Without precedent, p.6
Without Precedent, page 6
“I don’t mind,” I said. “If you don’t mind me hanging on to these for a little while.” I looked down at the notebooks in my hand. “I’d like to read them on the plane.”
“That’s cool.”
There was an awkward silence as we both tried to figure out how to say goodbye. Professions of love were not going to happen, but a handshake seemed equally bad. “Well.” I waited a beat to see what Jackson would say or do, but he did nothing. So I held out my arms, and we exchanged a stilted hug, complete with two pats on the back.
“I’ll give you a call when I land in New York.” I turned and started to walk to my rental car, but Jackson stopped me.
“Hey, Matty.” I knew something was on his mind. I’d felt it since I had arrived, and now I was going to find out what it was. “Why didn’t you tell me what you do for a living?” He didn’t ask it harshly. It was soft, but there was still an edge.
“What are you talking about?”
“In the bar, at the Royale, I asked you what kind of lawyer you were.”
It took a second, but I remembered the conversation. “I told you what kind of lawyer I was.”
He shook his head. “But you didn’t tell the whole truth, right?” He stepped forward. “You didn’t say, ‘I represent companies like the one that killed our sister.’”
I was confused. “Where’s this coming from?” I backed up, keeping space between us. “Allison died of a heroin overdose, Jackson. I don’t represent heroin dealers. I’m not a criminal defense attorney.”
“You don’t? Sure sounds like you do.” He pointed his finger at me. “I’m not an idiot, Matty. I may not wear fancy clothes or have a bunch of degrees, but I’m not an idiot. The article says that you’re the guy—the first person those drug companies call when they get in trouble.”
“Article?” The New York Times profile must’ve been published. The reporter had said it was coming out soon, but I didn’t think my brother would read it. “I’m a business litigator. That’s what I told you. I represent corporations. That’s what business litigators do. Most people don’t want to hear the details, and so I don’t get into it.”
“But you specialize, right? You represent a particular kind of corporation. You represent these drug companies when they kill people, am I right?” Jackson waited for me to deny it, and, when I remained silent, he kept going. “Let me ask you this: Do you know how our sister got hooked on heroin? Do you remember the car accident?”
“Of course I remember the car accident.”
“And did she tell you about her doctor or the pain medications, or did you not bother to ask her, figuring that as long as you wrote her a nice check every once in a while, it gave you permission to not be bothered with the details?”
“When she called me, she needed help, and I gave it to her, because, unlike you, I could.”
Anger flashed across Jackson’s face. He grabbed hold of my shirt and spun me into the side of his truck. “Who do you think drove Allison to treatment?” he asked. “Who do you think bailed her out of jail or answered her calls at two in the morning, begging for some money or to pick her up from some abandoned flophouse on the northside?” He pulled me close, then he slammed me into the side of his truck again. “You know nothing about me, Matty, and you knew nothing about our sister. This wasn’t even her first overdose.” He jerked me to the side as if he was going to slam me into the truck again, but then he stopped. He let me go, separating. “If you really loved her and you really knew her, then you wouldn’t do what you do.”
He reached through the open window of his truck and into the passenger seat. He pulled out a folded newspaper and tossed it at me.
“Yes,” he said. “Your ignorant big brother reads the New York Times every damn day, and then I read the Wall Street Journal just so I can find out what the enemy is thinking.” He turned and began to walk away. “Keep her journals.” He waved his hand. “I already know what they say, ’cause I lived it with her.”
CHAPTER TEN
I resisted the temptation to get hammered on the flight back to New York. I drank nothing, instead. That’s something that kids of alcoholics do sometimes. They give themselves little tests in self-control, just to prove that they aren’t alcoholics like their mom or dad. That’s not really how it works. My dry flight home didn’t prove anything one way or the other, but, in the moment, passing that test was important.
Economy and business class were full, but I got lucky in first class. The seat next to me was empty. With room to spread, I got out my stuff. I set my carry-on in the empty space, got out my headphones, and settled in with Allison’s journals just before the flight took off.
I heard her voice in every word, honest and raw. At times reading them felt like an invasion. I was still too defensive to admit that Jackson was right—ignorance had allowed me to pretend that I was there for my sister when, in reality, I was not.
I didn’t know her struggle. Although she used and experimented with all sorts of substances, her addiction didn’t take hold until she was prescribed an opioid pain medication called Bentrax. There was a car accident shortly after her thirtieth birthday. Although I was already in New York City, I remember when it happened. Allison wasn’t the driver, but she was the one who got hurt when her friend lost control of the car on an icy road. They spun into the other lane and got hit by a truck going in the other direction. Allison broke her collarbone and messed up her back, but I was told that she was going to be all right, and maybe she would’ve been all right if she hadn’t been prescribed Bentrax.
Allison left Central City Hospital after her car accident, her doctor gave her a prescription for fifty pills, and it became the new love of her life. In the journal she’d created while at the Arch Treatment Center, Allison wrote:
I took those fifty and then I went back and got fifty more. It went on like that for about a year, then I started crushing the pills and shooting them up. The high got even better. I did that for another year, then the state passed a bunch of new laws and the pills got cut off. With no more prescriptions, I started buying Bentrax on the street. But the price kept going up, and, sometime around there, that’s when I was offered a free hit of heroin. The high was just as clean, but heroin was cheaper and easier to get than Bentrax, and so I switched. If alcohol made me feel normal, Bentrax and heroin made me feel great. And who doesn’t want to feel great?
