The Justice Game Page 7

  The third day, in the solitude of his apartment, Jason found the courage to push the wheel and initiate the call. The phone rang three times with no answer, raising Jason’s hopes that he might be able to just leave a message.

  But then his father answered. “Jason, I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you back?”

  “Sure.”

  An hour later, when Jason was walking down the Avenue of the Americas, he felt his BlackBerry vibrate twice. His father’s name and number appeared on the screen.

  “Hey, Dad,” Jason said.

  “Hey, Jason. Sorry I had to go earlier. I was in the middle of a department meeting. What’s up?”

  Justice Inc. placed a premium on confidentiality, so Jason needed to be somewhat vague, even with his father. In the past, he had described his job as “legal research for investment firms.”

  His father had scoffed at the “desk job” but tolerated it because he knew Jason was making $150,000 a year, enough to take a healthy chunk out of his student debt. The unspoken assumption—at least his father’s unspoken assumption—was that Jason would take a job as a prosecutor once he finished his two-year commitment.

  “Um, I’m leaving New York early, Dad. As in next week.” Jason paused—it was never easy to talk with his dad. “I finished my projects ahead of schedule, and they’re paying me the rest of my salary.”

  This brought an extended silence. Jason imagined the scowl on his dad’s face—the block jaw tensing as the forehead wrinkled in displeasure. It was, in Jason’s opinion, a face that bore little resemblance to his own. “You’re not telling me something,” his dad said. “You had a two-year contract. Something must have happened.”

  “Nothing happened,” Jason said. He started getting a little perturbed. Why couldn’t his father just accept that Jason had actually done something right? “I finished my research projects… ahead of schedule. They loved my work, made a ton of money off me, and now they’re going to help me get my own practice started.”

  Jason held his breath, ready for the explosion. He was standing at a street crossing, waiting for the light to change, elbow-to-elbow with a couple dozen New Yorkers. It felt like everyone was listening.

  “Your own practice?”

  “The president of the company has some connections. He’s setting me up with a few clients and an expert witness who recently retired from her post as Virginia’s chief forensic toxicologist. I’ll have my own law office in Richmond.”

  The light changed, and taxis immediately blew their horns. A large tour bus revved its engine as it went through the lower gears. Jason started walking again, moving with the masses.

  His father said something but Jason had to ask him to repeat it.

  “What type of clients?”

  “All kinds. Trial stuff. Civil as well as criminal.”

  This brought another pause. His father didn’t need it spelled out—private lawyers who handle criminal cases represent criminals. In his father’s view, only the prosecutors wore the white hats.

  “Heckuva way to make a living,” his father said. “Plea bargains for rapists. Attacking cops and victims for what—a couple hundred an hour?”

  Jason didn’t want to have this conversation right now. His father was stubborn, a trait Jason had inherited. “There are good lawyers on both sides, Dad. You know that.” And crooked ones too, though Jason left that part off.

  “Interesting way to show your gratitude,” Jason’s father said. Jason knew the comment was coming, but it still stuck in his craw. It was a reference to the incident, the point in Jason’s life when he learned that cops could be bought and sold, with loyalty if not with money. The same event that, in his father’s eyes, indebted Jason to his dad forever.

  The incident had haunted Jason for the past ten years, beginning with nightmares and bouts of depression that eventually gave way to a lingering cynicism. It was, though his father would never understand this, the reason Jason had decided to be a defense attorney.

  “Matt Corey put his career on the line—his entire life’s work—so you could have a chance,” his father reminded him. “You would have never made it to law school if Matt hadn’t valued our friendship enough to do that. Why do you want to spend your life attacking men like that?”

  “That’s not what I’ll be doing, Dad.” It was a small lie, but Jason just wanted off the phone.

  “Are you calling to ask me about this or tell me about it?”

  Jason took a breath and stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, out of the traffic flow. “I’m going to do this, Dad. And I’m going to do it the right way. I’ve made up my mind.”

