Justin Peacock Read online

  Leah looked over at Duncan while on the phone with her assistant. She didn’t smile or otherwise blunt her gaze, just openly evaluated him. Leah was attractive in a stringent sort of way, with dark straight hair and deep brown eyes, her coloring complemented by her dark pantsuit. She had the particular sort of confidence that Duncan had first encountered a decade previously upon entering Harvard Law: that of the born to it.

  Duncan wondered what she in turn saw while looking at him. He was medium height, with honey-colored skin and green eyes that stood out against his complexion, his dark brown hair cropped so short a comb could barely pass through the back and sides. Despite the July heat, he was dressed in a gray Brooks Brothers suit, with a blue oxford shirt and a striped navy blue tie. Duncan had picked out the most conservative outfit in his wardrobe for this meeting—even his business attire usually had at least a little more flair—and such clothing still sometimes felt like a disguise. But he was a background presence at a meeting like today’s, meant to be a quiet backstop for Blake, speaking if spoken to, and he therefore did his best to blend into the environment.

  “So,” Leah said, once she’d rejoined him across the conference room table. “You’re Steven Blake’s protégé?”

  “One of them,” Duncan said. “Blake brings in too much work to have just one.”

  “But you’re the one we get,” Leah said. “Hope we’re not keeping you from more important things.”

  Duncan wasn’t actually a fan of the work he was doing for Roth Properties: there were certainly sexier cases at the firm, including some of Blake’s. But there wasn’t an instant where he contemplated giving an honest answer, and he had no doubt Leah wasn’t expecting one. “You’re one of our firm’s most important clients, obviously,” he said instead. “It’s an honor to be trusted to work on your matters.”

  Leah smiled dismissively, signaling nice try. “The bills from your firm go across my desk,” she said. “I saw that you billed over two hundred hours to us the other month. That can’t leave you much time to work on anything else.”

  Duncan shrugged, a tad uneasy, not sure what Leah was looking for him to say. “It doesn’t really,” he said. “I’ve got a pro bono case, but that doesn’t take much time. As far as paying clients, right now you’re pretty much it. But it ebbs and flows.”

  “What’s your pro bono case about?”

  Duncan was surprised by the question, not expecting any actual curiosity about his professional life from Leah. “It’s just defending a family in an eviction proceeding.”

  “Is that all?” Leah said archly.

  Duncan felt a mix of annoyance and embarrassment, but tried not to let either show. His dismissiveness had not been directed at the case itself, which he took seriously, but just at the prospect of talking about it with Leah Roth. This was especially true because the case had a connection, albeit a tenuous one, with Roth Properties.

  His clients, a grandmother and grandson named Dolores and Rafael Nazario, were residents of the Jacob Riis housing project on the far eastern edge of Alphabet City. That project was receiving a radical makeover into mixed-income housing, a hugely ambitious transformation in which Roth Properties was partnering with the city. The eviction was based on the grandson getting arrested for smoking a joint outside his project. He’d been busted not by the cops, but rather by private security guards who’d been patrolling around the ongoing construction work.

  Rafael had pled guilty to a disorderly conduct charge stemming from the weed, not realizing that doing so would open the door to eviction proceedings. Rafael insisted that the whole thing was a lie, that he hadn’t actually been caught smoking pot, although Duncan didn’t necessarily put a lot of stock in the denials, especially since they were being made in front of his client’s grandmother.

  Duncan managed a smile at Leah. “I didn’t mean in the sense … Obviously, it’s very important to my clients to stay in their home, especially since they live in public housing—at Jacob Riis, actually—so it’s not like moving is an option. I just meant that it’s not some big save-the-world-type case.”

  Leah cocked her head, her curiosity roused. “We’re not involved, are we? Because of Riis, I mean.”

  “Only through the security guard who busted my guy, if that counts.”

  “It must be one of Darryl Loomis’s crew,” Leah said. “It’s an outside security firm we use.”