I set the journal down. It was just like Jackson had said. Allison probably didn’t need it, but the doctor prescribed Bentrax anyway, then when the medication got harder and harder to get, she turned to the street equivalent, heroin.
As the plane landed in New York, the internal compartments that I’d built up between different aspects of my personal and professional life began to fracture. The walls separating what I did for a living, my beliefs, and the people who made me had begun to crack.
The cab stopped in front of my apartment, a six-story building on Orchard Street in Chinatown. When I came through our apartment door, Tess was on the couch typing something on her laptop while also watching a movie on television. Seeing how many minutes we could bill clients while also watching a movie or bingeing a show was always a fun challenge. Those were the games that we had played.
“Hey.” I walked across the room and sat beside her. I leaned over and kissed her cheek.
She set her computer aside and paused the movie. “I’m glad you’re home.” She snuggled closer to me, and I could smell her favorite perfume. “I’m sorry if I was a little harsh,” she said.
I put my hand on her knee. “It was hard going back,” I said, “but I’m glad I was there.” I thought about telling her about the motel and the journals, but what would I say? “My brother gave me a hard time about the article.”
“He’s just jealous.” She picked up the Times from the end table. It was folded in half with my profile on top. “This is awesome.” Tess waved the paper in the air and cleared her throat, preparing for a dramatic reading.
“In a country with over one point three million lawyers,” she read aloud, “Matthew K. Daley has become the one lawyer that major pharmaceutical companies call when they make headlines for all the wrong reasons. His most recent victory on behalf of BioPrint Pharmaceuticals cut short a major class action related to BioPrint’s most profitable cancer drug before it even got started. The lawsuit’s dismissal cemented Daley as the young ‘Judge Whisperer.’ Clients gush that he is able to calm hostile judicial officers with a broad smile and a large dose of Midwestern charm.”
Tess laughed. “I can’t believe it.” She set the paper down. “Tomorrow morning the firm is going to change the name from Baxter, Speller & Tuft to Baxter, Speller, Tuft & Daley.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I would.” She was excited now. Money had a tendency to do that. All the bluster and annoyance that she’d exhibited in Saint Louis was gone, and I could tell that she was already dreaming about a summerhouse in the Hamptons. When the provider provides, sins were forgiven.
Uncomfortable, I got up off the couch. “I’m going to take a shower now.”
“You know I’m right,” she called to me as I went into the bathroom. “You know you’re a rock star.”
My face turned red. “Whatever.”
“I’ll be waiting in the bedroom when you emerge all clean,” she teased. “Candles will be lit.”
I woke up an hour earlier than usual the next morning and went for a run. Most New Yorkers stayed up late and got up late. So I couldn’t help feeling like I was part of a secret club as I ran along the Hudson River and witnessed the sunrise.
For the first time that I could remember, I didn’t want to go to work. There had certainly been moments over the past seven years that I would have rather been on the beach than billing clients, but those moments passed. This feeling was something different. I didn’t quite hate my job. I just didn’t want to go. I was off, and I knew it. My hope was that the run would clear my head.
An hour later, it was a little better. I had recaptured some energy and convinced myself that everything was going to be fine, although thoughts about Allison and my brother lingered in the background. I fixed myself some toast and made a smoothie out of a bag of frozen fruit and yogurt, then showered.
When Tess was ready, we went to a new coffee shop on the corner called GRIND. It was the latest addition to our ever-gentrifying neighborhood. Tess picked up her skinny latte from the counter, and I made a promise to call her if anything exciting happened at work.
“I just have a feeling.” Her eyes sparkled. “No delays. I’ll be waiting.” She kissed me more passionately than I think she’d ever kissed me in public, then turned and headed north to her firm, Nelson Rockler.
I walked in the opposite direction to Baxter, Speller & Tuft, and ten minutes later I was sitting behind my desk. Even though I had been gone for less than a week, the aquarium felt different. The law firm was all-consuming, and to step out of the boiling pot for even a short time made you realize just how hot it ran.
I was glad that I had gotten to work even earlier than usual, because I didn’t want to talk to everybody on my way to my office. Although Francis Kirsch knew what had happened to my sister, I didn’t want to explain my dysfunctional family to others. I had decided that if asked, I’d just say that there was a family medical emergency, but everything’s fine now. Nobody would ask a follow-up question, partly because they didn’t care and partly because every minute they were talking to me, they weren’t billing clients.
By midmorning I had begun to find my old groove. Emails were returned, clients’ questions were answered, and I made progress on a few urgent legal research projects. The aquarium life was simple. Expectations were clear: make money. Focus on that one goal, and everything else fell into place. Time for regret was limited.
