TWO
BEN KRAVNER strolled into the law offices of Kramer, Fox, Levy, Johnson & Blum in his navy blue jogging suit at the stroke of ten o’clock on Monday morning. His scraggly black hair was moist with sweat.
"Fritz wants to see you," Carol, Ben’s secretary, said without looking up from her breakfast.
"What does he want?" Ben asked mockingly, as if, of course, Fritz Fox, the Grand Old Man of the firm, would have confided this to Carol. He and Harry Kramer formed the firm in the 1930s. Kramer died more than twenty years ago, but Fritz was still going strong. He was no longer the captain of the ship, that job now belonged to Leo Goldman, the head of the Corporate Department, but Fritz still maintained his stable of rich Trusts & Estates clients.
"He probably wants you to carry his briefcase to a client meeting," Carol wisecracked.
"Ouch." Ben winced, clasped his hands over his heart, and recoiled his sturdy six-foot frame, as if mortally wounded. "The truth hurts. I need a shower. Tell Agnes I’ll be up to see Fritz in a few minutes."
Fifteen minutes later, Ben bounded up the internal stairwell, his long, wet hair parted on the left and combed back behind his ears. Kramer, Fox, as the firm was known in the trade, leased four floors at One Water Street, a 56-floor office tower at the foot of Manhattan. The Trusts & Estates Department was located on the 28th floor, but Ben’s office would remain on the 25th floor until he accepted a permanent assignment.
Fritz was sitting with his back to the doorway, his feet resting on a credenza, enjoying his panoramic view of New York Harbor. Ben adjusted a brightly colored tie that would have made Picasso proud, then knocked on the open door.
"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in," Fritz chortled. With his thick Yiddish accent, it sounded like: "Vell, vell, vell." His voice was weak; he looked pale. "So, how is our Marathon Man?"
"Mornin’, Mr. Fox," Ben said cheerfully. "Six and a half miles in forty minutes today."
"This is good, this is very good," Fritz said, his nearly bald head bobbing knowingly. A few stray tufts of white hair flew off in the direction the wind happened to be blowing that morning. "Now, your hair, if we could get you to cut it, we would make a mensch out of you yet."
Ben flashed his trademark crooked grin. "Every six months, whether it needs a trim or not."
Fritz chuckled, as he searched among the stacks of paper piled high on his mahogany desk for an item that eluded his shaky hands. Finally, he found a copy of the Herald Times and tossed it across the desk. "You have seen Saturday’s newspaper?" he asked.
A glaring banner headline screamed of Adams Thompson’s demise. "I saw the headlines on the newsstand when I was running this weekend," Ben said, as he sat in one of the two Queen Anne chairs opposite Fritz’s desk. "Is Thompson your client?"
"The firm represents the Herald Times in corporate and litigation matters," Fritz said. "I handled George Thompson’s personal matters until he died two years ago. Young Adams, he seemed to view me as part of his inheritance."
Ben tugged gently at his neatly trimmed, black mustache. He had been lobbying Fritz for weeks to let him handle an estate on his own. This one would surely raise his standing within the firm. Ever since he had rotated into the Trusts & Estates Department eight months ago, he had toiled in relative anonymity, drafting wills and trusts, while his colleagues in the Corporate and Litigation Departments worked on high profile mergers and acquisitions, the firm’s bread and butter. He was falling behind in the game.
"Is Thompson’s estate complex?" Ben asked.
"A will, a charitable trust. Interesting, maybe, complex, no," Fritz said, staring directly at Ben with his piercing blue eyes. His large aquiline nose gave him a proud, eagle-like appearance. "This is an important estate, though. I will be taking the lead."
Ben’s jaw dropped. Fritz had read his mind. At ninety, he had not lost even a step mentally.
"I’ve been watching you for eight months now, Mr. Fox. I’m ready to do one on my own."
"Soon enough, Mr. Ben, soon enough," Fritz said. "You are still—"
He was interrupted by a brief coughing fit. "Excuse me. You are still on rotation. Most of the work, you will do. The clients, I’ll make sure they see your face."
"You convinced me that I’d learn more lawyer skills here than in Corporate," Ben said. "I’m still doing research and drafting."
