2
DUNCAN WALKED into his favorite conference room, which was on the thirty-third floor of his firm’s Midtown office building. Two walls were entirely windows: the longer one looking out onto other skyscrapers, the shorter one facing west, offering a narrow slice of the Hudson River. A Cindy Sherman photograph—one of the Untitled Film Stills—was on the wall behind Candace Snow, although it was partially blocked by the blue background screen that had been set up by the videographer. Duncan, who was on the firm’s art committee, was responsible for their owning the Sherman print. He was proud of this, but had never once found a way to mention it to anybody, for fear of sounding like a pompous ass. He certainly wasn’t about to bring it up now.
Duncan extended a hand to Candace, introducing himself. Candace looked down at his outstretched hand, her mouth curling. She was clearly not contemplating shaking it. “How long is this going to take?” she asked.
“It’s going to take how long it takes,” Duncan said, leaving his arm extended, wanting to highlight her rudeness. “It really depends on how quickly you confess.”
That at least got Candace to look up, though it didn’t otherwise break the tension. Duncan shrugged off her hostility and went to pour himself a cup of coffee from the breakfast array that had been laid out by the window. He had better things to do than this deposition too. Although the libel suit had gotten some attention—Simon Roth’s seeking $150 million in damages had helped see to that—in reality it was small-time, at least by Blake and Wolcott standards. It lacked the factual complexity, the vast array of moving parts, that was a mainstay of the sort of litigation the firm usually did. It was also perfectly obvious to Duncan that the case was a loser; he thought it had virtually no chance of surviving the paper’s inevitable motion for summary judgment. Duncan didn’t like being given a lawsuit he couldn’t find a way to win.
Libel claims were always hard, especially when the plaintiff was a public figure like Simon Roth. That task was made considerably more difficult because Candace’s article had not contained any explicit allegation of wrongdoing on the part of Roth or his company. It had therefore required a certain amount of ingenuity for Duncan to draft a libel complaint. He’d gotten around the lack of any actual libelous statements by instead alleging libel-by-implication, which allowed the case to focus not on what the story actually said, but rather on what a reasonable reader would take the article as implying. The suit alleged that the article implied that Roth’s half-billion-dollar condo project had mob connections; that Roth had knowingly or negligently allowed his contractors to create unsafe working conditions; and that Roth had engaged in a backroom quid pro quo deal with Durant in exchange for his whitewashing the DOB investigation.
It had at least been enough to survive a motion to dismiss. Duncan was reasonably sure that Simon Roth was fully aware he wasn’t going to win, that the case was more about sending a message: F*ck with me and I’ll tie you up in court for a couple of years, make you rack up a small fortune in legal fees.
Coffee in hand, Duncan sat down across the table from Candace and her lawyer. She was an attractive woman, this Candace. Although he’d taken a couple dozen depositions in his eight years of practicing law, virtually everyone Duncan had ever deposed had been men: fleshy senior executives who viewed being raked over the coals by some smart-mouthed young lawyer in a Hugo Boss suit as a cost of doing business.
Not Candace. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, with a curvy body whose outlines were visible even in her formal attire. She was wearing a white ruffled shirt with a black skirt and a tight jacket, the arc and swell of her breasts visible against the fabric. Her hair was a vibrant red, curly and untamed. Duncan guessed it was dyed, then blinked the thought away: he had more important things to worry about than whether the witness was a real redhead.
Duncan started the depo off with basic background questions. Although he could be aggressive when necessary, Duncan generally found that a deposition was far more productive when he was friendly and low-key, tried to establish a conversational rhythm, rather than thundering and posturing. He was hoping to get Candace to relax a little, let down her guard.
That didn’t happen. As Duncan took her through her résumé—college at Brown, followed by j-school at Columbia, then three years at the Albany Times Union before joining the New York Journal—Candace’s hostility only seemed to increase. The mere fact that she was being asked questions at all seemed to offend her, Candace looking at him with murder in her eyes even though what he was asking so far wasn’t any more intrusive than a typical job interview.
“How did you come to report on the Aurora Tower accident?” Duncan asked, abruptly shifting gears, deciding there was no point in holding off getting into the real issues.