  “All things being equal, I’d prefer not to have to cross somebody who’s working for you.”

  “I didn’t know Blake and Wolcott even did pro bono.”

  “Neither did I,” Duncan replied with a grin, immediately second-guessing himself for being flip, even if Leah had started it. She was a client, after all: just because she wanted to poke at the firm’s hard-nosed reputation didn’t mean he should. “We’re trying to be better about giving back.”

  “Is that what it’s about?” Leah asked skeptically.

  The firm’s recent hits to its public image had been well chronicled in the press, and were obviously not news to Leah, but Duncan wasn’t about to meet her halfway on the topic. “As compared to?” he said, playing dumb.

  Leah shrugged. “Self-interest?” she offered.

  “You’d have to ask Blake as to the underlying motives,” Duncan said. “I’m just more in the, you know, doing-what-I’m-told stage of my career.”

  “A loyal foot soldier?” Leah said as their lunch was brought in.

  Duncan smiled. “That’s me,” he said.

  2

  DUNCAN WALKED into his favorite conference room, which was on the thirty-third floor of his firm’s Midtown office building. Two walls were entirely windows: the longer one looking out onto other skyscrapers, the shorter one facing west, offering a narrow slice of the Hudson River. A Cindy Sherman photograph—one of the Untitled Film Stills—was on the wall behind Candace Snow, although it was partially blocked by the blue background screen that had been set up by the videographer. Duncan, who was on the firm’s art committee, was responsible for their owning the Sherman print. He was proud of this, but had never once found a way to mention it to anybody, for fear of sounding like a pompous ass. He certainly wasn’t about to bring it up now.

  Duncan extended a hand to Candace, introducing himself. Candace looked down at his outstretched hand, her mouth curling. She was clearly not contemplating shaking it. “How long is this going to take?” she asked.

  “It’s going to take how long it takes,” Duncan said, leaving his arm extended, wanting to highlight her rudeness. “It really depends on how quickly you confess.”

  That at least got Candace to look up, though it didn’t otherwise break the tension. Duncan shrugged off her hostility and went to pour himself a cup of coffee from the breakfast array that had been laid out by the window. He had better things to do than this deposition too. Although the libel suit had gotten some attention—Simon Roth’s seeking $150 million in damages had helped see to that—in reality it was small-time, at least by Blake and Wolcott standards. It lacked the factual complexity, the vast array of moving parts, that was a mainstay of the sort of litigation the firm usually did. It was also perfectly obvious to Duncan that the case was a loser; he thought it had virtually no chance of surviving the paper’s inevitable motion for summary judgment. Duncan didn’t like being given a lawsuit he couldn’t find a way to win.

  Libel claims were always hard, especially when the plaintiff was a public figure like Simon Roth. That task was made considerably more difficult because Candace’s article had not contained any explicit allegation of wrongdoing on the part of Roth or his company. It had therefore required a certain amount of ingenuity for Duncan to draft a libel complaint. He’d gotten around the lack of any actual libelous statements by instead alleging libel-by-implication, which allowed the case to focus not on what the story actually said, but rather on what a reasonable reader would take the article as implying. The suit alleged that the article implied that Roth’s half-billion-dollar condo project had mo
b connections; that Roth had knowingly or negligently allowed his contractors to create unsafe working conditions; and that Roth had engaged in a backroom quid pro quo deal with Durant in exchange for his whitewashing the DOB investigation.

  It had at least been enough to survive a motion to dismiss. Duncan was reasonably sure that Simon Roth was fully aware he wasn’t going to win, that the case was more about sending a message: Fuck with me and I’ll tie you up in court for a couple of years, make you rack up a small fortune in legal fees.

  Coffee in hand, Duncan sat down across the table from Candace and her lawyer. She was an attractive woman, this Candace. Although he’d taken a couple dozen depositions in his eight years of practicing law, virtually everyone Duncan had ever deposed had been men: fleshy senior executives who viewed being raked over the coals by some smart-mouthed young lawyer in a Hugo Boss suit as a cost of doing business.

