Steve Martini - Shadow of Power

The cab drops me in front of a smoked-glass high-rise. I pay the cabbie, and a minute later I’m in the air-conditioned lobby, leaving the oppressive humidity of Washington outside. I check the building’s directory. Barrett, Coal & Johnston takes up the top three floors of the twelve-story office building. Those entering have to clear security at a desk in order to access the elevators.

As I edge across the lobby toward the main desk, I feel the vibration at my belt. I take out my cell phone. It’s Harry. I flip it open.

“Hello.”

“Where are you?” says Harry.

“In D.C. The law office,” I tell him. From our telephone conversation last night, Harry already knows where I’m headed and why.

“Then I caught you before you found this Scott woman?”

“Yes. Why?”

“If you catch up with her, press her on Ginnis,” says Harry.

“Any particular reason?”

“I’m still digging for all the details,” says Harry, “but it’s starting to look like Ginnis could be the lead to the letter.”

“Can you give me specifics?”

“Not right now,” says Harry. “Trust me. Just see if you can find some way to get to him. But call me before you talk to him. By then I should have more information.”

“You got it,” I tell him.

“Talk to you later.” Harry hangs up.

Juggling my briefcase in one hand, I pocket my phone and hand the guard at the desk one of my business cards. I tell him I have an appointment with Trisha Scott at B, C & J. This lie gets me a phone call to reception upstairs. Four minutes later I am treated to the officious click of heels on the hard terrazzo. A woman, blond, blue-eyed, in her late twenties, dressed in a dark business suit. She collects my card from the guard and approaches.

“Mr. Madre…”

“Madriani,” I help her out.

“I understand you have an appointment with Ms. Scott?” The lilt in her voice leads me to think that she has already searched Scott’s calendar and not found my name on it.

“I called twice and left messages. I was in New York on my way back to my office in California and wanted to stop in and see her. It would only take a moment and would save us both an immense amount of time.”

“Does she know what it regards?”

“It’s a personal matter. I’m sure that if she knew the details, she would want to see me.”

This stumps her. She looks at my card again: “attorney-at-law.” If it said “salesman,” I’d be out on the street looking back through the glass by now.

“If you’ll follow me,” she says. “I’m not sure whether Ms. Scott is in.”

We head to the elevator. A minute and a half later, I’ve made it to the next level, the reception area upstairs. Here there are deep plush carpets and floor-to-ceiling windows of smoked glass with shaded views out over the city. Across the street lies Farragut Square. One block beyond lies the squat Roman temple that is the U.S. Chamber of Commerce building. Over the top and beyond is Lafayette Square, and in the distance behind the park is the White House. Toward the southeast the Capitol dome sprouts like a half-hatched Easter egg in the noonday sun. The executive offices of Barrett, Coal & Johnston possess an eagle’s-nest view of all the power spots in town.

“If you’ll take a seat,” she says, “I will check with Ms. Scott’s assistant.”

As the phalanx of gatekeepers grows, the mesh of their screen becomes finer. I may be wasting my time. By now Scott would surely be following the news reports of Arnsberg’s trial. If so, she will have seen my name. What I am banking on is her curiosity. A lawyer, she would know that I could subpoena her to the trial, put her on a witness list, and let her cool her heels. What is more difficult would be to get her to talk to me. If she refuses, there is little I can do, and to put her on the stand at trial and ask questions to which I do not already know the answers would be its own form of Russian roulette.

The receptionist disappears to the back behind the large ebony reception counter and the mirrored glass wall separating me from the firm’s engine room, where power is spun into gold.

Barrett, Coal & Johnston is sufficiently large that to dispense separate business cards for the many partners and associates out on the counter would require a vending machine. Instead there’s a glossy brochure that outlines the firm’s services and specialties. I pull one of these and take a look. To no one’s surprise, the firm is heavily invested in regulatory law, with a sideline in patents and appellate practice, all keyed toward business and commerce.

The firm sports two former United States senators as “of counsel,” a kind of emeritus status in which work is often not required, only the name engraved on a brass plaque on a door. The firm claims association with three former Harvard fellows, professors of law. One of these is nationally known and appears with sufficient regularity before the Supreme Court that I have heard legal pundits sometimes refer to him as “the tenth member of the Court.”

The last three pages of the brochure are taken up with fine print, the names of partners and associates. Many of these are followed by asterisks and other symbols, all keyed to honors and awards. I find Scott’s name and after it a symbol in the form of a small dagger. I check the code: “former U.S. Supreme Court clerk.” I do a quick count of these. I am beyond two dozen and counting when I’m interrupted.

“Mr. Madriani.” I turn to see a different woman. Clear hazel eyes. She holds my card in her left hand as she extends her right toward me. “Trisha Scott,” she says. “I’m told you have some personal business to discuss?”

She is blond, her hair cropped in a kind of pixie cut that gives her tall, slender body a fairy-tale elegance. Her face is angular, bearing a becoming smile. She reminds me of a taller version of Meg Ryan, a kind of bewitching look that asks questions even in silence.

“How do you do?” I take her hand, just the fingertips, and give it a gentle shake as she continues to study my card. “I’m sorry to bother you. I suspect you’re busy, but I wanted to talk with you before I headed back to the Coast.”

“Will it take long? I only have a few minutes,” she says.

“That’ll be fine.” Anything to get my foot in the door.

“How can I help you?” She wants to do it here, standing at the reception desk.

I glance over my shoulder toward the receptionist. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

“My office,” she says.

I follow her past reception and down a long corridor with offices on each side. Here the paneled mahogany walls are adorned with colonial lithographs elegantly framed and set off by small brass-covered museum lights. This is the “holy of holies,” province of former senators and senior partners, where most of the offices are double-doored with occasional cubicles carved into the elegance for minions, the obligatory personal assistant or executive secretary.

She leads me to another elevator, this one small and private. We descend one floor and exit into a rabbit warren of cubicles, clerical and other assistants in the center. Around these are arranged offices on the outside walls, where windows with views and natural light are the perks of junior partners and associates on the move, either up or out.

From the exterior appearance, these offices are not nearly as elegant as those on the level above. Still, they are large, judging by the distance between doors. Enough room to accommodate a good-size desk, filing cabinets, probably a credenza against the windows, and a view.

Halfway down the corridor, she turns to the right and enters an open office door. I follow her.

We are no sooner inside than she closes the door behind me. “San Diego,” she says, still looking at my card. “I recognize your name. You’re the lawyer representing the man who killed Terry.” Her countenance is less pleasant now.