Read Online The Intruder by Peter Blauner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Blauner
Ads: Link
his neck, for Chrissake. What’s the big deal?”
Todd makes a small tutting sound, as if he’s despairing of ever teaching Jake the secret language the rest of them understand by instinct. “It’s not just the way he smells. It’s his entire presentation. Part of being a good lawyer has to do with intangibles. Good judgment. Useful contacts. Ask yourself. Is this someone you want to spend the next few years with? Honestly. Do you want Kelly meeting with clients? Coming to your house for dinner?”
“Why not?” asks Jake, growing testy.
“Because he doesn’t fit in.”
“Fit in what?” Jake feels his eyeballs start to roll back and hisknuckles begin to itch. “Is there some mold the rest of us ought to know about?”
“ ‘If you have to be told, don’t ask,’ “ says Mike, putting down the nutcracker and mimicking what old man Bracken used to say.
But Todd’s father was a sententious old hypocrite who would lecture junior associates about ethics while screwing his secretaries and playing golf with judges.
“All right, Jake, let’s lay it on the line,” says Todd. “I hadn’t wanted to bring it up so early but you’ve probably heard the rumors that we’ve been discussing a merger with Greer, Allan.”
“I’ve heard.”
Greer, Allan. The for-Wasps. Every one of their lawyers looks like he walked out of a Land’s End catalog. And hardly one of them could find the jury box in a courtroom. Still their revenues were above $100 million last year.
“Well, the rumors are true,” says Todd.
Of course, all rumors are true.
“They already have over two hundred lawyers at their firm and fifty-five of them are partners.” Todd rubs the fingers of his right hand together. “The last thing we ought to be doing when they’re about to go over our books is adding another partner. Especially one who doesn’t fit the mold.”
“So do I fit the mold?” asks Jake, his voice sharpening with the rise toward conflict. After all, he’s the only lawyer in the room who went to Hofstra, not Harvard.
“Well, truthfully, Jake, the last time I walked past your office I felt like I was going through a subway station,” says Todd.
“What’re you talking about? The music?” Jake wonders if Todd’s complaining because he likes to blast Mott the Hoople and the MC 5 while he’s writing briefs.
“No, I meant the people sitting outside. They looked like a couple of common criminal defendants.”
“They are common defendants. The Ramirez brothers. They have a combined IQ of about seventy. They like to rob the same restaurants they eat in. They figure if the food’s good enough, there’ll be money in the register.”
“So you’re representing a couple of stickup men?”
“Actually, they’re up on a double homicide at the moment. It’s a bullshit case. I sent everybody a memo on it.”
Taking them on is a gesture of fond remembrance for Jake’s old days at Legal Aid. He loved the rough-and-tumble of criminal defense work. He had no stomach for being a prosecutor: one summer internship with the Queens DA was enough to convince him he wasn’t cut out to be a white knight. He liked getting down in the gutter, at least at first: toughing it out with judges, going toe-to-toe with the ADAs, and yes, even mixing it up with the clients. Shootings, stabbings, senseless acts of passion. Every day was a soap opera. Jake used to jump out of bed in the morning. But the need to make a living and support his family beckoned, and then there was the case of Enrique, the vicious moronic crack dealer who beat his two-year-old son to death because he wouldn’t stop crying. Jake made him take twenty-five to life upstate, and then quit Legal Aid. Everyone had the right to competent defense counsel, he reasoned, but it didn’t always have to be him.
So after a cup of coffee with a small midtown outfit, he became the first former Legal Aid lawyer ever to join this stiff-necked firm. He started representing
Todd makes a small tutting sound, as if he’s despairing of ever teaching Jake the secret language the rest of them understand by instinct. “It’s not just the way he smells. It’s his entire presentation. Part of being a good lawyer has to do with intangibles. Good judgment. Useful contacts. Ask yourself. Is this someone you want to spend the next few years with? Honestly. Do you want Kelly meeting with clients? Coming to your house for dinner?”
“Why not?” asks Jake, growing testy.
“Because he doesn’t fit in.”
“Fit in what?” Jake feels his eyeballs start to roll back and hisknuckles begin to itch. “Is there some mold the rest of us ought to know about?”
“ ‘If you have to be told, don’t ask,’ “ says Mike, putting down the nutcracker and mimicking what old man Bracken used to say.
But Todd’s father was a sententious old hypocrite who would lecture junior associates about ethics while screwing his secretaries and playing golf with judges.
“All right, Jake, let’s lay it on the line,” says Todd. “I hadn’t wanted to bring it up so early but you’ve probably heard the rumors that we’ve been discussing a merger with Greer, Allan.”
“I’ve heard.”
Greer, Allan. The for-Wasps. Every one of their lawyers looks like he walked out of a Land’s End catalog. And hardly one of them could find the jury box in a courtroom. Still their revenues were above $100 million last year.
“Well, the rumors are true,” says Todd.
Of course, all rumors are true.
“They already have over two hundred lawyers at their firm and fifty-five of them are partners.” Todd rubs the fingers of his right hand together. “The last thing we ought to be doing when they’re about to go over our books is adding another partner. Especially one who doesn’t fit the mold.”
“So do I fit the mold?” asks Jake, his voice sharpening with the rise toward conflict. After all, he’s the only lawyer in the room who went to Hofstra, not Harvard.
“Well, truthfully, Jake, the last time I walked past your office I felt like I was going through a subway station,” says Todd.
“What’re you talking about? The music?” Jake wonders if Todd’s complaining because he likes to blast Mott the Hoople and the MC 5 while he’s writing briefs.
“No, I meant the people sitting outside. They looked like a couple of common criminal defendants.”
“They are common defendants. The Ramirez brothers. They have a combined IQ of about seventy. They like to rob the same restaurants they eat in. They figure if the food’s good enough, there’ll be money in the register.”
“So you’re representing a couple of stickup men?”
“Actually, they’re up on a double homicide at the moment. It’s a bullshit case. I sent everybody a memo on it.”
Taking them on is a gesture of fond remembrance for Jake’s old days at Legal Aid. He loved the rough-and-tumble of criminal defense work. He had no stomach for being a prosecutor: one summer internship with the Queens DA was enough to convince him he wasn’t cut out to be a white knight. He liked getting down in the gutter, at least at first: toughing it out with judges, going toe-to-toe with the ADAs, and yes, even mixing it up with the clients. Shootings, stabbings, senseless acts of passion. Every day was a soap opera. Jake used to jump out of bed in the morning. But the need to make a living and support his family beckoned, and then there was the case of Enrique, the vicious moronic crack dealer who beat his two-year-old son to death because he wouldn’t stop crying. Jake made him take twenty-five to life upstate, and then quit Legal Aid. Everyone had the right to competent defense counsel, he reasoned, but it didn’t always have to be him.
So after a cup of coffee with a small midtown outfit, he became the first former Legal Aid lawyer ever to join this stiff-necked firm. He started representing
Similar Books