"Patience, Mr. Ben, patience," Fritz said. "Your friends, they are not getting the training you get from me. You want to revise merger agreements and review contracts, you can join the Corporate Department with my blessings. So be it."
Ben knew Fritz was right. His experience in the Corporate Department had been a disaster. Six months wasted reviewing contracts for a merger that was scuttled at the eleventh hour. No useful skills learned.
"I know, I know," Ben said impatiently. "But I want to be a lawyer, not a bag carrier."
"Soon enough," Fritz said. "But—"
"When?" Ben interrupted. An estate like this would not come around again any time soon. "What do I need to do to let you know I’m ready?"
Fritz straightened himself in his chair, then leaned forward. "Look, Ben, the tools, you have them all. But the edges, they are still a little rough," Fritz said evenly. He coughed, again. "My job is to round off those edges before I send you out to meet clients."
Ben blushed. Until now, he had not heard any criticism from the Old Man. "What do you mean?" he asked defensively. "You told me I was doing well."
"You soak up the law like a sponge. Like a sponge!" Fritz said. "And your drafting, flawless."
"Then what?"
Fritz stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger as he contemplated his next words. "An example, maybe it will help," he said. "Clyde von Oster, you drew up those trust agreements for him last week. Rush job. Very complex. Excellent work."
"Yeah. And then the bastard left us sitting in his office for an hour while he took a personal call."
"Exactly! This is my point, you’ve proven it," Fritz said.
Ben frowned. "How?"
"Attitude. Von Oster, yes, he was rude. But he is the client," Fritz said. "Your face betrayed your anger."
"So? Our time is valuable, too," Ben said. "You’re an important man, and he was flaunting his power over you."
"We are in a service business, young Ben," Fritz said. "We save this indignation for the courtroom."
"Von Oster—"
Fritz cut him off. "There are many von Osters on our client list. Your temper, control it. Always strive to appear unruffled no matter how rude the client, no matter how big the ego."
Fritz Fox was the last of a dying breed, the gentleman lawyer. It had been that quality that attracted Ben to him. Ben had tired quickly of the child-like fits of the spoiled, young partners in the Corporate Department. The law was all business to them. Clients were bank accounts to be sucked dry. Associates were workhorses to be worn to the point of exhaustion, then sent to pasture. Ben did not care for these people. He feared becoming one of them. He wanted to be like Fritz Fox.
"Okay, Mr. Fox," Ben said. He forced a smile. "You win. I’m ready for the next lesson."
"Good!" Fritz said. "Then shall we piece together the puzzle that was Adams George Thompson, Jr.?"
Ben took a pen out of his shirt pocket and opened his notebook. In stark contrast to corporate law, T&E practice was about people. You were admitted to the inner sanctum of your clients’ lives. You saw their achievements and their failures, their happiness and their pain, their pride and their prejudice. They were forced to share their existence without inhibition. Fritz Fox had drawn Ben to T&E practice; it was Ben’s voyeuristic tendency that kept him there for a second rotation. He was curious about what went on in people’s minds. A complete picture of the client slowly emerged as the executor uncovered the pieces of his life one by one.
"Did Thompson have a large family?" Ben asked.
"No living relatives," Fritz said. "Specific monetary bequests to various charities, a few former servants, none more than $10,000. The balance, it all goes to the charitable trust for Calhoun College, a small university near Atlanta."
"What was his connection to Calhoun?" Ben asked.
Fritz shrugged. "One of the puzzle pieces, I suppose," he said.
"Is there someone I should call?" Ben asked.
"Tompkins James Frederick, Jr.," Fritz said, reading from a legal pad. "He is the dean. Tomorrow, we’ll call him together. This morning, I’m feeling a little under the weather."
"What should I do to get up to speed?" Ben asked.
"Debby will—" Fritz closed his eyes and grimaced. "Oy vey."
"Are you okay, Mr. Fox?" Ben asked. "Do you need a drink of water?"
"No, no. I just need to rest," he said. He paused to catch his breath. "Debby, she will show you all the files you need and do all the things that paralegals do."
