"Why now?" I ask him.
My grandfather stares at me across his desk. I don't know why he's stalling. He had to have expected this question.
"Why now?"
"Yes. Why now, after 25 years, did you contact me?"
"I already explained that."
"You sent me two short emails, and we had a brief phone conversation. All I know is that, one, you want this law firm to continue when you are no longer practicing law and you'd prefer that a member of your family carry it forward, and two, my grandmother is dying and apparently wants to reconcile with me." I pause. "Although reconcile is perhaps not the correct word, since I have never even met her. Or you, before right now."
He leans back in his chair, studies me. "You get right to the point."
"Why waste time?"
"I like that." He straightens, and I see determination in his eyes. I don't like it much that I recognize the expression in them, the intensity. I'm not at the point yet where I feel comfortable having anything I am be a reflection of this man. I don't know if I ever will be.
"Hadley, regarding the firm, I'm offering you an opportunity to build a practice in your area of specialty, run that department with autonomy, and, in two years, if you are still here and you want it, I'll make you a full partner. You will own 49% of the firm."
"You retain control."
"It's my firm. I built it." I see a flicker now of not just determination but carefully controlled anger in those eyes.
Actually, I'm taken aback by the number. I was expecting him to try to entice me with an equity share, but a much smaller one than that.
"You have other partners."
He nods. "Contract partners. They have no equity. It helps with retention to reward good work and years of service with the title Partner. It's on their business cards. It gives them credibility with clients, and respect in the legal community."
It's a practice I'm familiar with, and one many of my friends who jumped at the Big Law carrot after law school graduation have bemoaned to me over a few beers. Not everyone gets to be an equity partner these days.
What Andrew Reese is offering me is, as he described it, an outstanding opportunity.
"The thing is," I tell him, "you've put me at a disadvantage by having this meeting with me just hours before introducing me to the entire office at noon today."
"I always put my opponents at a disadvantage."
"You see me as an opponent?"
"I see you as someone who can potentially provide something I very much want. And I'll use whatever tactics I need to in order to get my way."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"So if there are any terms you specifically need to clear the air with before moving forward, now would be a good time to discuss them with me. I assume you came to this meeting prepared."
"I did. Although I would have preferred meeting with you over the weekend in a more . . . informal setting."
"That wasn't possible," he says, without further explanation.
"Fine." I pull my chair closer, and we hash it out. Surprisingly, I get pretty much everything I want. The only place we butt heads a bit is over control of the cases the firm accepts for the new criminal law section.
"Initially, we should accept everything from traffic citations up to serious felonies," I explain. "This will of course include securities fraud and other white collar crimes, and those may end up being where most of our business comes from, given the current practice areas of the firm. We may decide to narrow our focus later, but for now we need to establish a presence in the criminal law arena."
He gives a short laugh that comes out more like a grunt, and shakes his head slightly.
"Fine. But I have final say on what cases we accept or decline. With that one caveat, the decisions are yours."
"No." I'm shaking inside as I say it. I don't think my grandfather is accustomed to being told no. But if he really does want me to start a criminal law section - if that's not just some ruse to get me here for another purpose - then he needs to let me do it.
"No?"
"No. To build this practice area for the firm, I need autonomy. If you have an objection to a case I decide to take on - or want me to reevaluate one I'm refusing - I will of course weigh your concerns seriously. But the final decision is mine."
"You seem to be forgetting, Hadley, that this is my law firm. My name on the door."
I meet his gaze steely eye for steely eye. "This point is not negotiable."
"You'd walk away over this."
I answer him simply and directly. "Yes."
We continue to stare at each other for what feels like minutes but is probably less than 30 seconds. It just feels long.
Then surprisingly, he starts to laugh.
"You know the saying, be careful what you wish for because you just might get it? Well, I asked you to come here and hoped you'd have enough steel in your spine to deal with the reactions you'll be getting from people who think you're stepping right over them. I guess that also means you'll be standing up to me."
"When it matters enough."
He nods. "All right. You win on that one. But on the condition that we reevaluate how things are going in three months. And if at that point we both want to go forward, then you will make the commitment to stay for the full two years."
"After which I'll be your partner, with a 49% equity interest in the law firm."
"You have my word."
"I'd rather have your signature on this," I say. I've been taking notes. I write "Agreement" at the top of the page of my legal pad, sign my name at the bottom, then tear off the sheet of paper and push it across the desk to him.
"Don't you trust me?" he asks.
Trust him? I wonder if my mother trusted him once. Before he cut her off without a cent for reasons my father still refuses to share with me. Did she trust him to come to the rescue later when she and my dad had barely enough money left over to buy groceries after paying the medical bills insurance didn't cover?
