Subpoena Colada Page 6

  I shake his hand. ‘Daniel Tate.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Danny. Call me Vinny.’

  I ignore the annoying contraction of my name and say, ‘Shall we make a start?’

  Haines sweeps a newspaper off a chair and sits down.

  The air is thick, sweetly intoxicating.

  ‘You wanna drink? Spliff? Rip’s been on the phone to this dealer he knows. Maybe we could do a few bumps later when the order comes.’

  ‘I told you,’ interjects Rip, ‘it’s not blow, man blow’s so last century. It’s Special K.’

  ‘Coke, ketamine, who gives a fuck?’ Haines says and then, explaining, ‘All the same to me.’

  ‘Your nose is so shot you wouldn’t know if you were sniffing brick dust,’ says Rip.

  ‘Hey, shut up and go fetch the cookie jar from the kitchen. I’ve got the munchies.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ says Rip. He lobs a training shoe limply at Haines, who bats it aside.

  I’m about to decline his offer when I have a change of heart. The drink I had before I met Barrymore has long since worn off. Another fortifying blast is just what the doctor ordered; I can see this is going to be a long afternoon.

  ‘A vodka would be great.’

  ‘Rip, get the man a vodka.’

  Rip diffidently rinses a glass and pours me out a generous measure.

  ‘I love this town,’ Haines says, lounging back into the sofa, ‘don’t you? You want something to eat? We got take-outs: He points over to a table with a dozen McDonalds’s brown paper takeaway bags on it. I can smell the sweet burger meat and the saltiness of the fries. I decline politely.

  ‘About your case-’ I begin, braced by a sip of the vodka.

  ‘What a fucking drag,’ he interrupts, ‘don’t you think? Can you believe those stress puppies would actually wanna sue me? Me? Jesus. But it’s not like This is a first. One of the crosses we’ve gotta bear in the trade, fucking litigation. So, anyways, that’s why I’m paying you guys the big bucks, right? So you can nuke their case. Nip it right in the bud. Nix it for me.’

  This is heavy going. ‘I know all the details of the case’ - a lie - ‘but I need your angle on things. Then I can write up a statement taking your point of view into account. I’m going to tape this, if you don’t mind.’

  He shrugs disinterestedly and so I take out my Dictaphone, click it on, and set it down on the coffee table between us.

  Haines leans forward and starts to lecture, making explanatory gestures with his hands. ‘It’s pretty simple, man,’ he says. ‘Jerks had a shit, straight-to-video movie planned. My agent goofed and signed me up for it. She got her ass fired, let me tell you: He high-fives a passing Rip.

  ‘So don’t fuck up, OK?’ Rip adds. ‘Vinny’s, like, totally ruthless.’

  I smile nervously and finish the vodka.

  Haines continues, ‘Then Skin Trade came along and I decided it was a better vehicle for someone like me. So I jumped town and came over here. And here I am.’

  ‘Whoah,’ I say. ‘You can’t actually say that.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘That you left to come and do Skin Trade, knowing about the film.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because that proves their case. You’ll lose if you say that.’

  ‘Listen.’ He pours a handful of roasted peanuts into his mouth and munches on them noisily. ‘I know that, man,’ he says slowly, as if he considers me stupid. ‘We both know I probably am in breach of their precious fucking contract. But I’m just giving you the big picture. I leave it to my lawyers to decide what to leave in and what to leave out. That’s what I pay you for. If I say anything that’s not good for me, you can just strip it out. I never said it, right? And if this case goes to trial, and it better not, you can tell me exactly what I have to say to make the bad man go away. Got me?’

  This is impossible. Quite apart from his blasé attitude, Haines is so completely stoned I’m never going to get any sense out of him. I click off the Dictaphone, put it away, drain my second vodka.

  ‘Another?’ he asks. I nod.

  Rip, orbiting the two of us, refills me.

  I decide to change subject. ‘So - Hannah Wilde.’

  ‘You know Hannah?’ he says.

  ‘Who doesn’t? She’s a big star.’

  ‘She’s a hot chick.’

