PLUMMET: A Novel Read online

  "Put that down. Please." Palms were up now beside that pair of eyes.

  "No," Gabe said, barely able to speak, staring at the eyes. They were empty of any apology. They were a little perplexed, maybe amused. Gabe held the point against a nipple, trying to change the expression to one of fear.

  "She said you knew." A sympathetic smile. "You didn't know?"

  "No," Gabe whispered.

  The man's smile faded.

  Gabe thought of Rachel again, the curve of her naked belly heaving up and down, the grunts she would make. And when she would finally stop, the soft laughter mixed in with sighs. Relieved that the tension between them had been released, and they could hold each other in the dark knowing that the resentment was gone for at least a few seconds. The thought made Gabe sweat heavily.

  "I'm leaving." The man's hands slowly dropped.The tone of the voice, or maybe the way Gabe interpreted the tone, was apathetic, almost defiant.

  "No," Gabe said, feeling himself shake, sweat rolling down his face. He looked at the tip of the knife against the man's chest, heard the man speaking softly.

  "I asked her what you'd do if you caught us. You know what she said?" The question became a whisper, and Gabe thought that he heard, "You don't have the balls."

  Tunnel vision set in, and Gabe saw only the gleaming metal in his hand. The electric buzzing in the room became maddening, as if it were a voice murmuring at him. He plunged the knifepoint through, and it sunk in deep. The suety flesh was easily pierced, the blade scraping past what must have been a rib. He squeezed the handle tightly as the slit bubbled red froth. He felt the pumping through the metal, the thrumming in his fingertips. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. Three seconds of divinity. He let go, looked at his quivering hand. It seemed foreign to him, the hand of a stranger, rutted and gray.

  Gabe looked back up, and his tunnel vision fixated on the look on the man's face.

  The eyes bulged ugly and white, and the mouth choked out a cloud of soundless air.

  Then red beads of blood fell on Gabe's glossy wingtips.

  2 (18 months ago)

  * * *

  The first interview was at 10:00 A.M. in a '70s Wall Street skyscraper, a glorified glass trash can. The dimly-lit office had paunchy chairs and walnut bureaus, Norman Rockwell prints, and a view looking down at an inferior building across the street.

  Settling into a chair, Micah raked his hand across the part in his thick hair, tried to stretch the sleeves of his father's suit. He glanced up as a gaunt attorney across from him stooped over the desk and reviewed a sheet of paper. He looked like Ichabod Crane. Micah shut his eyes for a second. Please God, I'm not asking much, just a little help down here, don't let me make a fool of myself. He reached inside his suit jacket for a pen to play with, to ease his nerves, and a note fell out of the pocket. He unfolded the square of paper. Good luck. I love you, Ash. He quickly pocketed the note.

  "Micah Grayson," the interviewer said. "I'm Gill Martin Stover. Let's take a look at your résumé here. From Kentucky, huh?"

  "Yes, sir." Micah tried to disguise his drawl. "That's right."

  "That's a beautiful state, isn't it?"

  "It is. Have you been there?"

  "Well, no. But I drove through it, I think. Surely flew over it. It's a fly-over state, that's what I call them. Beautiful though."

  "Yeah, but not in a condescending way, right?" Micah smiled.

  "Right," Stover continued unfazed, "so you went to Kentucky, top of your class, editor of the law journal, member of the trial advocacy team . . . and now. . . you're clerking for the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Sixth Circuit. Bully for you. Which judge?"

  "Earnest Lee Salyer."

  "Never heard of him. Is he a Bush appointee? Which states are in the Sixth Circuit?"

  "Kentucky, Tennessee, Ohio, and Michigan."

  "Red states, except Michigan."

  "Ohio was blue last time."

  "But not Kentucky," Stover said with a smirk. "Look, I'll be frank. You have a very impressive record here, but Kentucky College isn't exactly a top-tier law school, is it? I mean, but for your clerkship with a federal judge. . ."

  "I'll be the first to admit that the University of Kentucky is not Harvard."

  "Exactly. I'm an Ivy League man myself, Columbia '78. Sculled men's varsity four."

  "I don't know what that means."

