THE meeting was organized quickly. E. Garner Goodman made the first phone call, and within an hour the necessary participants had been summoned. Within four hours they were present in a small, seldom used conference room next to Daniel Rosen's office. It was Rosen's turf, and this disturbed Adam more than a little.
By legend, Daniel Rosen was a monster, though two heart attacks had knocked off some of the edge and mellowed him a bit. For thirty years he had been a ruthless litigator, the meanest, nastiest, and without a doubt one of the most effective courtroom brawlers in Chicago. Before the heart attacks, he was known for his brutal work schedule - ninety-hour weeks, midnight orgies of work with clerks and paralegals digging and fetching. Several wives had left him. As many as four secretaries at a time labored furiously to keep pace. Daniel Rosen had been the heart and soul of Kravitz & Bane, but no longer. His doctor restricted him to fifty hours a week, in the office, and prohibited any trial work.
Now, Rosen, at the age of sixty-five and getting heavy, had been unanimously selected by his beloved colleagues to graze the gentler pastures of law office management. He had the responsibility of overseeing the rather cumbersome bureaucracy that ran Kravitz & Bane. It was an honor, the other partners had explained feebly when they bestowed it upon him.
So far the honor had been a disaster. Banished from the battlefield he desperately loved and needed, Rosen went about the business of managing the firm in a manner very similar to the preparation of an expensive lawsuit. He cross-examined secretaries and clerks over the most trivial of matters. He confronted other partners and harangued them for hours over vague issues of firm policy. Confined to the prison of his office, he called for young associates to come visit him, then picked fights to gauge their mettle under pressure.
He deliberately took the seat directly across the small conference table from Adam, and held a thin file as if it possessed a deadly secret. E. Garner Goodman sat low in the seat next to Adam, twiddling his bow tie and scratching his beard. When he telephoned Rosen with Adam's request, and broke the news of Adam's lineage, Rosen had reacted with predictable foolishness.
Emmitt Wycoff stood at one end of the room with a matchbox-sized cellular phone stuck to his ear. He was almost fifty, looked much older, and lived each day in a fixed state of panic and telephones.
Rosen carefully opened the file in front of Adam and removed a yellow legal pad. "Why didn't you tell us about your grandfather when we interviewed you last year?" he began with clipped words and a fierce stare.
"Because you didn't ask me," Adam answered. Goodman had advised him the meeting might get rough, but he and Wycoff would prevail.
"Don't be a wise ass," Rosen growled.
"Come on, Daniel," Goodman said, and rolled his eyes at Wycoff who shook his head and glanced at the ceiling.
"You don't think, Mr. Hall, that you should've informed us that you were related to one of our clients? Certainly you believe we have a right to know this, don't you, Mr. Hall?" His mocking tone was one usually reserved for witnesses who were lying and trapped.
"You guys asked me about everything else," Adam replied, very much under control. "Remember the security check? The fingerprints? There was even talk of a polygraph."
"Yes, Mr. Hall, but you knew things we didn't. And your grandfather was a client of this firm when you applied for employment, and you damned sure should've told us." Rosen's voice was rich, and moved high and low with the dramatic flair of a fine actor. His eyes never left Adam.
"Not your typical grandfather," Adam said quietly.
"He's still your grandfather, and you knew he was a client when you applied for a job here."
"Then I apologize," Adam said. "This firm has thousands of clients, all well heeled and paying through the nose for our services. I never dreamed one insignificant little pro bono case would cause any grief."
"You're deceitful, Mr. Hall. You deliberately selected this firm because it, at the time, represented your grandfather. And now, suddenly, here you are begging for the file. It puts us in an awkward position."
"What awkward position?" Emmitt Wycoff asked, folding the phone and stuffing it in a pocket. "Look, Daniel, we're talking about a man on death row. He needs a lawyer, dammit!"
"His own grandson?" Rosen asked.
"Who cares if it's his own grandson? The man has one foot in the grave, and he needs a lawyer."
"He fired us, remember?" Rosen shot back.
"Yeah, and he can always rehire us. It's worth a try. Lighten up."
"Listen, Emmitt, it's my job to worry about the image of this firm, and the idea of sending one of our new associates down to Mississippi to have his ass kicked and his client executed does not appeal to me. Frankly, I think Mr. Hall should be terminated by Kravitz & Bane."
"Oh wonderful, Daniel," Wycoff said. "Typical hard-nose response to a delicate issue. Then who'll represent Cayhall? Think about him for a moment. The man needs a lawyer! Adam may be his only chance."
"God help him," Rosen mumbled.
E. Garner Goodman decided to speak. He locked his hands together on the table and glared at Rosen. "The image of this firm? Do you honestly think we're viewed as a bunch of underpaid social workers dedicated to helping people?"
"Or how about a bunch of nuns working in the projects?" Wycoff added helpfully, with a sneer.
"How could this possibly hurt the image of our firm?" Goodman asked.
The concept of retreat had never entered Rosen's mind. "Very simple, Garner. We do not send our rookies to death row. We may abuse them, try to kill them, expect them to work twenty hours a day, but we do not send them into battle until they are ready. You know how dense death penalty litigation is. Hell, you wrote the books. How can you expect Mr. Hall here to be effective?"
"I'll supervise everything he does," Goodman answered.
"He's really quite good," Wycoff added again. "He's memorized the entire file, you know, Daniel."
"It'll work," Goodman said. "Trust me, Daniel, I've been through enough of these things. I'll keep my finger on it."
"And I'll set aside a few hours to help," Wycoff added. "I'll even fly down if necessary."
Goodman jerked and stared at Wycoff. "You! Pro bono?"
"Sure. I have a conscience."
Adam ignored the banter and stared at Daniel Rosen. Go ahead and fire me, he wanted to say. Go ahead, Mr. Rosen, terminate me so I can go bury my grandfather, then get on with the rest of my life.
"And if he's executed?" Rosen asked in the direction of Goodman.
"We've lost them before, Daniel, you know that. Three, since I've run pro bono."
"What are his chances?"
"Quite slim. Right now he's holding on by virtue of a stay granted by the Fifth Circuit. The stay should be lifted any day now, and a new execution date will be set. Probably late summer."
"Not long then."
"Right. We've handled his appeals for seven years, and they've run their course."
"Of all the people on death row, how'd we come to represent this asshole?" Rosen demanded.
"It's a very long story, and at this moment it's completely irrelevant."
Rosen made what appeared to be serious notes on his legal pad. "You don't think for a moment you'll keep this quiet, do you?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe hell. Just before they kill him, they'll make him a celebrity. The media will surround him like a pack of wolves. You'll be discovered, Mr. Hall."