lawyer in an Italian suit coming in. 'And here's Art, right on time as usual.' The entering lawyer was thinner and shorter than Whittier, with gaunt cheeks, slick black hair, and dark eyes sharp behind eyeglass frames the size of quarters. Whittier turned back to Davis. 'You won't mind if one of my partners, Art Field, sits in.'
'Of course not, he's welcome.' Davis had expected as much and shook Field's hand before they both sat down. Field would function as Whittier 's counsel, to make sure the frat boy didn't get himself or the firm in trouble. Field would also qualify as a human tape recorder, to back up whatever Whittier said he said, whether he'd said it or not. What else were partners for?
Whittier relaxed, crossing one strong leg over the other. 'So tell me, how's your boss? Keeping the bad guys locked up, I hear. We're very proud of him, here at Tribe.'
Tm proud to work for the man,' Davis said, wondering if Whittier was reminding him of the firm's campaign
contribution. 'But if I tell him we're proud of him, he'll tell us to go straight to hell.'
Whittier laughed, a hearty ha-ha-ha signifying manners, not mirth. 'He is a little cranky, isn't he?'
'I try, Lord knows I try.'
Whittier ha-ha-haed again, then quieted. Terrible news about Honor Newlin, just terrible. And Jack of course. He was one of us, you know.'
'Yes, I do.' Davis nodded, impatient. Of course he knew Newlin worked here; that's why he'd asked Masterson to set up the meeting. Every muscle in him strained to cut the shit, but if he did that, he'd get nothing.
'It's a terrible tragedy, just terrible. We're still in shock, my partners and I, and awfully conflicted. Jack's confessed, I understand. It was reported in several of the morning papers.'
'I can't confirm or deny that.'
'Of course.' Whittier shook his head. 'All over the news. Partner at Tribe amp; Wright, well, just terrible. Terrible for Jack, and for the firm.' He kept shaking his head, though his wavy blond hair remained in order. 'Impossible to understand, you see. Jack was such a wonderful partner. A responsible husband and father. Impossible, really.' He sighed. 'As they say, who know what goes on behind closed doors?'
'Yes,' Davis said, for lack of something better, though Whittier didn't seem to be listening anyway. Davis couldn't shake the impression that Whittier was no Felix Frankfurter in the legal department and had become managing partner because of politics, not brainpower. And he undoubtedly had the right connections, which was all that really mattered in administrative jobs.
'And Honor Newlin was a lovely woman, a lovely woman. One of my wife's favorites.'
'Oh? Did you see them socially?'
'Not much.'
'How often?'
'Rarely.' Whittier eyed Davis warily. This concerns Jack, I assume. Not me or my partners.'
'Correct,' Davis answered, instantly wishing he had said something more casual. Once a D.A., always a D.A., and now Whittier had edged away, sitting farther back in his chair.
'Now, Davis, I'm no trial lawyer, I spent my long professional life in corporate law, as you may know. But I'm not so old I've forgotten what a subpoena is, and I understand that I am under subpoena to talk with you today. Is that the case, sir?'
'Of course.'
'You have a subpoena with you, for the record?'
'Definitely.'
'You'll leave it with Art before you go. I wouldn't want to be in the position of voluntarily doing anything that could harm Jack, if you understand.'
'Understood. May I?' Davis picked up one of the blank legal pads from the table. He knew that yanking out his own pad would put Whittier on guard and the only way he could get what he needed was if nobody acknowledged what was happening. 'Now, remind me, please. You are the managing partner here, and Jack Newlin headed the estates group, correct?'
'Yes, quite right.'
'He reported to you as such?'
'Yes. All department heads report to me.'
Davis made a note, to get Whittier used to it. He did it all the time in court so the jury couldn't tell what mattered and what didn't. 'Now, Honor Newlin's family foundation is represented by the Tribe firm.'
'Yes, the Buxton Foundation.'
Davis nodded. 'What is a foundation, anyway?'
'Damned if I know.' Whittier laughed again. 'Only kidding.'
'I figured,' Davis said, though he hadn't been so sure.
'Well, let's see, a foundation is simply a private charity,
established in this case, by a family. The Buxton Foundation donates the Buxton family money to public charities. By law, the Foundation is required to give away five percent of the total fund each year. Our firm helps it do that, with the tax advice and filings and whatnot required by Uncle Sam. It's a real tangle of paperwork, you can imagine. You work for the government, in effect.'
Davis ignored the slight, even if it was intended. 'And Buxton Foundation matters were handled by Newlin?'
'Yes, Jack brought the Foundation to us when he married Honor, and he supervised its matters for the firm. Essentially, he ran the Foundation, sat with Honor on the board, and doled out its legal work to our partners in various fields, as well as associates and paralegals.'
'How large is the Buxton Foundation?'
'Hah! Real large.'-
'How large?'
Whittier glanced at Field, who nodded imperceptibly. The Buxton is one of the more substantial family foundations. Two hundred million dollars, approximately.'
Davis blinked. Large. 'How much does the Foundation pay Tribe per year, in fees?'
'Does this matter?' Whittier cocked a pale eyebrow, his good cheer gone flat as keg beer.
'Absolutely.'
Three and a half to four million dollars a year.'
Davis made a note, as if he could forget that staggering a sum. The firm cannot have many clients that bill as much, can it?'
'Frankly, the Foundation is our largest client, and that's all I'll say about the Foundation. Understood?'
'Understood.' Davis switched gears. 'As to Jack, did he receive a portion of the fees the Foundation paid the firm? I know that's typical in the larger firms.'
Whittier nodded. 'He did. Jack was the billing partner on most matters, so he received a percentage of his client's fees, as a billings bonus.'
'What percentage?'
'It was substantial. Thirty-three percent, as I recall. We could supply you with the exact number under document subpoena.'
'I'll look forward to it.' Davis accepted the answer for now. So Newlin would get thirty-three percent, more than a highway robber but less than a personal injury lawyer. If the Buxton billings amounted to three million dollars a year, which they easily did, Jack would take home a mil of that. And it also meant that as between the Foundation or Newlin, the Tribe firm would choose the Foundation, never mind that they'd have to hang their own partner. 'Let's get to the night of Honor's murder.'
'Yes, let's,' Whittier said, plainly relieved, and Davis thought it ironic that Whittier would rather talk about murder than money.
'You saw Jack the night of the murder, didn't you?'
'Yes. Let me think a minute.' Whittier gazed out an immense window to the spectacular view of the city below. Davis was watching him so closely he saw his pupils telescope down in the light. 'Around six o'clock, I think.'
'How long did you two speak for?'
'About fifteen minutes, as I remember.'
'Would you have billed that time?'
