“Sure, a great movie about an incompetent lawyer.”
“Among other things. Mickey Rourke plays a guy in jail, and he has this famous line, something like, ‘When you commit a murder you make ten mistakes. If you can think of eight of them, then you’re a genius.’ Remember that?”
“Maybe. Have you killed someone?”
“No, but we’ve made mistakes. In fact, we’ve probably made so many mistakes we can’t even think of half of them.”
“Number one?”
“We blew it when we told Rackley about our friend committing suicide. That was really stupid. His security guy, what’s his name?”
“Doug Broome, I think.”
“That’s it. Broome scared the shit out of us when he walked in and told us they had checked every Mark Finley and every Todd McCain in the country, right?”
“Yes.”
“So, it’s obvious Rackley is a fanatic about security and intelligence. It wouldn’t take much of an effort to research recent suicides by students at his law schools. Gordy’s name would pop up. Broome and his boys could snoop around Foggy Bottom and someone could drop our names, which were in the Post last week, by the way. Without too much effort, Broome could track down our real names, which, of course, would lead to our new law firm up in Brooklyn.”
“Wait, I’m not following. Even if he knows our real names and where we’re from, how can he find Lucero & Frazier in Brooklyn? We’re not exactly registered up there. We’re not in the phone book, not on a website. I don’t get it.”
“Mistake number two. We overplayed the Miami class action. Rackley and Strayhan must have asked themselves why we are so interested in the Cohen-Cutler lawsuit. That’s our angle, so we must have some skin in that game. What if, and I’m not sure about this, but what if Broome can find out that the firm of Lucero & Frazier has referred thirteen hundred cases to Cohen-Cutler?”
“Stop right there. We are not the attorneys of record and our firm name is off the books, same as dozens of other lawyers who’ve referred their cases. Cohen-Cutler has the information, but it’s confidential. There’s no way Rackley could penetrate Cohen-Cutler. Besides, why would he want to?”
“Maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe he just informs the FBI that there is potential fraud in the Swift Bank settlement.”
“But he wants the settlement to be done, and as soon as possible.”
“Maybe, but I have a hunch Rackley would react badly if he suspected we were stealing from him.”
“I doubt he’ll venture anywhere near the FBI when it comes to Swift.”
“True, but he can find a way to blow the whistle.”
Mark twirled his wine around his glass and admired it. He took a sip and smacked his lips. Todd was staring into the distance.
Mark said, “I thought you don’t do regrets.”
“These are mistakes, not regrets. Regrets are over and done with and a waste of time to rehash. Mistakes, though, are bad moves in the past that might affect the future. If we’re lucky, the mistakes can possibly be contained or even corrected.”
“You’re really worried.”
“Yes, same as you. We’re dealing with some very rich people with unlimited resources, and we’re also breaking laws right and left.”
“Thirteen hundred to be exact.”
“At least.”
Their waiter stopped by and asked about dessert. They ordered brandy instead. Todd said, “I called Jenny Valdez at Cohen-Cutler four times today, never got her. I can only imagine the chaos down there as they try to process 220,000 claims. I’ll keep trying tomorrow. We need to make sure our firm name is kept buried, and if somebody calls sniffing around, then we need to know it.”
“Good. You think Broome might show up in court tomorrow?”
“Not in person, but he might have someone take a look.”
“You’re making me paranoid.”
“We’re on the run, Mark. Paranoia is a good thing.”
40
To avoid the halls of justice they once haunted, the defendants used a service elevator connected to a rear entrance that few lawyers knew about. But Phil did, and he led his boys through a maze of short hallways lined with offices for judges, secretaries, and law clerks. Mark and Todd wore coats and ties, certain that they would get themselves photographed for a newspaper or two, and they spoke to no one and tried to avoid eye contact with the few familiar faces.
At 9:50, they emerged from the back and entered the courtroom of the Honorable Abraham Abbott, Division 6, General Sessions Court. Eager to see who the curious were, both defendants quickly scanned the audience. There were about thirty spectators, a bit more than normal for a first appearance calendar. They took their seats at the defense table with their backs to the crowd as their lawyer stepped over to chat with the prosecutor. Judge Abbott was on the bench, going through some paperwork. From nowhere cute Hadley Caviness popped over and leaned down between them.
“Just here for a little immoral support, boys,” she whispered.
“Thanks,” Mark said.
“We thought about calling you last night,” Todd said.
“I was busy,” she said.
“What about tonight?”
“Sorry, already got a date.”
“What’s the rap on Ms. Reedy?” Mark asked, nodding at the other table.
“Totally incompetent,” Hadley said with a smile. “And too stupid to know it. A real bitch, though.”
“Any newspapers here?” Todd asked.
“The Post is left side, fourth row, guy in a tan jacket. Don’t know about anybody else. Gotta run. Don’t lose my phone number and call me when you get out.” She disappeared as quickly as she had materialized.
“Get out? As in jail?” Mark whispered.
“I love that little slut,” Todd mumbled.
A door opened on the far right side and three inmates in orange jumpsuits were led in chained together. Three young black men, fresh from the mean streets of D.C., and likely headed to prison for years. If not already gang members, they would join one soon enough and band together for protection. During their brief careers as criminal defense lawyers, Mark and Todd had heard enough stories about the horrors of prison.
A clerk called the names of Frazier and Lucero. They stood, walked to the bench with Phil, and looked up and into the unsmiling face of Judge Abbott. His first words were “Can’t say that I recognize either of you, though I’m told you’ve been here before.”
Indeed they had been, but they gave no thought to uttering a word.
He continued, “Mr. Mark Frazier, you are charged with violating Section 54B of the D.C. criminal code, the unauthorized practice of law. How do you wish to plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“And, Mr. Lucero, for the same charges?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”