  Jason’s father didn’t respond immediately, perhaps hoping that the uncomfortable silence would cause Jason to change his mind. If so, he was wasting his time.

  “There is no right way,” Jason’s dad eventually said. And with that parting comment, he hung up the phone.

  Part III: Adversaries

  12

  Eight weeks later

  Kelly Starling snuck a discreet glance at her watch, taking care to ensure the recruit sitting across her desk didn’t notice. She liked this young man—Geoff, a second-year from Georgetown with good grades and a track record of serious community service. Kelly’s firm, one of the largest and most prestigious on K Street in downtown Washington, surely could have used another idealist like Kelly. But she knew it wasn’t going to happen.

  “I read the article about your work with victims of human trafficking,” Geoff said, admiration flashing in his eyes. “It’s one of the things that attracted me to the firm.”

  He was talking about a two-year-old Washington Post story detailing the way young women were lured to America with the promise of jobs and then forced into prostitution or pornography to pay off insurmountable debts. As a second-year associate at Burgess and Wicker, Kelly had started taking a few of those cases pro bono—filing suits to wipe out the women’s debts and pushing prosecutors to indict the men who brought them here. The article made great press, and now B&W included it in all their marketing and recruiting materials, as if the firm had a serious commitment to pro bono work.

  Kelly had retold the story in dozens of interviews, mesmerizing law students with a side of D.C. most of them never knew existed. At the same time, she was careful not to imply that they might have a shot at being another Kelly Starling. B&W was interested in billable hours, not crusades.

  Kelly was one of a kind—a fortunate beneficiary of publicity that had helped the firm’s image and eased the conscience of its senior partners as they hauled down more than a million a year. One Kelly Starling was good for a firm like B&W, softening its image. The firm “cover girl,” the other associates had labeled her. But a bunch of Kelly Starlings would destroy the financial model of the firm, butchering the cash cow that funded Bentleys for the partners and college educations for their kids and plastic surgery for their spouses.

  Stifling a yawn, Kelly told Geoff her sex-trafficking story, leaving out the gory details in a PG-13 version of the events. Most recruits expressed horror that such things could go on right under their government’s nose in the nation’s capital. A few of the more confident male recruits—usually former jocks—would try to flirt a little or let Kelly know that they might have taken matters into their own hands and busted a few heads when nobody was looking.

  Kelly was used to this—men trying to impress. She had been a swimmer in high school, fast enough to earn a few college scholarships, which she had promptly declined. She still tried to stay in shape, but her sedentary job was taking its toll. Plus, there were some things you couldn’t fix at the gym.

  To her own critical eye, her shoulders were a bit too broad, and she lacked the curves of most women her age, compensating instead with toned arms and flat abs. She still remembered the article they ran in her hometown paper in high school. It was probably supposed to be a compliment, but it didn’t seem that way to a sixteen-year-old girl who had grown to an awkward five-ten: She has the
perfect swimmer’s body. Her posture is gangly, loose and cocky, like a teenage boy’s. Her body resembles an inverted triangle—broad shoulders, long torso, thin hips—and provides a significant advantage in leverage over the other more muscular female swimmers she regularly beats.

  An inverted triangle—not exactly an endorsement for Hollywood’s next leading lady. But it worked for Kelly. Some said she had “natural” beauty, probably a backhanded comment on the fact that Kelly wore little makeup and kept her dirty-blonde hair short and layered, requiring minimal fuss between her morning swim and hitting the office. More honest assessors used the word handsome to describe her slender face, an adjective perhaps engendered by the firm jaw or high forehead. She squinted when she smiled, flashing dimples and perfectly aligned white teeth, thanks to the wonder of orthodontics.

  The Washington Post article had called her a cross between Dara Torres and Greta Van Susteren—quite a stretch in Kelly’s opinion. The same article had described her as somewhat obsessive, an “A+++ personality,” in the words of the reporter. The fact that Kelly could still remember the exact quotes nearly two years later probably proved them right.

  In any event, the recruiting director at B&W was no dummy—she sent Kelly nearly twice as many male law students as females.

