Mark Gimenez - The Color of Law

His only income was his monthly partnership draw, $62,500 gross, but only $42,000 after taxes, which disappeared faster than a raindrop on the sidewalk in July: $4,000 in monthly payments on the Ferrari, $3,000 on Rebecca’s Mercedes and the Rover, $16,000 in monthly interest payments on the house note, $10,000 a month in property taxes and insurance premium escrows, and $4,000 a month in utilities and upkeep. Which left only $5,000 a month for groceries, clothes, eating out, entertainment, and club dues-at least he wouldn’t have to pay club dues anymore. He had never worried about saving money; the house was his savings account, retirement account, and rainy-day fund. Of course, he could access those accounts only by selling the place or refinancing the mortgage, which was not a likely option since Dan Ford had called in a personal favor with the bank president to get the $2.8 million loan in the first place.

So Scott wrote a check on his savings account for Seventy-Five Thousand and no/100 Dollars to the “Internal Fucking Revenue Service.” And then he sat back in his chair and wondered what McCall would take next.

From the sofa in Scott’s office, Bobby said, “Seventy-five thousand bucks? Shit, I sell everything I own and pay my debts, I’m still seventy-four thousand shy of that. And you wrote a check?”

Bobby had arrived and Scott had brought him up to date.

“Yeah. But it was all of my cash.”

“You know, Scotty, McCall’s taken this way further than I thought he would. I mean, being pissed off is one thing, but trying to destroy your life, man, he’s into Stephen King territory now.”

“He can’t destroy my life, Bobby. He can take my maid, my memberships, and my cash, but he can’t destroy me. I’ve still got clients that pay me three million dollars a year.”

“Mr. Fenney?”

Sue was standing in the door.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Dibrell called, said he needs to see you ASAP.”

The beautiful blonde Dibrell Property Company receptionist did not inquire about Scott’s marital status today, and Marlene did not smile at Scott. Instead she averted her eyes as he walked past her workstation and into Tom Dibrell’s inner sanctum. From Tom’s pained expression, Scott figured he would have to negotiate sexual harassment settlements with two receptionists this time. And he wondered if he could.

“What’s up, Tom?”

Tom motioned to the sofa. “Sit down, Scott.”

Scott stepped around the coffee table, a long glass top set on a base of horseshoes laid flat and welded together. He plopped down on the soft leather and spread his arms along the top of the back. Attorney and client regarded each other across twenty feet of expensive finish-out.

“We’ve been together a long time, Scott.”

“Eleven years, Tom. As long as I’ve been a lawyer.”

“You’re the best lawyer I’ve ever had, Scott, and I’ve had more than a few.”

“Well, thanks.” He chuckled and smiled. “You know, Tom, back in college when I broke up with a girl, I’d always tell her how beautiful she was first.”

Tom nodded and exhaled. But he didn’t smile.

“We’re breaking up, Scott.”

“What?”

“You’re no longer my lawyer.”

Fear shot Scott up off the sofa and across the void to Tom’s desk. He was now looking down at his rich client, at three million in legal fees, his heartbeat increasing with each second as all the ramifications of losing Tom Dibrell as a client raced through his mind like a runaway locomotive.

“Tom… why?”

“It’s best not to go into it, Scott. It’s done.”

“But…”

“Don’t, Scott.”

Scott felt wobbly and confused, like he’d taken a blow to the head. He turned away from Tom and took several steps toward the door, and he saw something he had never seen before or had never taken the time to see. He blinked hard, his eyes and mind coming into focus simultaneously. On the wall was a framed photograph of Tom Dibrell and Senator Mack McCall at a golf tournament. He turned back to Tom, but pointed at the photo.

“It’s him, isn’t it? McCall. He made you do this.”

Their eyes locked for a long moment, then Tom’s face sagged and he nodded his head like it hurt.

“Scott, you want to know the answer to the mystery?”

“What mystery?”

“Did Oswald act alone?…What the hell mystery you think I’m talking about? How Tom Dibrell survived the real-estate crash and kept his building when everyone else failed and lost theirs.”

Scott nodded.

“McCall. He saved me. The pension fund in New York, the bastards holding the mortgage on this building-which they were trying to foreclose-they wanted legislation passed in Congress, some kind of special tax break on their investments. Mack told them if they foreclosed on me, he’d shit-can their legislation. They dropped the foreclosure. And Mack got me the contracts on the new post office building and the justice center, gave me some cash flow. He saved me, Scott, just because we’re neighbors and I send my gardener over to mow his grass. And he’s never asked me for a goddamned thing…until now. He’s like the Godfather, Scott-when he finally asks you for a favor, you don’t say no. I owe him.”

“What about me? I started working for you when other lawyers dropped you like a load of shit. I’ve been loyal to you for eleven years. Don’t you owe me?”

Tom recoiled and his expression changed from pained to bemused.

“I paid you what I owed you, Scott. In full, every month. As a matter of fact, more than in full. You’ve been overbilling me for years. You think I didn’t know that? Billing me for your law students, training new lawyers on my tab, marking up your cost of copies and faxes and phone calls, charging your hourly rate for our lunches, padding hours-why’d you think I hired all those MBAs from Harvard, for my health? I know where every goddamned penny in this company goes! I figure over the years you’re probably into me for two, three million in overbillings. But that’s what you wanted from me-my fees, not my friendship. So that’s how I paid you back, Scott, in cash. Not in loyalty. I’m loyal to my friends, damn loyal. But you weren’t my friend. You were my lawyer.”

“Yeah, Tom, and as your lawyer I’ve bent some rules for you. I’ve pushed the ethical and legal envelope for you, to make your deals happen!”

Tom held his hands up, as if surrendering. “Whoa, I don’t know nothing about that, Scott. I’m just a dumb ol’ dirt developer. I leave that complicated legal stuff to my real smart lawyer.”

He smiled.

“Not a month ago, Tom, I was standing right here, and you needed me to pull your ass out of a crack again…what was her name, Nadine? I did. You said you’d never forget.”

“I won’t. I’ll never forget that, Scott. But this is business.”

He’s Ross Perot’s lawyer.

He’s Jerry Jones’s lawyer.

He’s Mark Cuban’s lawyer.

He was Tom Dibrell’s lawyer.

A lawyer would much prefer his wife run off with another man than his client run off with another lawyer. A wife’s betrayal makes him question her. But a client’s betrayal makes him question himself; fact is, a client’s betrayal is the only thing that can make a lawyer question himself, what he is and who he is. Because a lawyer without a wife is still a lawyer, but a lawyer without a client is just a man.

A lawyer’s identity is derived from the clients he represents. A lawyer’s power, prestige, influence, wealth, reputation, and standing in the community- what he is and who he is — are determined by the clients he represents. You’re only as good as your clients are rich.

Scott had ridden the elevator up as an important lawyer in Dallas, a lawyer with a rich client; he was Scott Fenney, Tom Dibrell’s lawyer. Now he rode the elevator down as…who? He didn’t recognize the man in the elevator’s mirrored walls.