"So this is a test?" V.T. said, wondering why that made him feel so irritated when he knew that this was going to be either a sales job or a job interview.
"I suppose, but it's because they're being protective of me and this firm. Many of our families have been close for a very long time, and we look out for one another," Dean replied.
The little speech took V.T. aback a bit. He'd never heard that much emotion for the death of his own son or brother. Then again, maybe he does have it in him and just doesn't know how to show it, he thought. "That's a great sentiment," he said.
"Sentiment?" Dean snorted. "Call it self-interest. Our affairs are closely linked, and they just want to make sure whoever is in this office holds up their end of the bargain. But in the end, I will make my own decision."
Dean turned to gaze out the wall of windows facing south, like an ancient king surveying his kingdom. "I'm an old man, Vinson," he said, using V.T.'s Christian name for perhaps the first time in his life. "And I guess that your father's death has reminded me of my own impending mortality, so I am trying to get my affairs in order. As you know, you are my only heir…"
V.T. thought he detected a note of bitterness in the statement but kept his expression unchanged.
"…and it is my preference-the preference, really, of all the men you see on that wall," he said, pointing to the portraits of his predecessors, "that this firm's leadership be passed on to a Newbury. So I thought that, perhaps, we might spend more time together, get better acquainted. And…perhaps…you'll come around to understanding that you have a legacy here that a great many people-more than you know-are counting on a Newbury to continue."
V.T. smiled. "Thank you. I'd like the chance to get better acquainted. However, as I always told my father, I enjoy working at the District Attorney's Office. Like I said before, I feel that I make a real difference there."
For a moment, the smile faded from the old man's face and it was a struggle to replace it. "Yes, yes, of course, and you certainly have put in your time with little enough reward, but maybe it's time to hand the baton to the next generation so that they can champion the cause of an ungrateful public."
V.T. started to protest the description but Dean held up a hand.
"Please, why argue? Has the public ever thanked you for taking on the dregs of society?" he said. "No, they elect politicians who coddle criminals and pass laws so that after all your hard work their new 'friends' can go right back on the streets murdering, robbing, stealing, raping. That has to be tough on you. Nonetheless, it's your life. I just want to make the point that you can make a difference here, too. The law isn't just about putting criminals in prison. We also protect the rights of all citizens, which I might add-though perhaps it isn't politically correct-includes the rights of people who have worked hard for their success and have the right to enjoy the fruits of their labors and to pass those fruits on to their descendants if they so choose. These people create more than great wealth. They create jobs, pay wages, build an economy and a nation. And in the end, they pay a far greater percentage of their income in taxes than does, if you'll excuse the term, 'the average Joe,' or for that matter, welfare mothers and gangsters who pay no taxes at all, build nothing, are simply anchors on the ship of society."
V.T. understood the argument, at least the rational side of it.
He'd actually had it before with his father many years ago when he was a teenager and railing against "the establishment." Expecting his father to take his side and not toe the company line, he'd been surprised and at first upset when his father actually defended the role of white-shoe law firms and their clients. By the time his father finished, V.T. had reluctantly conceded that the firm's clientele had important, legitimate interests that required legal experts to protect. And, his father pointed out, he would have never been able to take on as many pro bono cases as he did if some wealthy real estate developer with a tax problem wasn't footing the bill with his legal fees.
Like his father before him, V.T. had certainly enjoyed the benefits of having the best of anything money could buy. Education. Opportunity. Freedom to choose. He didn't believe that money was the root of all evil, just-as the Bible actually said-the "love of money." He didn't love money as such, but he certainly enjoyed what it could buy-fine wines, frequent travels with first-class accommodations, and a nicer home than he could have afforded as just an assistant district attorney.
Yet, working for the DAO, he was acutely aware that money could buy a more equal protection for some than for others. Money paid for dream-team lawyers and armies of investigators; it greased palms and on occasion had been known to buy a public official, a witness, a juror, or even a judge. It was probably why he'd gravitated toward prosecuting white-collar crimes, to level the playing field.
V.T. didn't like his uncle's social-issues rant. But for the sake of familial cordiality, he just nodded and said, "I understand completely."
Dean smiled broadly, pulled open the center drawer of his desk, and withdrew a small item. He held it out and V.T. saw that it was a ring. "As a token of a new relationship between us, I wanted to give you this," he said. "It belonged to my son. That symbol has been a sort of family coat of arms for centuries."
"A coat of arms? I thought the Newbury coat of arms has ducks and crosses or something on it," V.T. said.
"Well, yes, perhaps coat of arms isn't the right term," Dean said, pressing the ring into V.T.'s hand. "More like a fraternity ring. A very old fraternity, and if you play your cards right, I'll let you in on our deepest secrets someday."
Holding the ring up, V.T. noted the three gold spirals joined at the center against a black background of onyx. "It's beautiful," V.T. said. "And it does look old. Is it Celtic?"
"Indeed. It's called a tre cassyn. You'll see that the men you're about to meet also wear these, as do I. The symbol fits our motto: 'Quocunque jeceris stabit.'"
"Wherever you will throw it, it stands," V.T. interpreted. He saw his uncle's surprised look and added, "One of the requirements in boarding schools when I was a boy was that we study Latin. I have to confess that I was one of those geeks who actually enjoyed the class."
Dean laughed a bit too loud. "Well, good to see someone's education didn't go to waste. Anyway, it would make me proud if you'd accept it…if for no other reason than as a reminder of Quilliam."
V.T. thought the comment about wasted educations in the con text of giving him Quilliam's ring was a jab at both his son and anyone who wouldn't jump at the chance of ending a legal career on the top floor of a Fifth Avenue skyscraper. But his uncle was already heading for the door. "Now let's go meet the others. They're not the sort who like to be kept waiting."
Dean Newbury then pulled up short. "Oh, we also have another motto you may hear from time to time. It goes back to the first American Newburys. 'What must be, will be.' A bold statement, don't you think?"
16
The same stiff breeze that had buffeted V. T. Newbury nearly half the length of Manhattan to the north caught up to Ariadne Stupenagel and Gilbert Murrow when they stepped out of the Whitehall Street subway station at the southern tip of the island where the Hudson and East rivers meet. "Maybe we should go home and call it a night," Murrow suggested hopefully. "The doctors said you're supposed to be taking it easy."
"I can't, sweetie," Stupenagel responded as she pulled the sling supporting her cast around to cover her fingers better. "But really, you go. I don't need an escort from here, and I promise to take a cab home when this is over."