Editor's Note: Philalawyer is "on assignment" through Wednesday. Part III of "The Farther We Go The Rounder We Get" will be up when he gets back. In the interim, here's a little piece on some amusing manifestations of status anxiety in the legal field. And "The A Team." Well, part of it... .
"Not both of them." I snapped into the phone. "You're wrong. I'm positive." I was half paying attention to the conversation, barking into the receiver as I sat in the lobby, leafing through the firm's brochures on the coffee table.
Fistlewait, Harriman, Fortescue and Marmalard was formed in 1905, when Johnston Auchincloss Fortescue returned to Philadelphia upon graduation from Yale Law School, Cum Laude. Fortescue, grandson of Jacob Browning Auchincloss, private counselor to John Penn, second Colonial Governor of Pennsylvania, had seen the need for counselors in maritime law to serve Philadelphia's growing importing sector after managing his family's Caribbean trading interests through the Spanish American War. Upon returning from Yale, Fortescue and his first cousin, Peterson J.K. Fistlewait formed the firm, purchasing office space in the East Atlantic Building, the jewel of what was then known as Spice Traders Row. They quickly solicited a stable of notable clients including Featherbottom Iron & Coke, Ltd., Pepperidge Trolleyworks and the Johnstown Dam Liability Trust.Much has changed since then, but FHFM remains committed to the values and vision of its founders, to provide the finest representation to its clients and uphold the Philadelphia legal community's storied tradition of
spirited, but genteel advocacy.
"Jesus, where's the 'Irish need not apply' disclaimer?"
"What?" The voice on the other end boomed out of the receiver.
"Was I talking out loud? Just something funny I was reading."
"So I don't warrant your full attention?"
"Not when you're wrong." I was getting aggravated with the discussion. It was going nowhere, our dispute degrading into a childish "Is too" versus "Is not" back and forth. That's standard operating procedure every morning for a litigator. You go into the office plotting how you'll knock off three projects before lunch and then an opponent calls, whining about how he's going to file a motion against your client if you don't agree to give him some document he's been demanding. The next time you look at the clock it's ten-thirty and all you've done is talk on the phone and write a letter to the prick, defending your basis for not giving him what he wants. These annoyances are bad enough when you're just sitting in the office, wasting time, but I really didn't need one at that moment, sitting in a firm across town, facing hours of fighting with some stuffed shirt opposing counsel.
"I have a deposition starting any minute." I snapped back into the phone. "Just get the answer."
"Hold your horses. I just have to log in and go online. Then we'll know for sure."
"Exceeewwsse me. Exceeewwsse me, sir." I could hear the receptionist calling to me in the background. Alright, I hear you, lady... Her voice had been driving me crazy, every time I heard her answer the phone in the background. "Hellewww... Fistlewait, Harriman, Fortescue and Marmalard." I listened to her repeat the phrase over and over, but try as I might, I couldn't place her accent. Was it Australian? English? Afrikaner? Possibly contrived - an affectation crafted to sound exotic or aristocratic, or what passed for that in Philadelphia. The more I looked around the lobby, the more that seemed the case. The décor was 19th century banker's office, deliberately so. Everything in drab milky tones, all of it trimmed in shocking white wainscoting, a plasticky commercial variant of what you might see in an old colonial manor. The place dripped with what people who chew a lot of gum would call "class."
"Hold on a second." I turned from the phone to address the woman. "Yes?"
"Sir, the court reporter is here. They'll be starting the deposition in a mehwment."
"Thank you." I shot the woman a thumbs up. She blinked, I think in recognition, then angled her nose back down toward her desk.
"Sorry about that." I jumped back on the phone. "I'm trying to do two things at once here."
"I should have an answer in a second."
"I hope so." I snapped back into the receiver. "I'm almost out of time."
"I could tell you later."
"No. I want to know now."
"I can't make the thing go any faster. Computers are slow when you just turn them on."
"Excewssse me, sir." It was the receptionist again, summoning me to a doorway. "Can you come this way?"
Yezzz... And might you send a houseboy for the baggage?
"One second." I smiled at her, then got back to the phone call.
"OK. Let's see. I think I have it."
"Come on. It can't be that hard. It's public information."
"Ah... Ha." I could hear the bastard snickering through his words. "Here it is."
"Get both of them. You need both of them."
"George Peppard. Died May 8, 1994. Lung cancer."
"And?"
"Herve Villachaize. Born April 23, 1943. Died September 4, 1993. Self inflicted gunshot wound."
Fuck.
"That's a case." Harris laughed.
"I didn't bet a case."
"Yes you did."
"Sir, do you need some time?" The receptionist chimed in again.
Some finger sandwiches would be nice. What kind of hellhole is this?
"No, thank you." I gathered my papers, holding the phone between my jaw and shoulder.
"You specifically bet a case." Harris was still snickering. "'If both of them are dead, I'll buy you a case of whatever you want.' I remember it."
"You're getting Natural Light."
"Whatever. It's all good with Percocet."
Posted by PhilaLawyer at 9:02 PM