Man in the Middle

Ayers paused to clear his throat. When he began again, he sounded tentative. “It was nothing. Under the circumstances, why don’t you reconsider the position with Stenman Partners?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t want a make-work job. It’s too much like a handout, and that’s something I can’t take.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Peter. Morgan Stenman makes everyone earn his keep a hundred times over. If you don’t cut it, you’re ipso facto out. Just come by my office for a chat.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Ayers.”

“Hannah took this job and did outstanding work. She became, far and away, the best paralegal we had. That didn’t amount to charity.”

“She had to take that job—”

“Flipping burgers sounds good to you?” Ayers asked.

“No.”

“Just a talk. I’ve got some free time around noon.”

Peter agreed. “I’ll see you in three hours. I appreciate the concern.”

As Peter prepared to cancel the day’s other interviews, Henry hopped onto his lap. “Whatta you think, old man?” he said, stroking behind the cat’s ear. “Take the job for a month or two until we get back on our feet?”

Henry’s throat vibrated in a contented hum.

Peter approached the elevator with four other people—three men in their mid-thirties or early forties, and an elderly woman. He wondered if they could hear his heart racing or see the small ballooning of his pulse against the soft part of his neck, near where the tongue attaches to the back of the throat. He attempted to will himself into a state of calm, but had mixed success.

The three men elbowed ahead, imitating pigs at slop time. One after the other punched a button for a floor, glowering at one another as if the order of floor input might affect arrival time. The numbers three, five, and six lit up. Peter allowed the woman in ahead of him while holding the door, making certain it did not retract while she entered. She glanced sideways, but gave no other sign of acknowledgement.

The woman tapped seven, the top floor, which was also Peter’s destination. Peter moved to the back of the box and leaned into a corner. At least sixty years old, the woman had a serious face, smooth for her age, and she smelled like musty geraniums. After moving to the elevator’s rear, she leaned on an aluminum cane with rubber- tipped tripod legs. Her indifference hung heavily in the tiny space.

When the first man—a fat guy with heart attack scrolling across his face—got off on three, they all rearranged themselves to maximize their territory. Next, a slender man with an eye tic stepped forward. On the fifth floor, he rushed off, turned left, then spun and reversed his course. On six, the last man, thick-limbed with a swollen and discolored eye, bounced on his toes while waiting for the door to open. He wore torn jeans and shitkicker snakeskin boots. His clothes held the stink of twenty-five cent cigar, and his forearms bore a biker tattoo—it looked like a red, black, and white Harley-Davidson banner. Expensive silver and turquoise jewelry circled his forearms. Exiting, he bounded to the first door. Peter read the logo: Harkness and Jameson: Specialists in Criminal Law. Without knocking, the man barged in. As the elevator doors closed, Peter wondered what crime the tattooed man had committed. His demeanor suggested something monumental.

The elevator churned its way to the final floor. Five minutes before noon, Peter exited, trailing the suddenly unfrail woman. She carried herself with agility and speed down the hallway. Leaning on her cane as she stepped, she made it to the door with the Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers: Attorneys at Law nameplate several yards ahead of him.

As the office door shut in Peter’s face, he stared at the grain of the wood and thought about the importance of the next hour of his life. He had rejected this job twice. Now? Now he wanted the position enough for his knees to knock. And wanting it so much made Ayers’ possible change of mind a potential back-breaker for Peter. And broken backs, he understood, were hard to fix.

Feeling foolish as he stood like a flagpole in the hallway, Peter took a deep breath and grabbed the polished brass doorknob. He pushed, stepped in, and peered across the open space. The office held the quiet air of a university library—Peter could almost feel the moon-brains working behind these desks, billing clients at the rate of a couple hundred bucks an hour, every mind filled with millions of legal facts and precedents. He felt like a thrice- failed second-grader by comparison.

In a far corner office, where his mother had once worked, sat a bookish clerk with an eager-beaver face. A pang struck across Peter’s chest, causing the air to thicken as if he were in a freshly watered sauna. In an effort to seal his grief, he swallowed, then redirected his attention. An African-American woman in blue business attire and stylish wire-frames sat behind a formal-looking reception desk. Handsome, in her fifties, she had gray hair and wore a phone headset, thus freeing her hands for other chores. Her nameplate read: Elaine Robinson.

Observing his approach and making eye contact, the receptionist nodded and held up a forefinger, signaling she would be right with him once she finished her phone call. After taking a message and hanging up, she said, “Mr. Neil, Mr. Ayers will be a few moments. I am sorry about your mother. I was a dear friend, and we all loved Hannah. Especially me, she was my . . .”

Elaine Robinson couldn’t finish. Peter nodded his understanding, thanked her, and stepped to the coffee table and sofa set up for visitors to cool their heels. He skimmed the Wall Street Journal headlines and was reading about a coordinated attack on a third-world central bank when a voice hailed and distracted him from across the room.

“Peter Neil?” A mid-twenties woman whisked over to him. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were coming to the office.” She had a husky voice that easily carried the twenty-five feet.

An understated skirt and open jacket moved in rhythm with the bob of her rounded shoulder. And something about freckles dotting a cockeyed smile made her seem familiar. But who was she? he asked himself.

Just before she introduced herself, a movie-clipped-memory projected itself. Her hair still hung long and thick with a chestnut shine, but she was no longer skinny, nor did she wear braces. When she said, “I’m Kate. Kate Ayers,” he had already guessed.

Fourteen years had passed since their families’ occasional dinners, but this was the grownup version of that girl. Peter could not suppress his delight, a response originating in his toes, flowing up his spine, and onto his face, culminating in a hearty smile. She had a warm aura, and an odd mix more cute than pretty, but better than both. When she grabbed his hand, Peter said, “Little Katie Ayers. Damn. This is quite a surprise.”

Ten minutes of catching up later, Peter asked, “You work here?”

“I’m embarrassed to say so, but yes. I just graduated from UCLA Law, and I’m working as a third-year legal associate for part of the summer. Naturally, I got the job on my merits . . .” She smiled, then laughed. “Okay, okay, Father had something to do with it. But I’m working for nothing. I didn’t want to take one of the spots away from another intern; I’m pro bono. I’ve got to head back to LA in mid-July, so I couldn’t commit to a full summer anyway.”

“You’re going back in July? How come?”

“I’m assisting one of my law professors on a textbook—on personal injury and tort law. Kind of a snooze, but it looks good on the old resume. While I do that, I study for the bar exam.”

“That’s impressive. Are you going to concentrate on securities law?”

“Nope. Way too boring. I’m heading for criminal. That’s if I pass the exam.”

“You’ll pass. I can see the intensity in your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“They’re smart eyes.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, though I can think of something a little more endearing.”

“I’m tongue-tied. Perhaps I should have said you’ve got a certain je ne sais quoi about you.” Kate curtsied, the tilt of her head hiding what Peter guessed was a smile. He continued, “By the way, I rode up in the elevator with a potential client.” The image of the tattooed man with the deep bruises still gave him the creeps. “I hope you find a better class of criminal once you take the plunge.”

“Even the guilty need counsel,” she quickly replied, half-serious. The remark kept the mood light but hinted at