Without precedent, p.7
Without Precedent, page 7
My stomach dropped. It was like a sick joke. I thought, The timing couldn’t be worse.
“The timing is perfect,” Tuft said. “Given your personal connection to the crisis, you’d be the ideal person to push back against these ridiculous attempts to find a scapegoat.”
“Isn’t this premature?” I asked. “Nobody has filed any lawsuit. We don’t even know what we’re defending.”
Tuft waved his hand dismissively. “That’s the value you bring to the table. You know what they’ll claim because you can think like they can. You understand.” He looked for confirmation down the row, and, whether they were even listening or not, each one of them nodded in agreement with the head of the firm.
Tobias Tuft glanced up at Francis. “Kirsch has already been in touch with several reporters who are ready to roll with another story, like a follow-up to the one in the Times. We want the reporter to go back to Saint Louis with you and talk to your family, really dig deep, and then, of course, you’d get a platform to defend our clients and explain why civil lawsuits will be a waste of time and money.” Tuft looked at the other men next to him, and each agreed that the plan was brilliant. “Then you can tell them that the government needs to go after the Mexican drug cartels who are manufacturing enormous amounts of heroin and smuggling it across the border or start cracking down on these dealers or helping to pay for treatment.”
“You mean acknowledge the emotion, redirect the focus toward dry legal issues, and shift the responsibility to somebody else.” My tone was flat.
“Exactly.” Tuft snapped his fingers, then clapped as a Yankee hit a single into right field. “See, you know exactly what to do.” As Tuft talked more about the position, I found myself rationalizing that I could somehow do it. I sat silently next to him, performing mental gymnastics. Why not me? Somebody is going to do it—why shouldn’t I get the money?
“Carol?” Tuft shouted, and an attractive woman suddenly appeared with a large manila envelope. Tuft pointed at it. “Go ahead, take it and look inside.”
The top page was a term sheet. It highlighted the major components of becoming a managing partner at the firm and a member of the executive team. There was also a brief job description that outlined what would be expected of me as the head of the firm’s pharmaceutical litigation division and a noncompete clause that warned me against stealing clients and competing against the firm for two years after separation.
The term sheet went on to break down the percentage of revenue that I would receive as a result of hours billed by the division’s partners and associates. In many ways, I realized at that moment, the firm was less like a traditional company and more like a Ponzi scheme. Just like a housewife selling cosmetics or a gym rat hustling supplements to his friends, I got richer the more people that I recruited and the more money that they brought into the law firm. There was no reward for being small or going slow.
Printed at the bottom of the sheet was a minimum annual base salary: $2 million.
I looked up at Tuft. “That’s a fabulous opportunity with a lot of responsibility.”
“You remind me of myself at your age,” Tuft said. “You’re hungry and driven. Doesn’t hurt that you’re talented.” He pointed at the term sheet and the formal, detailed agreement underneath it. “Don’t feel any pressure to sign that right now, but I want you to know that I’m moving forward with this division, whether you’re with me or not. Strategically it’s the right move for the firm, and I need to get there first, before other firms figure out what’s going on.”
I put the contract and term sheet back inside the envelope. “You mind if I take this? I’d like to read it carefully.”
“I don’t mind.” Tuft was shrewd. He wanted me to know that he wasn’t desperate. His attitude was exactly what Francis had said it would be: you’re replaceable. He called to Carol to retrieve the envelope from me. “She’ll give it back to you when you leave tonight,” Tuft said. “In the meantime, I need you to mingle.”
“Mingle?”
“Up in the suite, I’ve invited some people who are very interested in meeting you.”
“Who?”
“The North American president and general counsel for Synanthem,” Tuft said. “It’s a Swedish pharmaceutical company. And then there’s a few from HarperPharm and NexBeaux.”
“NexBeaux?”
“That’s right,” Tuft said. “The makers of Bentrax.”
