Diantha needed to stay away from there. She had a desk covered with paperwork and her phone was ringing, but she needed to hide somewhere for a few minutes. She got on the elevator and punched the button for the seventh floor. When the door shut she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. A bell rang as she passed each floor. The first three were Malloy territory, the fourth was a real estate company, the fifth was a bunch of architects and accountants. As she went up and got away from the firm, the air seemed to lighten as the tension decreased. The seventh floor was a hodgepodge of small suites leased to engineers, insurance agents, and any number of professionals who came and went.
At the end of a long hall was the office of Stuart Broome, the unlicensed accountant who kept the books for Malloy & Malloy. Old Stu preferred the seventh floor because it was as far away as possible from the rest of the firm. He was not an elderly man but moved about as if he longed to be. He was sixty-two, to be exact, but with his unruly gray hair and white bushy eyebrows and waves of wrinkles across his forehead, he could easily pass for a man twenty years older. Tall by nature, but with a hump in his back, he worked standing at a treadmill desk that never moved. Someone should have suggested that Stu turn on the damned thing so he could burn some calories, as was the design, but they were not being burned and he had been adding at least five pounds a year for decades. With the potbelly up front and the hump in the rear, Stu was a model of human deformity and tried to conceal it under an oversized black blazer that he refused to take off. He wore it every day, along with a white shirt and the same black tie, same black trousers, and same unpolished black shoes.
Thirty years earlier, when Bolton Malloy made a killing by suing Honda for its defective three-wheelers, he hired Old Stu to keep him out of trouble with the IRS. As things evolved, the IRS wasn’t the problem. Bolton’s wife, the late and forgotten Tilda, routinely terrorized the office looking for money. Colluding with Bolton, Stu learned to hide as much as possible from Tillie. Shifting fees here and there became an established practice at Malloy & Malloy.
To avoid prying eyes, Old Stu worked alone in his little hidden corner of the building. He had fired so many secretaries and assistants over the years that even the thought of training another one was exhausting. He relished his privacy and did his work without the slightest hint of supervision. No one from the firm ever went near him, primarily because no one from the firm was welcome. Except Diantha. He had a soft spot for her and they could talk about anything.
These days the hottest topic was the firm’s survival.
She tapped on his door and entered before he said anything. He was standing on the treadmill, staring at the screen of an antique computer, crunching numbers. He rarely smiled but always managed one for her.
“Come in, dear,” he said, suddenly warm and welcoming. He stepped down from the treadmill and waved his hand at a dusty sofa in a corner.
“More bad news,” she said as she sat down.
“Rusty lost another one?”
“Yes. He asked the jury for thirty-five million dollars. He got nothing. Zero. Defense verdict.”
Stu sighed as his shoulders sagged. He fell into a chair and looked at her in total defeat. “Two hundred and seventeen thousand dollars, at last count. Not including the final bill from Carl, and we know that Carl’s final bills are always suitable for framing, don’t we?” He threw up both hands and said, “Poof.”
“This one will get worse. Rusty had a chance to settle last night for a lousy million, but he said no. Said it quickly before he thought about running it by his client. A million bucks would have covered our expenses and given the clients some change. I expect a malpractice notice very soon.”
“Well, we’ve certainly seen them before, haven’t we?”
“Too many. Rusty’s out of control and I’m not sure how to rein him in.”
“It’s in his blood, Diantha. Not too many years ago he was the most feared courtroom lawyer in the state, at least in civil cases.”
“Oh, I remember. Those were the days. Now he’s lost his touch.”
They studied the dust on the coffee table. After a moment she said, “Even more bad news. I’m going to see Bolton tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“It’s Kirk’s month to go but he’s meeting with his new divorce lawyer in the morning. The divorce will be a mess. I’m sure all of your records will be put on the table.”
“Bring ’em on. Which set should I show them?”