Mistress of Justice

gaze, Burdick continued, “His thinking is that we agreed to negotiate in good faith. The firm has now decided that we do not want to go forward simply because we do not want to go forward. That is
not
good faith. We have an implied contract problem. Look at Texaco and Pennzoil.”
    Another Nameless: “I know the law, Don.” This was a little brash, as the youngster understood immediately; he continued more contritely, “I agree they’d have an argument but I think we hedged well enough so that with Wendall gone the basic deal has changed.”
    Vera asked bluntly, “Was Clayton’s presence a condition precedent to going forward?”
    Two of the Nameless blinked, hearing the charming woman nail the legal situation perfectly with one simple question.
    “No.”
    Her husband, smiling, shrugged. “Then, I submit, we still have our problem.”
    The first Nameless said, “But what would they want as a remedy? Specific performance?”
    Burdick decided the man was an idiot and made a mental note to give him only scut work for the rest of his time at Hubbard, White. “Of course not. The courts can’t
make
us merge.”
    Bill Stanley said, “They want money. And what do
we
want?” When no one answered he answered himself, “Silence.”
    Burdick said, “No more publicity. Under any circumstances. A senior partner kills himself? Bad enough and we’re going to lose clients because of that, my friend. Then a suit from Perelli? No, I want to preempt them.”
    Lamar Fredericks, round, bald and roasted from two weeks of golf on Antigua, said, “Preempt? You mean bribe. Cut the crap and tell us what it’s going to cost.”
    Burdick looked at Stanley, who said to the group, “We’d pay Perelli twenty million. Up to, that is. We’ll start lower, of course. Full release and agreement not to say anything to the press. If they do, liquidated damages of a double refund.”
    Crenshaw snorted. “What does that do to our partnership shares?”
    Burdick snapped, “It’ll be a cut out of operating profits. Take a calculator and figure it out yourself.”
    “Will they buy into it?”
    Burdick said, “I’ll be as persuasive as I can. The reason you’re all here is that it would be an expenditure out of the ordinary course. I don’t want to present it to the firm. So to authorize it we need a three-quarters vote of the executive committee.”
    None of them had assumed that this was solely a social dinner, of course, but it was not until this moment that they understood the total implications of the invitation. They were the swing votes and were being tested; Burdick had to know where they stood.
    “So,” Burdick said cheerfully, “are we all in agreement?”
    This was the final exorcism of Wendall Clayton. In these three trim, handsome lawyers resided what was left of his ambitious spirit.
    Was his legacy, Burdick wondered, as powerful as the man?
    Gazes met. No one swallowed or shuffled. When Burdick called for the vote they each said an enthusiastic “In favor.”
    Burdick smiled and, when he poured more port, gripped one of them on the shoulder—welcome to the club. He was the foolish partner, the one whose professional life would be a living hell from that day on.
    Then Burdick sat down in his glossy leather wingback chair and reflected on how much he despised them for not having the mettle to take Clayton’s fallen standard and shove it up his—Burdick’s—ass. He then grew somber. “Oh, just so you know: We have another problem, I’m afraid.”
    “What do you mean?” Stanley’s voice was a harsh whine.
    “One of the paralegals is in the hospital,” Vera Burdick explained. “It’s quite serious. I have a feeling she won’t survive.”
    “Who?” a Nameless dared to ask.
    “Taylor Lockwood.”
    “Taylor? Oh, no, not her. She’s one of the best assistants I ever had on a closing. What happened?”
    “Food poisoning. Nobody knows exactly how she got it.”
    “Should we—” one of the Nameless began to ask.
    But Vera Burdick interrupted. “I’m on top of it. Don’t worry.”
    Bill Stanley shook his head. “God, I only hope it wasn’t anything we catered. Could you pass that port, Donald?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
     
    Mitchell Reece closed his litigation bag and slid it under the seat of the shuttle from Boston as they approached La Guardia early the next morning.
    Still no call from Taylor Lockwood and he hadn’t been able to reach her at the firm. He’d gotten only her voice mail.
    He