Authors: RANDY SINGER
“I’ll think about it. Your track record is strong. But this one has some hair on it.”
Sherwood knew McDermont was a stubborn man. Sometimes, the harder Sherwood pushed, the more McDermont resisted. “You pay us to give our best recommendation,” Sherwood said. “We’ve done that. The rest is up to you.”
“Thanks,” McDermont said. Sherwood took it as a cue to move on.
“These next few slides deal with our foundation’s efforts in Kenya,” Sherwood said.
Images of Kenyans with hollow eyes and skin hanging from their bones flashed on the screen. Moms. Children. Men whose look said they had lost all reason to live.
“In Kenya, millions of people have been diagnosed with the HIV virus but can’t afford a cab ride to the hospital so they can get a treatment that could send the disease into remission. Even if they get there, they usually can’t afford the costs of the medication.”
Sherwood paused and snuffed out his cigar in an ash tray. “A child with the HIV virus can live her entire life within the shadow of a clinic that has a life-sustaining vaccine and still die because she can’t afford it. In Kenya, the poverty level is one dollar per day.”
A slide popped up showing the faces of young kids rummaging through garbage, gazing up at the camera. “This is why Justice Inc. exists,” Sherwood said. “America has men like us who are obscenely rich. We can save millions of lives if we’re willing to part with just 10 percent.”
The hedge fund managers looked somber. They would donate 10 percent; they knew it was the price of admission. All but McDermont. If he got on board, he would give 20 percent.
“Our goal as a company is to donate $50 million to our Kenya foundation this year. We would be honored if you chose to join us.”
Sherwood looked from one face to the next. He exited the slide show, knowing he had pushed his cause as hard as possible. His screen saver replaced the PowerPoint slides, showing a beautiful young lady in the mountains of Pakistan—Marissa Sherwood, his only child. Dead at the age of twenty-five. She had gone to the war-torn country on a humanitarian mission, helping to provide clean drinking water to areas of the country devastated by conflict and poverty. She was killed in the cross fire between two warring tribes.
Sherwood didn’t say a word about her. These men had already heard the story many times. Today, he let Marissa’s clear blue eyes say it for him.
There are some things in life more important than making more money.
The next day, Felix McDermont invested nearly a hundred million hedge fund dollars in various short sales and put options that would pay off if Kendra Van Wyck was convicted—and fail miserably if she walked.
When the phone call came, Robert Sherwood breathed a huge sigh of relief. When smart money managers saw hedge fund money bet big against Van Wyck, they would assume the funds had inside information about the trial. In response, the money managers would start dumping stock in Van Wyck’s companies, causing the stock prices to plummet even before the verdict.
Justice Inc. would no longer need a conviction to double its money. By the time the jury decided the case, Justice Inc. would have already cashed out.
The pattern held on the Van Wyck case, and within three days of the meeting on the yacht, Justice Inc. had doubled its investment and started pulling its money out.
By the time the jury began its deliberations, Justice Inc. had banked its eighty million in profits. Others might lose their shirts, but Justice Inc. no longer had its own money at risk. Sherwood’s reputation would take a huge hit if the rock star was acquitted, but his profit and loss statement would remain unblemished.
And it was a good thing. Three weeks after the meeting on the yacht, the jury emerged from two days of intense deliberations and announced its verdict.
Kendra Van Wyck was acquitted on all counts.
The Justice Inc. world headquarters was spread over two floors in a high-rise office building at 125 Broad Street in the heart of New York’s financial district. Because “associates” like Jason Noble traveled so much, they did not have offices at Broad Street. Instead, Justice Inc. provided BlackBerries, laptops, and a generous rent allowance. When he was in New York, Jason used the corner of his studio apartment, located two blocks from Central Park, as his office. He paid through the nose for his proximity to one of the few green areas in the city, sacrificing apartment size for convenient access to the park.