Fritz shifted his weight in his chair. He looked uncomfortable. "Tomorrow, I will be in if you have any questions," he said.
Ben saluted the elderly lawyer fondly and took his leave. He slid down the hall to the paralegal’s office, stopping briefly to ask Fritz’s secretary, Agnes, an elderly woman who had been with Fritz for about forty years, to keep an eye on the Old Man.
Debby’s office was a glorified cubicle, really, enhanced only by a faux leather chair and a rectangular marker with brass letters spelling out "Deborah Colleen Barnett" pinned on the outside wall near the entrance. Ben figured Debby was about his age, 26, give or take a year. She had only joined the firm this past summer, but he found her to be pleasant looking, with a ready smile, long, frizzy, brown hair and a quiet confidence that had made her the present object of his infatuation.
"Hey, Debby C.," Ben said as he fake knocked on an invisible door. Debby was sitting at her desk reviewing a will.
"Hi, Ben," she responded in a neutral tone. "What can I do for you?"
"Fritz wants me to help him with the Thompson estate. Can you show me the files?"
"Sure. That’s a pretty big estate. Are you handling it on your own?" she asked, now sounding slightly impressed.
"Yeah," Ben replied. "Mostly." That’s it, dazzle her with your brilliance.
"Cool. Let me pull some things together from the file room and the vault, and I’ll get you a package in an hour or two."
"Thanks, Debby."
"Sure thing," she said, smiling.
I wish, Ben thought to himself as he exited her workspace. It had been too long since he had been with a woman. Four months. He envisioned Debby’s petite body snuggled next to his for a fleeting moment, then wondered how much time was spent at this firm and law firms all across the land thinking about sex instead of matters legal. And how much of that time was billed to clients. Way too much on both counts, he concluded.
"Help!" A woman’s scream jolted Ben from his daydream. It was Agnes. Ben raced down the hallway.
Agnes was kneeling over Fritz’s body beside his desk. She looked up, her eyes wide, the color drained from her face. "He’s not breathing," she said.
"Call 911!" Ben shouted.
Agnes scrambled to the telephone. Ben checked Fritz’s pulse. Nothing. No respiration. Shit! Ben’s heart pounded. He was trained in CPR, but he had never been called upon to administer it. A small crowd was gathering inside the office, pressing forward for a glimpse of their fallen leader. Ben scanned their eyes. Panic everywhere.
"Everybody stand back!" Ben shouted. There was no time to wait for the paramedics. He knelt beside his dying friend and mentor. He loosened Fritz’s bow tie and shirt collar, then tilted his head back to clear the airways.
Ben placed his mouth over Fritz’s blue lips, then breathed five slow breaths. Then he clasped his hands above Fritz’s heart, locked his elbows and pressed down slowly, repeating for fifteen compressions, about one per second, then two more breaths. Still no pulse.
"Dammit, Fritz, breathe!" he said.
Ben repeated the procedure. He started to compress his chest. Fritz belched up a mouthful of bile. No pulse. Ben cleared Fritz’s mouth of the foul-smelling fluid. He took in a deep breath, then breathed the life-preserving air into Fritz’s lungs. Ben gagged from the odor of Fritz’s vomit, but continued.
Ben repeated the procedure, again. Nothing. He felt hope slipping away. He looked behind him. A dozen lawyers and staff looked on in horror. One more time.
Ben said a silent prayer to a God in whom he did not believe. "C’mon, Fritz," he said softly. It’s not your time, Old Man. He began to compress the frail lawyer’s chest. One… two… three… four… five… six…
"I’ve got a pulse!" Ben shouted.
Murmurs of relief filled the room. But Fritz still was not breathing. Ben continued to provide mouth-to-mouth resuscitation until the paramedics rushed in three minutes later. Ben sat with his back against the paneled wall, watching the paramedics work. They administered oxygen on the scene, then strapped Fritz to a stretcher and wheeled him out.
Ben was in a daze. He saw and heard the people around him, but it was as if they were actors in a play that he was watching from afar. Someone slapped him on the shoulder. "You did your best," another said. It was all a blur. He did not know whether Fritz was dead or alive. He fought back tears.
