My Honorable Brother Read online

  “It happens to all of us from time to time, and right now George is going through it in a bad way.”

  If there was another George at the firm besides Ryder, Doug would have enjoyed asking, “George who?”

  “He looked kind of discouraged when I saw him,” Gorman said. “When I asked him what was wrong, he told me he wasn’t getting a chance to put in much billable time. George has always been a workhorse, we both know that, but he’s lost some good clients in the past couple of years through no fault of his own. It’s been tough replacing them, especially in this economy.”

  Gorman looked directly at Fiore while he spoke. Doug maintained eye contact at first, but then pushed back in his chair and began staring up at the ceiling as Gorman continued speaking.

  “What concerns me is that George seems to think Paul Castillo could be giving him some things to handle, but won’t do it. So I took a look at the computer reports for the past six months. Castillo is putting in at least 175 billable hours a month, usually closer to 200. Maybe Paul’s afraid work will slow down for him, too, one of these days, and wants to hold on to everything he’s got, just in case. But that doesn’t help George with the problem he’s facing right now. Whatever it is, you ought to take a look and see what moves you can make to get George productive again. That’s what I always used to do in a case like that, you know.”

  Fiore was well aware of Gorman’s animosity toward him. He wanted to say, “Yes, you asshole, I know.”

  Gorman was finished with his business and got up. Fiore didn’t leave his chair to show him out of the office, nor did he thank him for bringing the matter to his attention.

  “I’ll see what I can find out, Bob,” was all he said as Gorman, after waiting several seconds for a reply, walked toward the door. But Fiore was already very familiar with the facts that were just recited to him. He virtually memorized Ryder’s continually declining production numbers on the weekly computer printouts. And as far as Paul Castillo was concerned, he was only doing what Fiore told him to do when Ryder began losing some clients.

  * * *

  Yes, it had been a most interesting morning, Fiore thought, as he finished his lunch on the patio of the building’s lobby café and continued to watch the young women moving past in their stylish winter coats and hats. He was satisfied that his decisions that day were good ones, and that to the extent necessary he had exercised the power he possessed as managing partner. Sitting there, he reflected on the events in his life that had brought him to the position he was in.

  Fiore was a brilliant student, aided appreciably by an almost photographic memory. His father’s words, (the “life and death” importance of Doug getting accepted to an Ivy League college), motivated him into adding a number of extracurricular activities to his high school record outside of basketball. He joined the debating team, proved himself wonderfully adept at outthinking his adversaries on his feet and was elected its president in his senior year. He ingratiated himself with the clique dominated by football players which held most of the student offices and social committee positions. That got him named to a number of those committees himself, and he received a lieutenant colonel’s leadership rank in one of the school’s military cadet regiments. Fiore joined several clubs whose meetings he scarcely attended, and was brazen enough to pose for yearbook pictures with other clubs in which he never participated. But he claimed membership in those groups on his college applications based on his presence in their photographs. Princeton was the college of his choice, and it accepted him.

  In his first year at Princeton, there was something about Sandy Tarantino that Fiore liked right away. Part of it came from the wisecracks Sandy always had ready when he made Doug look foolish on the basketball court by feigning a move in one direction and then having a clear path to the basket for his shot. “How’d you like that one, Mr. Wilt Chamberlain?” he’d say, flashing his smile, or “You looked good on that, Doug, you play a helluva third base.”

  He recalled the night, during a pickup game, when an opposing player kneed him as he broke toward the basket. Doug hit the floor in pain and lay there for several minutes before he could be helped to his feet. Tarantino supported him as he limped to the sidelines and sat down on a large gymnastics mat someone dragged over from the far end of the field house.

  When play resumed, he watched Sandy take quick revenge for the foul by getting in position to find the offending player’s Adam’s apple with a quick thrust of his arm to the side as they headed down court together. Play stopped again while the gasping victim, on all fours, slowly regained his breath and his composure. Tarantino didn’t offer any apologies. Instead, he sat next to Doug as he waited for the game to resume, sending a message to everyone that what happened was no accident.

  “I wanted to beat the shit out of the bastard for what he did to you,” Sandy said. He held both fists tightly against the front of his waist. “But that ought to wise him up. I don’t think he’ll keep that knee move in his fucking repertoire.”

  Fiore witnessed the explosiveness of his roommate’s temper on other occasions. He never forgot the party in the Village when a football player from Yale cut in on Tarantino whenever he danced with the pretty blonde from NYU whom he met on an earlier occasion. “I think I’m going to be taking her home tonight, old buddy,” Sandy told him, winking as he did. The two of them were in the bathroom of the apartment, taking bottles of beer out of the cold water in the tub.