Did you promise when she was a little girl to always take care of her, just as my father promised to always take care of me? Some fathers – like mine – keep their promises.
I already know what kind of father Andrew Reese was. What I don't know is why.
So I keep my face purposely blank as I look back at him.
"Trust has to be earned. I'll let you know when you have mine."
"That goes both ways, Hadley." But he signs it.
"That's fine," I say, then casually add, "By the way, I already have our first case for the new criminal law section. Nothing major – just a misdemeanor."
"Oh, what kind of case?"
"Domestic violence," I tell him.
He wrinkles his nose in distaste. "Well, that's not pleasant."
"Criminal law isn't pretty."
I don't like this kind of case either. But I'm not going to tell him that. I don't want him to question even for a moment whether I'm prepared to take on the tough cases.
Now he's looking at me with curiosity.
"How did you manage to get a case already? You've only been in Miami a few days."
"It was a referral from someone I met on the flight here from Philadelphia." I pause. Max told me not to use his name. But I want to see what Andrew's reaction is. If I can't get any answers out of Max, maybe I can get them from him.
"A man named Max Bennett," I add.
He stares at me. "We're not taking on any cases for Maxwell Bennett." He spits the name out like it's dirty.
"Why not?" I ask, leaning forward.
"Because I say so."
I gesture to the paper he just signed. "Our agreement says otherwise."
His eyes narrow. "It also says you'll listen to what I have to say."
"I'm listening." Will he tell me what happened in the past? "Is there a problem with handling this case?"
"I already said it. We are not doing business with that man."
"Why?"
"I have my reasons. And I'm not going to discuss them with you."
"Then I'm not going to turn away business."
We sit there, staring at each other, equally stubborn.
Finally, he says, "Do you have any idea who Maxwell Bennet is?"
"Why don't you tell me?"
"He's part of a family that's been running a crime syndicate here in Miami for decades. I don't want that name affiliated with this law firm, ever."
"Are you sure you aren't talking about Max Bennett's father? Because the man I met obviously hasn't been running anything for decades. He's probably just a little older than me."
"Blood tells," my grandfather says.
"Does it? Did something happen in the past between you and his father?"
When he doesn't answer, I realize I'm not going to get to the bottom of this today, no matter how badly I want to know what's really going on in Max's secretive world. But I'm also not willing to lose this first battle over client control.
"Look," I say, "this wouldn't be representing Max Bennett or his father or even any of his business interests. This is an employee who beat up his girlfriend, and my job is to negotiate a plea deal. It will never even go to trial."
I take a breath and continue, "What it will do is give me a chance to introduce myself to some people in the state attorney's office. Get a feel for how things are handled here."
I can't tell from his face whether I'm getting through or not. Finally, he sighs.
"Fine. Take the case Hadley. But you talk to me before you agree to do anything again that's even remotely related to Maxwell Bennett."
"Okay," I say. I can only imagine what he'd say if he knew I'm planning on sleeping with Max. If he knew I'd already been in his bed.
Although his body language is giving off signals that our meeting is over, I make no move to get up.
"Was there something else you wanted to discuss?" he prompts me, his voice sounding like this conversation has already taken a toll on him.
"I want to know what's going on with my grandmother."
His shoulders seem to slump a little and for a moment he looks like an old man, not a powerful force to be reckoned with in the legal community.
"And you should." His voice is quiet now, as if the subject matter itself requires soft words. "But not here. We'll have dinner tonight, and I'll explain."
"Is that an invitation or an order?" I ask him, realizing I'm being petty since I actually don't have plans after work.
Again, he makes a visible effort to reign in his emotions. Maybe not visible to most people, but it's uncanny how much his mannerisms mirror my own, even though we've never met. Add that to the scale on the nature-nurture debate, I guess.
"It's an invitation. Hadley, I'd like very much if you would join me for dinner tonight."
He smiles then, and it changes something. Gives me a brief glimpse of the man behind the tough exterior. I find myself smiling back.
"I'd like that as well." Now I get up. "By the way, thank you for the shopping trip. My collection of work clothes from Philadelphia really wouldn't have fit in here."
"You're welcome," he says simply, and I like that. No fancy explanation. Just, you're welcome. Who knows? Maybe we will actually get along. Someday. But there's a lot I need to know about the past before that could ever happen.
I pause in the doorway. "I have one more question. Assuming we do get to the end of two years and you make me an equity partner, what happens to your 51% if you die? Who would I suddenly find myself in business with?"
"I'm not planning on dying anytime soon," he says, looking like the formidable lawyer he is again.
"I wasn't suggesting–"
"It goes to you, Hadley," he says, as if this was obvious. "All of it."
