Brian Haig - PrivateSector

“Well… right.” He then suggested, “Why don’t we start at the beginning then? Twenty years ago, midway through his sophomore year, Jason Morris walked up to the dean of Stanford University and said he was quitting because the college had nothing valuable to teach him. I’m a Stanford man myself… undergrad and law. Imagine how the school perceived that, right?”

“Right.”

“This wasn’t just any college, Sean, this was Stanford, right?” Having made that point, he continued, “He took a job with AT amp;T, and by twenty-six, was a senior vice president. But he left for WorldCom, who were grooming him to become CEO. Then one day, Jason just walked in and quit because WorldCom had nothing to challenge or teach him.”

“Sounds like Jason has perseverance issues.”

Barry replied, “That’s very funny.” But he didn’t laugh.

He continued, “Next, he went to a private venture capital group in New York City, was very good at it, and by thirty-three was worth around a billion dollars. He cashed out in 1995 and started his own enterprise. He had two very good ideas: that broadband was the future of telecommunications, and that fiber optics was the future of broadband. Others were investing in satellites or ways to squeeze more gigabits of information across copper wires. Jason believed they were idiots. His idea was to build a global fiber-optic network that would revolutionize the industry. His reputation drew investors like lemmings.”

“Morris Networks,” I quickly suggested.

“Same guy, same company. We’ve been representing him for several years. Outside our bankruptcy work, which now accounts for over half the firm’s annual billings, he’s our biggest client. We do nearly all the outsourced legal work for Morris Networks, and take my word, it has put the D. C. office on the map within our firm.” He dipped his head and added, “For instance, last year’s annual billings were in excess of fifty million dollars.”

Geez. So, okay… divide fifty million big buckos by the twenty-five partners upstairs, and last year’s job security was in the bag. And if that spout kept pumping, they’d soon increase the number of D. C. partners, which gave motive, clarity, and intensity to that hungry look in Barry’s eyes.

“And the types of work your firm does for Morris?” I asked.

“ Our firm, Sean.” He fixed me with a resolute look and informed me, “We’re all one team here.”

Yeah? Then let’s compare paychecks, pal-but I didn’t say that. I said, “Okay… what do we do for this company?”

“They’ve done twenty mergers and acquisitions to get their hands on technologies Jason felt he needed for his network. We handled all that. Also the work to get them patents, contracts, licenses, FCC and SEC work, overseas work, general corporate matters and financings, frequencies, and right-of-ways, and we manage their D. C. and state lobbying.”

“What don’t we do?”

“Not much-their in-house counsel handles internal legal issues, we handle external issues. They keep five partners and an army of associates laboring furiously on their behalf, and we have three foreign firms on retainer.”

“And what case will I be working on?”

“No need to get nervous, Sean.”

“I’m not nervous, Barry.”

“No… of course you’re not,” he replied dismissively. We regarded each other a moment. Clearly we did not like each other, and clearly ours was going to be a difficult relationship.

But he continued, “Morris has a number of contracts to provide telecommunications services for government agencies, including HEW, the Labor Department, the FBI, and three or four Defense Department contracts. It just won another contract for a government agency called DARPA.”

“The Defense Advanced Research Program Agency.”

“Good. So you’re aware it’s where a lot of the top-secret programs emanate. The Department of Defense put out a bid for someone to provide backbone services for DARPA, to connect all its scientists and researchers on a secure videoconferencing network so they can share ideas and advances. Morris won, and two of the failed bidders have sour grapes. AT amp;T and Sprint launched protests, which is de rigueur in these things. The last hope for thwarted bidders is to try to get the decision overturned. It’s worth one point two billion over ten years.”

I contemplated this, then asked, “And you’re-” He started to interrupt. “Right. We’re doing what?”

“Defending against the protest. Partly working with the Defense Department, and partly doing missionary work with Congress, which funds these projects.”

Everything he’d said up to this point made sense. It’s what makes this such a great country, and what makes Washington such a great city for lawyers. The Feds collect some two trillion per annum in tax revenue, it has to be spent, and lawyers are up front, writing the contracts, and at the back, suing everybody for breach of contract. It’s all one big foodfight, and the lawyers are the crumb snatchers.

“Why me?” I asked.

“Good question. Lisa Morrow worked on this same issue. We found her knowledge of the Defense Department quite helpful, and she found it equally fruitful. She learned a great deal about how your procurement practices work.” He added, “It’s pretty pathetic.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, you know… you’re dealing with military and government people.”

“I see.” Which was shorthand for, You’re an asshole.

“Also, when it’s government money, the face of politics sticks its ugly nose in. AT amp;T and Sprint have a lot of clout.”

“And I’m allowed to work on this? No conflict-of-interest issues?”

“We’ll keep you out of those areas that pose a problem. No lobbying in the Pentagon or the Hill.” He added, “But you can certainly meet with in-house counsel at Morris Networks to help prepare our case.” He put down his coffee. “Any questions?”

He was assuming, of course, that I’d be around long enough to help out. Barry obviously wasn’t as smart as he thought he was.

I said, “Not at this time.”

“Good. Now, last point. That awful uniform has to go. And, yes, we’re aware that can present a financial burden, so we’re making the same arrangement we made for Lisa.”

“And what arrangement would that be?”

“Be at Brooks Brothers at 4:00 P.M. You’ll be fitted with everything you need. The firm pays the bill and leases you the wardrobe for twenty dollars a month. At the end of your year, it’s yours to keep. Also, you may occasionally be required to drive around clients, so we’ve taken the liberty of leasing a Jaguar sedan for your use.” He regarded me with a smug expression and added, “These are professional requirements that are unapproachable at your salary.”

I stared at him, and he stared back at me. “I already have a few suits.”

“I’m sure you do. And I’m sure they’re, uh, nifty suits… just

… well, not nearly up to our quality standards. We can’t have a member of this firm walking around looking like a clown, can we?”

“How about like a gigolo?”

He laughed. “Don’t be an idiot. The people we represent don’t want to be seen with hungry lawyers. All new associates get this package.”

Sally commented, “We’ve passed this by your inspector general’s office. It’s perfectly legal.”

So what do I say? If I accepted, I was like a kept man, and I owed the firm something in return. But clearly I wasn’t being asked. So I didn’t say anything.

Sally deposited me back at my office, where some idiot had stacked a foot of thick manuals on my desk. “Those are our operating and ethics policies,” Sally explained, and with a pointed look, added, “have them read by morning. A short test will be administered to ensure you understand the material.”