X - Chapter Twenty Six "The Thirty Percent Solution"

 

"The Thirty Percent Solution" 

Chapter Twenty Six 

      Grant Stauffer was forced to take a cab from his office on 53rd Street to travel just the few blocks to the NYPD’s 17th Precinct on 51st Street simply because, embarrassingly, his short legs would not carry him fast enough to be on time. 

      But it turned out that Manhattan could always surprise. Moving vans were clogging cross streets, and Stauffer arrived at the last minute. At the precinct, Stauffer had to sign in and explain his purpose to the duty sergeant, who was a Hispanic who had a hard time understanding Stauffer’s elegant speech style. 

      “Look, I’m in a hurry,” Stauffer explained. “I’m here for a prisoner, G. Gordon Hope. He’s going to be arraigned, and I have to be there. I’m his attorney.”  

      Stauffer was just about to raise his voice, when another officer walked up to the counter. “Oh, you’re here for Gordy,” the officer said. “Poor guy. Please, you do your best for him, okay! They’re bringing him right out.” 

      Stauffer was shocked. Gordy looked terrible. He was sweaty and unshaven, and he looked disoriented. He was wearing an orange prisoner’s uniform. His wrists were handcuffed in front of him, which was the method the police officer responsible for him used to pull him along. 

      Among the jumble of NYPD vehicles in front of the precinct, there was a white police van with the rear doors open. The police officer pulled Gordy across the sidewalk and up to the van. He pushed Gordy, who then pulled himself into the van, which had two rows of benches, one on each side. 

      “Front or back?” the officer nearly spit at Stauffer. 

      Stauffer looked surprised for a second. Then he said, “I’ll travel with Mr. Gordon.” 

      The officer looked at Stauffer with a gaping mouth and questioning eyes. “Wha . ,” he began. 

      “The prisoner,” Stauffer clarified. He struggled to pull himself into the van and slid into the place opposite Gordy. Both men buckled their seat belts. The van’s doors banged shut, and then the two men heard a click. 

      “Gordy, Jesus,” Stauffer sounded just a bit caring and warm. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry. But sooner or later, we’re gonna get you outta here. I know, I know, this is all wrong.” 

      There was a grinding sound, as the motor roared to life, and then the van jerked forward. Pushed back and forth with the vehicle’s movement, Gordy struggled. Then, he leaned forward and cradled his head in his hands. His face was red, and he looked near tears. “Grant, you gotta help me. I’ve done all kinds of stuff in my life, but never this. Never murder. I think I’d only kill someone to protect my family. I’m no way a killer. Believe me!”  

      For Stauffer, taking Gordy to court for arraignment was beneath him. Stauffer was chief counsel of a major enterprise, one of the leading management consultancies in the world. Stauffer wanted the new lawyer, Lee Meyer, to do this lowly job, but Meyer had never been in a courtroom. Stauffer decided it was good he was handling the task. There could be no mistakes. 

      Stauffer had been chief counsel of Winshire Associates for the past ten years, practically from the day the original team of McKinsey consultants formed the firm. 

      Stauffer remembered those early days, the hopes he had, the excitement he felt, the opportunities that were opening up before him. The things I’d accomplish, he had told himself: To participate in the creation of a new entity, to play a role in the strategies and find the ways to protect the new firm. But he remembered the disappointment he felt when he realized his role was that of a fixer, a fixer who was entangled in the excesses of Ted Merritt, who was burdened by the complications created by Ted. No, I was never a partner in the creation, I was a workman who heard about this, and then I had to fix it. I was the cleanup crew. 

      Now, it’s all there, all the dirty situations, the journeys into the not quite legal, all those documents that went just beyond the limits of the law. There were the negotiations and payoffs made to clients who insisted they had been cheated; of course they were not. There were the cute, young things who complained about sexual harassment, who just couldn’t take a joke, and – yes – had to be paid off. There were the acquisitions Merritt made at rock-bottom prices by blackmailing the owners – dangerous, but it worked. There was the ten-percent baksheesh payment the firm paid to set up its office in Riyadh. All that  and more that happened over the years, and for what? Stauffer asked himself. Well, there was the money, a king’s ransom, and then there was Gloria. 

      And it’s all there, all those sessions where I’m exposed, and I’m exposed because it’s all in the files. Every fix has my signature, and they’re all in Ted’s files. 

