him. He'd write their names in a file the minute he got to his desk, and one day, well, one day he'd just do something about it.
Papers and pads and electronic equipment vanished from the table which was suddenly clean except for the coffee and empty cups. The chairman called for a vote. Rosen got five. Adam got six, and the Personnel Committee adjourned itself immediately and disappeared in a rush.