to a year. Probation, like I said, in a sense. We need you to work up to the level of your abilities, Redman. Get out there. Beat the bushes. Rustle up some business. Show the flag. Go to lunch with someone other than Dorita Reed.
That last was a low blow.
I see, I said.
And please, Redman. Start getting in to work at a reasonable hour. I personally don’t care if you come in at midnight. But it makes a bad impression.
Yes, I said. Morale.
Exactly, he replied smugly, pleased that I had so efficiently imbibed that morning’s earlier lesson.
Listen, Redman, he continued, look on it as an opportunity. We’re not singling you out. There are eight others on that list.
I knew it wasn’t my place to ask who my fellow probationists were. But I had an idea. List the partners with personalities. Multiply by those with interests beyond the profitability of the firm. Shake well. Don’t stir. Might rock the boat.
If it works out, great, he went on. Welcome back. If it doesn’t? Well. I think we can both just agree that your heart’s not in it. Because I know you can do it. If you want to.
Yes, I said. Of course.
Why did I feel like a delinquent high school student?
Ah, I answered myself. Because I was being treated like one.
Though it was true, that last bit anyway. I could do it. If I wanted to. But it was a goddamn big ‘if.’ I’d never been a natural at the schmoozing game. The cocktail party chatter. Inviting prospects to lunch. ‘Hey, keep me in mind, buddy.’ It always seemed a bit too much like begging. I preferred to let my trial work speak for itself. Apparently it hadn’t been speaking loudly enough.
Redman, Warwick then said jovially, as though none of the previous had occurred, as though we were all just good old buddies again. You have some criminal experience, don’t you?
I hesitated. Criminal experience? What now? My adolescent shoplifting career? Weren’t those records sealed? The pain in my lower back made a sharp comeback.
You do some pro bono stuff, don’t you? he prodded.
The pain receded.
Sure, I replied. Mostly appeals. Death penalty appeals. The Case of the Red Car Door. I’ve done a couple of trials too. Manslaughter. Aggravated assault. Nothing special.
Well, I guess you’re the best I’ve got, then, he said.
I refrained from thanking him for the vote of confidence.
FitzGibbon’s son’s in some kind of trouble, he said.
This gave me pause.
I want you to handle it, he said.
What kind of trouble? I asked.
Never mind what kind of trouble. Bad trouble. I don’t know. Drugs. Murder. Grand theft auto. I couldn’t make out FitzGibbon’s voice mail. He sounded disturbed. Anyway, it doesn’t matter what it is. Find out. Get on it. Handle it. Make it go away. Make him happy. Get some more business from him. It’ll be the first step on the way to your rehabilitation.
I nodded obediently. Fine choice of word. Rehabilitation.
You’ll be a hero, he said.
Warwick turned his chair to the window, signaling the end to the audience.
I turned to leave.
Oh, Redman? Warwick said.
I turned back.
Yes? I asked.
Lose the sneakers.
I got the hell out of there. I asked Cherise for the FitzGibbon particulars.
She gave them to me with a wink.
I had no idea what it meant.
3.
I went back to my office.
I called Dorita.
You won’t believe this, I said.
Oh, shut up, Ricky. You already said that. I’ve got a client meeting in ten minutes.
Put it off. FitzGibbon’s son’s in trouble. Something serious. Warwick wants me to handle it. Oh, and I’m being fired.
Jesus, she whispered. I’ll be right there.
In less than a minute she was at my office door.
Come in, I mumbled.
She flounced onto the couch. Lit a cigarette with her blowtorch.
You know, there’s a rule about smoking in the office, I said.
Right, she said, tapping some ashes on the carpet. So what’s this all about?
I told her about my audience with His Portliness. At the mention of probation, a moment’s shock passed across her face. She quickly brushed it off.
Did they issue you an ankle bracelet? she asked breezily.
Listen, I said, I appreciate the effort, but this is too big for a joke or two. Let me digest it for a while. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.
My, my, Ricky. You’re getting soft in your old age.
Tomorrow, I repeated, with unusual resolve.
Okay, have it your way. So, what’s this FitzGibbon thing?
I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you. FitzGibbon’s son, what’s-his-name. He’s in some kind of trouble. Not a speeding ticket. Something serious. I don’t know what.
Jules. His name is Jules.
Right. But the thing is, why me? It’s not like I’m a top-flight criminal lawyer. I’m a civil litigator, for Christ’s sake. I just do the stuff on the side. Do my bit for the social fabric, all that.
My poor little paranoid bunny. Warwick just wants to keep it in the house. You get the boy off, we get more business from Daddy.
Yeah, well. That might make sense. But I can’t help thinking Warwick’s setting me up to fail. Rehabilitation. Jesus.
Well, I can’t say that’s utterly beyond the realm of possibility. But what are you going to do about it?
Do my best, darling. Just like always. Sad but true. Can’t help myself.
That’s the ticket, Ricky. Anyway, you know the old man hates his guts.
Who?
Jules. FitzGibbon can’t stand him.
I’ll ignore the fact that the ‘old man’ is in my age bracket. And I know. Or at least, so I’ve been told. But blood runs thick, darling.
If blood it is, in that shit’s veins.
Well, yes. To tell you the truth, I don’t know the guy very well. Met him at a cocktail party or two. Big red Irishman as I recall. Full of noise and spit.
That’s the one. You’re not going to have an easy time with him.
Meaning?
Meaning he’s a major-league prick. He fired a guy for having a Snickers in the elevator.
