took a cab to her office, which was a few
blocks away in California Plaza, on Grand Avenue, and I escorted her clear to
the 32nd floor. We paused for a moment in front of the glass doors.
“I trust you. Please don’t let me down.” The doors opened inward and it was tough to
watch her go. I headed back down the elevator and hit the street.
Halladay, Reynolds, Tosh & Mukaskey takes up
several floors of the old Southern California Edison Building at One Bunker
Hill. The status of a pricey white collar law firm is measured by how much
empty space they can afford to waste. The receptionist’s desk stood alone in
the middle of a huge expanse of gleaming hardwood floor. I squinted at the
meaningless art that was so distant, I would’ve needed binoculars to make it
out. These are the trappings of
power, a sense of entitlement so profound that wasted space becomes a virtue
and mediocre art simply the shrug of indifference.
The pretty blonde receptionist smiled. “How can I
help you?”
“Nick Crane to see Mr. Halladay.”
She nodded, dialed and purred quietly down the
line. A few moments later, another young, pretty secretary came out.
“This way please, Mr. Crane.”
She led me across the endless hardwood, through
glass doors, up escalators, around a good-sized gymnasium, down a hallway and
up a private elevator that opened into a high-ceilinged anteroom, with busts of
noted legal figures of yesteryear mounted on the walls. Finally, we passed
through an open door into James Halladay’s expensively furnished office suite.
A smile played across his mouth as she smiled at him. He nodded at her, fixed
his gaze on me and came forward, hand outstretched.
“Good to finally meet you, Nick.”
His handshake was crisply efficient. Thick
chested, his iron-grey hair rumpled just enough to indicate that this was a man
with the confidence not to care. I was in the presence of a powerhouse. He knew
it and knew that I knew it.
“What can I get you to drink? Perrier, Evian, iced
coffee?” He crossed to a refrigerator set against the wall under a photograph
of Chief Justice Cardoza.
“Iced coffee.”
Halladay handed me a Starbucks Frappuccino. He had
gripped an Evian, and motioned me to a brace of white leather armchairs, facing
a mahogany grandfather clock, which struck 3:00 as we sat down. The leather was
cold and I stifled an impulse to shiver. I took a long swallow of my
Frappuccino.
Sipping his drink, Halladay looked at me
thoughtfully. “When I brought you into this case, I had no idea it was going to
turn out to be so complicated. I’m sure you have questions. I know mistakes
have been made, but I don’t believe they’re fatal. At least I hope not.”
He paused as if expecting a reassuring reply. I
took another sip and waited.
The moment was not lost on him. He half-smirked
and continued, “I was friends with Cicero for a long time, and have represented
him since the beginning. Because of my long-standing career, I was able to keep
his sentence down when he went to Soledad and after his release, I represented
him through all his business ventures. Of course, he wouldn’t always take my
advice.”
“You knew about his narcotics dealing?”
“I’ve heard you’re the soul of discretion. That
must not change.” He locked eyes
with me. His were like cannons staring out through portholes, ready to fire at
the slightest provocation.
“I understand.”
“Good. The world operates in peculiar ways. Did
you know that George W. Bush’s grandfather was Adolf Hitler’s American banker?”
“Uh--”
“--Or that Joe Kennedy was a rum-runner? Our 19th
century shipping magnates ran opium. Citibank is sitting on 80 billion dollars
worth of bad paper. Why does this happen? Why is it allowed? It happens because
powerful people are greedy and really don’t care who gets hurt.”
“Are you justifying Lamont’s dealing?”
“All nations operate in a nexus of power that has
little, if anything, to do
blocks away in California Plaza, on Grand Avenue, and I escorted her clear to
the 32nd floor. We paused for a moment in front of the glass doors.
“I trust you. Please don’t let me down.” The doors opened inward and it was tough to
watch her go. I headed back down the elevator and hit the street.
Halladay, Reynolds, Tosh & Mukaskey takes up
several floors of the old Southern California Edison Building at One Bunker
Hill. The status of a pricey white collar law firm is measured by how much
empty space they can afford to waste. The receptionist’s desk stood alone in
the middle of a huge expanse of gleaming hardwood floor. I squinted at the
meaningless art that was so distant, I would’ve needed binoculars to make it
out. These are the trappings of
power, a sense of entitlement so profound that wasted space becomes a virtue
and mediocre art simply the shrug of indifference.
The pretty blonde receptionist smiled. “How can I
help you?”
“Nick Crane to see Mr. Halladay.”
She nodded, dialed and purred quietly down the
line. A few moments later, another young, pretty secretary came out.
“This way please, Mr. Crane.”
She led me across the endless hardwood, through
glass doors, up escalators, around a good-sized gymnasium, down a hallway and
up a private elevator that opened into a high-ceilinged anteroom, with busts of
noted legal figures of yesteryear mounted on the walls. Finally, we passed
through an open door into James Halladay’s expensively furnished office suite.
A smile played across his mouth as she smiled at him. He nodded at her, fixed
his gaze on me and came forward, hand outstretched.
“Good to finally meet you, Nick.”
His handshake was crisply efficient. Thick
chested, his iron-grey hair rumpled just enough to indicate that this was a man
with the confidence not to care. I was in the presence of a powerhouse. He knew
it and knew that I knew it.
“What can I get you to drink? Perrier, Evian, iced
coffee?” He crossed to a refrigerator set against the wall under a photograph
of Chief Justice Cardoza.
“Iced coffee.”
Halladay handed me a Starbucks Frappuccino. He had
gripped an Evian, and motioned me to a brace of white leather armchairs, facing
a mahogany grandfather clock, which struck 3:00 as we sat down. The leather was
cold and I stifled an impulse to shiver. I took a long swallow of my
Frappuccino.
Sipping his drink, Halladay looked at me
thoughtfully. “When I brought you into this case, I had no idea it was going to
turn out to be so complicated. I’m sure you have questions. I know mistakes
have been made, but I don’t believe they’re fatal. At least I hope not.”
He paused as if expecting a reassuring reply. I
took another sip and waited.
The moment was not lost on him. He half-smirked
and continued, “I was friends with Cicero for a long time, and have represented
him since the beginning. Because of my long-standing career, I was able to keep
his sentence down when he went to Soledad and after his release, I represented
him through all his business ventures. Of course, he wouldn’t always take my
advice.”
“You knew about his narcotics dealing?”
“I’ve heard you’re the soul of discretion. That
must not change.” He locked eyes
with me. His were like cannons staring out through portholes, ready to fire at
the slightest provocation.
“I understand.”
“Good. The world operates in peculiar ways. Did
you know that George W. Bush’s grandfather was Adolf Hitler’s American banker?”
“Uh--”
“--Or that Joe Kennedy was a rum-runner? Our 19th
century shipping magnates ran opium. Citibank is sitting on 80 billion dollars
worth of bad paper. Why does this happen? Why is it allowed? It happens because
powerful people are greedy and really don’t care who gets hurt.”
“Are you justifying Lamont’s dealing?”
“All nations operate in a nexus of power that has
little, if anything, to do
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