Private Sector Read online

  No doubt we both recognized we could play this game for another hour, so to do us both a favor I cut to the chase and asked, “Is this negotiable?”

  “No.”

  “Is your nonnegotiability negotiable?”

  It appeared not. He replied, “You know your options.”

  Okay, my options.

  One—tell him to stuff this opportunity up his butt, followed by my resignation. Among other problems with this course was the very pressing issue of who’d send me a check every month.

  Option two—a good soldier does not question his orders; he snaps his heels and marches smartly off to his fate, at least pretending to believe that those who wear stars are celestially wise and all-knowing. Across the highway are several sections of monuments dedicated to this strangely popular option.

  Oh, there was also, I suppose, a third option, though it is so disgraceful I hesitate to bring it up and, clearly, never gave it a second thought. But this would be the one where I reported to this firm, screwed up everything I touched—including a partner’s wife— peed in the morning coffee, and got sent back to the Army labeled unfit for civilian duty.

  As I said, though, I never gave it a second thought. What was the big deal anyway? I had caught a bad rap. Nobody goes the full three rounds of a military career who can’t stand on their head for a year or two. And perhaps it would turn out to be fun, enlightening, and all the rest of that bullshit Clapper promised. For that matter, regarding Clapper, perhaps I misjudged his motives. He probably was concerned for me, my career, my chances of surviving the next promotion board.

  So I contemplated this and said, “Perhaps I’ve been hasty.” After a moment of further reflection, I added, “You’re right. I could use. . . you know. . . professional growth, a chance to try something different . . . new horizons.”

  I smiled and he smiled back. He said, “Sean, I was really afraid you were going to be difficult about this. I’m glad you understand.”

  “I do understand.” I looked him dead in the eye and promised, “And I assure you, General, I will do you and the Army proud.”

  P. S. , see you in a week, two at the outside, big guy.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The photo was a clean shot, revealing a face both lovely and angular. Full lips, pert nose, eyes that were deeply and memorably green. She was smiling when the picture was taken, a likable smile, effortless and without artifice. Eyes that festered with sympathy. No makeup. No jewelry. She was beautiful, yet tended to ignore or at least not amplify it. He liked this and so many other things about her.

  She would be first.

  He stole another glance at her bedroom window; the light was still on, and he returned to studying her photo, as though it could yield a clue he had somehow overlooked.

  She appeared younger than thirty—no wrinkles, droopiness under her eyes, nor flab as best he could tell. Yet he knew for a fact that she had crossed that benchmark in May, was single, currently uninvolved, and had lived in the Washington suburbs the past three years.

  He had unobtrusively edged into line behind her two days before at a nearby Starbucks, had sniffed her perfume and approved: expensive and tasteful. About five foot eight, possibly 115 pounds, and she carried herself well; poised, but with no hint of the conceit or brashness one expects from women with her looks and brains. She was courteous and friendly to the girl behind the counter and left a seventy-five-cent tip for a $1.25 coffee—overly generous by his reckoning—no sugar, no cream. She was not a health nut;he’d twice seen her eat meat, but she appeared mindful of bad habits.

  Actually, she had to be the first.

  He had batted it around inside his head three dozen times, chewed over the pros and cons, pondered it so hard that he nearly gave himself a splitting headache.

  It had to be her.

  Put her off and the whole thing could collapse.

  But how?

  By far, she was the riskiest of the group. He was methodical by necessity, and had actually devised a computer program to help him judge and assess these things. Plug in this factor and that vulnerability, and the algorithms worked their twisty magic and spit out a number. Ten was the level of most damnable difficulty. She was an eight, and anything above seven worried him—the program wasn’t flawless, and there surely were factors he had overlooked, qualities he had failed to plumb, so the magnitude could be underestimated. He’d never done a nine or, God forbid, a ten. Over the years, he had considered a few and walked away. The odds of a blunder were simply too damned high and the penalty of failure unthinkable. A seven also happened to be on the list, edging toward eight, but the rest were sixes and below. His usual method was to save the hardest for last, as a mistake in the beginning could unravel the whole thing.