I’d almost pushed my sister and my family out of my mind, but not entirely, when Francis dropped by in the late afternoon. He sat down in the chair next to my desk and leaned back. “Got some good news for you, Matthew.” Francis was a short man, thin and balding. He knocked two times on the edge of my desk and smiled. “The executive team met this morning, and a big part of the discussion was about you.”
“The firm’s doubling my bonus?”
“To be honest,” Francis said, “that could happen.” His eyes got bigger. “There are some strategic meetings going on, and Tuft is thinking about how to leverage your recent success.”
“Like what?”
Francis shook his head. “I’m not telling,” he said. “You’ll have to hear it from the man himself.”
“Tuft?”
“Exactly,” Francis said. “He wanted me to invite you to the Yankees game tonight. It’s the home opener. The firm has a box. I’ll be there, a few other guys on the executive committee, and some potential clients.”
“I don’t know, Francis, I just got back from Saint Louis yesterday,” I said. “I’m really tired.”
“I’m not hearing it.” Francis stood up. “I’m sorry about your sister, but this is big. You’re coming to the game tonight. The firm will arrange a car for you, and I’ll email you the details.”
“Francis, I really . . .” I held out my hands, pleading my case, but Francis heard none of it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Lincoln Town Car dropped me off at the VIP entrance at Yankee Stadium. On the way over, I had called Tess. She was working late and told me not to wait up for her, but she sounded very excited. Tess also took the opportunity to remind me numerous times that she knew something big was going to happen as a result of the article in the Times and I hadn’t believed her.
An off-duty cop opened the door and greeted me. He checked my name against a list and scanned my ticket. After I made it through security, a concierge wearing a blue sport coat with the New York Yankees logo on the pocket guided me to a private elevator. It brought me directly to the executive suites. Even though the game was well underway, there were no crowds or lines. Unlike the rest of the stadium, the back entrance and suite level were quiet.
Another concierge was waiting when the elevator doors slid open, and I stepped out. The gray-and-blue carpeted hallway was brightly lit and clean. There were no people milling about or waiting to use the bathroom. There were no food stands or barking vendors or overpriced sodas served in gigantic souvenir cups. This was a premium experience. Food was ordered and brought directly by a waitstaff. Cocktails and beer were served in glassware. No money exchanged hands. It was all included in the cost of the suite.
“You’re right this way.” The concierge guided me past black-and-white photographs of Yankees legends. She stopped in front of a frosted glass door next to a stainless steel sign with the law firm’s name and logo. She opened the door for me. “Here we are.”
The suite was on the third base line, with a direct view of the Yankees dugout across the field. About twenty people mingled and grazed on a table filled with appetizers. Francis Kirsch saw me and immediately brought me over to the wide, leather-cushioned seats overlooking the field.
I may not have met them, but I knew them all. It was most of the firm’s executive committee, three division heads—one flown in from California—two of the firm’s biggest litigators, and the head of the DC office, himself a former congressman.
At the end of the row, closest to the aisle, was Tobias Tuft. He had started at the firm, then known simply as Baxter & Speller, in the mailroom—of course—pushing a cart from one floor to the next. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid for college and law school. Eventually the firm hired him as a lawyer, and he kept clawing his way up until they put his name on the door.
“Mr. Daley.” Tuft pointed at the empty seat next to him. “First let me extend my condolences regarding your sister.”
I looked over at Francis, but he didn’t make eye contact with me. I looked at the others seated next to Tuft, wondering if they all knew.
What did Francis tell them? He promised to keep the details private.
Unsure of what to say, I fell back on the expected response. “Thank you. I loved her very much.”
Tuft then complimented my work ethic and the fact that I had billed a record number of hours for the firm over the past two years. “I read your profile in the Times,” he said. “If you’re not careful, I might get a little jealous.” He began to laugh, and the former congressman sitting next to him robotically laughed along. Tuft smiled. “There can only be so many big egos in this firm, and I think we already have quite a few.” On cue, there were a few more forced guffaws.
Tuft looked down at the field and watched the Yankees’ new shortstop swing at a curve ball and foul back into the netting behind home plate. As the pitcher collected himself, Tuft turned back to me. “I’m told Francis already gave you a clue as to why you are here, and so I better just cut to the chase.” He leaned forward. “I’d like to form a pharmaceutical litigation division, and I’d like you to run it. You can assemble your team from existing attorneys, or you can go out there and steal some from other law firms. Of course, being a head of one of our divisions would mean that you’d get a higher distribution of the firm’s profits, because there is extra responsibility, as well as a seat on the executive committee.”
I looked back at Francis. He was still standing in the aisle, his arms folded, listening. To Tuft I said, “That’s truly an honor.” A few more garbled words came out of my mouth before I fully regained my composure.
“I’ve put together a working group to hammer out the details,” Tuft continued. “It’ll take some time, but there’s one opportunity that I want you to hit hard right away. Time is of the essence, and I want you to really go after it. Show me that I’m not making a mistake.”
“What’s that?”
“I was at the club the other day and had a few drinks with our US attorney for New York. He told me that he’s getting pressure to do something about the heroin epidemic, and that there are some state attorneys general, class action lawyers, and even some cities that are on the cusp of suing the manufacturers of opioid pain medications.”
