Byron Johnson simply stared at her, declining her challenge. When Ursula Betancourt realized that he wasn’t going to rise to what she knew was a taunt, she posed a question that was meant to test him, and it did. “One issue you’ve not addressed at all in your papers, Mr. Johnson, is the impact of the SAMs designation of your client. Do you want to address that now before I rule?”
Byron Johnson was speechless. Even a mind as fast as his failed to frame an answer to a question about which he knew nothing. “I’m not familiar with that term.”
Ursula Betancourt glanced at Hamerindapal Rana, who had not said a word at the conference after announcing at the outset who he was. It was as if they shared a secret, for they both knew the term.
“Special Administrative Measures,” Judge Betancourt said. “SAMs, Mr. Johnson. Are you not familiar with them?” The tone of her voice bore the mocking disbelief of a seventh-grade teacher asking a student why he was not familiar with the answer to three times eight. After waiting precisely five seconds without an answer from Byron, she became brusque, business-like. “The motion for the release of the defendant, for dismissal, for change of conditions of confinement, for an expansion of the hours of attorney-client meetings, and for permission for family visits to the detainee are all denied. Among other things, Mr. Johnson has failed to note that his client is subject to a SAMs designation and, as a result, his client is committed to the custody of the Justice Department, is expressly not allowed bail, and is explicitly prohibited from contact with all outsiders other than a lawyer.”
She turned off the reading light in front of her face. And finally she said, “I think it’s only fair to Mr. Johnson to give him warning that, if he again asks for relief that new federal law makes clear he can’t get for his client, the court will consider imposing substantial financial sanctions on Mr. Johnson personally. I can’t tolerate a waste of Mr. Rana’s time, not to mention the court’s time.”
Hal Rana remained silent at the prosecution table. He didn’t even glance at Byron Carlos Johnson.
Christina Rosario had waited for Byron on a bench outside the locked courtroom. Only lawyers, the judge, and three armed United States Marshals had been allowed inside. When Byron emerged, she stood up. He saw her expectant, questioning look. He said, “Bad day in Black Rock.”
She frowned.
As they stepped out onto the bleak sun-drenched stone plaza in front of the courthouse, three news cameras focused on them. Reporters pressed forward, vying for his attention. Byron looked stunned. It had never occurred to him that reporters knew about the court appearance or that they had simply followed him to Miami and the courthouse. The motion he had filed had been sealed, hidden from the public computerized court files. No notice had appeared anywhere of the scheduling of the hearing. Plainclothes guards had locked the entrance to the courtroom.
Byron didn’t speak. The taxi he had hired to bring him and Christina to the courthouse was waiting. He let Christina step inside before he did. Voices outside the locked door continued their insistent clamor. Cameras were pointed at the tinted windows. The car moved steadily forward through people who stepped to the side only as the front bumper came within inches of them.
8
SANDY SPENCER-GREGARIOUS, GENTLEMANLY, always at ease-often passed Byron Johnson’s light-filled corner office on the twenty-seventh floor overlooking Park Avenue and the urban landscape of midtown office towers. As the lead partner of the firm, Sandy made it a point to walk at least once each week through the five floors the firm occupied in the Seagram Building to make his presence known. On these tours he spoke with the firm’s other partners, the associates, the secretaries, and the messengers. Byron, who was always respectful and friendly to people on the staff, thought Sandy’s tours through the office were a form of politicking, as if, Byron once told a bitter, now retired partner who had been removed from the firm in a campaign Sandy orchestrated, he were running for Mayor of Park Avenue.
Byron was making notes on a yellow legal pad when Sandy knocked on the edge of his open office door. Sandy, his suit jacket off, wore a regimental striped tie. His initials were woven into the cuffs of his crisp white shirt. “Byron,” he said, “when are we going to get you to stop using those yellow legal pads? I thought Nixon was the last man to use them.”
“Sandy, the beauty of these is that I can burn them and nobody can ever know what was in my mind. That’s why Nixon used them. They tell me that what you type on a computer lives forever.”
Sandy had worked as a young lawyer on the staff of the Watergate Committee for its Republican members. Sandy said, “Hell, Byron, I still have Nixon’s notes.”
Bright light from the late morning sun flooded Byron’s sparely furnished office. He still had enough sense of attachment to the firm that he thought it was best for him to sit and banter for a few minutes with Sandy Spencer.
“Sandy, you’re the man who keeps the secrets. That’s why Nixon loved you.”
Sandy sat in the visitor’s chair in front of the desk. He crossed his elegant legs, the relaxed posture of Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady. As if announcing good news, he said, “I just got a call from Jack Andrews. They have a new case they’re sending over. Securities fraud, he said, with a sprinkle of racketeering claims to spice it up.”
Jack Andrews was the chief inside counsel at American Express, a client of SpencerBlake for all the years both Byron and Sandy had worked there. Jack Andrews had once been a junior partner at the law firm, which long ago had managed the brilliant tactic of placing him in the in-house counsel’s office of a major client. Jack had soon become the ultimate decision-maker in selecting outside lawyers to represent American Express. Jack Andrews “spread the jewels around,” as Sandy Spencer often said, but he usually saved the “crown jewels” of legal work for his old law firm.
Smiling, Byron said, “Sandy, is there a bank in America big enough to hold all your money?”
Sandy returned Byron’s smile. “I’ve moved the excess to the Channel Isles.”
“Now that Switzerland is giving up information right and left,” Byron said, “there are all these other countries racing into the growth industry of tax havens. Or are they islands, dukedoms, principalities?”
“Where there’s money there’s always a way to hide it,” Sandy said, laughing. He then looked at Byron as if, Byron thought, he was about to cajole a boy. “Jack specifically said he wanted you to be the lead litigation partner on this case. It’s important enough to Amex that he wants to be sure you handle it. Even at your $950 hourly rate.”
Byron clicked the tip of his pencil on the top of his desk. “When did clients get the privilege of deciding who’s assigned to what cases? Isn’t that our decision?”
Sandy’s expression changed from its usual urbanity to that wintry look his father used when he was unhappy with another lawyer in the firm. Sandy’s father was still working at SpencerBlake in the first three years Byron was there. He was “Mr. Spencer” to everyone, including his son. There were times when, if he wasn’t satisfied with the research of a young lawyer, he’d throw a book across the desk at him. It was a different world then, austere, aristocratic, and arbitrary.
“Byron, work with us. I don’t want to discuss when clients can and can’t pick the lawyers they want on particular cases. Jack asked for you. He rarely does that.”