"Personal injuries" - читать интересную книгу автора (Turow Scott)

CHAPTER 8

Who is Peter Petros and why don't I know anything about this case?

The Post-it from Dinnerstein was stuck to the complaint which Eyon had left sitting in her carrel. Mort apparently saw it when he'd happened by looking for something else. They'd all known this moment was coming. Nevertheless, the note left her heart rattling around like a bell clapper as she rushed off to find Feaver.

McManis had never tired of reminding her that Dinnerstein was the most dangerous person in this case. No one was more likely to sniff out Petros, and if he did, there'd be no sure way to keep him from going straight to his Uncle Brendan. But it was hard to regard Mort, with his mild stammer and his persistent tone of apology, as a menace. As a child, Dinnerstein had contracted polio, which had left him with a distinct hitch, now worsening in middle age as tertiary effects of the disease asserted themselves. Mort was tall, actually, and well built, but he made a boyish impression. Some years ago, when they first began earning what Robbie referred to as `real money,' he had tried to take Mort in hand, introducing him to the salespeople at Feaver's downtown haberdashery. The suits didn't seem to fit Mort. The pants drifted below his waist, so that he had difficulty keeping his shirttails in his trousers, and he snagged the rich Italian fabrics on the corners of his desk.

They had been friends for nearly forty years now, first brought together when Feaver's father had deserted the family and his mom, Estelle, had asked Sheilah Dinnerstein next door to look out for Robbie while she was working. The men had not tired of each other yet. Robbie generally reserved his lunchtimes for Mort, and every morning, after Feaver and Evon arrived, he and Mort spent a few minutes in what was called "the business meeting." Anything but business seemed to be discussed. As Evon passed by, most of what she overheard was talk about their families. Bobbie had an intense interest in the two Dinnerstein boys. Mort, on the other hand, was the only person whose inquiries about either Lorraine or Robbie's mother were answered with more than a philosophical gesture.

In their practice, Feaver claimed they'd never endured a disagreement. Mort shook like a leaf in the courtroom. Instead, he did all the things that Robbie despised-office management, the brief-writing, the interrogatories, routine deps, and, especially, the endless comforting demanded by their clients, who usually felt intensely victimized.

Mort's renowned patience was being put to the test when Evon arrived with Robbie at his door. Mort, who had won the comer office on a coin flip, had furnished it in colonial style. The credenzas and desk space were crowded with photos of his family-his wife and the two boys were all dark-and an array of sports mementos: signed basketballs, lithographs of athletic stars, a framed ticket from the Trappers' lone playoff appearance, nearly twenty years ago now. At the moment, Mort was dealing on his speakerphone with a woman who was eager to engage the firm to sue her landlord.

"My boyfriend was drunk. Hal? He came in. He said a few things. I said some things. He threw me out the window. I broke my arm. My knee is messed up something terrible." The woman was nasal, harsh, excitable. She stopped there. Mort scratched a hand through the thinning springy pile atop his head. There were prospective clients who contacted them out of the blue every day, most with nothing close to a case. A number came to reception, but more called in response to Feaver amp; Dinnerstein's large ad in the Yellow Pages. Robbie avoided these inquiries, directing them to Evon. In just three weeks, she'd spoken to two different people who hoped to sue some branch of the government for failing to protect them from unwanted encounters with extraterrestrials. But Mort rarely screened callers. He had a moment for everyone. In the rare instances when the complaint had some potential, he'd refer the call to younger lawyers starting out, or even, in the most isolated cases, take the matter for the firm. As the saying went, though, Mort's good deeds seldom went unpunished.

"You said you wanted to sue your landlord," he reminded the woman.

"Hey, are you a lawyer?"

Dinnerstein stared at the speaker.

"Well," he said, "there's a certificate with my name on the wall."

"No, really. Are you a lawyer? Can I sue somebody in jail?"

"You can. It wouldn't be worth much.

"Right. So are you listening? I can't sue my boyfriend, I gotta sue my landlord."

"Because your boyfriend threw you out the window?"

"Because there weren't any screens on the window." "Ah," said Mort. He reflected. "Would you mind terribly if I ask your weight?"

"That's none of your business."

"I understand," said Mort, "and I hope you'll forgive me, but if a plaintiff weighed more than Tinker Bell, I don't think a jury anywhere in America would believe a window screen would have offered her any protection."