Ben hid in the men’s room for awhile, rinsing out the acidic aftertaste of Fritz Fox’s digestive tract. He looked in the mirror. His shirt was untucked on one side. His Picasso tie was askew. His mop of black hair was tossed about wildly. He straightened himself out a little, but he could not bring himself to care about anything so trivial as his appearance.
Ben wandered aimlessly through the halls in this semi-catatonic state until he found himself outside the closed door of his friend, Buzz Herzog, a second-year associate in the Corporate Department. He knocked.
"Enter!"
A thick-necked, soft-bellied young man with a crew cut was busily marking up a large document with a red pen. He did not look up.
"Hey, Buzz," Ben said. "Got a minute?"
"Tender offer, big guy. No time," Buzz said, his head still lowered. Buzz was not a risk-taker, and he was determined to make partner at Kramer, Fox. He figured the only sure-fire way to fulfill that ambition—only one out of fifteen new associates made partner—was to make the existing partners at Kramer, Fox rich. He billed more hours than any other associate—over three thousand in his first year. He achieved that dubious distinction by making Kramer, Fox his home and by billing almost every minute he was there to clients’ accounts. He even took work with him to the men’s room.
"I need to talk, Buzz," Ben pleaded. "Fritz had a heart attack."
Buzz looked up. "Serious?" he asked.
Ben nodded. "Yeah. I feel like shit."
"You look like shit, big guy," Buzz said. "Is the Old Man dead?"
"I don’t know," Ben said. "I’m in a daze, man. I was talking to him one minute, then five minutes later I’m pumping his chest and giving him mouth-to-mouth. The paramedics took him away."
"What happens to you if he croaks?" Buzz asked.
Ben was stunned. Did corporate lawyers even have hearts? "Geez, I don’t know," Ben said. "He’s been like a grandfather to me. I haven’t thought about how it affects my career."
"Think about it, big guy," Buzz said. "The only reason Leo tolerates the T&E Department is out of respect for the Old Man. It’s not a money-maker. If he’s dead, you may have wasted the last eight months."
Ben closed his eyes. Was it only eight months he had wasted? It was not even five years since he had entered Harvard Law School with grand ideas and a naïve dream of changing the world. He had cared about people and the issues that affected their daily lives. Now, he was drowning in a heartless money pit, pursuing an intense desire to win a game he cared little about. Fritz Fox had somehow made the place feel human. Now he might be gone.
"Do you see yourself doing this your whole life?" Ben asked.
"This is what I do," Buzz said. "You’re not gonna get all sentimental on me now, are you?"
"I dunno," Ben said. This is what I do. An hour ago he had been focused on taking his career to the next level, desperately trying to wrangle another chip in the game from Fritz Fox. What would happen if he won, made partner, and discovered that his life was an empty shell? "I mean, does all this make you happy?"
Buzz scrunched his face. "Happy?" he said. "Ask me again in six years. If I’m alive, still married, and a partner here, I’ll be happy. Maybe even two out of three. Right now I’m paying my dues. Nobody really gives a shit if I’m happy."
Buzz allowed Ben to vent his sorrows for another minute, then ejected him before another six-minute billing interval was lost. Ben returned to his office.
"Ben!" Carol said. "I heard about Fritz. Is he okay?"
Ben shrugged. "I don’t know," he said. "The paramedics took him away about an hour ago."
"Well, Leo wants to see you in his office right away," Carol said. "Maybe he has news."
Ben’s heart sank. Leo Goldman did not appear to be wasting any time in disbanding the Trusts & Estates Department. Fritz was dead.
The door to Leo Goldman’s office was closed. Ben timidly approached Leo’s secretary, a pretty Latin woman with a round face. Leo made Ben anxious. He made everybody anxious. He was one of the foremost experts on hostile takeover defenses in the industry, cleared five million dollars a year and ran Kramer, Fox like his personal fiefdom. "I’m Ben Kravner. Mr. Goldman left a message for me to see him."
"He’s expecting you, Mr. Kravner," the secretary said. "Go right in."