  But it wasn’t an option.

  It had to be her.

  So, back to how.

  The top file on the car seat beside him was thick with details about her life and habits, acquired mostly with very little trouble from public sources and several days of cautious snooping. A few critical details had been obtained elsewhere.

  She had clockwork habits. At 5:30 each and every morning her bedroom light flicked on. Fifteen minutes later she came bolting out the front door in spandex running tights, and she certainly had the figure for them: long, lean legs and a bodacious ass. A dark runner’s shirt that contrasted handsomely with her short blond hair and practical but expensive running shoes completed her morning attire. She was fit and very, very fast. He had clocked her twice—five miles in thirty-two minutes over a course that was hilly and daunting, without ever varying her route or pace.

  She had been a long-distance track star in high school and college. Her college newspaper described her as a steady performer, consistently placing first against weak schools, but apt to disappoint against the powerhouses. The rebuke struck him as unfair. She ran in the East, where blacks dominated, and did quite well for a white girl. Also, she’d managed a 3.9 GPA as an undergrad at the University of Virginia and graduated fifteenth in her class from Harvard Law. He regarded it as shameful that they couldn’t meet under less complicated conditions. He preferred intelligent, accomplished, athletic women and felt certain they would hit it off.

  She lived alone in a community of townhouse dwellers whose homes, economic stations, and lifestyles were tedious and ordinary. However, the neighborhood was clean, safe, and a short commute from her office. She was sociable with her neighbors, but that was as far as it went. Her close friends were made at work and elsewhere.

  Her townhouse was a two-story end unit, brick-fronted, slat-sided, with a one-car garage tucked underneath the living room. Thick woods were behind the complex, apparently left standing by a thoughtful builder to afford a sense of privacy. He appreciated the irony. Both nights he had scaled a tall tree and, using night-vision goggles, had observed her through a window.

  After her runs she took thirty minutes to shower, dress, and breakfast. At 7:15 her garage door slid open and her shiny gray Nissan Maxima backed out. A brief stop at the Starbucks three blocks from her townhouse, then a straight scoot to her office. A Daytimer crammed with notes and appointments dictated her life. She lunched at her desk and shopped only on weekends. Her evenings were the only erratic and unpredictable part of her schedule. She tended to work late, occasionally past midnight.

  She dated one man at a time, as best he could tell, and was finicky and old-fashioned about matters of romance. Spontaneous pickups and one-night stands weren’t part of her style. Too bad, because he could picture scenarios where this would be a workable approach, but he could more easily picture a swift brush-off fraught with unacceptable complications.

  She was cautious and had commendable security habits. With her looks she should be, in his view. She locked her car door every time she left it. Penetrating her workplace was out of the question. She had installed a security system in her townhouse that she meticulously activated every time she walked out the door. A fairly good system in his expert jud
gment: a battery backup; the windows and doors were wired; a motion detection system was installed in the living room; and he guessed there was at least one panic button, most likely positioned in her bedroom. She tended, however, to leave open the second-floor bathroom window, presumably to prevent odor and mildew.

  That flaw, however, did him no good. His script was everything, and no matter how he jiggled, twisted, or warped it, that glaring oversight could not be made to fit.

  He kneaded his neck, turned off the car’s overhead light, and tossed the file back on the passenger’s seat. His decision was made, and in every way he could consider it made sense.

  He would take her where she least expected it. He would move in when her alertness and instincts were at their lowest ebb, and would approach her in such a manner that she would let down her defenses and allow him near.

  She would be his calling card, and what a memorable one she would be.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE VERY GRATING VOICE ON THE PHONE SAID, “I’M SALLY WESTIN. I’VE BEEN assigned to welcome you to Culper, Hutch, and Westin.” When I failed to reply, she prompted, “The firm you’ll be working for.”