The woman dawdled a bit, considering her problem.

"Yeah, but when I fell, I fell in a puddle. I heard that. My girlfriend made a lot of money cause her landlord left water standing around."

"Well, yes, if you slip on it. Not if you land in it." "Are you really a lawyer?"

As politely as possible, Mort ended the call.

"You should have asked if she drowned in that puddle," said Robbie. "You have plenty of evidence of oxygen deprivation to the brain."

Mort shrugged off the mild assault on his good nature. What could he do? Teasing was standard between the two men, and even Mort couldn't resist chortling when Robbie reminded him of the remark about Tinker Bell. Although he was exceedingly soft-spoken, Mort had a high-pitched howling laugh and it often ricocheted through the office. Robbie and he had a thousand in-jokes Evon could never quite comprehend.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about this case," Bobbie said eventually. He held out the Peter Petros complaint. From the start, Robbie had known that the contrived cases couldn't remain hidden from Dinnerstein. The partners usually agreed on the matters in which they'd invest the firm's time, and besides that, sooner or later Mort was bound to pick up a file he didn't recognize, since one of his chief functions was correcting the potential mishaps invited by Robbie's cavalier ways. McManis appeared more concerned about what might happen then than Sennett, who felt Robbie would be able to handle Mort. Nevertheless, several hours had gone into planning for this moment.

The original idea had been to parade a cast of undercover agents through the office, pretending to be new clients. But Stan in time hit on something far simpler. If and when Morty came upon the cases, there was a perfect person to blame: me. George Mason, downstairs, had become a new source of referrals. As former President of the Bar Association, Mason was a stickler about actually working on the files, an ethical requirement in order to receive a referral fee. As a result, the client interviews had taken place in my office, and Mason had even scratched out a rough draft of the complaint. That was why Mort had not been party to the usual preparations.

I was the only one who didn't regard this notion as inspired. Unlike some criminal defense lawyers who see themselves as soldiers in an endless war against the state, I had no reluctance about encouraging my clients to cooperate with the prosecution when it would help them. But that was their obligation, not mine. I had something of a heritage to protect. Although my mother had knowingly married into the bankrupt branch of an aristocratic Virginia family, she managed to plant the flag for the social distinction she prized by naming me after my most famous ancestor. George Mason is believed to be the author of the line "All men are created equal," which Jefferson subsequently borrowed, as well as of the Bill of Rights, which he conceived of with his friend Patrick Henry. The legacy of George Mason-the real one, as I think of him-has been quite a bit to drag around with me, but I'd always felt that in protecting the rights of the accused, I was maintaining allegiance to my distinguished relation and his vision. For his sake, not to mention my law practice, which depended on being known as a tireless foe of the prosecution, I didn't want my name imprinted on an elaborate governmental deception like Petros.

Sennett pressed, however: I needed an excuse for my frequent visits with Robbie and McManis, which someone in the building was bound to notice eventually. And this way, the fertilizer could be spread by Feaver, not me. Robbie could send letters to my office, mention our relationship here and there. I would merely adhere to my duty to maintain his confidences. Stan argued adeptly and I eventually sank to my ankles in the familiar bog of compromise where defense lawyers dwell.

Robbie now delivered the cover story about good old George Mason, as Mort blinked several times behind the watery refraction of his wire-framed glasses. Misshapen by daily abuse, the specs rode at a noticeable angle across his thick nose. Evon, naturally, was astonished by the elan with which Robbie lied, especially to the friend to whom he claimed total devotion, and also by the fact that Dinnerstein, despite the years, still couldn't see through him. Robbie explained away a few of Mort's lingering technical questions about the case, then squired Evon from the office where Mort appeared quite satisfied.

Evon called me at once to tell me that the plan had been sprung so that I'd be prepared if I bumped into Dinnerstein in the building. But the news left me down. From the start, I'd felt a subtle undertow emanating from Sennett, and I sensed that allowing my name to be used as a prop in the Petros stage play was only the beginning. Eventually, he'd ask me to lie actively, or to talk Robbie into some dubious stratagem, requests that would not be premised on my client's best interests but on the grand importance of Petros to the legal community, and on my friendship with Stan. He'd want me to help him do his job, at the expense of doing mine. And what was unsettling was this: given the peculiar geometry of my relationship with Stan, and my funny fugue state at the moment, even I was not completely certain how I was going to respond.