Grant McCrea - Dead Money

After a suitably pompous interval, Warwick’s voice arrived on the line.

Redman, it said. Come to my office at once.

I composed myself. Rubbed some color into my face. I’d forgotten to shave. Fortunately, I’m blessed with the facial hair of a blond adolescent, so it wasn’t obvious.

Warwick was sitting ramrod straight in his chair, chewing on an unlit cigar. Doing his best General Patton. I pulled back the visitor’s chair a foot or two. I knew that in my condition a mere whiff of chewed cigar and cloying cologne would make me gag.

Well, he said.

Well, I responded, my wit taking wing.

You’re not looking well.

I’m not well, I said. Lower back. I had to cancel the Lockwood deposition yesterday.

Indeed? he responded, with a skeptical raise of the eyebrow. Well.

I maintained a discreet silence. No point in pushing the issue. God knew what his spies had told him.

We’ve got a problem, he said.

Yes, we do, I thought but didn’t say. His notion of what the problem might be was highly unlikely to agree with mine.

We had a meeting of the Executive Committee last night.

He paused. I waited.

Revenues are down, he said, giving me a Look.

He was concerned, the Look told me, that I had been insufficiently attentive to the problem of declining revenues.

So I understand, I said, trying to fill the conversational space. But it’s a cyclical business. Things will pick up soon.

It’s a cyclical business, he repeated, with a small impatient shrug. Yes. But we have obligations to the firm.

Yes, I said. Of course we do.

And we can’t permit these fluctuations to get out of hand. Everyone here depends on that. We can’t have big peaks and valleys.

I would think the peaks are okay, I said with an innocent smile.

Valleys aren’t, he said grimly. So we have to smooth out the valleys. And when downtrends occur, the Committee must act. That’s our fiduciary responsibility. To the partners. To the firm.

I was waiting to hear what all this had to do with me.

In ’98, when things were going bad, we managed to find Gibson. To fill the gap. His billings were a boon to the firm.

Yes. I recall.

This year, there’s no Gibson on the horizon.

That’s too bad, I commiserated.

Yes, it is. So we need to take other measures.

I see.

We’ve drawn up a list.

A list.

A probation list.

Ah.

Yes. Now, Redman, I don’t want you to take this personally. We go back a long way. And we all appreciate your abilities. You’re a terrific trial lawyer. But that’s only one part of being a successful partner. We expect everybody to carry their weight around here. And you do have to admit that you don’t bring in the kind of business that your talents would indicate you should.

My gut clenched. Something with small sharp teeth was chewing on my gall bladder.

So we’ve put you on the list.

Warwick pushed out his chest. Gave me an imperious look.

He seemed to be expecting a response.

What was I supposed to say, exactly? ‘Thank you, oh wise one, for tripling my psychiatrist bills and giving me less income to pay them with’?

What exactly does that mean? I managed to croak.

We’re not asking you to leave, he said. But we’re going to ask you to prove yourself. Over the next six months to a year. Probation, like I said, in a sense. We need you to work up to the level of your abilities, Redman. Get out there. Beat the bushes. Rustle up some business. Show the flag. Go to lunch with someone other than Dorita Reed.

That last was a low blow.

I see, I said.

And please, Redman. Start getting in to work at a reasonable hour. I personally don’t care if you come in at midnight. But it makes a bad impression.

Yes, I said. Morale.

Exactly, he replied smugly, pleased that I had so efficiently imbibed that morning’s earlier lesson.

Listen, Redman, he continued, look on it as an opportunity. We’re not singling you out. There are eight others on that list.

I knew it wasn’t my place to ask who my fellow probationists were. But I had an idea. List the partners with personalities. Multiply by those with interests beyond the profitability of the firm. Shake well. Don’t stir. Might rock the boat.

If it works out, great, he went on. Welcome back. If it doesn’t? Well. I think we can both just agree that your heart’s not in it. Because I know you can do it. If you want to.

Yes, I said. Of course.

Why did I feel like a delinquent high school student?

Ah, I answered myself. Because I was being treated like one.

Though it was true, that last bit anyway. I could do it. If I wanted to. But it was a goddamn big ‘if.’ I’d never been a natural at the schmoozing game. The cocktail party chatter. Inviting prospects to lunch. ‘Hey, keep me in mind, buddy.’ It always seemed a bit too much like begging. I preferred to let my trial work speak for itself. Apparently it hadn’t been speaking loudly enough.

Redman, Warwick then said jovially, as though none of the previous had occurred, as though we were all just good old buddies again. You have some criminal experience, don’t you?

I hesitated. Criminal experience? What now? My adolescent shoplifting career? Weren’t those records sealed? The pain in my lower back made a sharp comeback.

You do some pro bono stuff, don’t you? he prodded.

The pain receded.

Sure, I replied. Mostly appeals. Death penalty appeals. The Case of the Red Car Door. I’ve done a couple of trials too. Manslaughter. Aggravated assault. Nothing special.

Well, I guess you’re the best I’ve got, then, he said.

I refrained from thanking him for the vote of confidence.

FitzGibbon’s son’s in some kind of trouble, he said.

This gave me pause.

I want you to handle it, he said.

What kind of trouble? I asked.

Never mind what kind of trouble. Bad trouble. I don’t know. Drugs. Murder. Grand theft auto. I couldn’t make out FitzGibbon’s voice mail. He sounded disturbed. Anyway, it doesn’t matter what it is. Find out. Get on it. Handle it. Make it go away. Make him happy. Get some more business from him. It’ll be the first step on the way to your rehabilitation.

I nodded obediently. Fine choice of word. Rehabilitation.

You’ll be a hero, he said.

Warwick turned his chair to the window, signaling the end to the audience.

I turned to leave.

Oh, Redman? Warwick said.

I turned back.

Yes? I asked.

Lose the sneakers.

I got the hell out of there. I asked Cherise for the FitzGibbon particulars.

She gave them to me with a wink.

I had no idea what it meant.

I went back to my office.

I called Dorita.

You won’t believe this, I said.

Oh, shut up, Ricky. You already said that. I’ve got a client meeting in ten minutes.

Put it off. FitzGibbon’s son’s in trouble. Something serious. Warwick wants me to handle it. Oh, and I’m being fired.

Jesus, she whispered. I’ll be right there.

In less than a minute she was at my office door.

Come in, I mumbled.

She flounced onto the couch. Lit a cigarette with her blowtorch.

You know, there’s a rule about smoking in the office, I said.

Right, she said, tapping some ashes on the carpet. So what’s this all about?

I told her about my audience with His Portliness. At the mention of probation, a moment’s shock passed across her face. She quickly brushed it off.

Did they issue you an ankle bracelet? she asked breezily.

Listen, I said, I appreciate the effort, but this is too big for a joke or two. Let me digest it for a while. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.

My, my, Ricky. You’re getting soft in your old age.