blindly.
Prescott brought me through another hallway and into a different conference room, just as elegant and imposing as the one in which I had spent the day, but this one filled with a pack of lawyer types. In the middle, sporting a ragged corduroy jacket, sat a rather ugly man who didn’t fit. His brown hair fell scraggly to his shoulders and hescrunched fat fish lips between forefinger and thumb as he watched me walk into the room. I assumed he was Chester Concannon. You can always tell the client among his lawyers because he looks like the one who’s been forced to pay for everyone else’s worsted wool.
“I’d like you all to meet Victor Carl,” said Prescott when we stood together before the table. Prescott’s arm rested like a father’s on my shoulder. “Victor is a terrific litigator and going to be a big help to us all.”
I smiled the smile I was expected to smile.
“So you’re the mannequin,” said the ugly man in corduroy, his voice loud and sharp, like the bark of a Pomeranian.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“They said they needed a mannequin with a pulse and a clean tie to take over for McCrae,” he said. “So I guess that’s you, Vic. Except I see you don’t have the clean tie. You got a pulse at least, Vic?”
I fought the impulse to check my tie and turned my head just enough so I could look at him sideways without letting him see the tears involuntarily welling. If this indeed was my client-to-be I was in deep trouble. “Last time I checked,” I said.
“Good for you,” he said. “Just take a shower in your wash-and-wear so you’ll be presentable when you pose for the judge.”
“Victor,” said Prescott. “I’d like you to meet Chester Concannon.”
I hesitantly reached out my hand toward the man in the corduroy but he remained seated, his thick lips back to being pinched by his forefinger and thumb. Next to him an African-American man in a tight fitting, expensive suit stood and took hold of my hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Carl,” he said in a strong voice. Chester Concannon was boyishly handsome, with thin shoulders and strong hands. While his smile wasbright, his suit was subdued and his tie striped and simple. “I appreciate you joining our team.”
“And this,” said Prescott, gesturing to the man in the corduroy who had called me a mannequin, “is Chuckie Lamb, Councilman Moore’s press secretary.”
Chuckie Lamb gave me a sort of snorting nod and then leaned back in his chair until the chair’s front legs tilted off the carpet.
“I’ve told both Chet and Jimmy all about you, Victor, and the tenacious job you did on the Saltz case,” said Prescott. “They were both enthusiastic about your coming on board. This is the rest of our crew,” he said and introduced me to the Talbott, Kittredge contingent seated around the table, whose names I forgot the instant they escaped from Prescott’s lips. They were finely dressed, perfectly groomed men and women, showily multicultural, as if cast by a politically correct producer for a television series about litigators. There was an Asian-American man and an African-American woman, and there was a blond guy with a perpetual smirk on his face. And then at the end of the table was Madeline Burroughs, who eyed me suspiciously, arms crossed, the fist of her face closed. It was the very picture of the sharp legal team of which I had always dreamed of being a part and on which I had always suspected, somewhere deep down, I didn’t belong.
“Now Victor has spent the day looking through Pete McCrae’s files and the materials provided us by the U.S. Attorney’s office,” said Prescott, “and he assures me that he can be ready for trial in two weeks.”
“What a stunning surprise,” barked Chuckie Lamb. “The mannequin is ready to pose.”
“That’s enough,” said Concannon softly, and Chuckie Lamb quieted immediately.
“Victor’s readiness,” said Prescott, “means we won’t require the continuance the
Prescott brought me through another hallway and into a different conference room, just as elegant and imposing as the one in which I had spent the day, but this one filled with a pack of lawyer types. In the middle, sporting a ragged corduroy jacket, sat a rather ugly man who didn’t fit. His brown hair fell scraggly to his shoulders and hescrunched fat fish lips between forefinger and thumb as he watched me walk into the room. I assumed he was Chester Concannon. You can always tell the client among his lawyers because he looks like the one who’s been forced to pay for everyone else’s worsted wool.
“I’d like you all to meet Victor Carl,” said Prescott when we stood together before the table. Prescott’s arm rested like a father’s on my shoulder. “Victor is a terrific litigator and going to be a big help to us all.”
I smiled the smile I was expected to smile.
“So you’re the mannequin,” said the ugly man in corduroy, his voice loud and sharp, like the bark of a Pomeranian.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“They said they needed a mannequin with a pulse and a clean tie to take over for McCrae,” he said. “So I guess that’s you, Vic. Except I see you don’t have the clean tie. You got a pulse at least, Vic?”
I fought the impulse to check my tie and turned my head just enough so I could look at him sideways without letting him see the tears involuntarily welling. If this indeed was my client-to-be I was in deep trouble. “Last time I checked,” I said.
“Good for you,” he said. “Just take a shower in your wash-and-wear so you’ll be presentable when you pose for the judge.”
“Victor,” said Prescott. “I’d like you to meet Chester Concannon.”
I hesitantly reached out my hand toward the man in the corduroy but he remained seated, his thick lips back to being pinched by his forefinger and thumb. Next to him an African-American man in a tight fitting, expensive suit stood and took hold of my hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Carl,” he said in a strong voice. Chester Concannon was boyishly handsome, with thin shoulders and strong hands. While his smile wasbright, his suit was subdued and his tie striped and simple. “I appreciate you joining our team.”
“And this,” said Prescott, gesturing to the man in the corduroy who had called me a mannequin, “is Chuckie Lamb, Councilman Moore’s press secretary.”
Chuckie Lamb gave me a sort of snorting nod and then leaned back in his chair until the chair’s front legs tilted off the carpet.
“I’ve told both Chet and Jimmy all about you, Victor, and the tenacious job you did on the Saltz case,” said Prescott. “They were both enthusiastic about your coming on board. This is the rest of our crew,” he said and introduced me to the Talbott, Kittredge contingent seated around the table, whose names I forgot the instant they escaped from Prescott’s lips. They were finely dressed, perfectly groomed men and women, showily multicultural, as if cast by a politically correct producer for a television series about litigators. There was an Asian-American man and an African-American woman, and there was a blond guy with a perpetual smirk on his face. And then at the end of the table was Madeline Burroughs, who eyed me suspiciously, arms crossed, the fist of her face closed. It was the very picture of the sharp legal team of which I had always dreamed of being a part and on which I had always suspected, somewhere deep down, I didn’t belong.
“Now Victor has spent the day looking through Pete McCrae’s files and the materials provided us by the U.S. Attorney’s office,” said Prescott, “and he assures me that he can be ready for trial in two weeks.”
“What a stunning surprise,” barked Chuckie Lamb. “The mannequin is ready to pose.”
“That’s enough,” said Concannon softly, and Chuckie Lamb quieted immediately.
“Victor’s readiness,” said Prescott, “means we won’t require the continuance the
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