I nodded, then slowly got up from my seat. It was all happening too fast. Francis Kirsch tried to talk to me as I walked past him into the suite, but I didn’t stop. As the crowd behind me stood up and began to sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” a big, flushed man stopped me. “You are Matthew ‘Big Dick’ Daley.” He pointed at my chest and laughed. “Sign me up, my little judge whisperer.”
People were watching now, curious how I’d handle this very rich, and very drunk, man. “It’s pretty simple, sir.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “All it takes is a six-figure retainer check, and I’m all yours.”
The man’s head jerked back, and his eyes narrowed. When it finally clicked that I was joking, he smiled and howled with laughter. “Good one.” He slapped my back. “I just might get you a check before the night is through.”
“Great.” I looked over his shoulder at the bathroom, feeling sicker by the second. “If you don’t mind, I need to take a little potty break.”
“Don’t mind at all.” He held out his hand. “Chandler Hawkes, NexBeaux Pharmaceuticals.”
My skin crawled as we shook. I thought about my sister. “I’ve read a lot about you.” I released his hand and began walking past him. I thought I had gracefully gotten away, but then Hawkes swung his arm around me and pulled me back.
His face was uncomfortably close to mine. His breath was heavy, and I could smell the Jack Daniels. “Right over there is my chief financial officer as well as my general counsel,” he said. “You tell them you’re hired. ’Cause I said so.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m serious.” He released me. “You’re the guy I need.” He shook his head. “Those ambulance chasers are coming after me. I’m telling you.”
“If that’s the case, I’m sure we’ll be happy to help.” I forced a smile, moved quickly into the bathroom, and locked the door behind me. My hands were shaking, and a bead of sweat rolled down my neck. My stomach felt queasy, and I was thankful that I hadn’t drunk any alcohol.
I sat down on the toilet, waiting for my heartbeat to slow.
So that’s the guy.
Although there were only three major drug companies that manufactured and sold opioid pain medication, NexBeaux was the largest. I couldn’t believe the company’s CEO was here. He was like a cartoon villain. As a client, he’d be an absolute disaster on the witness stand. I thought about Allison and Jackson. The longer I sat in the bathroom, the more I heard Jackson’s voice whispering in my ear and encouraging me to go into the other room and throw a drink in the guy’s face—or something worse.
What am I doing? I don’t belong here.
I’m working at a law firm that wants to exploit my sister’s overdose. Nobody voiced any concern that maybe it would be inappropriate to do such a thing just days after her funeral. They all assumed I’d go along, provided I got a nice paycheck. It was ridiculous.
I walked back into the suite and over to the two executives that Hawkes had pointed out to me. “Hey,” I said. “I’m Matthew Daley. Your boss thought we should talk.” I smiled, then I bluffed. “He told me you guys had been exchanging some pretty hilarious jokes.”
The general counsel and chief financial officer—both drunk, clearly—exchanged looks and began to giggle. I leaned in and whispered, “I could use a good laugh. Can you forward me your best ones?”
The chief financial officer’s mouth bent into a sly, conspiratorial smile. “If you can handle it.” He took out his cell phone. “What’s your email?” I told him my personal address, and a few seconds later I felt my phone vibrate. Message received.
“Thanks,” I said. “We’ll be talking soon.”
I left the party. I didn’t say goodbye to Tuft or anyone else. I quit. No more firm. I was done. I went out the door and was halfway to the elevator when Francis called my name.
I stopped and turned as he walked toward me.
“Where are you going?” Francis looked confused.
“Home.”
Francis took in my hard stare and realized that I wasn’t happy. “Are you mad or something?” Francis put his hands on his hips. “You should be saying thank you.”
“Thank you?” I turned away from him and looked at the elevator. As my hands balled into tight fists, I just wanted to get away. “I told you to keep what happened to my sister private, and instead you tell the entire executive team, and then, just to take it a step further, you call reporters and pitch a story about my dead sister and my bizarre passion for representing the people who killed her. Doesn’t that strike you as a horrible, messed-up idea?”
