did.”
“Actually,” he says, “they didn’t want the deal to close either.” Heglances at his watch.
“It turns out the city didn’t have the money to make the loan.
Cash-flow problems. The city was going to have to borrow the money atloan-shark rates. The mayor figured it out last night. He decidedhe’d rather lose the jobs. He figures the voters will forget about thejobs, but they’ll never forgive a budget deficit. He sent hispolitical fixer over here to kill the deal, but make it look likesomebody else’s fault. The city was going to use tax dollars tofinance the acquisition by an international conglomerate in a deal thatwas so screwed up, nobody, including our own client, wanted it toclose.”
“Looks like everybody is going to get their wish,” I say.
“Looks that way,” he replies.
As always, the weather in the Richmond District is cooler and cloudierthan downtown. We pass Park Presidio Boulevard and drive past TempleBeth Sholom, where Joel’s father holds court, so to speak. I turnright onto Sixteenth Avenue and drive halfway up the block of tightlypacked bungalows. I stop in front of Joel’s modest gray house, aroundthe corner from his father’s.
“Happy New Year,” he says as he gets out.
“I’ll talk to you next week.”
I think to myself, I hope you still have a career.
CHAPTER 5
THE LAW OFFICES OF MICHAEL J. DALEY, ESQ.
“Michael J. Daley, formerly of the San Francisco Public Defender’sOffice and formerly a partner at Simpson and Gates, announces theopening of the law offices of Michael J. Daley, Esq.” at 553 MissionStreet, San Francisco, California. Mr. Daley will continue tospecialize in criminal defense practice in state and federal court.”
—san francisco legal journal. monday, january 5.
“Now,” I say to Rosie, “all I need are a couple of paying clients, asecretary, a functional telephone and a working computer, and I’m on myway back to the big time.” She chuckles as I unpack boxes atnine-fifteen in the morning on Monday, January 5. Looks like the grandopening of the law offices of Michael J. Daley, Esq.” is going to besomewhat less than auspicious.
My new office is in the basement of the small two-story 1920s buildingon Mission Street, down the block from the Transbay bus terminal. I’mrenting space from the law offices of Rosita C. Fernandez. It was afashionable neighborhood seventy years ago. After decades of neglect,the sprawl of downtown San Francisco has given the area new life.Nevertheless, by six in the evening, there seems to be a regulargathering of homeless people in front of the building. I look up atthe side of a Chinese restaurant called Lucky Corner No. 2 through theheavy metal bars that protect my small window. The name is misleading.The restaurant isn’t located on a corner. We’ll see whether it will belucky for me. At least I know where I can get a fast lunch.
“Give it time,” Rosie says.
“We had to move a lot of files to set this up.”
“This was your file room?”
“Yeah. It looks much nicer now. Rolanda can help you get settled.”
“Thanks.” I look at the metal desk, mismatched chairs and stained filecabinet.
“I didn’t bring much. Just my computer, some books and a few files.”
“Good. Rent is due the first of the month.”
I’m already beginning to feel like we’re married again. It was muchmore fun when we were first dating and we didn’t worry about rent, carpayments and, later, diapers. We had started going out when we workedat the PD’s office.
Rosie was spinning out of a bad marriage. I was coming off a longtermrelationship with a law school classmate. We found each other on therebound. I think she liked me because I was funny. I liked herbecause she was direct. And Lord knows, we knew each other’s workschedules.
“You won’t need to remind me.
And my highly generous former partners gave me aseventy-five-thousand-dollar check for my capital and afive-thousand-dollar bonus on my way out the door.”
Rosie gives
“Actually,” he says, “they didn’t want the deal to close either.” Heglances at his watch.
“It turns out the city didn’t have the money to make the loan.
Cash-flow problems. The city was going to have to borrow the money atloan-shark rates. The mayor figured it out last night. He decidedhe’d rather lose the jobs. He figures the voters will forget about thejobs, but they’ll never forgive a budget deficit. He sent hispolitical fixer over here to kill the deal, but make it look likesomebody else’s fault. The city was going to use tax dollars tofinance the acquisition by an international conglomerate in a deal thatwas so screwed up, nobody, including our own client, wanted it toclose.”
“Looks like everybody is going to get their wish,” I say.
“Looks that way,” he replies.
As always, the weather in the Richmond District is cooler and cloudierthan downtown. We pass Park Presidio Boulevard and drive past TempleBeth Sholom, where Joel’s father holds court, so to speak. I turnright onto Sixteenth Avenue and drive halfway up the block of tightlypacked bungalows. I stop in front of Joel’s modest gray house, aroundthe corner from his father’s.
“Happy New Year,” he says as he gets out.
“I’ll talk to you next week.”
I think to myself, I hope you still have a career.
CHAPTER 5
THE LAW OFFICES OF MICHAEL J. DALEY, ESQ.
“Michael J. Daley, formerly of the San Francisco Public Defender’sOffice and formerly a partner at Simpson and Gates, announces theopening of the law offices of Michael J. Daley, Esq.” at 553 MissionStreet, San Francisco, California. Mr. Daley will continue tospecialize in criminal defense practice in state and federal court.”
—san francisco legal journal. monday, january 5.
“Now,” I say to Rosie, “all I need are a couple of paying clients, asecretary, a functional telephone and a working computer, and I’m on myway back to the big time.” She chuckles as I unpack boxes atnine-fifteen in the morning on Monday, January 5. Looks like the grandopening of the law offices of Michael J. Daley, Esq.” is going to besomewhat less than auspicious.
My new office is in the basement of the small two-story 1920s buildingon Mission Street, down the block from the Transbay bus terminal. I’mrenting space from the law offices of Rosita C. Fernandez. It was afashionable neighborhood seventy years ago. After decades of neglect,the sprawl of downtown San Francisco has given the area new life.Nevertheless, by six in the evening, there seems to be a regulargathering of homeless people in front of the building. I look up atthe side of a Chinese restaurant called Lucky Corner No. 2 through theheavy metal bars that protect my small window. The name is misleading.The restaurant isn’t located on a corner. We’ll see whether it will belucky for me. At least I know where I can get a fast lunch.
“Give it time,” Rosie says.
“We had to move a lot of files to set this up.”
“This was your file room?”
“Yeah. It looks much nicer now. Rolanda can help you get settled.”
“Thanks.” I look at the metal desk, mismatched chairs and stained filecabinet.
“I didn’t bring much. Just my computer, some books and a few files.”
“Good. Rent is due the first of the month.”
I’m already beginning to feel like we’re married again. It was muchmore fun when we were first dating and we didn’t worry about rent, carpayments and, later, diapers. We had started going out when we workedat the PD’s office.
Rosie was spinning out of a bad marriage. I was coming off a longtermrelationship with a law school classmate. We found each other on therebound. I think she liked me because I was funny. I liked herbecause she was direct. And Lord knows, we knew each other’s workschedules.
“You won’t need to remind me.
And my highly generous former partners gave me aseventy-five-thousand-dollar check for my capital and afive-thousand-dollar bonus on my way out the door.”
Rosie gives
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