“I had a confidential source who came forward with information,” Candace replied, her arms folded across her chest. Duncan wondered if her posture was just a manifestation of her general hostility, or because she’d noticed him checking out her breasts before.
“And who was that?”
“Is there something about the word ‘confidential’ you don’t understand?” Candace said tartly.
Duncan didn’t react, just calmly met her glare. “Are you refusing to name your source for the story?” he asked. He’d fully expected her to do so; this was theater more than anything else, although if the paper’s source was going to remain anonymous, that meant it couldn’t rely on that person to establish the truth of the article.
“Objection,” Candace’s lawyer, Daniel Rosenstein, spoke on the record for the first time. Rosenstein was twenty years older than Duncan, a name partner in a boutique firm specializing in media law. He was not an imposing man: short, with a smile like a wince and a perpetual squint even though he wore glasses. But Rosenstein was a lawyer Duncan had heard of: a man who’d won First Amendment cases before the Supreme Court. He’d always been perfectly cordial to Duncan, while also constantly reminding him that his case was hopeless. “The identity of a confidential source is protected by New York’s shield law, as you no doubt know, counsel,” Rosenstein continued. “I instruct the witness not to answer the question.”
“Do you intend to follow your lawyer’s instruction?” Duncan asked Candace, following the script.
“As compared to what?” Candace shot back sharply, seemingly oblivious to the rote nature of the whole exchange. “Following yours?”
“Why did this source come to you?”
“That’s still fishing around for the source’s identity,” Rosenstein protested. “Don’t answer the question.”
“Like my lawyer said.”
“But this source prompted you to investigate the accident at the Aurora Tower?”
“I’m not sure I agree with your use of the word ‘accident,’” Candace countered. “But yes, it’s what made me work the story.”
“In your opinion, Ms. Snow, the city initially failed to properly investigate the accident at the Aurora Tower, correct?”
“Mrs.”
Duncan paused, momentarily unsure he’d heard correctly. “Excuse me?”
“It’s Mrs. Snow.”
“Okay,” Duncan said, unable to resist a smile as he marveled at the depths of this woman’s petty hostility. “Does Mrs. Snow need the pending question read back?”
“I don’t know whether they failed to properly investigate it,” Candace replied. “They failed to prosecute it.”
Duncan took a moment with that one, trying to figure out whether he could make it into something useful. “Are you saying the investigation revealed criminal conduct, but then that conduct wasn’t prosecuted?”
“Objection,” Rosenstein said. “Misstates prior testimony.”
Candace ignored the hint. “That’s certainly what my sources were indicating,” she said.
“You just referred to your sources, plural,” Duncan said. “How many unnamed sources did you have for this article?”
“Any such fishing around relating to the identity of Ms. Snow’s source or sources is inappropriate,” Rosenstein said, more sharply this time. “I again instruct her not to answer. Please stop asking her questions that impinge on the reporter’s privilege.”
“I believe that’s Mrs. Snow,” Duncan replied.
“Indeed,” Rosenstein said with a mock bow. “But my larger point stands.”
Duncan was ready to change tacks anyway. “Mrs. Snow, your article stated that a relative of Jack Pellettieri’s was connected to organized crime, correct?”
“Yes, his brother, Dominic Pellettieri.”
“Had this brother been convicted of a crime?”
“He had, yes. Racketeering.”
“And does this brother presently have a position with Pellettieri Concrete?”
Candace shrugged, taking a sip of water. “Kind of hard to hold down a job when you’re in jail,” she said.
“So was this brother involved in any way with the Aurora Tower?”
Candace looked a little uncomfortable for once; Duncan thought he might be pressing on a weak spot. “Not that I know of.”
“Do you have any actual knowledge that organized crime was in any way involved with the construction of the Aurora Tower?”
“There’s still a lot of mob involvement with the construction business.”
Duncan didn’t know why she bothered to offer up such a nonanswer. “Do you have any actual and specific knowledge that organized crime was involved in the construction of the Aurora?” he asked, adding a little edge to his voice.
Candace tapped a finger on the table, then caught herself. “No,” she said.
“So the only reason to mention Pellettieri’s brother in your article was to imply such a connection, something you couldn’t come out and say because you didn’t have any factual support for it?”
