found this Scott woman?”
“Yes. Why?”
“If you catch up with her, press her on Ginnis,” says Harry.
“Any particular reason?”
“I’m still digging for all the details,” says Harry, “but it’s starting to look like Ginnis could be the lead to the letter.”
“Can you give me specifics?”
“Not right now,” says Harry. “Trust me. Just see if you can find some way to get to him. But call me before you talk to him. By then I should have more information.”
“You got it,” I tell him.
“Talk to you later.” Harry hangs up.
Juggling my briefcase in one hand, I pocket my phone and hand the guard at the desk one of my business cards. I tell him I have an appointment with Trisha Scott at B, C & J. This lie gets me a phone call to reception upstairs. Four minutes later I am treated to the officious click of heels on the hard terrazzo. A woman, blond, blue-eyed, in her late twenties, dressed in a dark business suit. She collects my card from the guard and approaches.
“Mr. Madre…”
“Madriani,” I help her out.
“I understand you have an appointment with Ms. Scott?” The lilt in her voice leads me to think that she has already searched Scott’s calendar and not found my name on it.
“I called twice and left messages. I was in New York on my way back to my office in California and wanted to stop in and see her. It would only take a moment and would save us both an immense amount of time.”
“Does she know what it regards?”
“It’s a personal matter. I’m sure that if she knew the details, she would want to see me.”
This stumps her. She looks at my card again: “attorney-at-law.” If it said “salesman,” I’d be out on the street looking back through the glass by now.
“If you’ll follow me,” she says. “I’m not sure whether Ms. Scott is in.”
We head to the elevator. A minute and a half later, I’ve made it to the next level, the reception area upstairs. Here there are deep plush carpets and floor-to-ceiling windows of smoked glass with shaded views out over the city. Across the street lies Farragut Square. One block beyond lies the squat Roman temple that is the U.S. Chamber of Commerce building. Over the top and beyond is Lafayette Square, and in the distance behind the park is the White House. Toward the southeast the Capitol dome sprouts like a half-hatched Easter egg in the noonday sun. The executive offices of Barrett, Coal & Johnston possess an eagle’s-nest view of all the power spots in town.
“If you’ll take a seat,” she says, “I will check with Ms. Scott’s assistant.”
As the phalanx of gatekeepers grows, the mesh of their screen becomes finer. I may be wasting my time. By now Scott would surely be following the news reports of Arnsberg’s trial. If so, she will have seen my name. What I am banking on is her curiosity. A lawyer, she would know that I could subpoena her to the trial, put her on a witness list, and let her cool her heels. What is more difficult would be to get her to talk to me. If she refuses, there is little I can do, and to put her on the stand at trial and ask questions to which I do not already know the answers would be its own form of Russian roulette.
The receptionist disappears to the back behind the large ebony reception counter and the mirrored glass wall separating me from the firm’s engine room, where power is spun into gold.
Barrett, Coal & Johnston is sufficiently large that to dispense separate business cards for the many partners and associates out on the counter would require a vending machine. Instead there’s a glossy brochure that outlines the firm’s services and specialties. I pull one of these and take a look. To no one’s surprise, the firm is heavily invested inregulatory law, with a sideline in patents and appellate practice, all keyed toward business and commerce.
The firm sports two former United States senators as “of counsel,” a kind of emeritus status in which work is often not
“Yes. Why?”
“If you catch up with her, press her on Ginnis,” says Harry.
“Any particular reason?”
“I’m still digging for all the details,” says Harry, “but it’s starting to look like Ginnis could be the lead to the letter.”
“Can you give me specifics?”
“Not right now,” says Harry. “Trust me. Just see if you can find some way to get to him. But call me before you talk to him. By then I should have more information.”
“You got it,” I tell him.
“Talk to you later.” Harry hangs up.
Juggling my briefcase in one hand, I pocket my phone and hand the guard at the desk one of my business cards. I tell him I have an appointment with Trisha Scott at B, C & J. This lie gets me a phone call to reception upstairs. Four minutes later I am treated to the officious click of heels on the hard terrazzo. A woman, blond, blue-eyed, in her late twenties, dressed in a dark business suit. She collects my card from the guard and approaches.
“Mr. Madre…”
“Madriani,” I help her out.
“I understand you have an appointment with Ms. Scott?” The lilt in her voice leads me to think that she has already searched Scott’s calendar and not found my name on it.
“I called twice and left messages. I was in New York on my way back to my office in California and wanted to stop in and see her. It would only take a moment and would save us both an immense amount of time.”
“Does she know what it regards?”
“It’s a personal matter. I’m sure that if she knew the details, she would want to see me.”
This stumps her. She looks at my card again: “attorney-at-law.” If it said “salesman,” I’d be out on the street looking back through the glass by now.
“If you’ll follow me,” she says. “I’m not sure whether Ms. Scott is in.”
We head to the elevator. A minute and a half later, I’ve made it to the next level, the reception area upstairs. Here there are deep plush carpets and floor-to-ceiling windows of smoked glass with shaded views out over the city. Across the street lies Farragut Square. One block beyond lies the squat Roman temple that is the U.S. Chamber of Commerce building. Over the top and beyond is Lafayette Square, and in the distance behind the park is the White House. Toward the southeast the Capitol dome sprouts like a half-hatched Easter egg in the noonday sun. The executive offices of Barrett, Coal & Johnston possess an eagle’s-nest view of all the power spots in town.
“If you’ll take a seat,” she says, “I will check with Ms. Scott’s assistant.”
As the phalanx of gatekeepers grows, the mesh of their screen becomes finer. I may be wasting my time. By now Scott would surely be following the news reports of Arnsberg’s trial. If so, she will have seen my name. What I am banking on is her curiosity. A lawyer, she would know that I could subpoena her to the trial, put her on a witness list, and let her cool her heels. What is more difficult would be to get her to talk to me. If she refuses, there is little I can do, and to put her on the stand at trial and ask questions to which I do not already know the answers would be its own form of Russian roulette.
The receptionist disappears to the back behind the large ebony reception counter and the mirrored glass wall separating me from the firm’s engine room, where power is spun into gold.
Barrett, Coal & Johnston is sufficiently large that to dispense separate business cards for the many partners and associates out on the counter would require a vending machine. Instead there’s a glossy brochure that outlines the firm’s services and specialties. I pull one of these and take a look. To no one’s surprise, the firm is heavily invested inregulatory law, with a sideline in patents and appellate practice, all keyed toward business and commerce.
The firm sports two former United States senators as “of counsel,” a kind of emeritus status in which work is often not
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