Mark Gimenez - The Color of Law

“ Two years? You’re reducing the charge to simple possession? No intent to distribute?”

A shrug between friends. “Sure, why not?”

“Why?”

The two lawyers stared at each other across the wide wood desk; a thin smile crossed Ray’s face. And Bobby knew his instincts were on the mark.

“What do you want, Ray?”

No pretense now. “I want the bitch’s guilty plea. You get Shawanda to plead to second-degree murder, we’ll agree to forty years.”

“ Forty years? She’ll be eligible for Medicare by the time she gets out.”

“Thirty. And that’s as low as we’re going.”

Bobby studied Ray Burns. “Why the change of heart, Ray? You were gung-ho for the death penalty.”

“I still am-a death sentence would round out my resume nicely. But we’re political appointees, at least the U.S. Attorney is, and he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his career in this hellhole, a hundred and ten in the goddamn shade. He’s thinking maybe California. This case might be his ticket west.”

Bobby Herrin was not a lawyer whose clients were beneficiaries of political power. So it took a moment for the motive behind Ray’s generosity to dawn on him.

“You know about Clark’s past?” he said.

“Yep.”

“And Senator McCall wants to keep it quiet?”

“Yep again.”

“So he calls up the United States Attorney General and asks for a small favor. And the Attorney General calls up the U.S. Attorney in Dallas and asks for a small favor. Which the U.S. Attorney will grant, for a small favor in return. And, just like that, a person’s life is suddenly changed.”

Ray smiled and turned his palms up.

“What, you complaining? Two of your clients are getting good deals because of McCall’s power.”

“Ten years, Ray. Ten years for Shawanda, or you can tell the good senator to forget the White House and your boss to forget California. And I want Carlos’s charges dismissed.”

Ray grinned. He was such an asshole that he actually liked the game, two lawyers negotiating over other people’s lives. Liking the game is an annoying character trait in a lawyer; liking the power is a dangerous one.

“Twenty, and that’s a great deal, Bobby, and you know it. But if she rejects this deal, I won’t back off the death penalty, understand? And if that information about Clark becomes public, the offer is withdrawn. So get the bitch to agree, fast.”

Bobby stood and walked to the door, but he turned back.

“Ray, one more thing: if you call my client a bitch again, I swear to God I’m gonna punch you in your fucking mouth.”

Scott, I need an answer for McCall. Soon.

“You called, Scott?”

Karen Douglas was standing in front of his desk.

“What? Oh, yeah, sit down, Karen.”

Scott pushed Dan’s voice out of his mind. Karen sat in one of the chairs on the other side of his desk and tucked her legs under so as not to reveal any thigh. She was twenty-six, pretty enough to be noticed on the street, and the youngest of the four associates working under Scott. She had graduated first in her class at Rice with a degree in literature and first in her law class at Texas. Book smart, but she was having a difficult time adjusting to the practice of law. As a supervising partner, Scott felt a responsibility to teach his new associates the necessary practice skills they weren’t taught in law school. If Dan Ford hadn’t taught Scott those same practice skills, he wouldn’t be the lawyer he was today.

“Karen, I know you’ve been with us only a few months, but it seems like you’re having some problems. Am I right?”

She nodded and Scott worried she might cry.

“Okay, let’s see if I can get you back on track. First thing, your billable hours. You haven’t met your monthly quota once. Karen, my associates exceed their quotas.”

“But, Scott, two hundred hours a month? Ten billable hours a day? That’s impossible, if I’m honest.”

“Karen, this is a law firm, not a seminary.”

He smiled; she didn’t.

“Look, here’s how billable hours work. First, you always round up. Twenty minutes becomes half an hour, forty minutes becomes an hour, an hour and a half becomes two. Second, every phone call you make and every letter you read is a minimum quarter-hour. You read ten letters, a quarter hour each, that’s two and a half billable hours. Heck, I usually bill four or five hours just reading my mail each morning. And travel-didn’t you fly to San Francisco with Sid last month?”

She nodded.

“Did you bill your flight time?”

“Two hours. I worked on another matter.”

“How long was the flight?”

“Four hours.”

“Then you should bill eight, four hours to the client you’re flying to San Francisco for, and another four to the client whose work you’re doing during the flight. See? That’s six hours you didn’t bill last month. If every lawyer here dropped six hours each month, Karen, that’s twelve hundred hours that wouldn’t get billed. That’s three hundred grand we wouldn’t collect. Each month. Twelve months, that’s three-point-six million. See how it adds up? See why every hour counts? Billable hours are a law firm’s inventory, Karen, so when you don’t bill your quota, it’s like you’re working at McDonald’s and giving away hamburgers.”

Karen was looking at Scott like a freshman coed watching her first porn flick at a frat party.

“Scott, you’re telling me to pad my hours. Isn’t that cheating?”

“Every place except a law firm.”

Bobby entered the Ford Stevens lobby and was waved through by the smiling receptionist. Each time he walked into the Ford Stevens offices, he smelled something in the air. Like a funeral home, a downtown law office has its own unique smell; but instead of formaldehyde, this place smelled of money.

Bobby walked down the carpeted corridor to Scotty’s corner office. Scotty was sitting behind his desk and addressing a young woman. He noticed Bobby and waved him in.

Bobby stepped into the office. The young woman stood and when she turned to face Bobby, he was struck by her appearance: she was very attractive and from her sharp suit, a lawyer.

“Bobby, this is Karen Douglas. Karen, Bobby Herrin.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re working the Shawanda Jones case with Scott. That must be very exciting. When I was in school, I always thought I’d work in the public defender’s office.”

“But we pay better,” Scotty said. He pointed at the sofa. “Sit, Bobby, I’ll be right with you.” He picked up a thick document and turned back to Karen. “Now, Karen, you’re clear on billable hours?”

Karen sighed heavily and nodded. “I guess so.”

“Okay, the other thing I wanted to talk to you about is your memo. I’ve read it and it’s great. You researched the law perfectly, you applied the facts, you did everything exactly right…except-”

“Except what, Scott?”

“Except you didn’t answer my question.”

“But you asked whether Dibrell could sue that little town over its denial of his rezoning request. The answer is no.”

Scotty was shaking his head. “Karen, I didn’t ask you whether Dibrell could sue the town, I asked you how Dibrell could sue. We’re going to sue; we’ve already decided that. It’s part of our strategy to get the town to give us the rezoning we want. And believe me, after their lawyer tells them how much the litigation will cost in fees and expenses even if they win, the town will crater. What I wanted from you is a legal position we can take to justify our lawsuit. You answered whether. I asked how.”

Karen’s face expressed that dismay unique to a new lawyer learning the ways of lawyers.

“I…I didn’t understand, Scott. I’ll try again.”