  Stover made a rowing motion like playing charades. "Schools with tradition. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that you have to pass the smell test to get an offer here at Horvath."

  "Okay." Micah hesitated. "What kind of test exactly?"

  "Just some questions, maybe some hypotheticals. You follow?"

  "Yes."

  "We've done some studies, and there's some research out of Stanford Law, in California, about which undergraduate major makes for the best lawyer. What do you think the answer is?"

  "Which degree?" Micah chewed on his lip. "I would think it would be difficult to say that one major is a clear indicator of future success. I'm sure there's more than one-"

  "No, there's one major that's most indicative, that best fits the practice of law." Stover pulled open a desk drawer, drew nail clippers out, and examined his fingers. "Any ideas, hmm?"

  "Uhm, if I had to guess-"

  "No, don't guess. Think." He unfolded the clippers, trimmed his left thumb.

  "Political science?" Micah tried not to watch the dead skin falling on the desk.

  "Strike one. It's mathematics." He blew into the clippers, dislodging a nail. "I myself was a math major with a minor in logic. Those kinds of deductive reasoning skills make for an adept lawyer. Given a problem, you solve it. It's simple. There's always an answer if you can think your way through it." He was working on his left middle finger now. "What was your undergraduate major again?"

  "It was basically just general studies, arts and sciences," Micah said. "I almost majored in computer science. I was two credits shy."

  "Uh-huh. Let me give you something different to think about. This is more of an occupational hazard question. It's a scenario I personally developed with a famous Cornell professor who's written many workplace ethics and lifestyle books. Let's say you're working for a senior associate, and he asks you to write a brief for a motion to dismiss a complaint. You've done one of those, I assume?"

  "Yes. I wrote several when I was a summer clerk for–"

  "Fine. Now, that brief you're writing is due tomorrow. You're at your desk, nose to the grindstone when I come in at 5:00 o'clock in the afternoon. And I'm not a lowly senior associate. I'm a partner. And I tell you that I have an emergency, and that you're to drop everything and work on a complaint that has to be drafted by morning." He switched the nail clippers over to his other hand. "What do you do in that situation?"

  "I would do both."

  "No, no. You can't do both by morning."

  "Uhm," Micah paused, trying to swallow, "I would go to the senior associate and tell him what was going on."

  "So what? What's he going to do? I'm a partner. The silverback in the legal jungle."

  "I'd let him know. Since you're senior to him, I guess I'd have to do what you say."

  The interviewer clipped his right thumb, shook his head. "Why can't you just stick to your first commitment and tell me that?"

  "I didn't know that was an option."

  "Riiight." He held out his right hand, inspected his thumb. "Let's try another one. You're working on a complex summary judgment motion due to be filed tomorrow. I've approved the final draft and agreed to serve opposing counsel by hand delivery no later than 11:00 A.M. I leave for a Broadway show. You're responsible for finalizing the papers, including supervising a paralegal to do the cite-checking and compiling exhibits to the motion. Everything's swimming along until 8:00 P.M., when you're about to leave for your wife's birthday party. But you take a last look at the exhibits and realize the para's gathered completely wrong documents." The interviewer's eyes glowed with anticipation. "So, what do you do?"
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  Micah rolled his tongue around his mouth, finally said, "I'd sit down with the paralegal and tell her how to fix what's wrong with the exhibits. Then, if I felt she knew how to correct it, I'd go to the birthday party, but call the paralegal to make sure the motion was done. I'd also get in early the next morning to doublecheck?" Micah's answer trailed into a question.

  The interviewer's eyes dulled. "That happened to me when I was a junior associate, and I didn't leave it to a lowly para to fix. Look, why don't we just skip to the last one, my favorite, and then we're done. Sometimes I write about the answers to this one in an article I co-author in The New York Law Journal. It's a humor column, sort of Dave Barry meets Justice Scalia."

  "That sounds … unusual… funny. Unusually funny." Micah tried to smile, but he wondered if he looked like he was in pain.

  The interviewer leaned forward. "Do you remember Rocky and Bullwinkle?"

  "I think I've heard of the movie. Or do you mean the really old cartoon with the moose?"