Ben knocked and entered. Leo was sitting on a sofa, his six-foot, five-inch frame stretched out in front of him. Myra Rosenberg, a dumpy young partner in the Corporate Department, looked unhappy sitting caddy corner from Leo on the couch.
"Ben!" Leo boomed. "We just got good news. Fritz Fox is going to make it."
Ben felt his body relax some, but his heart still pounded in the presence of the great man himself. "That’s terrific news," Ben said. "He had me worried for a few minutes."
"He’s a tough old bird," Leo said. "An asset to the firm."
"He’s been a great teacher," Ben said.
"That’s good, that’s good," Leo said. "Because Fritz is the Trusts & Estates Department. He’s going to be out-of-pocket for a few weeks, and we’re going to need you to take on some extra responsibility. The other associates in the department are all part-timers, and, frankly, they’re going nowhere."
"I can do that," Ben said eagerly. He felt guilty that his breakthrough was coming at Fritz’s expense, but the prospect began to lift him out of his post-trauma funk. "Anything for Fritz."
"Excellent," Leo said. "Myra will be the partner in charge of the T&E group in Fritz’s absence. She’ll handle assignments and will run client meetings. Bring her up to speed on the issues in all pending matters. We need to convince the clients that Kramer, Fox is still providing top notch legal service. It’ll mean extra work for you, but I think you can handle it."
Myra rolled her eyes. Ben grimaced. Myra Rosenberg had a reputation among the young associates as a first class bitch. She had made partner by working Buzz Herzog-like hours, then began delegating and leaving the office at six o’clock every night after she grabbed the prize. That did not seem to discourage her from claiming credit for her team’s hard work.
Ben trudged dejectedly towards the stairwell after the meeting. Despite Leo’s words, the arrangement with Myra sounded like more work, but less responsibility. Myra probably would not even let him near a client. Thankfully, it was only a temporary arrangement. The important thing was that Fritz was alive.
"Hang on, Ben." It was Myra. "My office. Now."
Ben followed. Her office was only two doors down the hall. Here it comes.
Myra closed the door. She clenched her teeth. "I don’t know what the fuck Leo thinks he’s doing," she said in a screaming whisper. "But I can’t handle a tender offer and baby-sit you at the same time."
"B-but—"
She stomped behind her desk. "You’re on your own," she said. "Call me if you have an emergency."
"Do you want me to call you for client meetings?" Ben asked, wide-eyed.
"On. Your. Own," she said. "What part didn’t you understand? You can waste your life in T&E, but there’s no money and no glory. Just don’t fuck anything up."
Debby hustled down to the 25th floor within moments after Ben called. A large red folder was tucked under her arm. She gave his small, spare office the once over. "Nice digs," she said, her frizzy hair bobbing slightly out of synch with her head.
Ben found her smile infectious despite his fragile mood. "If you like early-American prison," he said.
The furnishings, a contemporary wooden desk and matching credenza, were a notch or two below first rate. Sundry folders and books were scattered across the credenza. His desktop was a sea of paper. The walls were bare. Ben’s framed diplomas leaned against the base of the back wall waiting to be hung.
Ben motioned for Debby to sit in one of two matching green upholstered chairs opposite his desk. He caught a whiff of her perfume floating across the room. Stick to business.
"You were great up there," Debby said. Ben sensed a new respect in her voice. "You saved Fritz’s life."
"I was running on instinct," Ben said sheepishly. "I don’t even remember most of what happened." He hesitated, subconsciously tugging on his mustache. "Listen, Leo put Myra Rosenberg in charge of T&E while Fritz is out, but she doesn’t want anything to do with us. She said I’m on my own."
"Wow," Debby said. "Can you handle that?"
"Well, you know most of the administrative rules and procedures," Ben said. "And I’ve been watching Fritz. We should be able to bluff our way through an estate or two before the Old Man gets back."
"Cool. I’m game," Debby said. She handed him the thick red folder. There were several manila subfolders inside. "Here’s the file I promised you. I rushed to finish when you called, but the documents should be in order. The will and charitable trust are in the first subfolder. Then general correspondence, personal documents, old drafts and that fat one at the end is full of memos from the tax lawyers."