“Tuft liked it,” Francis said. “Everybody liked it, and I was hoping you’d understand the opportunity that I created. It’s great for you, and it’s great for the firm.”
“And part of the plan is to introduce her to my family and let her interview them, is it? Have you any idea who my family is?”
“The whole go-back-to-Saint-Louis-thing was Tuft’s deal. I didn’t come up with that.”
“But you obviously didn’t oppose or bother to run it past me first. My brother is not going to say nice things about drug companies. Do you know what he does for a living? Drives around in a truck and protests about half of this firm’s clients.”
I began to walk away. “Hold up.” Francis put his hand on my shoulder, stopping me. “You’re not thinking clearly, Matthew. With this you can go places that you never dreamed. I saw that opportunity for you, and I helped it along. If you accept it, in five or ten years you can write your own ticket. You can start your own law firm. You could become a federal judge, or one of these pharmaceutical companies would hire you in a second to be their general counsel. Do you know how much that pays?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Instead of making a few million here, you’d make triple that plus stock options.”
“You had no right to tell everybody about my sister.”
“I’m your mentor and I’m mentoring you. I’m helping you succeed.”
I took his hand off my shoulder and began walking away. “What you did isn’t helping me succeed. I’m not doing it.”
Francis followed behind me, continuing to plead his case. “Tobias Tuft may have presented this as a proposal,” he whispered, “but I’m telling you, Matthew, this is not a voluntary mission. You either get on board or leave.”
“Then I’m leaving.”
“That’s a huge mistake,” Francis said as the elevator doors opened. “I’m not just saying that because I don’t want you to go. I’m saying that as your mentor and as someone who, whether you agree or disagree, poured a lot of time and effort into making you the lawyer that you are today.”
“I wasn’t going to last here much longer anyway.” I got into the elevator.
“But at least try,” Francis said. “You’re not even trying to stay here. You’re just throwing it away. Everything that you worked for.”
“Maybe things have changed.” I pressed the button for the main floor. “I can’t do this anymore.”
The elevator doors began to slide closed, but Francis stuck his hand between them. A bell sounded, and the doors jerked back. “Listen,” Francis said. “You’ve had an awful month. There’s no turning back from this. Just stop for a second and think about what you’re doing.”
“I have thought about it.” The doors began to close again. “When I die, I don’t want to be known as the lawyer who helped hurt people. There has to be a better way. I don’t know what it is, but I know this isn’t it.” The doors shut, and the elevator began to fall.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It took a few minutes, but my driver soon arrived, and I got into the back of the Lincoln Town Car. “Where to?”
I thought for a second. “Nelson Rockler.” I leaned back, suddenly tired and drained. “Take Twelfth up to Forty-Fourth. It’s by the Harvard Club.” I rolled down the window to take in some fresh air, and I crawled back inside my head for the ride. I thought about calling Tess, but what would I say? Hey, honey, I just wanted to check in and let you know that I committed career suicide tonight. No, that wouldn’t be good.
For more than seven years, people at the firm told me how special I was, how essential I was to the firm. Affirmation I desperately craved. I certainly never got that from my dad. And I never really got much from Mom, either, apart from the occasional obligatory “Good job.”
Baxter, Speller & Tuft was different. It was like a cult, indoctrinating me. They fed my ego. During my three months as a summer associate between my second and third years of law school, partners bought me lunches at expensive restaurants and took me to Broadway shows. After graduation, I became an associate, and they kept telling me I was “chosen” and “among the best and brightest.” The constant praise assuaged my insecurities and drove me to work harder and bill even more hours for the firm. As a poor kid from Saint Louis, I didn’t want to disappoint them. I didn’t want to be revealed as a fraud.