  ‘What’s it like? You know, on the show?’

  ‘Pretty great.’

  ‘Yeah? Tell me about her.’

  ‘Get outta here,’ Haines laughs.

  ‘No, seriously - I’m interested. How’d you two get together?’

  ‘Come on, spill the beans, man,’ says Rip, flicking through the muted channels on the TV. ‘It’s safe - he’s your lawyer. There’s that whole client confidentiality thing going on, right?’

  ‘He’s right,’ I say, ‘tell me the story. I’d love to hear it. And I swear I won’t tell anyone. Scout’s honour.’

  Vincent Haines doesn’t need any more encouragement to talk about his favourite subject: Vincent Haines.

  He leans forward conspiratorially.

  ‘OK, Hannah: not bad-looking, great tits, legs that just keep on going, you know; just like this extremely fuckable piece of pussy. Well, as you can imagine I’m pretty happy when I find out she’s gonna be the love interest in the new show. Never seen her on TV before, but those raw showbiz virgins are always the keenest to impress, if you know what I mean…’

  Rip whoops, leans over and slaps him a high-five. I look at the overflowing ashtray on the table and wonder how heavy it is, how much damage a quick swipe would do to the back of his head…

  Haines continues: ‘Anyways, I turn up for a day’s shoot and we’re getting on pretty well, we’ve got this neat on-screen chemistry thing going, everything’s just sizzling and the director’s real happy with the both of us. So I think to myself, Vinny, why not see if she’s as wild as it looks like she is. I get her number from my PA and start calling. At first she was reluctant - I think maybe there might’ve been someone else - but I was persistent. Sent her flowers, presents, the works, eventually managed to persuade her to go out for dinner with me. Went to the Ivy. Nothing happened but I ain’t giving up just like that. After like a month of this I get my first kiss. She says she feels bad about it afterwards, won’t take things along to the next level, starts to get this major guilt trip about the other dude she’s still seeing.’

  ‘And this guy’s a lawyer,’ Rip adds. ‘Just like you.’

  ‘What an amazing coincidence,’ I manage to say.

  I’m thinking about the flowers I didn’t buy and the presents I didn’t send when I notice Haines is continuing the story.

  ‘After a couple of months I took her out again and this time I got the invite back to her place. She said this other guy had gone off her. We hooked up and, like they say, the rest is history.’

  ‘Hey, man, show’s on,’ hollers Rip, unmuting the TV.

  I look over. The opening titles to Skin Trade are playing. I realize: time for the Monday afternoon repeat.

  ‘This episode rocks,’ Haines says, putting his feet up on the coffee table. ‘This is where Hannah and me get it on out back of the fashion shoot.’

  One of Hannah’s female co-stars is slinking down a catwalk to a chorus of camera flashes.

  ‘Man, that broad is hot,’ Rip says.

  ‘That’s Jessica,’ Haines says. ‘Got a date with her next week.’

  Haines and Rip become engrossed in the show and quickly forget about me. I filch the half-empty bottle of Absolut for the taxi ride back to the office, and shuffle out of the suite.

  I stand outside the door for a moment, sweating in the sterile cool of the corridor, trying to stop myself from throwing up my lunch.

  DISPATCHES FROM THE FRONT

  ‘You’ll never guess what the Dork has gone and done,’ Cohen says.

  I feel like telling him he’ll never guess what Hannah has gone and done.

  ‘Surprise me,’
I say.

  Cohen’s calling me on my mobile while I’m in a taxi heading back to the office.

  ‘His seccie told me he’s asked her to book out a restaurant for a party to celebrate him being made up to partner. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Jesus, they haven’t even started to interview yet.’

  ‘You might call it somewhat presumptuous.’

  ‘He can’t have been told already, surely? No one’s said anything to me.’

  ‘He hasn’t been told, not according to her. She said he told her that he was, quote, "quietly confident of getting the nod," unquote. I’d love to see him fall on his face.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ I say, despite agreeing with the aspiration wholeheartedly.

  ‘You hear there’s been a press conference on the John French death?’ he says.

