The Mourning Sexton by Michael Baron Page A

menus.”
    The elderly black man named Julian arrived, departed with their drink orders, returned with iced teas, departed quietly, returned to take their lunch orders, and departed again—and all the while Guttner kept the conversation moving smoothly from one innocuous topic to the next, from the Blues game last night to the latest sex scandal in Washington, from the current episode of
The Sopranos
to the recent litigation tussle between Microsoft and one of the cable companies, and not once did he allude to the lengthy gap in Hirsch's legal career or to the events giving rise to that gap.
    Even though Hirsch had heard that Guttner could be charming, he was taken by how engaging the man could be in person. Taken, but not taken in. Guttner's reputation preceded him. He could be charming when it served his purpose, but charm did not often serve his purpose. Clients treasured him as someone who would implement whatever litigation strategy they desired, no matter how harsh or oppressive or outrageous. Attorneys on the other side despised him as a brutal opponent who never apologized but was never vulnerable because he appeared in court only on ceremonial or procedural occasions, and even then was always surrounded by an entourage. Subordinates feared him as a cold taskmaster who expected obedience to whatever the client desired or he demanded. He bullied attorneys within his firm, including those who were years his senior, and regularly issued commands on Friday afternoons to underlings who knew that weekend plans were no excuse. Over the years, Guttner had summoned many a junior partner back from vacation for this or that “crisis,” most of which seemed to get resolved just about the time the harried lackey returned from Hawaii or Aspen or Tuscany. They put up with this abuse, these ambitious young and not-so-young attorneys, because Guttner had the power within the firm to shower money and resources and perks on those who pleased him and to banish those who did not.
    Julian brought their lunch orders—broiled trout for Hirsch, an off-menu hamburger for Guttner that consisted of nearly a pound of chopped sirloin topped with a thick slice of Bermuda onion and a large scoop of soft cheddar cheese. Juice oozed down into the enormous bun as the room filled with the tangy odor of ketchup and the sharp scents of cheese and sliced onion. Hirsch eyed it with amazement. The logistics of getting the thing into your mouth seemed every bit as daunting as consuming it all in one sitting. Guttner, transformed by the sight and smell of his lunch, attacked it with a feral intensity.
    Hirsch was only halfway through his trout when Guttner pushed back from an empty plate and removed the napkin from under his chin. There were beads of sweat on his face. He patted his forehead dry with his cloth napkin, dropped it onto his plate, and stifled a belch. His appetite sated, he settled back in his chair and resumed his genial aura.
    “If not for the fatality, David, one could almost be amused by the irony.”
    Hirsch gave him a puzzled look. “What irony?”
    “Your lawsuit, David.” He stifled another belch. “My client has been in front of Judge McCormick for nigh on five years in what is now our nation's largest product liability case. At issue in that lawsuit is the performance of my client's Turbo XL tires. And what should happen? The very law clerk that the judge assigns to the case dies in an automobile accident while driving a vehicle equipped with Turbo XL tires. Even worse, her passenger that night, indeed, the owner of the vehicle, is none other than the Honorable Brendan McCormick. That, my good man, is irony on a grand, almost absurd scale. More fitting for one of those legal thrillers that are all the rage these days. Grist for the Grisham mill, eh?”
    Hirsch said nothing.
    “With one crucial difference. This is the real world, and in the real world we both know one thing about that accident.”
    Guttner paused, a sheen of