Shred of Evidence

The call troubled Pete Thorsen. It wasn’t like Sam Lawrence to call him in the evening, much less when he was out to dinner with a client.

When Pete got back to Sears & Whitney, he found Sam hunched over a small conference table in one corner of his office, staring intently at a document. A jumble of paper covered the table with a couple of glasses, one tipped on its side, mixed in. Crumpled scraps of paper littered the floor nearby. That wasn’t like Sam either. Pete’s old friend and mentor was the most meticulous man he knew. Even in his prime, Sam’s office had always looked like the set for a magazine shoot rather than the workplace of one of the busiest and most successful lawyers in Chicago.

Something else set off alarm bells in Pete’s mind. A revolver large enough to require a manservant to lug it around was lying on Sam’s polished mahogany desk.

Sam glanced up when Pete tapped lightly on the door. He looked pale and drawn. Suddenly Pete was concerned it might be a health problem. Maybe that’s what Sam wanted to talk about.

“Thanks for coming,” Sam said, not really looking at him. “I hope I didn’t interfere with your client dinner.” His tired voice matched his appearance, and when he placed his hands on the table to hoist himself from the chair, it seemed to require an effort.

Pete forced a smile. “No thanks required. Your call actually saved me from sitting around Gibson’s all night watching the guy drink and listening to him babble.”

It was almost ten in the evening and Sam was still clad in his navy blue, three-piece suit. His trademark gold watch fob, the kind that might have been worn by a banker or prosperous merchant a century earlier, spanned a generous waistline. Looking at him, Pete was suddenly conscious of his own open-necked shirt and worn if still serviceable sport coat. Sam hadn’t embraced business casual when the firm’s partners voted for it six years earlier. In fact, it sometimes seemed as though he’d gone even more formal just to make a point about how he thought a lawyer should dress.

“You okay?” Pete asked. “You look a little peaked.”

“Yeah, fine,” Sam said softly as he walked across the room. “Can I get you a glass of port?”

Pete arched an eyebrow. “You still have some of the good stuff?”

Sam didn’t come back with his usual snappy rejoinder. Instead, he held up a bottle and said, “This 1982 Sandeman’s okay?”

Pete grinned and gave a thumbs-up sign. As he watched Sam rummage around for clean glasses, he was conscious, as he had been when he’d returned a few minutes earlier, of how quiet the floor was. There was something eerie about the stillness of a business office late at night that made a person want to step more lightly and speak more softly. Pete chuckled to himself. Maybe he just didn’t want to risk stirring up the ghosts of founding partners Nathaniel Sears and John Whitney.

After they’d settled into a pair of wine-colored leather chairs, Pete sat back and waited for Sam to raise what was on his mind. He decided to let him take his time.

“Quiet in here tonight,” Pete said, taking a stab at small talk. “Our business must be down. No one but you here, at least on this floor.”

Sam sipped his port and stared through the open office door. “I let the cleaning crew go early,” he said, sounding as distracted as he looked. “They’d finished their work and I didn’t see any need to keep them hanging around. They have families, too.”

Pete bit his lip and nodded. While Sam had retained his office, he was now “of counsel” to the firm, a largely honorary title under their structure, and had no client responsibility or authority of any kind. But that didn’t prevent him from occasionally exercising the authority he’d once enjoyed when he was the managing partner. Sam also regularly acted as a self-appointed ombudsman for the non-legal staff. The staff, understandably, loved him for it, but his actions annoyed many of the partners.

Pete said nothing about the cleaning crew transgression. Instead, he jerked a thumb in the direction of Sam’s desk. “What’s the artillery for?”

Sam’s eyes flicked toward the desk and lingered on the revolver. His face was impassive and he seemed to search for the right words. “I was cleaning it earlier,” he said. “I fired it today.”

Pete knew Sam liked to take some of his old firearms, if they still could be safely fired, to a local range. “Maybe that’s what I smelled when I came in.” he said. “What kind of gun is that?”

Sam continued to gaze at the weapon. “It’s an original model Colt Frontier Six-Shooter. The dealer who sold it to me claims it was the piece Frank McLaury carried in the gunfight at the O.K. Corral in 1881.”

“Mmmm,” Pete murmured, wondering whether Sam had been taken. “You believe him?”

Sam shrugged. “Hard to know, but it’s the genuine article. One of the best sidearms ever made.”