  ‘What do they reckon? Suicide?’

  ‘They’re still investigating. The word is they’ve found something not right, you know. Something making them think he didn’t do it himself after all.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘I still reckon it’s some kind of kinky sex game gone wrong,’ Cohen adds. ‘Just wish I could persuade some of my less agreeable clients to get themselves into that kind of scene…’

  THE HABITS OF HIGHLY EFFECTIVE PEOPLE

  It’s now the early evening and I’m in the partners’ luncheon room for the group’s monthly social meeting, sipping at a cold beer and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. I can think of a dozen things I’d rather be doing, but these meetings get a three-line whip from Fulton. He thinks it important that the assistants take these regular opportunities to ‘bond’ with each other. It helps perpetuate the delusion that he’s presiding over a happy ship - rather than over a bunch of infighting, eye-gouging, socially maladjusted misfits.

  Once, Fulton invited a motivational speaker to attend the meeting. Fulton called him a ‘facilitator’. I believe he may have been responsible for one of the psychological self-help books that seem so popular at the moment. We had an uncomfortable meal and then suffered two hours of New Age mysticism which would, we were assured, bring us closer together. Words like ‘family’, ‘team’ and ‘togetherness’ were bandied around. There was a lot of awkward hugging. All that was missing was the clasping of hands, and an hour of tantric chanting, before each participant floated unaided up the lift shaft.

  You might not be surprised to hear I find these evenings a strain. The only way of getting through the ordeal is to drink. I’ve corralled a clutch of cold beer bottles from the fridge to lubricate the hour or so until I can make a discreet exit.

  I’m next to Cohen. We’re standing up against a wall on the periphery of the group. A series of framed portraits of some of Charles Hunter’s more famous clients are hung around the room. Stars he served loyally for twenty years, stars from the golden age of entertainment, long since in their graves: Diana Dors, Kenneth Williams, Dusty Springfield, Tony Hancock, Morecambe and Wise. Hunter’s problem, if anything, was too much loyalty. He stuck with them even as their stars began to wane, when he should have ditched them and sought out a slate of ambitious young Turks. While we have held onto a few stars, the firm has since acquired a somewhat geriatric reputation. It’s been struggling to catch up with the competition ever since.

  Dawkins is talking intently to Fulton and Wilson.

  He’s in his usual office uniform: chalk pinstripe suit, two-tone blue shirt with white collar, red bow tie, braces. He makes a comment and gets polite laughter from both partners.

  ‘I’d love to shove that bow tie up his arse,’ I say.

  ‘A word to the wise,’ Cohen says into my ear. ‘You ought to keep an eye on him. He’s been sniffing around your cases. Something about a closed-door meeting with Fulton.’

  ‘He’s been after Brian Fey for ages. He’d be right up his alley.’

  ‘Especially with the John French thing happening, everything in the papers like it is. I’ve never seen anyone so self-obsessed. Anything with even a hint of glory and he wants it. You know he’s got a three-paragraph eulogy in this month’s Media Lawyer? Best young lawyer or something like that?’

  In truth, the Dork is a good lawyer. Good, but not brilliant. He’s superbly organized; what he lacks in creativity he more than makes up for with solid methodology. And he’s the best self-publicist I’ve ever met.

  ‘He gets on my tits,’ Cohen continues. ‘He’s desperate for partnership and he’s going to clamber all over us to get it.’

  I nod. The Dork qualified a year after Cohen and me. He ought to be behind us on the ladder to partnership, but everyone knows he’s miles ahead.

  ‘Who do you reckon will sponsor him for the partnership election?’ I ask.

  ‘Fulton or Wilson. They both love him.’

  ‘You know Tanner’s put me forward?’

  Cohen clinks bottles with me. ‘Nice one,’ he says with a big, genuine smile. ‘I’d love to see you get it.’

  ‘What about you?’