The morning after the Van Wyck verdict, Jason was savoring his last day in New York before flying to Houston for a long and complex mock trial involving price fixing at one of America’s largest oil companies. Getting this verdict right would serve up enormous investment opportunities for Justice Inc. and its clients. It was rumored that Justice Inc. alone might invest nearly two hundred million. It would be the most scrutinized case Jason had tried during his time at the company.
It was nearly 8:30 in the morning on a gloomy mid-September day with an overcast sky that threatened steady rain. Jason laced up his running shoes, determined to get a quick run in before the showers started. He listened to the legal commentators try to make sense of yesterday’s verdict in the Van Wyck case.
Though he knew Justice Inc. had backed the wrong horse, he personally took satisfaction in the result. Jason had done what the real prosecutors could not. At the same time, he had told Andrew Lassiter that he had a bad feeling about the prosecution’s case—a hunch that had been proven right.
I operate on facts,
Lassiter had said.
You operate on feelings.
Chalk one up for feelings.
Heading out the door, Jason heard the double vibration of his BlackBerry, signaling a new e-mail. He knew he should let it go, but that was impossible. The devices were called “CrackBerries” for a reason.
The e-mail was from Robert Sherwood, requesting a meeting with Jason at 10 a.m. in Sherwood’s office.
Jason stared at the e-mail for a moment, his mind racing with the implications. Unlike Andrew Lassiter, Mr. Sherwood was not inclined to hang out with young associates. In fact, Jason had been in Sherwood’s office on only three prior occasions, and one of those preceded his hiring.
It probably had to do with the upcoming case in Houston or maybe the Van Wyck verdict. Whatever it was, Jason had an uneasy feeling about the meeting.
He pulled off his running shoes and headed for the shower. There were stories about young lawyers who kept Mr. Sherwood waiting. None of them had happy endings.
Jason exited the cab at 9:50, tipped the driver, and ran through the drizzle into a lobby that had given him goose bumps just eighteen months earlier. A white marble floor with tastefully placed brown marble squares, a granite rectangle that housed an oasis of green plants and flowers in the middle of the lobby, mirrored brass trim all around, and a security guard/receptionist smiling behind a mahogany wood desk all symbolized New York power, prestige, and status. This was the heart of New York, New York. Serious money was made here.
Jason rode the elevator to the twentieth floor, studying his own reflection during the rapid rise. He was the only associate who would think of attending a meeting like this without a suit. Instead, he wore plain black pants and a button-down, long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Jason was from Atlanta, where business casual was an art form. But more important, he worked hard to project a kind of casual attitude, a veneer to hide the ultracompetitive overachieving personality that lurked just beneath the surface. For close observers, there were hints of the real Jason Noble, like the fingernails chewed down to a nub during a stressful trial. But he had become a pro at hiding most of them.
“Good morning, Mr. Noble.” A pretty receptionist flashed a blinding smile.
The firm ought to issue sunglasses.
Jason checked in, and a few minutes later an equally stunning woman showed up to escort Jason down the hall to Robert Sherwood’s office. Jason thought about the snide comments made by young female associates who belittled the obvious importance of looks as part of Justice Inc.’s hiring criteria for staff. Funny how the male associates never complained.
The woman ushered Jason into the inner sanctum of Sherwood’s large corner suite. “Mr. Sherwood will be right back,” she said. “My name is Olivia. Please let me know if you need anything.”
Olivia stepped out, and Jason took the opportunity to glance around. His other visits to this office had been part of quick meetings with Mr. Sherwood and other attorneys—never alone like this. Though he worked hard not to be impressed by the trappings of success, the view out the bank of windows on the west wall was breathtaking even on a rainy day. The Statue of Liberty, the green trees on Ellis Island, a few boats navigating the choppy water of the Hudson River—it was all a little overwhelming for a cop’s kid from Alpharetta, Georgia.
But the view was not the most talked about aspect of Sherwood’s corner office. That honor fell to a mundane navy blue leather chair positioned just in front of Sherwood’s desk. The faded leather was cracked, and the wooden armrests were stained dark on the ends—the result, Jason suspected, of years of accumulated palm sweat. The old chair looked almost comically out of place amid the other expensive office furniture; the navy blue color didn’t even match the rich brown decor of the other furnishings.
