Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

Tuchman looked confused. “Let me make sure I understand your position. You don’t think that dredging up the memory of a murdered child on a Sunday morning-just showing up unannounced, out of the blue, and reminding Mrs. Erickson that her lovely daughter was horribly tortured to death-you didn’t think that would upset her?”

“Well I knew it was possible, but I-”

Tuchman held up her hand. She wasn’t smiling now. “So you admit that you are the associate who caused Mrs. Erickson so much pain that she called her attorney in Washington, D.C., to complain?”

“I went out there, but-”

“Stop. I don’t need to know any more. You were under specific orders from me to cease and desist from any involvement in the Little case. By your own admission you questioned a witness in the case this Sunday. I am very disappointed in you, Brad, and, as much as it grieves me, I will be forced to discuss this matter at the next partners’ meeting.”

“Ms. Tuchman, you can fire me if you want to, but you should know why I’ve been pursuing the Little case even after you told me to stop. If you’re going to complain about me to the partners you should know all of the facts.”

Tuchman leaned back and made a steeple of her fingers. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“Okay, well, this is going to sound crazy-well, not crazy but hard to believe-but I’m convinced there’s something to it.”

“You might want to get to the point, Mr. Miller. I’ve got a conference call in five minutes.”

“Okay, right. I don’t think Clarence Little killed Laurie Erickson. I think the killer used his MO to make everyone think Little murdered her. I also think the same murderer pulled the same stunt in Washington, D.C. There was a murder there recently. You probably know about it. It’s all over the news. Charlotte Walsh was having an affair with President Farrington and the police think the D.C. Ripper murdered her shortly after Miss Walsh had sex with-”

“Stop right there,” Tuchman said angrily. “You’re repeating unfounded rumors spread by a supermarket scandal sheet about someone who is a close personal friend.”

Brad figured he had nothing to lose so he took a deep breath and jumped in with both feet.

“I know he’s your friend, but President Farrington may be involved with two murders. I think he was having sex with Laurie Erickson, and Mrs. Erickson was paid off to keep quiet about it. I think someone working for President Farrington murdered Laurie Erickson and Charlotte Walsh and used the MOs of local serial killers to throw the police off the track.”

Tuchman didn’t look angry anymore. She looked dumbfounded.

“I know you’re insubordinate, Mr. Miller, but I never suspected that you were also…Well, you’ve left me speechless. I don’t really know how to categorize your bizarre behavior.”

“What about the independent counsel? The Congress thinks the president may have been involved in Walsh’s death.”

“Correction, Mr. Miller, one of the two parties in Congress is accusing our president of immoral conduct, and that party doesn’t believe that Chris is guilty of anything. It believes that this witch hunt will help Maureen Gaylord win the presidency.”

Tuchman’s face looked like a storm front had just crossed it. If she’d seen anything funny in Brad’s theories a moment ago she’d lost her sense of humor.

“Now get this straight,” she said, leaning forward and jabbing a finger in Brad’s direction. “Your time with this firm is probably over, but you are not to spend what’s left of it spreading gossip about a great man. This firm will not aid and abet Maureen Gaylord’s shameless ploy. Do you hear me?”

“I-”

“I’ve wasted enough time. I have work to do. Our meeting is over. I will be in touch with you soon concerning your future with Reed, Briggs.”

“What are you going to do?” Ginny asked.

Brad shrugged. He’d walked to Ginny’s office as soon as he left Tuchman, and they were sitting in it with the door closed.

“I’ve made some friends at other firms. Two of them helped me set up interviews, but I don’t know if anyone will hire me after they read the letters from Reed, Briggs about my job performance that Tuchman is going to write.”

“Your job performance is excellent. Your problem is Susan Tuchman. She’s a narrow-minded bully.”

“She’s also one of the most respected lawyers in Portland. I may have to give serious thought about going into some other profession, like shining shoes or running a supermarket checkout.”

“You’ll be fine. Anyone who’s interviewing you will understand why you got a raw deal. You were fired for representing a client too zealously.”

“By accusing the president of the United States of murder. You can bet that Tuchman will share that tidbit with any possible future employer who asks for a reference.”

“You know, getting fired from Reed, Briggs might not be all that bad. You really don’t fit in here. You’re too nice. And you’re smart enough to get another job. I’ve made some friends, too. I’ll give them a call.”

“Thanks.” Brad stood up. “I’m going back to my office and try to clear my desk so I can go home.”

“You can stay with me tonight. I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Let me think about that. I’ll buzz you when I’m ready to leave.”

Brad trudged down the hall to his office with his shoulders hunched and his head down, as if he was expecting a blow. Rumors traveled fast at Reed, Briggs and he imagined that everyone he passed was waiting to whisper behind his back as soon as he was out of earshot.

“Brad,” his secretary said as soon as she saw him.

“Yeah, Sally?”

“A woman has been calling. She says she wants to talk to you, but she won’t leave her name or a number.”

“Did she say what it was about?”

“No, she just said she’d call back.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone. In fact, hold all my calls.”

Brad closed the door to his office, slumped on his chair, and looked at the mountain of work on his blotter. He knew it was his imagination, but the pile seemed higher than he remembered it being when he went to meet Susan Tuchman. Could files reproduce like rabbits? They certainly seemed to. He knew there was no end to them. Legal work spewed from the bowels of Reed, Briggs like rotten fruit from an evil horn of plenty. The only good thing about his situation was the strong odds that he would not be harvesting this paper crop for long. Maybe Ginny was right. Maybe moving on was not a bad thing. He sighed. Good or bad, moving on was definitely in his future. For now, he had to get back to the fields if he wanted to keep getting the paychecks he needed for food and shelter.

Brad walked home from the office because it was the only way he could get any exercise. His vow to work out several times a week had gone unfulfilled, buried under the Everest of paperwork Susan Tuchman had dumped on him. He wished he was walking to Ginny’s place, but he’d taken a rain check. He was so tired when he called it quits at the office that he didn’t have the energy for anything except sleep.

Brad opened the door to his apartment, switched on the light, and dragged himself into the kitchen to prepare a snack. He paused for a moment in front of the refrigerator to watch a tanker churn its way down the Willamette River toward Swan Island. Brad loved his view, night or day. When sunset made Mount Hood and the Willamette disappear, the glow on the east side of the city and the lights on the slow-moving river traffic brought Brad a feeling of peace. This feeling suddenly changed to unease. Something was wrong. Brad squinted at the darkened living room and realized that part of the view was obscured by the silhouette of a head. He jumped back and grabbed a knife from the wooden holder on the kitchen counter.