Sam had two hobbies. One was fly fishing. The other was collecting Old West memorabilia. He liked to rotate his collection so part of it was always in his office, where he still arrived at nine and typically stayed into the evening. A Civil War-era saddle hung on a mount across the room, under a cavalry saber and a pair of derringers that supposedly had been used by a faro dealer in Deadwood, South Dakota.

“You know,” Pete said, continuing to make small talk, “some people believe the Clantons and McLaurys were innocent victims in that fight at the O.K. Corral.”

Sam’s expression was even more brooding than when Pete had arrived. “A grand jury did consider whether murder charges should be brought against Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday,” he said, “but they were never indicted. It shows that not everyone who commits an act someone believes is wrong is a murderer.”

Pete frowned. “Sam,” he said, deciding to bring the conversation to a head, “this is all very interesting, but I doubt you called me just to share a glass of port and talk about the Old West. I have a feeling something is wrong.”

Sam stared at his right hand as he slowly flexed it. Arthritis ran in his family and he’d often expressed concern that it would eventually hit him, too. Pete saw no obvious signs of arthritis in his hand, but couldn’t help but notice the tremble.

“It involves Littlefield Industries,” Sam said slowly as he continued to work his fingers. “I’ve been very concerned that a deal we’re working on for them is being mishandled.”

A red flag snapped up in Pete’s mind. The relationship with Littlefield had been nurtured by Sam from the time it was a start-up and the company was now one of the firm’s largest clients. Under firm policy, responsibility for overseeing Littlefield’s legal business had been transitioned to another partner, Larry Serini, several years earlier when Sam had reached his extended retirement age of sixty-eight.

Pete studied Sam’s face, which remained as impassive as a sphinx. “How is it being mishandled?”

“A lot of ways,” Sam said, not meeting Pete’s gaze. “The structure is bad for Littlefield tax-wise, and we aren’t receiving adequate protection against the target company’s liabilities.”

Pete continued to look at Sam. “How do you know all this? Larry Serini is personally leading our team on that deal, isn’t he?”

“He’s supposed to be,” Sam said softly, still looking away, “but we’re not getting the job done. Littlefield isn’t receiving the quality of representation they’ve come to expect from our firm.”

Damn it, Sam, Pete thought, you’ve got to let go. They’d been over this in the past, and not just once. The conversation was always the same, like a scene in a bad movie that kept repeating itself. Serini wasn’t being responsive to Littlefield’s needs. Serini’s strategy in a regulatory matter was all wrong. Or, like now, Serini was mishandling some deal.

“Did Larry talk to you about it? Is that how you know all this?”

Sam’s eyes were fixed on the documents in front of him. “We talked about the deal a couple of weeks ago. I offered to help. He said he’d get back to me but he never did.” He paused. “I think he’s afraid to have me around my own client.”

Pete continued to press him. “So that’s how you know about the structure, from your conversation with Larry.”

Sam’s eyes were hooded by his bushy white brows. “I saw the drafts,” he said slowly. “You’d be shocked at what we’ve been giving away in that deal.”

“I still don’t understand,” Pete said. “How did you happen to see the drafts? Did Larry give them to you?”

“You’re interrogating me, Pete. We should be focusing on how the deal is being mishandled, not this other stuff. Here, let me show you.”

Pete followed Sam over to the conference table. The documents covering the table were various drafts of an acquisition agreement pursuant to which Littlefield would acquire a company named EVtech. The drafts oozed red ink, like a body bleeding from a hundred slashes, and copious notes appeared in the margins. It all appeared to be the result of Sam’s sharp pen. A separate chart, again looking like Sam’s handiwork, tracked changes to key provisions as negotiations had progressed.
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After glancing at the documents, Pete shifted his gaze back to Sam. “You’ve been avoiding my question,” he said, beginning to suspect the worst. “You didn’t get all of this from Larry, did you?”

Sam finished making an additional note on one of the drafts and then said, “I really don’t see how that’s important, but if you must know, I got them from Millie in Word Processing. She’s been retyping all of the drafts and became concerned over some of the things she’d seen. She’s been with us a long time, as you know, and has the firm’s best interests at heart.”

Pete grimaced and shook his head. “You shouldn’t be going behind Larry’s back like this. He’s a very competent lawyer and I’m sure there are sound reasons for any concessions he’s had to make to get the deal done. Dealmaking is give and take; you know that. And a staff person, no matter how good, just isn’t qualified to make judgments on these things.”

