dated back to World War Two. He'd never heard of Bruce Conroy or Elizabeth Purcell, but that meant nothing. He'd been gone for a while.
Counsel for Peterson Tire Corporation entered softly as well, but with an invitation to lunch. Hirsch received it two days after Jack Bellows's performance on the ten o'clock news. He was at his desk in the late afternoon when his secretary buzzed to tell him that there was a Mr. Guttner on line three.
“Good afternoon, David.” The voice smooth as silk. “Marvin Guttner, at Emerson, Burke. How are you?”
“Fine.”
“We entered our appearance today, David, on behalf of Peterson Tire in the Shifrin matter.”
Hirsch was not surprised. Guttner had represented Peterson Tire for years, and his firm was lead defense counsel in the massive tire litigation pending before Brendan McCormick.
“As we were preparing our court papers this morning, David, I realized that I have never had the pleasure of litigating against you.”
“I certainly hope it won't be a pleasure for you.”
That earned a rumbling chortle. Even if you'd never seen Marvin Guttner, you could tell from his voice that the body generating it was ample.
“Well put, David. Spoken like a true warrior. And speaking of combat, I thought perhaps that it would make sense for the two of us to chat a bit about your case before we don our battle gear and heft our cudgels.”
Hirsch shook his head, amused. As if Guttner would ever get within a mile of a litigation brawl. Although he controlled more than ten million dollars in litigation business and held an important committee chairmanship of the litigation division of the American Bar Association, Guttner had not tried a case in more than a decade and had never done a jury trial. He was the litigation equivalent of a Pentagon general—good at the politics and the meetings and “the big picture,” glad to let the troops and tacticians fight the battle.
“Okay,” Hirsch said, “I'm listening.”
“Oh, not over the telephone, David. I had in mind a real chat. An opportunity for the two of us to get to know one another, to bandy about the issues in your case. How does lunch tomorrow sound? I can arrange a private room at my club. Shall we say noon?”
And thus at noon the following day, Hirsch stood alone at the east window of a private dining room at the St. Louis Club in Clayton. Off in the distance, the Gothic spires and turrets of Washington University jutted over the bare trees as if from some walled town in medieval France.
He was intrigued to finally meet Marvin Guttner, rumored to be the highest paid partner at the venerable Emerson, Burke & McGee, a six-hundred-attorney law firm that traced its St. Louis roots to the Civil War era and represented many of the region's largest corporations. To be the highest paid partner at that firm was no mean feat even for someone with the correct pedigree, but it was extraordinary for a man who not only had
not
attended the proper prep school in St. Louis but whose prominent involvement in St. Peter's Episcopal Church in snooty Ladue did nothing to dispel rumors of his less-than-Episcopal origins in Youngstown, Ohio.
Hirsch turned to the sound of the door opening.
“Ah, yes. Greetings, David.”
Guttner's detractors dubbed him Jabba the Gutt, and there was a family resemblance. He was fat and bald, with heavy-lidded eyes, broad nose, bulging double chin spilling over his collar, and liver-colored lips that sagged open. Even so, as he approached to shake hands, Hirsch was struck by how gracefully the big man moved. He seemed to glide across the room in his elegant gray suit, starched white shirt, and gleaming black shoes.
“Delighted to finally meet you, David.”
Guttner's lips pulled back into a grimace meant to pass as a smile. He gestured toward the dining table, which was large enough to accommodate eight but was set that day for two.
“Please make yourself comfortable. I shall have Julian bring us
Counsel for Peterson Tire Corporation entered softly as well, but with an invitation to lunch. Hirsch received it two days after Jack Bellows's performance on the ten o'clock news. He was at his desk in the late afternoon when his secretary buzzed to tell him that there was a Mr. Guttner on line three.
“Good afternoon, David.” The voice smooth as silk. “Marvin Guttner, at Emerson, Burke. How are you?”
“Fine.”
“We entered our appearance today, David, on behalf of Peterson Tire in the Shifrin matter.”
Hirsch was not surprised. Guttner had represented Peterson Tire for years, and his firm was lead defense counsel in the massive tire litigation pending before Brendan McCormick.
“As we were preparing our court papers this morning, David, I realized that I have never had the pleasure of litigating against you.”
“I certainly hope it won't be a pleasure for you.”
That earned a rumbling chortle. Even if you'd never seen Marvin Guttner, you could tell from his voice that the body generating it was ample.
“Well put, David. Spoken like a true warrior. And speaking of combat, I thought perhaps that it would make sense for the two of us to chat a bit about your case before we don our battle gear and heft our cudgels.”
Hirsch shook his head, amused. As if Guttner would ever get within a mile of a litigation brawl. Although he controlled more than ten million dollars in litigation business and held an important committee chairmanship of the litigation division of the American Bar Association, Guttner had not tried a case in more than a decade and had never done a jury trial. He was the litigation equivalent of a Pentagon general—good at the politics and the meetings and “the big picture,” glad to let the troops and tacticians fight the battle.
“Okay,” Hirsch said, “I'm listening.”
“Oh, not over the telephone, David. I had in mind a real chat. An opportunity for the two of us to get to know one another, to bandy about the issues in your case. How does lunch tomorrow sound? I can arrange a private room at my club. Shall we say noon?”
And thus at noon the following day, Hirsch stood alone at the east window of a private dining room at the St. Louis Club in Clayton. Off in the distance, the Gothic spires and turrets of Washington University jutted over the bare trees as if from some walled town in medieval France.
He was intrigued to finally meet Marvin Guttner, rumored to be the highest paid partner at the venerable Emerson, Burke & McGee, a six-hundred-attorney law firm that traced its St. Louis roots to the Civil War era and represented many of the region's largest corporations. To be the highest paid partner at that firm was no mean feat even for someone with the correct pedigree, but it was extraordinary for a man who not only had
not
attended the proper prep school in St. Louis but whose prominent involvement in St. Peter's Episcopal Church in snooty Ladue did nothing to dispel rumors of his less-than-Episcopal origins in Youngstown, Ohio.
Hirsch turned to the sound of the door opening.
“Ah, yes. Greetings, David.”
Guttner's detractors dubbed him Jabba the Gutt, and there was a family resemblance. He was fat and bald, with heavy-lidded eyes, broad nose, bulging double chin spilling over his collar, and liver-colored lips that sagged open. Even so, as he approached to shake hands, Hirsch was struck by how gracefully the big man moved. He seemed to glide across the room in his elegant gray suit, starched white shirt, and gleaming black shoes.
“Delighted to finally meet you, David.”
Guttner's lips pulled back into a grimace meant to pass as a smile. He gestured toward the dining table, which was large enough to accommodate eight but was set that day for two.
“Please make yourself comfortable. I shall have Julian bring us
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