  He pauses and cautiously scans the room. Satisfied he won’t be overheard he leans forward and says quietly, ‘Between you and me, that might not be something I have to worry about. I’m thinking about moving on.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘I put my CV out with a few agencies on the off-chance, out of curiosity mostly, got a few interviews and now I’ve been offered a job at one of the New York firms. General litigation with little bits of arbitration thrown in. Hardly rocket science, I know, but they’ve offered to double my salary. Six figures, plus massive annual bonuses and free trips to the States. I’m thinking I might take it:

  ‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘Wow.’

  ‘I mean, you have to at least think about that kind of deal,’ he says. ‘It’s tempting.’

  ‘You don’t have to justify it to me,’ I say. ‘God, it sounds amazing.’

  ‘Like I say, I’m tempted.’

  ‘Be sad to see you go,’ I say. I’m pleased for him, and more than a little jealous.

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet. It’s a big decision.

  I need to get it right.

  We both drink to that.

  ‘Listen,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘Keep an eye on my desk for me tomorrow, will you? I’m in court early on and I don’t want the Dork sniffing around.’

  ‘No problem,’ Cohen says. ‘You got an application?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say glumly. ‘A big one.’

  ‘The Fey case?’

  ‘Yep. I’m going to have to go back to the office in a minute to get ready for it. We’re supposed to be trying to discharge the Freezing Order - not that we’ve got any chance of doing that, of course. I need to finish off a witness statement and get my notes sorted. The client won’t stump up for a barrister, so yours truly is on his hind legs.’

  ‘Daniel Tate QC?’

  ‘Best there is.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘I’ll need it - his record company seems to have got the idea that the Order’s just going to be automatically lifted. If it isn’t… ‘ I leave the sentence hanging.

  Cohen draws the edge of his hand horizontally across his throat.

  ‘Exactly. They’ll know who to blame.’

  A DATE

  I’m scratching my head as Rachel wafts past my open door two hours later. The floor is quiet, the only sounds the hum of the air conditioning and the whirring of my computer’s fan. I’ve been trying to get my head around the case law for tomorrow, but I’ve just been reading the same sentence over and over again. I did think about making a start on Victoria Wilson’s work for Monster Munch but the prospect of being under-prepared for the hearing was too worrying for me to concentrate on anything else.

  I’m getting nowhere. For the last five minutes I’ve been zoned out, staring vacantly through the window at the black wedge of the building across Soho Square, office lights still shining and snow falling like static between. Dozens of people are heading to and from Oxford Street, in transit between various bars and resta
urants, Christmas and the holidays more than reason enough to celebrate.

  ‘Rachel,’ I call out. There’s a pause as she reverses direction and puts her head around the door. I’m either impressed or mortified by her dedication, I can’t quite decide which; she hasn’t been here a month and already she’s settled into the midnight oil routine.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Working late?’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I say. A thought establishes itself and I let it out without thinking: ‘Fancy that drink when you’ve knocked off? I could give you the low-down on the office, like I promised.’

  I’m surprised I’m able to finish that sentence without my voice climbing octaves and fluttering away in self-conscious scraps.

  She pauses and looks at her watch. ‘I’ve just got to finish this copying for James, but that won’t take long. A drink would be nice.’

  James?

  She’s already calling him James?

  ‘Ten minutes then?’ I suggest.

  ‘Why not,’ she says. ‘Ten minutes.’

  GETTING TO KNOW RACHEL

  I take her to a quiet bar I know. The. kind of place I’m confident we won’t be observed by anyone from the office. My intentions might be perfectly innocent (they’re not) but I know from experience how quickly rumours spread.

  Rachel is drinking a Diet Coke. I’ve got a double whisky, rocks. I expected the atmosphere to be awkward, the way it usually is when two people with no shared history struggle for common ground. But it’s nothing like that at all. She has an easygoing nature and we get along well.

  She’s already confirmed my suspicion of a recent foreign trip. She worked her way around the southern hemisphere for five months: stops in India, New Zealand and Australia. There’s a wistfulness in her recollections: vivid memories probably iridescent compared to the numb dampness of a December London. I let her talk for twenty minutes, but now the exchange has moved on and I’m presenting colourful thumbnail sketches of the rest of the department.