But the blue chair had been known to strike terror into the hearts of even the most intrepid young associates. The Justice Inc. rumor mill said that the blue chair was only used for tongue-lashings and firings and similarly unpleasant events. When Mr. Sherwood asked you to have a seat in the blue chair, you’d better have your résumé updated.
When Sherwood entered the room, Jason was rubbing the small brass knobs on the top of the backrest, wondering how many lives had been changed in that chair.
“Thanks for coming,” Sherwood boomed, causing Jason to start. Sherwood walked over and shook Jason’s hand with a grip you might expect from a football coach. The man was old school—white shirt, red tie, black wing-tip loafers. He patted Jason on the shoulder. “Have a seat.”
Jason took a breath and slid reluctantly into the blue chair. Without speaking, Sherwood walked around his desk and sat in his own desk chair. Jason slouched down just a little and crossed his legs by resting his left ankle on his right knee. He wasn’t intimidated… much.
Before Sherwood started speaking, Olivia poked her head back in the office. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but it’s Mr. McDermont, and he’s insisting on speaking with you.”
Sherwood looked annoyed. “I’ve already talked with him twice. Tell him I’ll call back later.”
Olivia’s face fell, as if she knew McDermont would take it out on her. “I’ll let him know,” she said.
As soon as Olivia disappeared and closed the door, Sherwood pushed his chair back and stood, grabbing a sealed envelope as he did so. “They say you should never have a desk between yourself and someone you’re talking with. Creates a barrier or some such nonsense.” He walked out from behind his desk and motioned to a small round table. “Let’s move over here.”
Jason smiled to himself—a student of head games, he was watching a master. He joined Sherwood at the conference table that overlooked the river, suddenly feeling a little more confident after being liberated from the blue chair.
“Did Olivia offer you something to drink?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“You tried a heckuva case in Los Angeles,” Sherwood said.
“Thanks.” Jason felt a small burst of pride—after all, this was the head honcho. But he also noticed that the envelope Sherwood absentmindedly tapped on the table had Jason’s name on it.
“Too bad the real prosecutors didn’t use your playbook.”
Jason thought about his “playbook,” including the hair dye stunt. He had used another product after the trial to regain his natural brown hue. “They played it safe. Prosecutors always play it safe.”
Sherwood frowned at the thought and nodded. “You know what makes our system work?”
“Sir?”
“Do you know what makes our criminal justice system work? What allows juries to get it right most of the time?”
Jason could think of a thousand things—the presumption of innocence, the right to confront one’s accusers, a jury of one’s peers—but he wasn’t sure where Sherwood was headed. “I haven’t really thought about it in those terms,” Jason admitted.
“The adversarial nature of it,” Sherwood responded, as if the answer was obvious to any idiot. “When two equally matched and well-prepared advocates zealously represent their clients in front of an unbiased decision maker, the truth generally wins out.”
He rotated the envelope in his hands, zeroing in on Jason. “Now, what screws the system up? When does it
not
work?”
“When lazy or incompetent lawyers get involved. When the juries or judges are biased.”
“Right,” Sherwood said. “There’s an old adage about the definition of a jury. It’s twelve men and women from the local community who come together to decide which client hired the better lawyer. When exceptional lawyers with enormous resources outwork and outsmart their adversaries, they win. But in the process, justice loses.”
Three years of law school and two years of practicing law, and Jason had never heard it expressed quite that way. Sherwood had a reputation for cutting to the core issues.
“That’s what happened in the Van Wyck mock trial,” Sherwood continued. “You out-lawyered Austin Lockhart. You pulled out a conviction when the evidence demanded an acquittal. You cost a few hedge fund managers millions of dollars.”
Jason didn’t quite know what to say. It felt like he was being accused and congratulated at the same time.
“I think you’re giving me too much credit,” he managed.
“That’s what Andrew Lassiter said. And I listened. It cost me a lot of credibility, Jason. It cost my clients a lot of money.”