  Not Candace. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, with a curvy body whose outlines were visible even in her formal attire. She was wearing a white ruffled shirt with a black skirt and a tight jacket, the arc and swell of her breasts visible against the fabric. Her hair was a vibrant red, curly and untamed. Duncan guessed it was dyed, then blinked the thought away: he had more important things to worry about than whether the witness was a real redhead.

  Duncan started the depo off with basic background questions. Although he could be aggressive when necessary, Duncan generally found that a deposition was far more productive when he was friendly and low-key, tried to establish a conversational rhythm, rather than thundering and posturing. He was hoping to get Candace to relax a little, let down her guard.

  That didn’t happen. As Duncan took her through her résumé—college at Brown, followed by j-school at Columbia, then three years at the Albany Times Union before joining the New York Journal—Candace’s hostility only seemed to increase. The mere fact that she was being asked questions at all seemed to offend her, Candace looking at him with murder in her eyes even though what he was asking so far wasn’t any more intrusive than a typical job interview.

  “How did you come to report on the Aurora Tower accident?” Duncan asked, abruptly shifting gears, deciding there was no point in holding off getting into the real issues.

  “I had a confidential source who came forward with information,” Candace replied, her arms folded across her chest. Duncan wondered if her posture was just a manifestation of her general hostility, or because she’d noticed him checking out her breasts before.

  “And who was that?”

  “Is there something about the word ‘confidential’ you don’t understand?” Candace said tartly.

  Duncan didn’t react, just calmly met her glare. “Are you refusing to name your source for the story?” he asked. He’d fully expected her to do so; this was theater more than anything else, although if the paper’s source was going to remain anonymous, that meant it couldn’t rely on that person to establish the truth of the article.

  “Objection,” Candace’s lawyer, Daniel Rosenstein, spoke on the record for the first time. Rosenstein was twenty years older than Duncan, a name partner in a boutique firm specializing in media law. He was not an imposing man: short, with a smile like a wince and a perpetual squint even though he wore glasses. But Rosenstein was a lawyer Duncan had heard of: a man who’d won First Amendment cases before the Supreme Court. He’d always been perfectly cordial to Duncan, while also constantly reminding him that his case was hopeless. “The identity of a confidential source is protected by New York’s shield law, as you no doubt know, counsel,” Rosenstein continued. “I instruct the witness not to answer the question.”

  “Do you intend to follow your lawyer’s instruction?” Duncan asked Candace, following the script.

  “As compared to what?” Candace shot back sharply, seemingly oblivious to the rote nature of the whole exchange. “Following yours?”

  “Why did this source come to you?”

  “That’s still fishing around for the source’s identity,” Rosenstein protested. “Don’t answer the question.”

  “Like my lawyer said.”

  “But this source prompted you to investigate the accident at the Aurora Tower?”

  “I’m not sure I agree with your use of the word ‘accident,’” Candace countered. “But yes, it’s what made me work the story.”

  “In your opinion, Ms. Snow, the city initially failed to properly investigate the accident at the Aurora Tower, correct?”

  “Mrs.”

  Duncan paused, momentarily unsure he’d heard correctly. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s Mrs. Snow.”

  “Okay,” Duncan said, unable to resist a smile as he marveled at the depths of this woman’s petty hostility. “Does Mrs. Snow need the pending question read back?”

  “I don’t know whether they failed to properly investigate it,” Candace replied. “They failed to prosecute it.”

  Duncan took a moment with that one, trying to figure out whether he could make it into something useful. “Are you saying the investigation revealed criminal conduct, but then that conduct wasn’t prosecuted?”

  “Objection,” Rosenstein said. “Misstates prior testimony.”

  Candace ignored the hint. “That’s certainly what my sources were indicating,” she said.

  “You just referred to your sources, plural,” Duncan said. “How many unnamed sources did you have for this article?”

  “Any such fishing around relating to the identity of Ms. Snow’s source or sources is inappropriate,” Rosenstein said, more sharply this time. “I again instruct her not to answer. Please stop asking her questions that impinge on the reporter’s privilege.”

  “I believe that’s Mrs. Snow,” Duncan replied.

  “Indeed,” Rosenstein said with a mock bow. “But my larger point stands.”

  Duncan was ready to change tacks anyway. “Mrs. Snow, your article stated that a relative of Jack Pellettieri’s was connected to organized crime, correct?”

  “Yes, his brother, Dominic Pellettieri.”

  “Had this brother been convicted of a crime?”

  “He had, yes. Racketeering.”

  “And does this brother presently have a position with Pellettieri Concrete?”

  Candace shrugged, taking a sip of water. “Kind of hard to hold down a job when you’re in jail,” she said.

  “So was this brother involved in any way with the Aurora Tower?”

  Candace looked a little uncomfortable for once; Duncan thought he might be pressing on a weak spot. “Not that I know of.”

  “Do you have any actual knowledge that organized crime was in any way involved with the construction of the Aurora Tower?”

  “There’s still a lot of mob involvement with the construction business.”

  Duncan didn’t know why she bothered to offer up such a nonanswer. “Do you have any actual and specific knowledge that organized crime was involved in the construction of the Aurora?” he asked, adding a little edge to his voice.

  Candace tapped a finger on the table, then caught herself. “No,” she said.

  “So the only reason to mention Pellettieri’s brother in your article was to imply such a connection, something you couldn’t come out and say because you didn’t have any factual support for it?”

  Candace looked like she was counting to ten in her head before responding, her eyes cast down. When she spoke her words came slowly. “Pellettieri’s brother is, or was, connected to the mob, to illegal acts. What the article said about him was true—obviously, seeing as he went to prison. What a reader chooses to make of that information, that’s up to them.”

  “According to your article, the Department of Buildings’ field investigators initially recommended that a criminal referral be made regarding the Aurora accident, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But they were overruled by the head of the department, Ronald Durant?”

  “Correct.”

  “Did you sp
eak to Mr. Durant himself when researching your story?” Duncan asked, knowing the answer from the article itself.

  “Mr. Durant was no longer with the DOB. I called him several times and left messages, but he never called me back.”

  “What if any basis did you have for claiming that Roth Properties had any sort of quid pro quo arrangement with Ronald Durant regarding his decision not to refer the Aurora accident for a criminal investigation?”

  “Objection,” Rosenstein said. “Assumes facts.”

  “My article doesn’t say that,” Candace responded, after first glancing over at her lawyer. She’s learning, Duncan thought.

  “Putting aside for the moment what your article said, would you have any basis for making that allegation?”

  Candace sighed heavily, again offering a display of her pique. Given that she was the one being videotaped, Duncan was happy to have her visibly annoyed. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to have a basis for saying something that I never said. No, I don’t have evidence of an explicit deal like that; if I had I presumably would have reported on it. It’s not exactly the kind of thing that Durant and Roth would have put in writing, or looped a lot of other people into, if they had made such an agreement. There’re certainly questions raised by the chronology of events. But this isn’t what my article focused on.”

  “In your article, you imply that Roth Properties bore at least partial responsibility for the accident, correct?”

  “Objection. The article speaks for itself.”

  Duncan’s eyes never wavered toward Rosenstein, his focus entirely on Candace. She met his gaze coolly, then turned questioningly to her lawyer.

  “You can go ahead and answer,” Rosenstein said.

  “The article’s focus was on the problems with the city’s investigation into the accident. It wasn’t focused on the accident itself, and it certainly wasn’t focused on Roth Properties. Which is why I still don’t really understand why we’re even here.”