Mistress of Justice

steel industry.”
    “The Justice Department was involved. I heard about that.”
    “Burdick was picked because he was known in both Albany and Washington. The executive committee at Hubbard, White—it was called a steering committee then—was ecstatic. Publicity for the firm, a chance for Burdick to do some serious stroking on the Hill. Afterward, a triumphant return. Well, Donald Burdick told the committee he’d accept the appointment on one condition. That when he returned he and a man of his choosing would be placed on the executive committee and three particular partners would be asked to leave the firm. Now, John, that was at a time when law firms did not fire partners. It simply was not done.”
    “And?”
    “Three months later, a memo went around the office congratulating three partners who were unexpectedly leaving Hubbard, White and starting their own firm.” Clayton pushed back from the table. “The answer to your question is this: The only way the deal works is without Burdick … and everyone else on that list. That’s the quid pro quo. What do you say?”
    “You really fucking want this, don’t you?”
    “Deal?” Clayton asked, sticking out his hand.
    Perelli hesitated for a moment before pronouncing, “Deal,” and shaking Clayton’s hand but the delay was merely because he had to swallow the piece of bacon he’d snuck off Clayton’s plate and wipe his fingers.

     
    Who are these men and women?
    What do I know about them other than the baldest facts of their wealth, their brilliance, their aspirations?
    In the back of the massive sixteenth-floor conference room Donald Burdick heard the grandfather clock chime and begin its ringing climb toward 11 A.M . The partners were arriving. Most carried foolscap pads or stacks of files and their ubiquitous leather personal calendars.
    Over the years I’ve seen men like this, women now too,display stubbornness and brutality and brilliance and cruelty.
    And generosity and sacrifice.
    But those are the mere
manifestations
of their souls; what’s truly in their hearts?
    The partners took their places around the table in the dark conference room. Some, the less confident, the younger ones, examined the dings in the rosewood and traced the pattern of the marble with their fingers and eyes and made overly loud comments about their Thanksgivings and about football games. They wore jackets with their suits. Others, the veterans, were in shirtsleeves and had no time for chatter or the administrivia of meetings like this. They appeared inconvenienced. And why shouldn’t they? Isn’t the point of a law firm, after all, to practice law?
    They’re my partners … but how many are my friends?
    Donald Burdick, sitting at the apogee of the table, however, understood that this was a pointless question. The real one was: How many of my friends will stab me in the back? If the tally that Bill Stanley had showed him earlier was accurate the answer to this question was one hell of a lot.
    To Stanley, Burdick whispered, “Nearly fifteen’ll be missing. That could swing it one way or another.”
    “They’re dead,” Stanley replied in a growl. “And we’ll never find the bodies.”
    Wendall Clayton entered the room and took a seat in the middle of one leg of the U. He wasn’t particularly far away from Burdick and not particularly close. He busied himself jotting notes and, smiling, chatting with the partner next to him.
    At eleven-fifteen Burdick nodded for a partner to close the door. The lock mechanism gave a solid click. It seemed to Burdick that the pressure in the room changed and that they were sealed in, as if this were a chamber in the Great Pyramid.
    Donald Burdick called the meeting to order. Minutes were read and not listened to, a brief report from the executive committee on staff overtime went ignored. Committeereports were recited at breakneck speed, with uncharacteristically few interruptions and little debate.
    “Do you want to hear about the hiring committee’s schedule?” asked a sanguine young partner, who had probably stayed up half the night to prepare it.
    “I think we’ll postpone that one,” Burdick said evenly, and—seeing several partners smile—realized that the royal pronoun was an unfortunate slip.
    There was silence in the room, punctuated by the popping of soda cans and papers being organized. Dozens of pens made graffiti on legal pads. Burdick studied the agenda for a moment and then it was time for Wendall