      Now, Stauffer was trying to oversee all of Winshire Associates’ responses to the terrible mess the firm had fallen into. Already, the team of NYPD detectives had taken statements from the employees in the office when Ted Merritt’s body was discovered. Bill Voldman should have resisted when the FBI descended on the office with a search warrant. That new writer, Mike Stein, was talking with the FBI, and no one was controlling him. We should never allow Bill Voldman to be questioned. And Gordy talked too much.

      The murder and everything that could come up, it was surely a mess. Ted had given Stauffer a copy of the “Thirty-Percent Solution” memo to review. Stauffer reviewed it and discussed it at length with Merritt numerous times. The concept was brilliant, but it was in that gray zone of the almost legal. Stauffer said he could massage the language so clients would sign the contracts. And then, Winshire would be a real money-maker. 

      But now, Stauffer told himself, life turned dangerous. If the FBI and the NYPD find just one crime, the rest is like shooting clay pigeons, and I’d be an easy target. There’s no doubt, I’m involved. 

      It’s a pity, but Gordy will have to be convicted of murder to protect the firm. Yes, a pity, but necessary. 

      “Gordy, we’re pulling out all the stops. I looked over the case, and we’ll spend a lot of time together, and we’ll do everything humanly possible. You will not be convicted! You will not be convicted for a crime you didn’t do!” 

      “Oh, Grant, thank God,” Gordy breathed out a huge sigh of relief. “I knew I could depend on you. Thanks so much.” 

      “Gordy, we’re all part of the same team. We’re all Winshire. No problem.” 

      Stauffer watched Gordy cling to the steel handles on the side panel, and he wondered if Gordy was listening. 

-0-

      It was the U.S. District Court in Lower Manhattan. All of the signs of power and justice were there, the elegantly carved oak panels on the walls, the massive benches, the flags behind the balustrade, and the hush in the airy space.  

      Stauffer and Gordy were seated at a large table on the left side of the courtroom, and the prosecution, a markedly young attorney accompanied by a young, female assistant, was sitting at an identical table on the right side. 

      “Gordy, the prosecution looks like he passed the bar yesterday,” Stauffer said. “Today, there’s not much to decide. The judge will read the charge. You just have to plead. Not guilty, of course. And that’s it. You know, if the charge is murder, you know how important that is. Beside all else, there’s no bail for murder in New York, you know . . . ” 

      “No, no, I can’t stay in jail,” Gordy said. “I just can’t. Have you ever seen those places?”

      Suddenly, two words echoed throughout the chamber. It was the bailiff: “All rise.” 

      Federal Court Judge Willard K. Esposito entered the chamber. He had a cane, and he walked with some difficulty, but with solemnity. He was an older man, with slightly droopy jowls, an olive complexion and gray sideburns with just a wisp of hair on the top of his head. His robe was black.

      He wasted no time. “We have before us the case of G. Gordon Hope. Is Mr. Hope represented?” 

      Stauffer rose. “Yes your honor. I’m representing him. Grant Stauffer, of the bar of New York, and also the bar of California.”

      “Thank you, you may be seated. Mr. Hope is charged with murder in the second degree, aggravated assault and conspiracy for fraud.” 

      Stauffer watched Gordy. Gordy appeared to shake with the sounding of every word. When Judge Esposito paused, Gordy bent forward and cradled his head with both hands. Sobbing, his body jerked slightly every few seconds. 

      “Mr. Hope, please stand,” Judge Esposito intoned.  

      Gordy remained immobile. 

      “Mr. Hope, please rise.”

      Stauffer put an arm around Gordy and shook him gently. “Com’on, Gordy. It’s almost over.” 

      Gordy struggled to his feet, and whispered to Stauffer, “It’s just beginning. You know that.” 

      “Mr. Hope, how do you plead?”

      “Not guilty,” Gordy muttered. “With all my heart, not guilty.” 

      “Thank you, Mr. Hope,” Judge Esposito said, totally absent of emotion. “The defendant will be remanded. Bailiff, if you please, will you escort the defendant?” 

      Gordy was gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. He turned to Stauffer.“Where they taking me?” he asked.

      “I don’t know. I don’t know,” Stauffer lied. He knew Gordy would be interned at Rikers Island. “But we’re gonna beat this thing. We’re gonna do everything we can. Pull out the stops. Don’t worry.” 

      The bailiff arrived. He was thin and of average height. He appeared of middle age and of little physical strength. He put one hand on Gordy’s shoulder, and said, “Please, sir. Let me help you.” 

      Gordy, still gritting his teeth, looked back at Stauffer. Then, slowly, he allowed the bailiff to guide him. 

      A pity, Stauffer thought. A pity, but it’s for the firm, for the firm.