The Firm (The Firm #1)

Chapter 1

The senior partner studied the résumé for the hundredth time and again found nothing he disliked about Mitchell Y.

McDeere, at least not on paper. He had the brains, the ambition, the good looks.

And he was hungry; with his background, he had to be.

He was married, and that was mandatory. The firm had never hired an unmarried lawyer, and it frowned heavily on divorce, as well as womanizing and drinking.

Drug testing was in the contract. He had a degree in accounting, passed the CPA exam the first time he took it and wanted to be a tax lawyer, which of course was a requirement with a tax firm.

He was white, and the firm had never hired a black.

They managed this by being secretive and clubbish and never soliciting job applications.

Other firms solicited, and hired blacks.

This firm recruited, and remained lily white.

Plus, the firm was in Memphis, of all places, and the top blacks wanted New York or Washington or Chicago.

McDeere was a male, and there were no women in the firm.

That mistake had been made in the mid-seventies when they recruited the number one grad from Harvard, who happened to be a she and a wizard at taxation.

She lasted four turbulent years and was killed in a car wreck.

He looked good, on paper. He was their top choice. In fact, for this year there were no other prospects. The list was very short. It was McDeere or no one.

Royce McKnight flipped through the dossier and smiled. McDeere was their man.

Lamar Quin was thirty-two and not yet a partner.

He had been brought along to look young and act young and project a youthful image for Bendini, Lambert about one every other year.

We offer the highest salary and fringes in the country, and I’m not exaggerating.

So we are very selective. We selected you.

The letter you received last month was sent after we screened over two thousand third-year law students at the best schools.

Only one letter was sent. We don’t advertise openings and we don’t solicit applications.

We keep a low profile, and we do things differently. That’s our explanation.”

“Fair enough. What kind of firm is it?”

“Tax. Some securities, real estate and banking, but eighty percent is tax work. That’s why we wanted to meet you, Mitch. You have an incredibly strong tax background.”

“Why’d you go to Western Kentucky?” asked Oliver Lambert.

“Simple. They offered me a full scholarship to play football. Had it not been for that, college would’ve been impossible.”

“Tell us about your family.”

“Why is that important?”

“It’s very important to us, Mitch,” Royce McKnight said warmly.

They all say that, thought McDeere. “Okay, my father was killed in the coal mines when I was seven years old. My mother remarried and lives in Florida. I had two brothers. Rusty was killed in Vietnam. I have a brother named Ray McDeere.”

“Where is he?”

“I’m afraid that’s none of your business.” He stared at Royce McKnight and exposed a mammoth chip on his shoulder. The dossier said little about Ray.

“I’m sorry,” the managing partner said softly.

“Mitch, our firm is in Memphis,” Lamar said. “Does that bother you?”

“Not at all. I’m not fond of cold weather.”

“Have you ever been to Memphis?”

“No.”

“We’ll have you down soon. You’ll love it.”

Mitch smiled and nodded and played along. Were these guys serious? How could he consider such a small firm in such a small town when Wall Street was waiting?

“How are you ranked in your class?” Mr. Lambert asked.

“Top five.” Not top five percent, but top five.

That was enough of an answer for all of them.

Top five out of three hundred. He could have said number three, a fraction away from number two, and within striking distance of number one.

But he didn’t. They came from inferior schools—Chicago, Columbia and Vanderbilt, as he recalled from a cursory examination of Martindale-Hubbell’s Legal Directory.

He knew they would not dwell on academics.

“Why did you select Harvard?”

“Actually, Harvard selected me. I applied at several schools and was accepted everywhere. Harvard offered more financial assistance. I thought it was the best school. Still do.”

“You’ve done quite well here, Mitch,” Mr. Lambert said, admiring the résumé. The dossier was in the briefcase, under the table.

“Thank you. I’ve worked hard.”

“You made extremely high grades in your tax and securities courses.”

“That’s where my interest lies.”

“We’ve reviewed your writing sample, and it’s quite impressive.”

“Thank you. I enjoy research.”

They nodded and acknowledged this obvious lie. It was part of the ritual. No law student or lawyer in his right mind enjoyed research, yet, without fail, every prospective associate professed a deep love for the library.

“Tell us about your wife,” Royce McKnight said, almost meekly. They braced for another reprimand. But it was a standard, nonsacred area explored by every firm.

“Her name is Abby. She has a degree in elementary education from Western Kentucky. We graduated one week and got married the next. For the past three years she’s taught at a private kindergarten near Boston College.”

“And is the marriage—”

“We’re very happy. We’ve known each other since high school.”

“What position did you play?” asked Lamar, in the direction of less sensitive matters.

“Quarterback. I was heavily recruited until I messed up a knee in my last high school game. Everyone disappeared except Western Kentucky. I played off and on for four years, even started some as a junior, but the knee would never hold up.”

“How’d you make straight A’s and play football?”

“I put the books first.”

“I don’t imagine Western Kentucky is much of an academic school,” Lamar blurted with a stupid grin, and immediately wished he could take it back. Lambert and McKnight frowned and acknowledged the mistake.

“Sort of like Kansas State,” Mitch replied.

They froze, all of them froze, and for a few seconds stared incredulously at each other.

This guy McDeere knew Lamar Quin went to Kansas State.

He had never met Lamar Quin and had no idea who would appear on behalf of the firm and conduct the interview.

Yet, he knew. He had gone to Martindale-Hubbell’s and checked them out.

He had read the biographical sketches of all of the forty-one lawyers in the firm, and in a split second he had recalled that Lamar Quin, just one of the forty-one, had gone to Kansas State. Damn, they were impressed.

“I guess that came out wrong,” Lamar apologized.

“No problem.” Mitch smiled warmly. It was forgotten.