  The clock was still stuck on 4:30 A.M. I said, “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Of course. Do you know where we’re located?”

  “I’m sure it’s in the phone book.”

  “Fine,” she replied. “Ask for me when you arrive. The partners are here by 8:00 A.M. and it’s a good idea to arrive well ahead of them. There’s no time clocks . . . but it’s noticed. And I’m sure you want to make the right first impression.”

  Now that she mentioned it, yes, I did. I hung up, rolled over, and closed my eyes.

  At 8:30, I flipped on the TV, let Katie and the gang bombard me with bubbly glee, allowed Diane her equal shot in the ratings war, showered, shaved, and so forth.

  Understand why I didn’t want to do this program. I love the Army. It’s the life for me. FTA, as the troops say, which, depending on your day, either means Fun, Travel, and Adventure or Fuck The Army. On particular days, it means both. So what else—interesting work, simplicity in your wardrobe, a well-ordered universe, and the sense of serving a higher calling. I’m too horny to be a priest, so there it is.

  Also, there’s a wide chasm between the worlds of military and civilian law and, more particularly, the soft-heeled world of corporate law. We don’t play the billings game, or scramble, or plead, or compete for customers, and, less fortunately, there’s no fat bonus checks in our mailboxes at Christmas. Yet it has been my unfortunate experience that many big-firm lawyers look down their noses at us. They regard us as public dole idiots, soft, lazy, and lacking intellectual brawn. But I don’t feel slighted; after all, they’re all spoiled, arrogant, overpaid jerks.

  Regarding Clapper’s assurances about Lisa Morrow and her experience at the firm, generals don’t lie, but truth can slip through their lips in fairly odd ways. I mean, do they say, “Three platoons that tried to take that hill just got the living shit kicked out of them and now, God bless you, boys, go on up there and take your ass kicking.” No; they say silly things like, “You are the finest soldiers on earth and I’ve therefore elected you for the very prestigious honor of taking that small, lightly defended hill.”

  I’d be tucked in a corner office in the basement, where I’d spend my year counting how many paper clips it takes to run a law firm. I’d be handed a handsome plaque when the year ended, with my name misspelled, because, excluding the janitors, nobody in the friggin’ firm had the slightest idea who the hell I was.

  Last, Clapper is not as smart as he thinks he is. Like most generals, he is adroit at holding his cards close to his vest and, like most lawyers, at cloaking the truth. I actually was a little hurt that he didn’t think I’d see through this. He obviously had a larger plan, and something told me it ended with Sean Drummond behind a desk in the Pentagon Contracts Office negotiating basing rights, weapons system agreements, and other things too appalling to mention.

  Somebody has to do it, I guess. But, no sir, it wasn’t going to be me.

  Anyway, the firm in question turned out to be located on Connecticut Avenue, six blocks from the White House, a neighborhood renowned for power restaurants, sluggish traffic, and astonishing rents. I found an underground garage, parked, and made my way to the nine-story building, where a wall directory by the elevator indicated the firm took up the top three floors. This answered the first question. It was a big firm. Also the unasked question—money mill.

  The elevator opened on the eighth floor, and that last point was underscored in impressive fashion—burnished mahogany walls, dimly lit sconces, and “Culper, Hutch, and Westin” obnoxiously scribbled in gold letters on the wall. I stepped out of the elevator and vomited on the carpet. Just kidding.

  Also sprinkled about were a few brass-studded leather couches, side tables and lamps, paintings of sailing ships, and an attractive middle-aged lady with her well-dressed ass parked behind a long wooden desk, who instantly inquired, “Might I help you?” in one of those clipped, upper-class English accents that fit nicely with the ambience.

  I replied, “You may. Sally Westin.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Drummond.”

  She had one of those telephone microphone thingees, she pushed a button, she whispered into the mouthpiece, and she then informed me, “Have a seat. Miss Westin will be out shortly to retrieve you.”

