Legal Days, Lonely Nights by William Fredrick Cooper
Chapter One
When Kyle entered the office of Stephen Cohen, principal partner of the firm Cohen, Schindler and Brody, he spied a gangly figure pacing the plush carpet, staring down on Manhattan through the window. Cohen was seated on an adjacent sofa, along with a bald man whose eyes sagged at the corners.
"I'm sure we can have this resolved by the time the season starts," he heard his boss finish.
Rising from his seat as he turned his attention to Kyle, Cohen gestured toward the pacing figure. One who needed no introduction. "Kyle, I want you to meet Stanton Curry of the Orlando Magic and his agent, Mark Rabinowitz." To the balding figure who remained seated, he said, "Kyle Watson is one of my brightest senior associates. I'm going to let him take the lead on this case."
Kyle received a dead fish handshake from Rabinowitz, who eyed him with skepticism. "No offense, Kyle, butŠ" The agent turned back to Cohen and continued. "Are you sure we...Do you think this is the best way to go?"
Cohen nodded and then responded, "I know what you're getting at. But Kyle's the best trial lawyer we have. Stan is your go-to-guy, Kyle is ours. Isn't that right, Watson?"
"I wouldn't be too concerned with appearances," Kyle retorted, eyeing Rabinowitz without a blink. "You might want to focus some of your concern on repelling the media attention this thing is receiving, unless you want Stan to get tried on the front page of every periodical in the city."Rabinowitz, slightly rattled by Kyle's confident tone, downplayed his own aggression. "Look," he stated, "I just want what's best for my client."
"Our client," Cohen corrected. "And Kyle is the best."
Kyle didn't let on that he and Stanton were former rivals on the court...Keeping his greeting strictly professional, he offered his hand and said, "How are you, Stanton? I've been following your progress since your career started."
Cueing on Kyle's lead, Stanton was cordial..."Nice to see you, man...Hope I haven't disappointed you."
With a sly smile, Kyle stated, "No way, man...You've been holding your own."
Rabinowitz squirmed in his seat. Kyle could sense his level of discomfort at their familiar tones and casual speech.
"Kyle, why don't you take Stanton to your office where he can give you all the particulars so we can get started on his defense as soon as possible," Cohen stated.
"Sure thing. Stanton, why don't you follow me." As they moved from Cohen's office into the brightly lit hallway, the sight and strides of two handsome African-American brothers dressed for business commanded everyone's attention. Each step from the statuesque duo seemed like a synchronized lesson in self-confidence to the Black clerks pushing mail carts; the message without words powerfully stating, "Go to school, get your degree and do something with your life." Secretaries in search of Black super men -- those drop dead gorgeous hunks only found in Ebony -- were peeking up from piles of work, whispering and batting eyelashes, seemingly under an alluring spell...
Before entering his office, Kyle introduced his well-known client to Trudy, his administrative assistant. His demeanor never wavered from corporate protocol as he requested a six-pack of Perrier with lemon from the employee lounge. Only after escorting Stanton into his office and closing his door did the veneer come down. And it did so with a process bred in the joy of knowing someone from around the way: a brotherly hug, a soulful handshake complete with a finger-popping finish and an inquiry, "Stan the man. What up, dawg?!"
"Man, nothin' but drama," Stanton announced, admiring Kyle's place of business. The old rivals spent a few moments getting caught up. Kyle knew Stan's story; Lincoln High, St. John's University, Orlando's first pick in the draft and seven first-team All-NBA selections in as many years. They discussed the whereabouts of a few mutual friends and acquaintances shared from their days as arch-rival basketball players in high school. Noticing the undergraduate and juris doctorate degrees from Georgetown University, the MVP plaques Kyle had accrued from intramural and lawyers' basketball leagues left Stanton shaking his head. "I see you still got game."
Kyle smiled. "Brooklyn point guards never lose their skills. You know that."
"You could've been breakin' ankles in the 'L', like I am."
"Different people take different roads in life, Stan. Though B-ball is still in my blood, I was born to be a trial attorney." They seated themselves in unison; Kyle behind his desk, Stan in his guest chair equipped with an ottoman. "Speaking of which, why didn't you play in the Rucker Tournament this year? Kobe Bryant came down, so did Stephon Marbury, Tracy McGrady and some of the old school players like Clyde Frazier and Tiny Archibald for a legends game. What's up with that?"
