Mistress of Justice

just
there
and I didn’t know why. You were … interesting. I liked you. I was trying to find out about you. That’s what I do—I’m a lawyer. That’s how I work.”
    She looked over the miserable fat boy and knew he was innocent. He glanced at her once but had to look away quickly as if he were frightened by what he saw.
    An odd feeling swept through her. Her face burned; she felt queasy. And she understood that for the first time in her life she’d done what her father would have done, what Mitchell Reece would have done: She’d been brutal in victory.
    Power.
    That was what she sensed. Sebastian, defeated in front of her, bloody and fearful as a child, was hers. The cops were hers. The sensation was exhilarating.
    “Can you tell me what’s going on?” he asked.
    “No,” she replied firmly. “I can’t.” She stood up. He looked uneasily at the cops.
    “It’s okay,” she said. “You can go home.”
    “I can—”
    “You can leave. It’s all right.”
    Sebastian rose to his feet slowly and she took his arm to steady him. They started toward the door.
    The hooker watched them leave and said cynically, “My, my, this be some justice system we got ourselves. Anybody gotta ciggie?”

     
    Late Monday evening—the merger vote a mere fifteen hours away—Wendall Clayton sat in a conference room across across from John Perelli.
    Fatigue had settled on Clayton like a wet coat. But, unlike Perelli, Clayton had not loosened his tie or rolled up the sleeves of his white, Sea Island cotton shirt. He sat the way he had been sitting for the past four hours: upright, only occasionally lowering his head to rub his bloodshot eyes or to stretch.
    Beside him sat Randy Simms and another of Clayton’s young partners. Perelli too had several of his lieutenants here.
    Simms and the other young man were on the executive committee of Hubbard, White. Burdick had rallied hard to keep them off but Clayton had maneuvered their elections through, though Burdick had retained control. Before them were drafts of a document, the merger agreement, spread out like a patient under a surgeon’s careful eyes.
    Clayton glanced outside the door at a young woman, a secretary from a freelance legal services staffing firm. The woman knew every major word processing system in the United States, could take dictation and could keyboard 110 words a minute. These skills were fetching her forty-two dollars an hour though at the moment she was being paid that fee solely to sip coffee and read a battered paperback called
Surrender, My Love
.
    He wondered if he’d still have the energy to fuck her in an hour or two, after the final negotiations were completed. Clayton thought it might be dicey; he was utterly exhausted.
    Perelli wore half-rim glasses, low on his nose. He looked up and stared into Clayton’s eyes. “I should tell you—my people aren’t happy about your demand. About ousting Burdick. Even with the giveback.”
    “What’re you saying?” Clayton asked coolly.
    “He could sue. Older man, EEOC. He could make a mess.”
    “We’re lawyers. Our job is to make messes go away.”
    “We’d prefer to keep him for a while. Say, a year. Phase him out.”
    Clayton laughed. “You don’t phase people like Donald Burdick out. Either he’s in charge or he’s gone completely. That’s his nature.”
    Perelli pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
    The gesture explained that there’d been considerable rebellion in the ranks at Perelli’s firm over Burdick. And Clayton knew that he had to act immediately.
    “If you want Hubbard, White—Burdick has to go,” he continued casually. He gestured in an aristocratic way toward the window, outside of which Wall Street at night glistened. “If you want Burdick, John, go find yourself another firm.”
    “You’d walk?”
    “And not look back.”
    Perelli’s assistants shifted uncertainly in their chairs.
    A moment passed and not a cell in Wendall Clayton’s face revealed the electric tension he felt.
    Finally Perelli laughed. “Goddamn, you and I’re going to make some serious fucking money together.” He and Clayton shook hands with finality.
    Perelli stood and stretched. “You going to use a special pen to sign the merger agreement, Wendall? Like the President does?”
    “No, I’ll just use this old thing.”
    He displayed a battered Parker fountain pen, one he had used for years. Not long after Clayton had started at Hubbard, White he found himself at