  I smiled and asked her, “Hey, what’s the difference between a corporate lawyer and a liar?” When she failed to reply, I said, “Spelling.”

  Appearing slightly annoyed, she informed me, “Really, I’m quite busy,” pointed at a chair, then pushed a button and pretended to be talking to somebody else.

  I sat. Clearly, this place needed to loosen up. There was a bit of foot traffic, men mostly, looking smug and self-important with their two-thousand-dollar suits and Gucci briefcases. I scrunched up my face and looked self-important, too. I was making a real effort to fit in. I wondered if I should get a Gucci briefcase. Probably not.

  A young lady finally approached and said to me, “I’m Miss Westin. I was, well . . . I was expecting you earlier. Much earlier, actually.”

  So. Start with her physical appearance—thirtyish, wholesome, small but neat features, and I suppose pretty, yet groomed, wrapped, and coiffed in a manner that indicated some resentment about this. Brown hair wrapped in a tight bun, gold-rimmed glasses, no makeup; boobs, hips, and all the other female paraphernalia were present for duty, but tucked, shoved, and otherwise camouflaged to avoid prominence. The word “tightass” popped to mind, though perhaps I was being hasty.

  Now her expression—puckered, reproachful, definitely guilt-inducing. So perhaps I wasn’t being hasty.

  “Well, as you can see,” she said, after it was clear I wasn’t going to explain my tardiness, “we have a great facility here. Electronically, we’re the world’s most advanced firm, we have top-caliber paralegals and secretarial staff, and our library is kept completely up-to-date with all the latest rulings on anything dealing with corporate law.”

  Without further ado she walked off, saying, “Let me show you the office allocated for your use. I’m sure you’ll find it satisfactory.”

  So together she and I proceeded down a long hallway wallpapered in muted colors and carpeted with some kind of plush oriental runner. Very chez chic. She eventually hooked a left into a corner twenty-by-thirty-foot office with a few more sailing ships on the walls, a hand-carved wooden desk, and two leather sofas perched atop a gigantic oriental carpet. Two walls were windowed to offer a panoramic view of downtown.

  My normal office, if you’re interested, is a windowless ten-by-twenty-foot cell with a dented metal desk and a gray metal wall safe, and the Army’s idea of artwork is reenlistment posters, which are an oxymoronic, even a moronic sight in a defense counsel’s office, if you ask me. Yet it occurred to me that I might remain at the firm long enough for some of my Army pals
to, you know, come over and check out how the other half lives. Disgusting . . . really disgusting.

  She waved an arm around. “It belonged to a sixth-year associate who nearly made partner. He was discharged last week. It’s yours until the next time our management committee meets.”

  As I looked around, she added, “My office down the hall isn’t nearly this grand.” She then asked, I think petulantly, “Well? Can you work out of here?”

  “Is there a coffee machine?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Cappuccino and espresso machines also. If that doesn’t suit your tastes, one of our secretaries will be pleased to run out and get whatever you desire.”

  Boy, was this the life or what? If I told Sergeant First Class Imelda Pepperfield, my legal assistant, to run out and pick me up a little cup of that café latte crap, they’d have to dislodge her foot from my ass. But the Army, being a public institution, accountable to the public and all that, frowns upon the menialization of its females. As I mentioned, there are considerable differences between the public and private sectors; I didn’t say they’re all actually bad.

  I sat on a leather sofa and bounced up and down a few times— good springs, soft leather, strong, resilient frame—a man could take damn fine naps on this couch.

  “And what did you say you do for the firm?” I asked Miss Westin.

  “I’m a third-year associate. I’ve just been moved to our largest corporate client.” She asked me, “And what kind of law do you do in the Army?”

  “Strictly criminal.”

  “Oh. . . I see.” She shifted her weight from her left foot to her right. “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place to learn corporate and contracts, Drummond. Culper, Hutch, and Westin has a top reputation in the field.”