"Superstars improve their game in solitude. Got no time to showboat in the summer leagues. I want a ring next year."
Kyle nodded in agreement. "Tell me about it. I'm tryin' to be the first black partner here. With all the racist bullshit weakly disguised as politics, I often work alone on my cases." Sensing the opportunity to segue to the matter at hand, he wasted no time in capitalizing. "What's going on with you, man?"
Lowering his head with the query and then raising it suddenly in defiance, Stanton stated his case. "Man, some cat is goin' for a shakedown. I was at Perk's in Harlem about three weeks ago, and this guy, who appeared to have had one too many, was clownin' me over the fact that we got bumped by the Charlotte Hornets in the first round this year."
"I would've too, the way Jamal Mashburn ate y'all up," Kyle quipped.
"Counselor's got jokes, I see."
"Just kidding, Stan. Go on."
"So anyway, I could tell this guy was drunk. His speech was slurred, he was staggering and struggling to keep his balance and he's razzing me something bad. The taunting didn't bother me. But then he spilled beer on me. Swinging wildly in my direction, the mug of beer he held tipped over, and the froth of it sloshed on my shirt and lapel. I sidestepped his clumsiness 'cause I didn't want him all over me. Before I could blink he lost his balance, fell on his face, and grabbed his nose. Then the bouncer intervened and they escorted me outside.
"I never saw him again after that, so I figured it was just one of those things. Two weeks later he pressed battery charges against me. So I turned myself in, made bail, and now I need a good trial lawyer to clear my name of this madness."
Kyle scribbled on a blank legal pad in the ensuing silence. "Is that all that happened?"
"That's it."
"So you never hit him?"
Stan sucked his teeth. "Look man, I ain't into throwin' cats through windows and shit. I was just trying to have some dinner and a good time."
Kyle sighed and then raised his hand to indicate his understanding. "I have to ask you these things, man, because this guy and his ambulance chaser are going to do everything in their power to prove that you assaulted him. They're creating an image; he'll be an unwitting, undeserving victim. So I need to know if you're leaving anything out, otherwise we'll be going to the theatre of the unexpected."
"You know everything." Stan nodded as he leaned back in his seat, brooding...
"Stan, personally, I'd be honored to clear your name. But know this, I'm a professional, and from this point forward I must treat you like a client. You might not agree with some of my actions, and you may even dislike my suggestions, but trust me, they're in your best interest. Because this is such a high profile case, until it's over, I want you to keep a low profile, meaningŠ"
"Stay away from the women, the bars, and the club scene," Stan finished, sighing.
"Exactly. Your visibility in these places can go a long way in the judge's final ruling." With those words, Kyle came from behind his desk, and in a moment of spiritual weakness, gave his brother in the struggle a loving embrace. "I got your back, dawg. Believe that."
I got your back, dawg...Those five words were a motivating tool for Kyle Watson as he labored from dusk to dawn preparing Stanton's defense. Additional incentive came in knowing that in October, some eight weeks away, Cohen, Schindler and Brody's fiscal cycle would end with the announcement of the firm's new partners. Having already established his brilliance by defending clients with the tenacity of a pitbull, emerging victorious in a case of this magnitude would go a long way in proving he merited strong consideration.
Winning a case of such importance entailed great sacrifice as well. Heeding Cohen's orders to concentrate solely on Curry's exoneration, every case that had been worked on prior to his assignment to Stanton was either compartmentalized or delegated to junior associates.
"Grunt work," Kyle mumbled from his home office a week into his prep work. Inundated with the task of preparing interrogatories, finding credible witnesses and conversing and consulting with his defense team via e-mail, his social and romantic life had taken a turn for the worse ever since his goal of partnership by thirty-three became an obsession. Recalling the words of his former fiancée, Anita Browne, had said to him when she broke off the engagement two years ago by moving out of their Riverdale condo, "Being with you is like being alone," Kyle was briefly saddened once again. The devastation that rose through him upon hearing those words compelled him to numb his pain with work. Assuaging his hurt with an inordinately large case load served as therapy.
Not on this night, however. Finally taking a break from the task at hand, Kyle the Recluse succumbed to his loneliness. Sipping white zinfandel after a hot shower, he tried to ignore the stiff feeling at his groin telling him it had been too long since he'd had sex, but his efforts were futile. Too wound up to go to sleep, yet too tired to step out and mingle at a local wa...