Candace looked like she was counting to ten in her head before responding, her eyes cast down. When she spoke her words came slowly. “Pellettieri’s brother is, or was, connected to the mob, to illegal acts. What the article said about him was true—obviously, seeing as he went to prison. What a reader chooses to make of that information, that’s up to them.”
“According to your article, the Department of Buildings’ field investigators initially recommended that a criminal referral be made regarding the Aurora accident, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“But they were overruled by the head of the department, Ronald Durant?”
“Correct.”
“Did you speak to Mr. Durant himself when researching your story?” Duncan asked, knowing the answer from the article itself.
“Mr. Durant was no longer with the DOB. I called him several times and left messages, but he never called me back.”
“What if any basis did you have for claiming that Roth Properties had any sort of quid pro quo arrangement with Ronald Durant regarding his decision not to refer the Aurora accident for a criminal investigation?”
“Objection,” Rosenstein said. “Assumes facts.”
“My article doesn’t say that,” Candace responded, after first glancing over at her lawyer. She’s learning, Duncan thought.
“Putting aside for the moment what your article said, would you have any basis for making that allegation?”
Candace sighed heavily, again offering a display of her pique. Given that she was the one being videotaped, Duncan was happy to have her visibly annoyed. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to have a basis for saying something that I never said. No, I don’t have evidence of an explicit deal like that; if I had I presumably would have reported on it. It’s not exactly the kind of thing that Durant and Roth would have put in writing, or looped a lot of other people into, if they had made such an agreement. There’re certainly questions raised by the chronology of events. But this isn’t what my article focused on.”
“In your article, you imply that Roth Properties bore at least partial responsibility for the accident, correct?”
“Objection. The article speaks for itself.”
Duncan’s eyes never wavered toward Rosenstein, his focus entirely on Candace. She met his gaze coolly, then turned questioningly to her lawyer.
“You can go ahead and answer,” Rosenstein said.
“The article’s focus was on the problems with the city’s investigation into the accident. It wasn’t focused on the accident itself, and it certainly wasn’t focused on Roth Properties. Which is why I still don’t really understand why we’re even here.”
“The pending question, Ms. Snow—excuse me, Mrs.—is whether your article implied that the developer was at least partially responsible for the accident.”
“Asked and answered,” Rosenstein objected.
“It’s been asked,” Duncan retorted. “Maybe this time it’ll be answered.”
“My article said what it said,” Candace said. “It’s not a poem. It’s not meant to carry a hidden meaning or convey some message between the lines. A news article is supposed to deliver the facts, let the reader draw whatever conclusion they want out of them. That’s what my article did.”
Duncan wasn’t going to get some kind of grand-slam admission out of her, but at least now he could say he’d tried. Time to shift directions once again. “You work as an investigative reporter, correct, Ms. Snow?”
“Yes.”
“How many pieces of investigative reporting had you done prior to your reporting on the Aurora Tower?”
“All reporting is investigative in nature.”
Refusing to give an inch wasn’t a very effective way to get through a deposition, although it was a common one. Being unwilling to admit basic points always ended up looking bad. “But you are now part of the investigative reporting team at your newspaper, correct?” Duncan said with a show of patience.
“Yes.”
“And how long before this article appeared did you join that team?”
“Two months or so, maybe a little less.”
“So this was your first story as an investigative reporter?”
“It was my first published story with the I-team. That doesn’t mean very much, though. I’ve been a reporter for about a decade. I’ve published hundreds of articles.”
“You wanted your first investigative story, just after joining the investigative unit, to have an impact, didn’t you?”
Candace rolled her eyes. Duncan thought she wasn’t going to be very happy with herself if she ever saw the videotape. “Any reporter wants their story to have an impact.”
“But you particularly wanted this specific story to have an impact, didn’t you?”
What little was left of Candace’s patience was visibly fraying. “If you’re implying I wrote something untrue to be sensationalistic,” she said, a slight quaver in her voice, “that’s completely false.”
“It is true, isn’t it, that you were looking for a big story to help make your name as an investigative reporter?”
“I wanted an accurate story too,” Candace said. “I resent the implication that I would bend the truth to further my own career.”
“Would this be a good time for a break?” Rosenstein said.
“Sure,” Duncan said, knowing it was a waste of time to fight it.