  "Right, fine. Then you remember the Wayback Time Machine, yes?"

  "Do what? Not really, sir. I wasn't born until-"

  "Just pretend you're in the Wayback Machine, all right?" The interviewer's eyes gleamed as he waved his arms backward. Micah wondered if he were 'sculling' again. "You're in the Wayback, and you can go back in time to any place for a historical event and do anything you want. What would you do, Micah?"

  "One of the first movies I remember seeing on TV was The Ten Commandments. I always wondered what it would've looked like to see the parting of the Red Sea-"

  "The Red Sea, really? Sounds a bit Cecil B and Charlie Heston, don't you think?" The interviewer's eyebrows crimped down, disappointed again. "Assuming that that actually happened."

  Micah silently squirmed in his chair, thinking of a way to impress the bastard.

  The interviewer filed his index finger, asked, "Do you have any questions for me? I think we're through otherwise."

  "You know what, can I change my last answer? Here's what I'd really do if I was in that time machine. I'd go back to 1929, right before the stock market crash and short the hell out of the market."

  The interviewer's eyebrows hooked up on his forehead, his mouth curling up. The nail clipping ceased. Micah could see the man's horse teeth for the first time, and a whinny followed.

  "Black Tuesday, eh? Not bad. Not bad at'all, my boy."

  "Really? What else?" Micah cocked his head, expected another test.

  "I've heard enough." The interviewer put his nail clippers in the drawer, swept dead skin and nails off his desk. "I don't think I've ever heard such a clever answer. The Horvath Firm needs clever young minds, Micah. Minds like yours."

  $ $ $

  At five o'clock, he was mentally exhausted. The same questions over and over again, trying to come up with new and creative answers. He just wanted to go back to his hotel room and collapse on the massive bed. He had three offers now, and so what if he didn't get another one? It would only complicate things. But he was stuck riding in a tobacco-laden Lincoln Town Car, weaving through rush hour traffic, heading straight for his last interview. He expected another painful interrogation, especially since he was now forty-five minutes late.

  Micah sprinted out of the car and onto the frigid Manhattan sidewalk. "Colder than a well digger's rear," he mumbled, then stared in awe at the Sullivan & Adler office tower, up the curving metal facade to the top floor some fifty stories above Broadway. He took a deep breath outside the steel monument, hustled inside. Security escorted him to a lobby on the fiftieth floor, and a secretary led him through a maze of corridors until he stood outside of a partner's corner office. He was so busy wiping sweat from his face and trying to settle his nerves that he didn't realize a man with slicked silver hair was eyeing him up and down.

  "You Micah Grayson?" the man asked from the doorway of the corner office.

  "Yes, sir, Mr. … Weiss. I recognize you from the firm's website. And the newspapers."

  "You can call me 'Gabe.' Come in and have a seat."

  Mr. Weiss led Micah into a posh office with a spectacular view of the Hudson River. Through the wide window, Micah admired the silver panorama of skyscrapers and the long ribbon of the Hudson River. Then he couldn't help but notice Weiss's leathered face. Weiss looked like a well-dressed, old-school football coach, but he could have been younger with his shoulders bulging at his suspenders. Nothing like Micah expected. He'd heard from the Horvath interview that Sullivan & Adler lawyers were "cold-blooded slavedrivers."

  Weiss sank into the shell of a leather swivel behind the huge rectangle of his glass desk. Gavels, legal awards, and a statuette of a rabbi sat between piles of paper and briefs and Post-It notes. While Weiss searched his desk for something, Micah subtly glanced around the room, stopped at the wall above a sofa. There were dozens of framed newspaper articles with smiling photographs of Weiss and other suits. One looked like Rudy Guiliani, another with Bill Clinton, one of Weiss being presented with a gavel at the New York Stock Exchange. On a separate shelf was another article from a society page announcing the Weiss-Schwartz marriage with a photo of Mr. Weiss and his smiling bride in ornate wedding regalia.

  Micah felt sweat trickling down his neck. Here he was with probably one of the best lawyers in New York, and he hadn't finished his research on this firm or the man across the desk.