"Gotta love those tax lawyers," Ben said.
She smiled. "They do tend to get long-winded," she said. "So, what else can I do to help?"
Ben glanced down at the list he had quickly scribbled. At the moment, it was short. That would change after he had some time to think. "There’s no next-of-kin. Can you handle funeral arrangements?" Ben asked.
"The Herald Times called Mr. Fox this morning and said they’d arrange a memorial service," Debby said. "Thompson left instructions for his body to be cremated."
"Okay. Maybe call the crematorium, then, and find out what we need to do," Ben said.
"Sure thing," Debby said.
"I’ll check in with the police and Calhoun College to introduce myself," Ben said. "We should both review the will and the charitable trust, then we can work up a plan to marshal the estate’s assets."
"Thompson had a safe deposit box at Chase," Debby said. "I’ll file the paperwork to get you access."
"Great," Ben said, then paused reflectively. Fritz Fox had been Ben’s safety net. They only spent a small part of each day together, if any, but just knowing that Fritz was there gave him a confidence that he suddenly felt lacking. He wanted Debby to stay a bit longer to help fill the void, but truth be told, the practice of law was a solitary sport.
Before long had passed, Ben said: "That should keep us busy for a day or two while I get my bearings. Can you think of anything else that needs to be done right away?"
"Nope. You seem to be on top of things," Debby said, as she stood to leave. "But I’m here to help. Let me know if you need anything."
Ben called the Sixth Precinct in Greenwich Village first. Detective Johnson, the officer assigned to the Thompson case, informed Ben that there were no leads. Arrangements were made to pick up Thompson’s personal effects. His wallet was still missing.
Ben was not familiar with Calhoun College. A quick Internet search on his desktop computer revealed that it was a small, private university just outside of Atlanta. The school’s web site provided Dean Frederick’s telephone number.
"Buddy Frederick," a man’s voice answered after the first ring.
The nickname caught Ben off guard. "Um...Dean Frederick?" he asked.
"Yes. Who’s this?"
"This is Ben Kravner. I’m a lawyer with Kramer, Fox in New York. We’re administering an estate that has named Calhoun College as its primary beneficiary. I was wondering if I could make an appointment to speak with you about it."
Dean Frederick’s drawl became more pronounced as he spoke at length. "Of course," he said. "We’ve been trying to develop our estate giving program without much success, I’m afraid. Was it one of our alumni?"
"No, the donor is Adams Thompson, the publisher of the New York Herald Times," Ben said. "He was killed on Friday night."
Dean Frederick paused momentarily. "Adams was a close friend," he said. "I read about his passing in the local paper and was deeply saddened."
"I’m sorry," Ben said. "What was his connection to Calhoun College?"
"Nothing really," the Dean replied. "I’m surprised. We shared a love of history and the north Georgia mountains. He spoke to me about donating some historical documents he had collected and some personal essays, but we hadn’t talked about money."
"It’ll take some time before the College actually sees the money," Ben said. "But I need to visit Atlanta to examine Mr. Thompson’s vacation home, and I’d like to go over the details of the estate administration with you on the same trip. Do you have any time available next week?"
After they agreed on an appointment for the following Monday, Ben swung his chair toward the window behind his desk. He looked out over the grays and browns of Brooklyn.
His world had changed today.
The man he most admired and respected had almost left his life and a ghost he knew nothing about had entered it. He reflected on the puzzles that were Fritz Fox and Adams Thompson. Both men were driven by a passion that had lifted them to the top of their professions. But Fritz Fox was much beloved—by family, friends, colleagues and clients; at first blush, Thompson appeared to be one of the most hated men in New York, his life an empty shell.
Ben hoped that this life, so abruptly ended, would take shape as he reviewed every aspect of its existence. He might be the only person on the planet to ever really know Adams George Thompson, Jr.
But, for Ben, there was more to this odyssey than plumbing the depths of Thompson’s soul. There was an element of self-discovery. Ben believed that he was motivated by the same passion that had driven Fritz Fox to greatness and Adams Thompson to notoriety. It was time to piece together the puzzle that was Benjamin Franklin Kravner. It was time to be great.