unter spent the little that remained of his weekend procrastinating within the confines of his moderately claustrophobic and stagnant apartment. He had to escape the jitteriness already beginning to wind its way through the drone floors of the firm. On a Saturday, no less. It was inevitable that once the clock struck twelve noon tomorrow, witching hour, the anxiety and competitive urges would reach a fever pitch among the associates, especially the underappreciated newbies. They vied for partnership approval like rookie pros at summer training camp. The weekend spell would wear off, and the pressure of the billable hour would once again rear its hideous head.
Too ambivalent about the Vito’s case and too overwhelmed to concentrate, Hunter pressed eject on the control panel of his mind and escaped for the park, tempted by the lull of the festive Saturday atmosphere in Rittenhouse Square on an unseasonably warm day—but the distractions, particularly the sunbathing coeds, proved too much. And of course there were Dillon’s parting words back at the office.
Hunter recalled them. “Just be smart about everything. You hear me?”
Hunter knew Dillon was referring to something other than just shrewd litigating. The image of the gangster in Chinatown immediately came into focus.
The ominous words resonated. “The jury’s still out on whether Vito’s connected.”
Genius. Now I’ve got the fucking Mafia on my ass. It’s the only thing that adds up. It has to be the mob.
So Hunter tried to drown out the thought noise by delving into the file—once and for all. The best starting point was the ordinance itself. He read and re-read the public accommodations law dozens of times. Nevertheless, even with a bit of legislative history for context, the law still remained murky. He knew what the ordinance was trying to do. Simply put, the city was attempting to regulate the unfair treatment of those in a protected class—race, color, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, religion, national origin, ancestry, physical handicap, and marital status—in places supposed to be open to the public at large, like restaurants, for instance. It was hard, though, not to be frustrated with the law’s inelegant and somewhat unintelligible drafting, assuredly the work of a bright yet highly inexperienced junior attorney in the city solicitor’s office.
In addition to the clunky ordinance, the Vito’s case also had an unusual procedural posture. First, the suit had been originally brought by the Human Relations Commission itself. From what he could see at least, that was a rare occurrence. In fact, until it was confirmed by the head of the commission, Hunter was pretty sure this case was the only one the commission, in its approximate fifty-year history, had brought on its own.
It wasn’t until several months later, probably when the commission realized the error of its ways, that an individual claiming to be aggrieved suddenly came forward. This alleged victim was Ruben Hayek, a twenty-nine-year-old Mexican immigrant. Once Mr. Hayek emerged, the commission wasted little time in amending its original filing to include his experience with Vito’s as evidence to bolster its claims. A motion to exclude Mr. Hayek’s testimony from trial and have his allegations stricken from the complaint was still pending before the three-member hearing panel that would be deciding the case. That motion presented the affidavits of several witnesses who swore up and down they were there the night Mr. Hayek was supposedly refused service. According to them—regulars at Vito’s and local South Philly residents—Mr. Hayek and a small group came there looking for trouble. These so-called witnesses are probably connected, too. Apparently they were visibly intoxicated and cursing out the Vito’s staff in Spanish. And that’s why they refused to serve them. It had nothing to do with their ethnicity.
Obviously, Mr. Hayek would be a valuable witness, so
Too ambivalent about the Vito’s case and too overwhelmed to concentrate, Hunter pressed eject on the control panel of his mind and escaped for the park, tempted by the lull of the festive Saturday atmosphere in Rittenhouse Square on an unseasonably warm day—but the distractions, particularly the sunbathing coeds, proved too much. And of course there were Dillon’s parting words back at the office.
Hunter recalled them. “Just be smart about everything. You hear me?”
Hunter knew Dillon was referring to something other than just shrewd litigating. The image of the gangster in Chinatown immediately came into focus.
The ominous words resonated. “The jury’s still out on whether Vito’s connected.”
Genius. Now I’ve got the fucking Mafia on my ass. It’s the only thing that adds up. It has to be the mob.
So Hunter tried to drown out the thought noise by delving into the file—once and for all. The best starting point was the ordinance itself. He read and re-read the public accommodations law dozens of times. Nevertheless, even with a bit of legislative history for context, the law still remained murky. He knew what the ordinance was trying to do. Simply put, the city was attempting to regulate the unfair treatment of those in a protected class—race, color, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, religion, national origin, ancestry, physical handicap, and marital status—in places supposed to be open to the public at large, like restaurants, for instance. It was hard, though, not to be frustrated with the law’s inelegant and somewhat unintelligible drafting, assuredly the work of a bright yet highly inexperienced junior attorney in the city solicitor’s office.
In addition to the clunky ordinance, the Vito’s case also had an unusual procedural posture. First, the suit had been originally brought by the Human Relations Commission itself. From what he could see at least, that was a rare occurrence. In fact, until it was confirmed by the head of the commission, Hunter was pretty sure this case was the only one the commission, in its approximate fifty-year history, had brought on its own.
It wasn’t until several months later, probably when the commission realized the error of its ways, that an individual claiming to be aggrieved suddenly came forward. This alleged victim was Ruben Hayek, a twenty-nine-year-old Mexican immigrant. Once Mr. Hayek emerged, the commission wasted little time in amending its original filing to include his experience with Vito’s as evidence to bolster its claims. A motion to exclude Mr. Hayek’s testimony from trial and have his allegations stricken from the complaint was still pending before the three-member hearing panel that would be deciding the case. That motion presented the affidavits of several witnesses who swore up and down they were there the night Mr. Hayek was supposedly refused service. According to them—regulars at Vito’s and local South Philly residents—Mr. Hayek and a small group came there looking for trouble. These so-called witnesses are probably connected, too. Apparently they were visibly intoxicated and cursing out the Vito’s staff in Spanish. And that’s why they refused to serve them. It had nothing to do with their ethnicity.
Obviously, Mr. Hayek would be a valuable witness, so
Similar Books
