'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.
'Six to five?' Adam repeated as he looked at the relieved but unsmiling faces of Goodman and Wycoff.
'A regular landslide,' Wycoff quipped.
'Could be worse,' Goodman said. 'You could be out of a job.'
'Why am I not ecstatic? I mean, one lousy vote and I'd be history.'
'Not really,' Wycoff explained. 'The votes were counted before the meeting. Rosen had maybe two solid votes, and the others stuck with him because they knew you would win. You have no idea of the amount of arm twisting that took place last night. This does it for Rosen. He'll be gone in three months.'
'Maybe quicker,' added Goodman. 'He's a loose cannon. Everybody's sick of him.'
'Including me,' Adam said.
Wycoff glanced at his watch. It was eight forty-five, and he had to be in court at nine. 'Look, Adam, I've gotta run,' he said, buttoning his jacket. 'When are you going back to Memphis?'
'Today, I guess.'
'Can we have lunch? I'd like to talk to you.'
'Sure.'
He opened the door, and said, 'Great. My secretary will give you a call. Gotta run. See you.' And he was gone.
Goodman suddenly glanced at his watch too. His watch ran much slower than the real lawyers in the firm, but he did have appointments to keep. 'I need to see someone in my office. I'll join you guys for lunch.'
'One lousy vote,' Adam repeated, staring at the wall.
'Come on, Adam. It wasn't that close.'
'It certainly feels close.'
'Look, we need to spend a few hours together before you leave. I wanna hear about Sam, okay? Let's start with lunch.' He opened the door and was gone.
Adam sat on the table, shaking his head.
25
F Baker Cooley and the other lawyers in the Memphis office knew anything about Adam's sudden termination and its quick reversal, it was not apparent. They treated him the same, which was to say they kept to themselves and stayed away from his office. They were not rude to him, because, after all, he was from Chicago. They smiled when forced to, and they could muster a moment of small talk in the hallways if Adam was in the mood. But they were corporate lawyers, with starched shirts and soft hands which were unaccustomed to the dirt and grime of criminal defense. They did not go to jails or prisons or holding tanks to visit with clients, nor did they wrangle with cops and prosecutors and cranky judges. They worked primarily behind their desks and around mahogany conference tables. Their time was spent talking to clients who could afford to pay them several hundred dollars an hour for advice, and when they weren't talking to clients they were on the phone or doing lunch with other lawyers and bankers and insurance executives.
There'd been enough in the newspapers already to arouse resentment around the office. Most of the lawyers were embarrassed to see the name of their firm associated with a character such as Sam Cayhall. Most of them had no idea that he'd been represented by Chicago for seven years. Now friends were asking questions. Other lawyers were making wisecracks. Wives were humiliated over garden club teas. In-laws were suddenly interested in their legal careers.
Sam Cayhall and his grandson had quickly become a pain in the ass for the Memphis office, but nothing could be done about it.
Adam could sense it but didn't care. It was a temporary office, suitable for three more weeks and hopefully not a day longer. He stepped from the elevator Friday morning, and ignored the receptionist who was suddenly
