Randy Singer - The Justice Game

But Geoff didn’t try to play it cool or demonstrate his machismo. “That’s amazing,” he said after Kelly finished. “I would have never had the guts to do half that stuff.”

Geoff was big and a little goofy, his blond hair moussed into spikes, but his transcript was littered with As. If B amp;W hired him, he would be stuck in the library, researching complicated tax shelter schemes or leveraged buyouts. He wouldn’t have a minute to spare for the homeless or elderly.

Kelly wrapped up the interview as efficiently as possible and ushered Geoff to the next attorney’s office five minutes early. She walked quickly back to her office so she could fill out the interview form before her next appointment. She gave Geoff a few scores below five on a scale of one to ten, low enough to guarantee he wouldn’t make the cut. Kelly really liked the kid, so much so that she wasn’t willing to subject him to the pressure cooker at B amp;W. Only the strong survived at Kelly’s firm. Her partners would chew Geoff up and spit him out.

Later in the day, Kelly waited in her office for the receptionist to call. She tried to busy herself with other files, but it was useless. Finally, at a few minutes after one, the call she had been waiting for came through.

“Mr. Crawford is here.”

“Can you set him up in 12A? I’ll be down in a couple minutes.”

Mr. Crawford. Blake Crawford. Grieving widower of Rachel Crawford, the reporter gunned down in the WDXR studio two months earlier. A week ago he had called Kelly out of the blue, claiming he had been referred to her by the Handgun Violence Coalition. He wanted to talk about suing the manufacturer of the MD-9-the gun Larry Jamison had used to execute Rachel.

At first, she thought it was a prank, but she kept herself from saying anything stupid. Once she realized it really was Blake Crawford on the phone, she started running through the legal analysis in her mind. Though the case sounded like a stretch, Kelly didn’t want to say no until she had at least researched it. She didn’t get calls from potential clients with national name recognition every day.

It was complicated, Kelly had said, explaining that he had caught her between meetings. Could they schedule an appointment? Would first thing next week be soon enough?

Kelly’s next call had been to the director of the Handgun Violence Coalition, who said he had indeed referred Blake Crawford to her. The director explained that he had received a call from a big donor who suggested Kelly might be the perfect lawyer to represent Blake Crawford against the gun manufacturer. The donor had faxed a copy of the Washington Post article to the director, noting that both Kelly and Rachel Crawford had been active on the issue of human trafficking. “Maybe you should call Blake Crawford,” the donor had suggested, “and explain the basis for a suit against MD Firearms, referring him to Kelly Starling.”

Kelly had asked for the name of the donor.

“He wants to remain anonymous,” the director said.

After a few days of additional research, Kelly had some solid answers. The case had potential. And she would pull out all the stops to get it.

Letting Blake Crawford sit for a few minutes in conference room 12A, the crown jewel of B amp;W’s Washington office, would be a good start.

Nearly half of B amp;W’s 450 lawyers set up shop in this smoked-glass office building with the prestigious K Street address. Others worked out of equally plush addresses in Atlanta, Singapore, Paris, Bangkok, and London. Conference room 12A had seen its share of Fortune 500 CEOs and United States senators. Billion-dollar deals had closed on its forty-foot mahogany table. Bill Gates had been deposed here. Press conferences had been held here. National political campaigns announced. Even a few office affairs had been consummated here in the wee hours, the participants evidently unaware of the hidden cameras.

From 12A you could gaze out over Farragut Square, contemplate your problems while staring at the U.S. Chamber of Commerce building, or catch a glimpse of the Capitol on the horizon. Kelly met with her sex-trafficking clients on park benches and in greasy restaurants, but Blake Crawford would get the full treatment, including an extra five-minute wait so he could admire the authentic paintings and realize that Kelly was a very important and busy associate in a very successful firm.

“Sorry I’m late,” Kelly said, bursting into the conference room and shaking Blake’s hand with just the right touch of assertiveness. “Something to drink?”

“I’m fine,” he said. Blake was dressed in khaki pants, a light blue shirt, and a black suit coat. He had dark circles under his eyes and a quiet voice, the strain of the last few months showing on his face.

Kelly had admired his restraint when he appeared on TV. He had steadfastly refused to cast blame on anyone except Larry Jamison-not WDXR for having lax security; not the SWAT team for failing to intervene early enough; not the gun dealer for selling the gun illegally; not the manufacturer of the weapon. “I don’t know why this happened,” Blake Crawford had said. “But I just have to trust God that He’s got His reasons. Pointing fingers won’t make the pain go away.”

Kelly trusted God, too. But sometimes, in Kelly’s view, God needed a good lawyer.

Kelly sat across the table from Blake, suddenly feeling silly for meeting in such a large and imposing room. “Thanks for coming in,” she said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” Blake looked at Kelly for a moment and then down at the table. “I almost cancelled,” he admitted. “I still don’t know if this is the right thing to do.”

“I understand that,” Kelly said. “Let’s just take it one step at a time.”

She asked Blake some introductory questions and jotted a few notes on a legal pad so she could fill out the new client intake form. “I haven’t completed my investigation yet, but I’ve got some preliminary opinions,” Kelly said. She noticed the blank look in her potential client’s eyes-the pain of the tragedy had apparently morphed into a certain kind of numbness. She had seen the same look from her human trafficking clients when they gave up hope.

“Let’s start with the gun dealer.” Kelly opened a file she had compiled on Peninsula Arms, the shop that had sold the gun Larry Jamison used to murder Blake’s wife.

“Jamison had a felony record and was ineligible to purchase a firearm under federal law,” Kelly explained. “The gun was actually sold to a twenty-three-year-old man named Jarrod Beeson. As you know, Beeson originally said that somebody had stolen his gun and that he just didn’t bother reporting it. But the next thing you know, some guy serving time for illegal firearms possession tells the authorities that Beeson was one of the men used as an intermediary in other straw purchase transactions from this same store. The ATF agents pressure Beeson and he cracks, admitting his role as a straw purchaser.”

Blake Crawford nodded absentmindedly.

All this information had already been broadcast to the entire nation, Kelly knew. Beeson had signed a confession acknowledging his role in multiple straw purchases from Peninsula Arms. He even admitted that sometimes the clerks at Peninsula Arms would give his cell number to potential customers who couldn’t clear the background check on their own. Three weeks ago, the feds indicted the owner and a store clerk at Peninsula Arms. Last week, the store and its owner filed bankruptcy.

“This is not an isolated case.” Kelly slid a nineteen-page Excel spreadsheet across the table. It contained a long list of guns sold by Peninsula Arms that had been traced to crimes in New York City, Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia.