the course to compromise he would try to throw the young lawyers off balance.
Ricardo Ponce suddenly said he had a problem with one of his contact lenses. Monsignor Moroux directed him to the public lavatory at the end of the hall rather than the bishop’s private restroom. There was nothing wrong with Ponce’s contact lens; he just felt rattled and wanted to regroup.
Once in the men’s room, Ponce checked the stalls to make sure he was alone. He wished he had a drink or maybe something stronger. Whenever he was away from Fort Lauderdale he missed the juke joints that sold booze on top of the bar and drugs under thecounter. As he attempted to calm himself down, his mind turned to his favorite dock bar and to Old Willie, the old man he drank with there. Ponce believed he had learned more from Old Willie, an alcoholic, disbarred lawyer, than he ever learned in law school.
“Lawyering ain’t no different from dating a broad,” Old Willie had said to him once, “or living with one, or being married up. Think about it. Whenever a couple that is involved sexually comes to different points of view, and they debate or argue over something… think about it. Tell me who wins. Who wins? Who always wins? The woman always wins, and why, son? Why does the woman always win? It’s because she has the pussy.”
And then he’d got to the heart of it. “In every negotiation you go into in your career, somebody will always have the pussy. When a building contractor is negotiating with a developer about a new shopping mall, somebody has the upper hand – does the contractor need the contract more than the developer needs the shopping mall, or is it the other way around? Is the contractor flush with work or will he go under without closing this deal? Is the developer being squeezed by a bank to break ground or does the developer own the land free and clear? Who’s got the pussy? The really good lawyers figure this out before any negotiation begins and act accordingly. Sometimes you will have the pussy, other times the other guy will have the pussy.”
Old Willie had made a dramatic pause and then, assuming a serious expression, had concluded, “It’s all that matters in the law. Who’s got the pussy?”
Ricardo smiled at himself in the mirror, vowed to have reconstructive surgery on the big scar when he collected this legal fee, and thought of Old Willie in the bar back home. In this deal, Ricardo Ponce knew he had the pussy. He represented innocent children who had been sexually abused by a Catholic priest, and he knew the diocese had every motive to pay big money to buy their silence and keep the cases sealed away forever from the public. Ponce knew he was in the driver’s seat. He might never again in his career go into negotiations when he had the pussy, butby God, this time he had the pussy and he knew it. No sawed-off, short little monsignor was going to push him around.
When Ponce walked back into the office, he addressed Moroux. “Monsignor, I want you to know there’s no conflict of interest, and furthermore, if there were a conflict, it would be of no matter to this diocese, which is hardly in a position to be talking about ethics or moral principles at this point in time.”
Brent Thomas visibly shuddered when he heard the words and tone emanating from Ponce, but Moroux did not see him. Brent thought he had been making progress with Monsignor Moroux when Ponce was in the restroom. He had talked about old times at Saint Vincent’s Catholic School in Bayou Saint John, when Moroux had been his teacher. Now, Ponce was becoming aggressive, a tactic that was not in Thomas’s repertoire.
“We-ell,” Moroux drawled, moving to his central concern, prefacing his statement with a lie. “Our financial resources are limited, dedicated to charitable functions of this diocese. Before we would agree to pay any sum to settle these claims we would want your assurance that these are all of the claims. That there are
Ricardo Ponce suddenly said he had a problem with one of his contact lenses. Monsignor Moroux directed him to the public lavatory at the end of the hall rather than the bishop’s private restroom. There was nothing wrong with Ponce’s contact lens; he just felt rattled and wanted to regroup.
Once in the men’s room, Ponce checked the stalls to make sure he was alone. He wished he had a drink or maybe something stronger. Whenever he was away from Fort Lauderdale he missed the juke joints that sold booze on top of the bar and drugs under thecounter. As he attempted to calm himself down, his mind turned to his favorite dock bar and to Old Willie, the old man he drank with there. Ponce believed he had learned more from Old Willie, an alcoholic, disbarred lawyer, than he ever learned in law school.
“Lawyering ain’t no different from dating a broad,” Old Willie had said to him once, “or living with one, or being married up. Think about it. Whenever a couple that is involved sexually comes to different points of view, and they debate or argue over something… think about it. Tell me who wins. Who wins? Who always wins? The woman always wins, and why, son? Why does the woman always win? It’s because she has the pussy.”
And then he’d got to the heart of it. “In every negotiation you go into in your career, somebody will always have the pussy. When a building contractor is negotiating with a developer about a new shopping mall, somebody has the upper hand – does the contractor need the contract more than the developer needs the shopping mall, or is it the other way around? Is the contractor flush with work or will he go under without closing this deal? Is the developer being squeezed by a bank to break ground or does the developer own the land free and clear? Who’s got the pussy? The really good lawyers figure this out before any negotiation begins and act accordingly. Sometimes you will have the pussy, other times the other guy will have the pussy.”
Old Willie had made a dramatic pause and then, assuming a serious expression, had concluded, “It’s all that matters in the law. Who’s got the pussy?”
Ricardo smiled at himself in the mirror, vowed to have reconstructive surgery on the big scar when he collected this legal fee, and thought of Old Willie in the bar back home. In this deal, Ricardo Ponce knew he had the pussy. He represented innocent children who had been sexually abused by a Catholic priest, and he knew the diocese had every motive to pay big money to buy their silence and keep the cases sealed away forever from the public. Ponce knew he was in the driver’s seat. He might never again in his career go into negotiations when he had the pussy, butby God, this time he had the pussy and he knew it. No sawed-off, short little monsignor was going to push him around.
When Ponce walked back into the office, he addressed Moroux. “Monsignor, I want you to know there’s no conflict of interest, and furthermore, if there were a conflict, it would be of no matter to this diocese, which is hardly in a position to be talking about ethics or moral principles at this point in time.”
Brent Thomas visibly shuddered when he heard the words and tone emanating from Ponce, but Moroux did not see him. Brent thought he had been making progress with Monsignor Moroux when Ponce was in the restroom. He had talked about old times at Saint Vincent’s Catholic School in Bayou Saint John, when Moroux had been his teacher. Now, Ponce was becoming aggressive, a tactic that was not in Thomas’s repertoire.
“We-ell,” Moroux drawled, moving to his central concern, prefacing his statement with a lie. “Our financial resources are limited, dedicated to charitable functions of this diocese. Before we would agree to pay any sum to settle these claims we would want your assurance that these are all of the claims. That there are
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