  Later, as Doug and his dance partner were standing in place rubbing against each other, he saw the Yale man approach Sandy and the blonde with a smile on his face. It was as if someone dared him to cut in again and he was already enjoying the joke. When Tarantino felt the hand on his shoulder and saw who it was, he let go of his date gently, as if again acceding to the request. Suddenly, he surprised the Yaley with a combination of punches, the first to his gut, the next to his face, knocking him hard to the floor. Blood began to flow from the victim’s nose and two of the women near him screamed. Fiore hurried over to Sandy whose fists were cocked again as he waited to see whether his tormentor would get up and fight back. When it was clear that the Yale man had no intention of submitting himself to more punishment, Doug grabbed one of Sandy’s arms and said that it was time to go to another party. No one tried to stop them as they left.

  After a while, Fiore was able to understand that what Tarantino always exhibited was a sense of his own physical power. There was a cocksureness about him that was stronger by virtue of his quiet mannerisms than were he any sort of a blowhard. He observed his new friend carefully whenever they spent time together, especially on their long trips back to Providence. When Sandy proposed they room together off-campus in their sophomore year, Doug readily accepted. That arrangement continued into their first year at Columbia Law School when Sandy informed him that they had lucked into a terrific rent-controlled apartment in the West 80s. It was through some friend of his, Sandy said, someone whom Fiore neither met nor heard of before.

  Doug matured tremendously during the three years he lived with Sandy at Princeton and the next at Columbia. His roommate’s brilliance gave him something to measure himself against on a daily basis. After a while he realized that he didn’t have to take a back seat to anyone in any of his classes. He moved to the front of the room in lecture halls and delighted in answering questions in class. It wasn’t done to show off his knowledge of the subject matter, but in the hope of stimulating further discussion about something of particular interest to him. Fiore was the leader in study groups at Columbia, while Tarantino shunned the company of others in preparing for class. The other students looked to Doug to resolve issues in dispute between them, and didn’t start their discussion and analysis of the assigned cases until he arrived. He was elected Editor-in-Chief of the Law Review in his senior year and was the class valedictorian at graduation.

  Now, sitting in the Spalding National Bank’s lobby, Fiore was proud of himself. He had listened to his father’s many speeches over the yea
rs on the subject of power and reached the pinnacle. He was the managing partner and primary rainmaker of the second largest law firm in the State. He ran the firm with “an iron hand in a velvet glove,” able on most occasions to push the Executive Committee to adopt the new policies he favored or to rescind those that impaired his power.

  Fiore was king of the hill and intended to maintain that position. He knew there was an undercurrent within the firm that it could be detrimental to one’s job security to get on his bad side. He didn’t say anything to encourage or discourage that feeling. But it was his policy not to engage in any infighting with the WC&B senior partners, concerned about the opposition they could muster if put to the test. The only exception he now made to that policy was George Ryder. He knew that Ryder was the sole Executive Committee member who had voted against Doug’s becoming a partner a year ahead of schedule. It angered him years later, when he challenged Ryder for the managing partner position, that Ryder refused to resign, forcing the partners to a vote instead, despite Fiore’s assurance that a majority was pledged to him. George’s stubbornness caused some of Doug’s supporters to have to reveal their positions in a debate preceding the vote. Fiore was also displeased that Ryder often opposed various proposals put forth by the Executive Committee with Doug’s support, and never seemed to seek his friendship or show him any respect. He worried that Ryder might always be looking for a way to turn the partners against him and elect someone else to run the firm. Fiore comforted himself with the fact that he hadn’t gone after Ryder surreptitiously and put him in the position he was in; rather, he waited patiently for the circumstances to arise in which George’s value to WC&B would diminish significantly for all to see, and that time had come. Bob Gorman didn’t know it yet but his appeal on Ryder’s behalf was dead on arrival.

  Soon, Fiore realized, he was going to have the chance to run for Governor of Rhode Island. His name and picture would be in the papers and on TV on a regular basis. He anticipated how good it would feel to be recognized everywhere he went. If he lost in the primary or the general election, he had a built-in excuse. “It’s because I never attempted to gain public office in the past,” he would say. Those who backed him might be disappointed, but they wouldn’t be able to blame him for the defeat. Better yet, he’d be able to meet rich bigwigs all over the State and go after their business when he returned to his law practice. It was just so beautiful, he thought. The Tarantinos were giving him the opportunity to advertise non-stop for Doug Fiore and it wasn’t costing him a dime.

  There was no denying that the fickle finger of fate might point his way and get him elected. He’d be governor for at least four years and “Governor” to everyone who addressed him for the rest of his life. It wouldn’t matter if he never ran for anything else again.