***
The conference room is filled with suits when I arrive three hours later. It is flanked on both sides by double doors that each open into a smaller conference room. The lunch meeting goes pretty much the way I expected. Some of the people I meet are curious. Others are openly hostile.
The only surprising part is the introduction my grandfather makes for me.
"I assume all of you are aware that my granddaughter Hadley has now joined our firm." He then recites my bio, highlighting my undergraduate degree magna cum laud from Brown, and my graduation with high honors with my law degree from University of Pennsylvania, both Ivy League Schools. He mentions the fact that I served as an editor on the law review, and spent my third year of law school interning part time for a judge on the federal court of appeals in Philadelphia.
He highlights my experience as a public defender in Philadelphia, inflecting his descriptions of my caseload and jury trial experience with a touch of pride that I find surprising. It's probably calculated - telegraphing his respect for me will help establish my place in the office, which is what he wants - but it still gives me a little spark of pleasure.
Then he says what everyone probably already knows. The firm has for some time been losing business when clients refer criminal matters elsewhere, and white collar crime in particular is an area many of the firm's competitors have expanded into. With me on board, we will be more than ready to meet that challenge.
By six o'clock, I've left the office and am having dinner with my grandfather in a fancy restaurant that specializes in seafood.
It's probably delicious, but my mind really isn't on my food.
What I still can't figure out is why the two of us are here. I imagine my grandmother must be too ill to join us, but wouldn't that be even more reason why I should be seeing her at their home as soon as possible?
"Hadley," he says finally, when we are in the middle of the main course, "I realize you probably have questions about your grandmother's condition."
"I do. Is there some reason I can't ask her myself?" Now I'm wondering if he and the doctors have conspired to keep my grandmother from knowing how serious it is.
He sets his fork down and shakes his head. "I haven't been completely honest with you about the situation."
I nod. Not a big surprise. "So tell me now."
"Your grandmother is suffering from dementia. Some days are better than others, but most of the time she's confused."
"Confused? Are you worried she won't know who I am?" If so, it seems like he waited too long to reach out to me.
"My wife is living in the past. There are occasional moments of lucidity, but for the most part, her mind is trapped in a time period before you were born." He leans forward now, his eyes intense. "Patricia and I have been married for almost 50 years. I have the resources to care for her at home and I will not put her in one of those assisted memory care facilities. She'd be gone in a week."
I set my fork down on the table and notice that my hand is trembling slightly. I move it to my lap and grip my napkin, willing myself not to reveal how shocking and disappointing this news is to me.
I've had dreams about the grandmother I never knew. Vivid dreams where I see my mother and my grandmother sitting together while I play in garden surrounded by bright flowers. The sound of her voice singing to me.
There must have been stories my mother told me when I was young that prompted those dreams. I realize suddenly that some part of me had been clinging to the thought that maybe my grandmother had just gone along with what her husband decided, but that she hadn't really wanted to cut my mother out of her life. That she would like to have known me. That it was she who had finally – when she became ill – convinced Andrew to reach out to me and ask me to come to Miami.
"I'm sorry," I tell him, realizing he could not possibly know how much I mean it. My hopes of having a relationship with my grandmother are never going to happen. It's already too late.
But if that's the case, why did he use her illness to get me to agree to come here at all?
"I don't understand how I fit into this, since you said she won't even know who I am."
"She has the physical care she needs, but lately she's becoming more and more agitated, and it's taking a far greater effort to calm her down. I will not have her spend what time she has left filled with this - " he waves his hand in the air as if searching for the right word - "this desperate anxiety."
I know he can tell from my face that I'm completely at a loss as to what he wants me to say or do.
"Do you know what's upsetting her?"
"Of course I know what's upsetting her. Over and over again she asks where Laura is," he tells me and I feels a cold chill run up my spine. "Why doesn't Laura come and see us anymore, when is she going to be home from school - it's college one moment and grad school the next. I've studied dementia. I've consulted experts. You don't argue with a person who is suffering from dementia."
His voice is as compelling as if he were making an argument to a jury, with a life-altering verdict hanging in the balance.
"You don't tell them," he continues, "that someone they believe is still alive is gone. If you do that, you force them to go through the pain of loss over and over again, because five minutes later she would forget anyway. Five minutes later she would ask me, where's Laura?"
The pain in his eyes is staggering. But it's being quickly outpaced by a dawning horror as I realize exactly what my grandfather wants from me.
I take a deep breath, and then I say it.
"You brought me to Miami because you want me to pretend to be your dead daughter."
He stares at me a moment while he lets my words sink in, then gives a brisk nod.
"That's blunt, but correct. So the question is, will you do it?"