The cycle continued, every day them telling me I was distinguishing myself at the best law firm in the world. They were the elite, the rich and powerful, and I could be, too, they told me. Then I made partner, and now they wanted more.
New York City’s night sky clouded over. I heard a clap of thunder in the distance, but it still hadn’t started to rain. I checked my watch, wondering if the Yankees game was over or whether there’d be a delay. Not a good way to start the season, I thought. Then I closed my eyes for a second to rest, and, when I opened them, twenty minutes had passed. We were there.
I gave the driver a tip and got out of the car. Nelson Rockler was in a skyscraper about five blocks from Times Square. Tess worked for a notoriously ruthless attorney, Shirley Glade. Her nickname was “Glade the Blade.” Most associates lasted only two years, but Tess had made it five.
After signing in at security, I knew where to go. I stepped off the elevator and walked past the overnight receptionist. Even though I didn’t work at Nelson Rockler, they didn’t stop me. I was a white guy in a suit who didn’t appear to be lost. When I made it to her office, I paused at the closed door, still trying to figure out what to say.
Good news, I’m going to have a lot more time to do things around the apartment and cook. Bad news, that beautiful brownstone isn’t going to happen, and the wedding reception just got smaller.
I opened the door, ready to—hopefully—receive some comfort from the woman I loved. I needed support, somebody I could trust to talk through how I felt and how I should go forward. If it were a movie, there would be violins, maybe a harp. Even though it was nighttime, sunshine from the window would miraculously bathe the office in a soft, golden light. Tess would be confused and startled by my sudden appearance, then the camera would cut to me, and I’d say something witty and self-deprecating. Channeling my inner Hugh Grant, I’d say, “I guess my new job is just loving you.” The audience would groan but wouldn’t be able to resist bursting into applause as we embraced. It would be perfect. Everything would be OK.
Instead I opened the door and saw Tess and another man kissing. Her shirt was untucked. His hand was up her bare back. They must have seen the movement or sensed a change in the room, because the man immediately pulled away. He was tall and dressed in an expensive three-piece suit. He looked about ten, maybe fifteen years older, probably a partner at the firm.
Every law student had to take a class in criminal law, regardless of whether they ever wanted to prosecute or defend criminals. I don’t remember much from the class, but I did remember that “heat of passion” was a defense to murder.
My class had found a certain antiquated humor in the defense. Le crime passionnel was rooted in the idea that a person completely overcome with the unexpected betrayal of a lover lost the ability to commit premeditated murder. So a man who comes home to find another man in bed with his wife could pull out a gun and shoot them both. It wasn’t a complete defense, but often enough to avoid the death penalty.
Seeing Tess and this man together did cause me to lose my mind. I never believed that our relationship was perfect, but I loved her. Even with all her flaws, she was a partner who I chose because she understood where I wanted to go. Trust, now, was broken.
I staggered away from the open door. Everything moved in slow motion. The man receded into the corner, staring at the ground. Tess opened her mouth and started to speak, but I didn’t understand a word, the sounds jumbling in my head.
I should have punched that guy in the face, but there was no bloodshed, no violence. Instead I walked out of her office in a state of mind that I had never experienced before—the “heat of passion,” just as we’d imagined in law school. Colors were too bright. Sounds too loud. Temperatures rose and fell in waves. So much adrenaline coursed through me that I think I could have lifted a car and thrown it across the street, Superman-style.
I cabbed back to our apartment. Everything seemed to take place at warp speed. I walked through the door and then out again with a suitcase filled with clothes, a duffel bag filled with shoes and ties, and a cardboard box filled with my favorite books, Allison’s journals, and some personal items. That was it. Tess could have the dishes. She could have the television, the furniture, and anything else. I was going back to Saint Louis. The airline would charge extra for the box, but I didn’t care.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On the flight, I didn’t listen to music or read a magazine or play with an electronic screen. Instead I just stared out the window and watched the specks of light below become fewer and fewer the farther away we got from the city.