The videographer took them off the record and shut off the videotape. Candace stood quickly, stretching her back in a catlike arch that thrust out her breasts. She turned toward her lawyer. “So what we say now isn’t part of the official transcript, right?” she asked.
“That’s right,” Rosenstein said.
Candace turned toward Duncan, her look so angry that he wondered if she was about to throw something across the table at him. “Nothing personal, you know, Mrs. Snow,” Duncan said quickly. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Lucky you,” Candace said. “Finding a line of work that lets you be an a*shole for a living.”
DUNCAN MET a junior associate from his firm, Neil Levine, for a drink after work. They walked over to the lobby bar of the Royalton Hotel, less than a block from their office. Duncan had a thing for hotel bars, and the Royalton was one of his favorites in the city: dark and low-key, its ambience both swanky and decadent. There was something vaguely illicit about the place; it felt like a good rendezvous spot for an affair.
Duncan had recruited Neil as a Harvard 2L. Neil had summered at the firm two years ago, and then started as a full-time associate last fall. The two of them had become friends, although it was complicated by the fact that Duncan was essentially Neil’s boss by virtue of seniority. He also sometimes found it difficult to put up with Neil’s adjustment process to life as a big-firm associate.
“So I got called an a*shole today,” Duncan said, once they’d ordered drinks from the waitress, a beautiful woman in a black cocktail dress. It was a New York cliché that bartenders and waitresses were drop-dead gorgeous, but it was often true.
“I’m surprised that even warrants a mention for you,” Neil replied. He was short and tousled, his hair perpetually uncombed, his clothes often on the far side of business casual.
“I’ve never been called an a*shole doing my job before. Lawyers are much more refined in their name-calling. And besides, I’m not an a*shole lawyer except when I have to be.”
“So who called you an a*shole?”
“I was deposing the reporter in the Roth libel suit, and on the break she said it. Her own lawyer actually dragged her out of the room, made her come back and apologize.”
Neil didn’t look impressed with the story. “You’re honestly comfortable suing a reporter just because she dared criticize Simon Roth?”
“If you think something like that is going to be the toughest thing you’re going to have to do at our firm, you’re in for a long career,” Duncan said as the waitress placed their drinks before them. “Or a short one. Besides, it’s not like the reporter’s own money is at stake. Her paper’s owned by some other billionaire; we’re picking on somebody our own size.”
Neil shook his head in mock disappointment. “I can understand how lawyers defend rapists and child molesters,” he said. “But how you can live with representing a New York City real estate developer is really beyond me.”
Duncan understood that Neil’s banter was standing in for real discomfort. He’d felt it too, back when he’d first started at the firm. Duncan remembered his own alienation as a junior associate, the sometimes painful acculturation process. Law school did virtually nothing to prepare people for the often dreary nature of practicing law, let alone the amorality of big-firm practice. The reality of representing the interests of some of the most powerful people on the planet was quite different from the abstract idea of doing so.
But it wasn’t exactly exploitation: first-year associates at the big New York firms now received starting salaries of $160,000 a year. Duncan had a limited amount of patience for anyone’s struggles with the job. If you didn’t like the deal, there was a long line of people who would happily take it. He didn’t feel the need to nurse Neil through the growing pains of becoming an actual lawyer.
“I actually met the great man himself the other day,” Duncan said.
Neil took a sip of his brimming Manhattan, hoisting it with two hands so as not to spill. “Simon Roth? Total prick?”
“Actually, yeah, pretty much. But it seemed a little going-through-the-motions, like it was what was expected of him. How’s the review going on the Roth documents for the DA’s subpoena?”
Neil shrugged. “Slogging through.”
“Find anything interesting?”
“God, no. It’s mostly back-and-forth negotiating the contracts, which are endless. Boring as hell.”
“I get the feeling you’re not enjoying your time at our law firm,” Duncan said.
Neil looked away. “It’s just the whole cog-in-the-wheel thing,” he said. “And most of our cases—it’s not that we’re repping the bad guy; it’s just that the whole thing seems sort of pointless. We’re just a small part of some huge business strategy. We have no idea what’s really going on.”
“You remind me of myself,” Duncan said. “Back when I didn’t know what the f*ck I was talking about.”