serious commitment to pro bono work.
Kelly had retold the story in dozens of interviews, mesmerizing law students with a side of D.C. most of them never knew existed. At the same time, she was careful not to imply that they might have a shot at being another Kelly Starling. B amp;W was interested in billable hours, not crusades.
Kelly was one of a kind-a fortunate beneficiary of publicity that had helped the firm’s image and eased the conscience of its senior partners as they hauled down more than a million a year. One Kelly Starling was good for a firm like B amp;W, softening its image. The firm “cover girl,” the other associates had labeled her. But a bunch of Kelly Starlings would destroy the financial model of the firm, butchering the cash cow that funded Bentleys for the partners and college educations for their kids and plastic surgery for their spouses.
Stifling a yawn, Kelly told Geoff her sex-trafficking story, leaving out the gory details in a PG-13 version of the events. Most recruits expressed horror that such things could go on right under their government’s nose in the nation’s capital. A few of the more confident male recruits-usually former jocks-would try to flirt a little or let Kelly know that they might have taken matters into their own hands and busted a few heads when nobody was looking.
Kelly was used to this-men trying to impress. She had been a swimmer in high school, fast enough to earn a few college scholarships, which she had promptly declined. She still tried to stay in shape, but her sedentary job was taking its toll. Plus, there were some things you couldn’t fix at the gym.
To her own critical eye, her shoulders were a bit too broad, and she lacked the curves of most women her age, compensating instead with toned arms and flat abs. She still remembered the article they ran in her hometown paper in high school. It was probably supposed to be a compliment, but it didn’t seem that way to a sixteen-year- old girl who had grown to an awkward five-ten: She has the perfect swimmer’s body. Her posture is gangly, loose and cocky, like a teenage boy’s. Her body resembles an inverted triangle-broad shoulders, long torso, thin hips-and provides a significant advantage in leverage over the other more muscular female swimmers she regularly beats.
An inverted triangle-not exactly an endorsement for Hollywood’s next leading lady. But it worked for Kelly. Some said she had “natural” beauty, probably a backhanded comment on the fact that Kelly wore little makeup and kept her dirty-blonde hair short and layered, requiring minimal fuss between her morning swim and hitting the office. More honest assessors used the word handsome to describe her slender face, an adjective perhaps engendered by the firm jaw or high forehead. She squinted when she smiled, flashing dimples and perfectly aligned white teeth, thanks to the wonder of orthodontics.
The Washington Post article had called her a cross between Dara Torres and Greta Van Susteren-quite a stretch in Kelly’s opinion. The same article had described her as somewhat obsessive, an “A+++ personality,” in the words of the reporter. The fact that Kelly could still remember the exact quotes nearly two years later probably proved them right.
In any event, the recruiting director at B amp;W was no dummy-she sent Kelly nearly twice as many male law students as females.
But Geoff didn’t try to play it cool or demonstrate his machismo. “That’s amazing,” he said after Kelly finished. “I would have never had the guts to do half that stuff.”
Geoff was big and a little goofy, his blond hair moussed into spikes, but his transcript was littered with As. If B amp;W hired him, he would be stuck in the library, researching complicated tax shelter schemes or leveraged buyouts. He wouldn’t have a minute to spare for the homeless or elderly.
Kelly wrapped up the interview as efficiently as possible and ushered Geoff to the next attorney’s office five minutes early. She walked quickly back to her office so she could fill out the interview form before her next appointment. She gave Geoff a few scores below five on a scale of one to ten, low enough to guarantee he wouldn’t make the cut. Kelly really liked the kid, so much so that she wasn’t willing to subject him to the pressure cooker at B amp;W. Only the strong survived at Kelly’s firm. Her partners would chew Geoff up and spit him out.
13
Later in the day, Kelly waited in her office for the receptionist to call. She tried to busy herself with other files, but it was useless. Finally, at a few minutes after one, the call she had been waiting for came through.
“Mr. Crawford is here.”
“Can you set him up in 12A? I’ll be down in a couple minutes.”
Mr. Crawford. Blake Crawford. Grieving widower of Rachel Crawford, the reporter gunned down in the WDXR studio two months earlier. A week ago he had called Kelly out of the blue, claiming he had been referred to her by the Handgun Violence Coalition. He wanted to talk about suing the manufacturer of the MD-9-the gun Larry Jamison had used to execute Rachel.
At first, she thought it was a prank, but she kept herself from saying anything stupid. Once she realized it really was Blake Crawford on the phone, she started running through the legal analysis in her mind. Though the case sounded like a stretch, Kelly didn’t want to say no until she had at least researched it. She didn’t get calls from potential clients with national name recognition every day.
It was complicated, Kelly had said, explaining that he had caught her between meetings. Could they schedule an appointment? Would first thing next week be soon enough?
Kelly’s next call had been to the director of the Handgun Violence Coalition, who said he had indeed referred Blake Crawford to her. The director explained that he had received a call from a big donor who suggested Kelly might be the perfect lawyer to represent Blake Crawford against the gun manufacturer. The donor had faxed a copy of the Washington Post article to the director, noting that both Kelly and Rachel Crawford had been active on the issue of human trafficking. “Maybe you should call Blake Crawford,” the donor had suggested, “and explain the basis for a suit against MD Firearms, referring him to Kelly Starling.”
Kelly had asked for the name of the donor.
“He wants to remain anonymous,” the director said.
After a few days of additional research, Kelly had some solid answers. The case had potential. And she would pull out all the stops to get it.
Letting Blake Crawford sit for a few minutes in conference room 12A, the crown jewel of B amp;W’s Washington office, would be a good start.
Nearly half of B amp;W’s 450 lawyers set up shop in this smoked-glass office building with the prestigious K Street address. Others worked out of equally plush addresses in Atlanta, Singapore, Paris, Bangkok, and London. Conference room 12A had seen its share of Fortune 500 CEOs and United States senators. Billion-dollar deals had closed on its forty-foot mahogany table. Bill Gates had been deposed here. Press conferences had been held here. National political campaigns announced. Even a few office affairs had been consummated here in the wee hours, the participants evidently unaware of the hidden cameras.
From 12A you could gaze out over Farragut Square, contemplate your problems while staring at the U.S. Chamber of Commerce building, or catch a glimpse of the Capitol on the horizon. Kelly met with her sex-trafficking clients on park benches and in greasy restaurants, but Blake Crawford would get the full treatment, including an extra five-minute wait so he could admire the authentic paintings and realize that Kelly was a very important and busy associate in a very successful firm.
“Sorry I’m late,” Kelly said, bursting into the conference room and shaking Blake’s hand with just the right touch of assertiveness. “Something to drink?”
“I’m fine,” he said. Blake was dressed in khaki pants, a light blue shirt, and a black suit coat. He had dark circles under his eyes and a quiet voice, the strain of the last few months showing on his face.
Kelly had admired his restraint when he appeared on TV. He had steadfastly refused to cast blame on anyone except Larry Jamison-not WDXR for having lax security; not the SWAT team for failing to intervene early enough; not the gun dealer for selling the gun illegally; not the manufacturer of the weapon. “I don’t know why this happened,” Blake Crawford had said. “But I just have to trust God that He’s got His reasons. Pointing fingers won’t make the pain go away.”
Kelly trusted God, too. But sometimes, in Kelly’s view, God needed a good lawyer.
Kelly sat across the table from Blake, suddenly feeling silly for meeting in such a large and imposing room.
