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Volume 25, Nos. 3 & 4 (2001) reprinted by permission Legal Studies Forum THE PROUD SAXON’S TALE GERARD E. GIANNATTASIO “You’ve spoken to everyone?” The other man was a partner at Benbow Floyd. He sat with his back to the broad windows and faced the young academic across the double sized partner desk. It was a large corner office on the sixty-seventh floor. The day being clear, P.C. had a grand view of the lower bay, the Statue of Liberty, and Ellis Island where his grandparents had gone through immigration. “Absolutely, sir, everyone.” P.C. had once intended to make the Air Force a career and was, in fact, retired, having failed to walk away from one landing too many. The service and a courteous upbringing caused him to use sir unconsciously with anyone as old as the partner. “Judge Tempany was an outstanding jurist,” the partner said making himself comfortable in his high backed leather chair. The judge was also deceased and had been a member of the Harolds, an exclusive New York men’s club dating from 1854. The law firm was a few years older. Many of the partners were members of the Harolds. “No one has anything to share about him,” P.C. said. On his own turf, the partner had taken off his suit jacket and vest. He was wearing a white button down shirt and yellow suspenders and tie. Yellow was the power color that year. P.C. was dressed in a tweed sports coat and corduroys. “I’ll put you in touch with someone who knew Judge Tempany well. He’ll be able to fill you in on much of what you need to know.” The partner picked up his phone. “Milly,” he said speaking to his secretary, “get me Orson Larcher, please.” The partner held the phone to his ear for a moment, then put the call on the speaker and cradled the handset. “Orson,” he said, “Carver Stonard here. I have a young law professor with me from Grafton. He’s doing an article on Judd Tempany. You knew the judge well.” P.C. heard a grunt from the speaker in the center of the broad expanse of the partner desk. In the legal profession they were for partners, but in the Air Force generals and base commanders had them. Two writing leaves pulled out on the side away from the desk’s occupant for law associates or staff officers. “I didn’t know the Judge very well, Carver,” the voice over the speaker said. “I don’t think anyone did. I doubt I could help this young man.” After a few closing pleasantries the Benbow Floyd partner broke the connection. “What about the judge’s correspondence?” There were twenty record boxes of the judge’s papers in a sub basement of the Harolds’ building. "There’s nothing there,” P.C. said. “There’s laundry lists and household inventory and instructions to his housekeeper and his gardener. He collected firearms. Six of the boxes deal with little else, but there’s nothing personal in any of them.” “The biographical notes that Louellen Aldo did for us, what about those as a starting point?” “It’s Louellen Aldo Pargiter now,” P.C. said, “she’s married. She’s also a terrific scholar and top notch researcher. What she got for you is all there is to be gotten. Judge Tempany was a private man.” And that, thought the former Air Force officer, is putting it kindly and mildly. The man had a fence around his heart. “You’re saying there’s nothing to be done to memorialize Judge Tempany?” the partner asked. “Endow something in his name,” P.C. told him, “maybe a distinguished professorship. Have a portrait painted and present it to his alma mater with a check for a scholarship.” “I like the distinguished professorship idea.” The partner had pronounced ‘idea’ with no trace of the New York ‘r’ in it. P.C. tried to use the word notion whenever he could. “How much would one run?” “About ten thousand dollars cheap, one hundred thousand decently endowed,” the former airman replied. The partner nodded in a satisfied way. His intercom buzzed. “Yes,” he said pressing a button somewhere out of P.C.’s sight. “Ms. McVicar and Ms. O’Derg are here, sir.” “Send them in, Milly. I’m about done with Professor Ziti. The partner looked up. “I’ll send you a check based on your time sheets.” “Sounds good,” P.C. said. “I’m sorry there wasn’t something publishable in this.” “I’ll have one of the Bobbsey Twins show you out.” “The Bobbsey Twins?” P.C. said evenly. “Wait until you see them. They’re not related, of course,” the partner said smiling. Wall Street firms have rules about such things. There was a knock and two rather diminutive law associates entered. P.C. rose from his chair and studied them critically. They were of a size, just under five two, small boned and precise in their movements with their dark hair cut in identical fashion, P.C. knew, by Cosette at Our Etna’s on Onderdonk in Port Tackapausha. A lifetime of close association had made them a two person drill team when they were together. There was no blood relation. Born days apart they called themselves cousin out on Long Island and were actually aunt and niece to each other by various marriages. The partner performed the introductions, and P.C. gravely shook hands as if with strangers, but the associates had called him uncle since learning to talk. He was actually the cousin of one and the nephew of the other. “Perhaps Ms. O’Derg will show you through our office maze to the elevators.” “That would be nice,” P.C. said. Tanya was using her married name and Amelia her maiden name at the firm which was a white shoe, an Anglo-Saxon firm. It had a few of this and a few of that, but only a few and, of course, not as partners. The cousins had decided to pass as Irish. As they walked through a maze of secretarial warrens toward the elevators in the building’s core, Tanya spoke in dialect. “Zi Pasqual,” she said, “Uncle Pasquale, you have that someone-is-going-to-die look on your handsome fache bella.” She pulled open the door to the elevator waiting area. It locked behind them, but she had a card key. Zi Pasqual also spoke in dialect. “How long have you been with this firm now, Gaetana Maria Modesta, you and Amelia Amanda? Six years, I think it is.” He studied her face, this young aunt of his, the late born child of one of the original immigrants, all from the same Sicilian village, who had founded their luxuriantly interconnected extended family. “It is time to move on.” Tanya firmly pressed a down button on a wall mounted panel to call her relative an elevator. “Amelia and I have a good shot at partnership.” Zi Pasqual looked at his younger aunt and sighed. “Is that what they tell you? Firms like this do not make woman partners. This firm has a poor record indeed in that regard. The worse for you whose father worked with his hands and made his own wine in the basement.” “Times change, Uncle Pasquale. The firm has a plan.” “Tana Maria, this firm will work you like a horse is worked by an evil master. When they can work you no more, they will discard you without a thought. That is the plan.” “These are the 1980s, Zi Pasqual, it’s not like that.” “Tana Maria, firms like this are my special study.” The elevator arrived. “I have to get back,” Tanya said in English. There was no one else in the waiting area, and the elevator was empty, She reached up and pulled down her nephew’s head to give him a quick peck on the cheek. He hugged her and entered the elevator. They waved to each other as the elevator doors closed. Zi Pasqual shook his head as the car started down and spoke aloud in dialect. “So this is America,” he said. |
