Page 13 of One of Us Is Guilty

I was in a conference room, alone, my hands on a walnut table and a hot cup of coffee in a stainless-steel mug in front of me. It had been poured from a steel coffee pot by an assistant wearing a gold Rolex, before he left me on my own to go fetch the principals I was about to meet. This wasn’t my first experience with the behemoth law firms that occupy this town. I wasn’t impressed and I wasn’t intimidated, despite their best efforts. I knew how to win a trial, and I was damn good at what I did, but I wasn’t in their league. In many ways, I wasn’t even in the same sport. The floor below them was occupied by an oil company. The business that sat below my office in Tribeca was a tattoo parlor. I was pretty sure that was a Picasso on the wall of the conference room. I didn’t have artwork in the office; I was lucky the walls were painted. The only thing that passed for art in my firm was a framed print of four bulldogs playing pool that hung in Harry Ford’s office. He was a former judge, my best friend and a consultant with my firm. He knew his way around the law better than anyone in this building. The differencewas Harry billed out to clients at a hundred dollars an hour. In this firm, the janitor probably made more than that.

I wasn’t in Kansas any more.

The door opened and two men entered the room.

One was tall and broad, wearing a blue double-breasted pinstripe suit, and a pink shirt and pink tie. He had a head of thick, curly red hair, swept back over his scalp with either gel, wax or motor oil. Whatever it was, it glistened as he passed underneath the recessed ceiling lights. He walked in with his meaty hand extended in a greeting. I took it, and we shook hands.

‘Glad to meet you, Eddie. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘Don’t believe everything you hear,’ I said.

He threw his big red head back on his shoulders and his belly shook with laughter. It was at this point I noticed his companion: a small man who appeared to be wearing the same suit. Blue pinstripe, but with a white shirt and pink, tile-patterned necktie. In contrast to his big friend, this man was pale and thin. There was a mousy aspect to his features – pointed nose, pinhead eyeballs recessed so far into his skull that they looked like they were afraid of everything they saw, and pale lips drawn back over sharp little teeth. I checked his shoes, and saw the lifts in his heels.

‘I’m Rex Buchanan,’ said the big man. ‘This is Ronald Duff.’

Duff stepped forward and nodded. No handshake. No greeting.

I nodded back.

‘Take a seat,’ said Buchanan, and sat down opposite me. Duff pulled out a seat at the head of the table, to my left. As he did so, I noticed there was an extra five inches of padding on the seat of that chair, to make sure Duff got close to eye level with the larger men he sat with at this table. It was a small detail, but it told me a lot. This seat was especially made for him. He didn’t want the indignity of sitting on a cushion, yet the impression of power he wanted to portray was too important to him to be compromised by his diminutive stature.

‘Thanks for coming in, Eddie. I explained on the phone we have a client that we care about very much, but we can’t be on the record for them right now. We want you to come on board and work with us on this. It shouldn’t be anything more than handholding and advice.’

Lawyers hold on to their most important clients like they’re made of gold. It takes a lot to even think about bringing in another lawyer to represent them. It was only done when professional ethics demanded it.

‘I appreciate the call. Who is the client?’

‘Vanessa Vanderpool,’ said Buchanan with some flair, like that name should mean something to me.

I nodded, tried to remember who the hell she was. I’d heard or read the name before, but right then I couldn’t place it.

‘Sorry, you’ll need to remind me . . .’

‘She’s married to Patrick Vanderpool, Julian’s son,’ said Buchanan.

Julian Vanderpool was a name that most people knew. He was a newspaper man who got rich in the seventies trading stocks, and used that windfall to buy up more newspapers, then started his own television network in the eighties. Subsequent ventures included publishing companies and maybe thirty radio stations. In the last twenty years, most of his money has come through his news entertainment channel. It wasn’t really a news channel, because it favored whatever politicians or political parties happened to favor Julian Vanderpool. The fact that Buchanan called him by his first name indicated a long-standing relationship. Julian Vanderpool had been sued more times than any human being alive, largely because of the way his newspapers and TV networks went about covering celebrities and politicians. Journalistic integrity wasn’t high on the agenda. Despite the lawsuits, the divorces, the mergers, the scandals and the pressure traditional media was under from social media and new technology, Julian Vanderpool remained one of the richest people in the world. That meant he had power. Presidents listened to him.Tech moguls still feared him. And his son, Patrick, would one day inherit his empire.

‘So what’s the problem with Vanessa? Why do you need me?’ I asked.

‘It’s a long story. Tragic, really. As you may know, Patrick is running for governor, and last week one of his campaign staff was murdered in her home. A young woman named Molly Green. The police have questioned everyone on the campaign, including Vanessa and Patrick, and some allegations unrelated to the murder have emerged.’

‘What kind of allegations?’

The little guy, Duff, removed a folded document from his suit jacket along with a pen, and placed them in front of me. It was the first time he’d moved for a minute or two. I’d almost forgotten he was there.

I unfolded the document and checked it over. It was a non-disclosure agreement. Everything that I heard in this room was under client confidentiality. Standard practice.

I signed it. Passed it back. Duff took it without a word, leaned forward, his face just inches from the page, to make sure I’d signed and dated correctly. He turned toward Buchanan and something passed between them, silently. Buchanan continued.

‘Thank you for this. Yes, unrelated allegations. It seems there is a spurious lie going around that Patrick was having an affair with Molly. It’s nonsense, and he denies it, but the NYPD are on this like flies. It’s the only lead they have and they’re sniffing around the couple, trying to dig up whatever dirt they can to make a case.’

‘Are they trying to say she was murdered by Patrick Vanderpool?’

‘We don’t know yet, maybe. Obviously, it’s total bullshit. Vanessa is standing by her husband one hundred per cent. The problem we face is more delicate. We don’t want to be in a position of a potential conflict of interest in relation to his wife, Vanessa.’

‘And you can’t tell me what that potential conflict might be,because then I would know and I wouldn’t be able to represent Vanessa either?’

‘We counseled Vanessa and sat with her while she was questioned by the homicide detectives, but we’re in a potentially uncomfortable position.’