  But Geoff didn’t try to play it cool or demonstrate his machismo. “That’s amazing,” he said after Kelly finished. “I would have never had the guts to do half that stuff.”

  Geoff was big and a little goofy, his blond hair moussed into spikes, but his transcript was littered with As. If B&W hired him, he would be stuck in the library, researching complicated tax shelter schemes or leveraged buyouts. He wouldn’t have a minute to spare for the homeless or elderly.

  Kelly wrapped up the interview as efficiently as possible and ushered Geoff to the next attorney’s office five minutes early. She walked quickly back to her office so she could fill out the interview form before her next appointment. She gave Geoff a few scores below five on a scale of one to ten, low enough to guarantee he wouldn’t make the cut. Kelly really liked the kid, so much so that she wasn’t willing to subject him to the pressure cooker at B&W. Only the strong survived at Kelly’s firm. Her partners would chew Geoff up and spit him out.

  13

  Later in the day, Kelly waited in her office for the receptionist to call. She tried to busy herself with other files, but it was useless. Finally, at a few minutes after one, the call she had been waiting for came through.

  “Mr. Crawford is here.”

  “Can you set him up in 12A? I’ll be down in a couple minutes.”

  Mr. Crawford. Blake Crawford. Grieving widower of Rachel Crawford, the reporter gunned down in the WDXR studio two months earlier. A week ago he had called Kelly out of the blue, claiming he had been referred to her by the Handgun Violence Coalition. He wanted to talk about suing the manufacturer of the MD-9—the gun Larry Jamison had used to execute Rachel.

  At first, she thought it was a prank, but she kept herself from saying anything stupid. Once she realized it really was Blake Crawford on the phone, she started running through the legal analysis in her mind. Though the case sounded like a stretch, Kelly didn’t want to say no until she had at least researched it. She didn’t get calls from potential clients with national name recognition every day.

  It was complicated, Kelly had said, explaining that he had caught her between meetings. Could they schedule an appointment? Would first thing next week be soon enough?

  Kelly’s next call had been to the director of the Handgun Violence Coalition, who said he had indeed referred Blake Crawford to her. The director explained that he had received a call from a big donor who suggested Kelly might be the perfect lawyer to represent Blake Crawford against the gun manufacturer. The donor had faxed a copy of the Washington Post article to the director, noting that both Kelly and Rachel Crawford had been active on the issue of human trafficking. “Maybe you should call Blake Crawford,” the donor had suggested, “and explain the basis for a suit against MD Firearms, referring him to Kelly Starling.”

  Kelly had asked for the name of the donor.

  “He wants to remain anonymous,” the director said.

  After a few days of additional research, Kelly had some solid answers. The case had potential. And she would pull out all the stops to get it.

  Letting Blake Crawford sit for a few minutes in conference room 12A, the crown jewel of B&W’s Washington office, would be a good start.

  Nearly half of B&W’s 450 lawyers set up shop in this smoked-glass office building with the prestigious K Street address. Others worked out of equally plush addresses in Atlanta, Singapore, Paris, Bangkok, and London. Conference room 12A had seen its share of Fortune 500 CEOs and United States senators. Billion-dollar deals had closed on its forty-foot mahogany table. Bill Gates had been deposed here. Press conferences had been held here. National political campaigns announced. Even a few office affairs had been consummated here in the wee hours, the participants evidently unaware of the hidden cameras.

  From 12A you could gaze out over Farragut Square, contemplate your problems while staring at the U.S. Chamber of Commerce building, or catch a glimpse of the Capitol on the horizon. Kelly met with her sex-trafficking clients on park benches and in greasy restaurants, but Blake Crawford would get the full treatment, including an extra five-minute wait so he could admire the authentic paintings and realize that Kelly was a very important and busy associate in a very successful firm.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Kelly said, bursting into the conference room and shaking Blake’s hand with just the right touch of assertiveness. “Something to drink?”