Sam’s lips tightened and his face looked even more ashen. “Not everyone agrees that Serini is a good lawyer,” he said. “He was just acceptable to Littlefield because he’s a law school friend of the new general counsel.” He paused. “Harvey Littlefield isn’t impressed with him, I can tell you that. He thinks Serini is a lightweight.”

Pete’s anger was near the surface now. When Pete became the firm’s new managing partner, he’d had the unpleasant task of reminding Sam that his three-year grace period from the firm’s mandatory age sixty-five retirement policy was up and Larry Serini would be taking over responsibility for the Littlefield client relationship. In hindsight he realized that no one, himself included, would have been acceptable to Sam as a successor. Sam was unalterably opposed to the retirement policy and it was now clear he believed just as strongly that no one could fill his shoes with Littlefield.

.“Sam,” Pete said as gently as he could, “Harvey’s own board of directors eased him out a few years ago. He was a great man and built the company, but everyone knows he’s been losing it. At some point, it just becomes time to move on. It will happen to all of us.”

Sam’s eyes looked even more unfocused and his hands continued to tremble noticeably. Pete felt deeply sorry for him. He remembered how it was when he’d begun working for Sam as a young associate. Sam would sit in his office surrounded by his team—typically Pete and several specialists—and consider how to deal with some thorny legal issue. His eyes would twinkle under those bushy brows as he solicited input from each of them. Occasionally he would offer some ideas or observations of his own or sum up the collective wisdom of the group. His love for the practice of law was so transparent, so contagious, that everyone would leave the meeting feeling good about themselves and the world. Now Sam looked tired and old. And, Pete feared, possibly suicidal.

“I never wanted to retire,” Sam finally said in a tone so soft it was barely audible. “What was I going to do? Marian is gone,” he continued, referring to his late wife, “and a man can only do so much fishing.”

“Just a minute,” Pete said, trying to lighten the mood. “I remember sharing a glass of port with you on another occasion and you told that one of your personal goals in life was to fish every important trout stream in the world. You must have a few to go.”

“Things change.” Sam continued to stare at the draft he held in his hands, slowly turning the pages. Then he added, again in the same low, weary voice, “I guess I thought I’d get a better shake from you.”

The comment jolted Pete. That was bullshit! He’d shown Sam extraordinary deference and in fact had spent a lot of personal political capital within the firm to protect him on numerous occasions.

“That’s not fair,” Pete said, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. “I manage the firm now, but the partners set the basic policies. You know that. And as I recall, I’m the one who dredged up enough support to get you a three-year extension of the mandatory retirement age.”

Sam continued as though he hadn’t heard Pete. “I don’t know why there’s this rush to put people out to pasture these days,” he said. “It’s a huge waste of human capital. Look at Sir Edward Coke.” He pointed toward a bookcase that contained leather-bound volumes of the famed seventeenth century English jurist’s work. “He was seventy-six when he helped author the Petition of Right. That’s like being ninety today. Richard Strauss composed until he was eighty-five. Michelangelo designed the dome in St. Peter’s when he was seventy-one. I could give you a hundred other examples.”

“I hear you,” Pete replied, “but times have changed. Many firms have gone to an even younger retirement age than ours.”

“That doesn’t prove anything. It’s still a waste, and unfair to people who can still contribute.”

Pete decided that nothing would be gained by continuing to debate the policy issue with him. “Have you followed up with Larry?” he asked, realizing he was grasping at straws. “Maybe he just forgot to get back to you.”

Sam’s expression changed briefly, as though a cloud had passed over his face. “He didn’t forget. And yes, I followed up with him twice, including today.”

“And?”

“He told me he didn’t need my help.”

Suddenly Pete felt weary. “What do you want me to do, Sam?”

Sam was staring at one of the drafts again. “Use your authority as managing partner to protect the client’s interests,” he finally said. The request sounded rehearsed, but his voice was halting and weak, as it had been throughout their conversation. “Put me in charge of finishing the EVtech transaction. It will be my last deal. The firm owes me that.”

The entitlement comment made Sam sound like one of the GenXers he liked to rail against. Pete let it pass and said, “Are you serious? Are you asking that I take the deal away from Larry?”

Sam’s eyes looked even more unfocused than before. “We don’t have much time,” he said. His voice had become little more than a hoarse whisper. “Littlefield needs me on this one. The firm needs me, too. There isn’t anyone else.”

Pete furled his brow. “What do you mean? Larry has a full team in place.”

“You don’t understand, Pete. I killed Serini before you came over tonight.”