  He nervously looked at the legal treatises on the shelves and a corroded trumpet hanging from the wall behind Weiss's silver head, staring at anything but Weiss's face. He guessed it would be five minutes before Weiss would send him packing.

  "I used to play." Weiss pointed at the trumpet, went back to skimming the sheet of paper. "Just one sec while I review your résumé. Very impressive. I hope Recruiting put you up in a nice hotel?"

  "Yes, sir, the Royal Rihga. I really like the Theatre District. It's incredible."

  "The Rihga Royal." Mr. Weiss corrected. "Let's get down to business, shall we? Only one thing bothers me. Why New York?"

  "Why not? It's the legal Mecca, the big leagues. I didn't want to stay in the minors. I wanted to come out and learn from the best."

  Weiss smiled. "The big leagues, I like that. All right let me talk about the Firm. First off, I want to dispel any notion about Sullivan & Adler, Micah. Sure, we used to be a sweatshop in the '80s, but not anymore. We encourage associates to do pro bono work, we pay the highest salaries in the city, and, with your federal judge clerkship, you'd be treated and paid as a Second Year associate."

  "Mr. Weiss, if I can ask, I'm curious about two things. Camaraderie in the department and billable hours. What are they like here?"

  "We have a great litigation department. Everyone gets along, like a fraternity. In fact, Stu Greenbaum had a cook-out last week for the associates. We care about our associates not only as lawyers but as colleagues, too."

  "That's good to hear. I think getting along with the people you work with is important." Micah hesitated, wondered if he should press the issue about Sullivan & Adler's reputation. He exhaled and said, "What about billable hours? I mean, are associates required to bill a minimum number per year?"

  "Like I said, we're not a sweatshop anymore." Weiss took one more glance at Micah's résumé, tossed it on the desk. "We want quality lawyers now, not quantity. For upper-margin work. We don't have a minimum number of hours anymore. No way."

  "That makes me feel better because I heard that the litigation associates here average about twenty-four hundred hours a year, and I wondered if that was the standard for the New York office or just a-"

  "Look, Micah, don't worry about the hours. That figure is from a few years ago. It's not important. What's important is that we like you. In fact, I probably should tell you up front . . . we're prepared to extend an offer to you today."

  "You all don't want to do another round of interviews?" Micah leaned back in his chair, fighting off a grin. He stared at Weiss's smiling blue eyes and felt a connection with him. "I don't know what to say,
Mr. Weiss. I'm flattered."

  "'Gabe.' And you're too humble. Your resumé speaks for itself. You're as good as any candidate who's walked in here. Here, take a look. That's the salary and bonus structure for a Second Year."

  Weiss sailed a sheet of paper across his desk. Micah caught it, smiled, and glanced down. $160,000 plus an annual bonus based upon a percentage of base salary and the Firm's productivity in the fiscal year. Micah's eyes twitched involuntarily. It was easily higher than any other offer he'd gotten.

  "I noticed you like to do charity work, too," Weiss said. "The firm has some of the best community service programs in the city. We work with Volunteer Lawyers for the Arts, Habitat For Humanity, you name it. It's a good fit for you."

  "Well, it looks that way. But-"

  "But your dance card's full, isn't it?"

  "I don't know . . . yes, sir. I mean, I have offers from other firms. I would like some time to decide what's best because-"

  "Which firms?" Weiss leaned over his desk, winked. "Confidentially, of course."

  "Chatham and Franklin. They have the best pro bono program in the country according to The New York Law Journal ."

  "Losers, bunch of stiffs. They pay the lowest salaries in the city."

  "White & Gardiner."

  "Second rate. They don't even have an official pro bono program. You need pro bono work. It's a great way to get deposition and court room experience, and we encourage that here. Very few big firms do that. So who else gave you an offer?"

  "Horvath-"

  "Pretentious, Ivy League good old boys. You probably interviewed with Gill Martin Stover, right? 'Mister Columbia 1978.' Let me tell you a little story about that nutty bastard. The guy brings a pair of nail clippers and a box of sharpened number 2 Ticonderogas wherever he goes. When he's bored, he clips his nails, the uncouth schmuck. And when he's angry, he'll take out a brand new pencil and quietly break it in half."