  “I’m fine,” he said. Blake was dressed in khaki pants, a light blue shirt, and a black suit coat. He had dark circles under his eyes and a quiet voice, the strain of the last few months showing on his face.

  Kelly had admired his restraint when he appeared on TV. He had steadfastly refused to cast blame on anyone except Larry Jamison—not WDXR for having lax security; not the SWAT team for failing to intervene early enough; not the gun dealer for selling the gun illegally; not the manufacturer of the weapon. “I don’t know why this happened,” Blake Crawford had said. “But I just have to trust God that He’s got His reasons. Pointing fingers won’t make the pain go away.”

  Kelly trusted God, too. But sometimes, in Kelly’s view, God needed a good lawyer.

  Kelly sat across the table from Blake, suddenly feeling silly for meeting in such a large and imposing room. “Thanks for coming in,” she said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks.” Blake looked at Kelly for a moment and then down at the table. “I almost cancelled,” he admitted. “I still don’t know if this is the right thing to do.”

  “I understand that,” Kelly said. “Let’s just take it one step at a time.”

  She asked Blake some introductory questions and jotted a few notes on a legal pad so she could fill out the new client intake form. “I haven’t completed my investigation yet, but I’ve got some preliminary opinions,” Kelly said. She noticed the blank look in her potential client’s eyes—the pain of the tragedy had apparently morphed into a certain kind of numbness. She had seen the same look from her human trafficking clients when they gave up hope.

  “Let’s start with the gun dealer.” Kelly opened a file she had compiled on Peninsula Arms, the shop that had sold the gun Larry Jamison used to murder Blake’s wife.

  “Jamison had a felony record and was ineligible to purchase a firearm under federal law,” Kelly explained. “The gun was actually sold to a twenty-three-year-old man named Jarrod Beeson. As you know, Beeson originally said that somebody had stolen his gun and that he just didn’t bother reporting it. But the next thing you know, some guy serving time for illegal firearms possession tells the authorities that Beeson was one of the men used as an intermediary in other straw purchase transactions from this same store. The ATF agents pressure Beeson and he cracks, admitting his role as a straw purchase
r.”

  Blake Crawford nodded absentmindedly.

  All this information had already been broadcast to the entire nation, Kelly knew. Beeson had signed a confession acknowledging his role in multiple straw purchases from Peninsula Arms. He even admitted that sometimes the clerks at Peninsula Arms would give his cell number to potential customers who couldn’t clear the background check on their own. Three weeks ago, the feds indicted the owner and a store clerk at Peninsula Arms. Last week, the store and its owner filed bankruptcy.

  “This is not an isolated case.” Kelly slid a nineteen-page Excel spreadsheet across the table. It contained a long list of guns sold by Peninsula Arms that had been traced to crimes in New York City, Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia.

  “A few years ago, several municipalities filed suit against rogue gun dealers who demonstrated a pattern of engaging in illegal transactions—selling guns to eligible purchasers acting as stand-ins for ineligible purchasers. New York City even sent undercover agents as phony shoppers to the gun stores.

  “The first agent would select a gun but balk at the paperwork when it came to questions about whether he was a felon or had been involuntarily committed to a mental facility. A few hours later, that same person would come back with somebody else, point out the gun right in front of the same store clerk, and give the new agent the money to buy the gun. The clerk would have the new undercover agent fill out the paperwork and would sell the gun, then watch as that person handed the gun to the illegal purchaser. The dealers never even reported this to the ATF.”

  Kelly waited a moment as Blake glanced over the chart. With the help of the Handgun Violence Coalition’s attorneys, she had distilled the statistics from each of the East Coast cities that had filed a lawsuit. “In 2006 alone, the last year for which we have stats, Peninsula Arms sold 251 firearms linked to murders or aggravated woundings in these four cities. Only one other dealer had a greater number of guns traced to crimes. Between the two of them—Brachman’s Gun Shop and Peninsula Arms—they had accounted for more than 30 percent of the guns that turned up in these cities linked to violent crime.