  Fiore also realized that what Sandy told him was true. As governor, he’d have the best shot to go for the US Senate seat if Jim Hanover stepped down at the end of his term. That likely event would let him graduate from the pages of the Herald and local TV news to coverage by the national magazines and network news broadcasts. Young, handsome, articulate and a proven vote getter, he might well be just the right candidate to balance out a Presidential ticket. It was no secret that coming from Rhode Island deprived him of any leverage because the State had only a handful of electoral votes to offer, but he was convinced that the qualities he possessed would make him a great campaigner for the Party all around the country. Whoa, Doug told himself, slow down, hold it right there. Let me get to Washington first and then I can start thinking the sky’s the limit.

  He was glad the Tarantinos chose him as their candidate. Even though he didn’t care whether State-sponsored casino gambling passed or failed, it would not trouble him to speak out against it on their behalf. It was a simple matter for Doug that if people wanted more opportunity to throw their money away at blackjack and craps tables, that was fine. The politicians would be overjoyed at having enough revenue coming in to avoid passing new taxes, but arguing against it would put him on the moral side of the issue. Inasmuch as he had argued many cases before the Court of Appeals, and one at the Supreme Court of the United States, he had no fear of speaking to small or large groups of Rhode Islanders in any environment. No one had to know it was Tarantino money paying for his soapbox, and regardless of where the financing for his campaign came from, Fiore was determined that he would wage a totally clean campaign from beginning to end.

  One thought, however, that was troubling him for weeks, wouldn’t go away. It was the reality that he had no voice in whether to go after the governor’s chair or not. Sandy Tarantino began by asking him to do it, as if it were a favor to be granted or refused. But he quickly brushed aside Doug’s initial ambivalence by giving him the kind of alternatives that ruled out any decision not to run for office. He would be their candidate or descend from the top rung of the ladder to the bottom very quickly.

  Fiore had no doubt about the fact that Sandy could ruin him at any time. Between the two of them, the power was all in Sandy’s hands. In this situation, the shoe was on the other foot, and Doug didn’t like it. The thought of hearing others snicker, “When Tarantino speaks, Fiore jumps,” made his stomach turn. But he knew there was nothing he could do about it. If he wanted to keep his clients and all the power they afforded him, there was no way he could say “No” to the proposal. Once that was understood, Fiore couldn’t help worrying about what else he might be “asked” to do down the road.

  12

  THE GOVERNOR’S APPOINTMENTS SECRETARY told Richardson on the telephone that the interview would be limited to ten minutes. “I’m only letting you in there because you’ve just taken over the political beat from Callum,” he said. He made it sound as if he was acquiescing in a ritual akin to a new ambassador presenting her credentials to the foreign government she would be dealing with on a daily basis.

  Richardson asked Callum to make the call for her, but he refused and told her she was on her own. “I’ve spent over three weeks introducing you to just about every lawmaker up on Smith Hill, their chiefs of staff, administrative assistants and legislative aides. I had you shake hands and exchange business cards with every lobbyist we met in the hallways. I said a good word about you to every clerk or political hack who might ever be able to help you. We’ve been to the bars that both the Republicans and Democrats hang out at after work. You know the restaurants in town where the Governor likes to have his quiet, informal meetings at night. The same for the Majority Leader of the Senate and the Speaker of the House. For Chrissakes, even the two blind guys who run the take-out shops know who you are. So do the elevator operators, the barbers and the librarians in both chambers. You’ve got sources up the wazoo for any kind of story you want to write. I’ve given you the last nine years of my life in twenty-three days. But now you’re on your own. If you want to meet with the Governor, call Troy Williams. That’s what he’s there for. Good luck, Jenna, and try hard not to fuck up.” Callum gave her a big grin when he finished speaking. The gesture sent the message that he knew she’d do fine.

  Richardson arrived at the capitol building about ten minutes early. She entered through the north portico and glanced quickly at the famous “Gettysburg Gun” to her left. She remembered learning about it on a tour of the Statehouse when she was a student in the sixth grade. The cannon was last fired at the battle of Gettysburg where it was put out of service permanently by a confederate shell that exploded on it and killed the two Rhode Island cannoneers.

  As she climbed the stairs, crafted from white Georgia marble, Jenna told herself that it was good to be early. The Governor might be free before her 3:30 appointment and be ready to talk to her then. She stopped for a few moments in the rotunda to look at the brass replica of the State Seal. It was an anchor mounted on a shield surrounded by a garland of leaves. The word “HOPE” was engraved on the shield, but Jenna was unaware that the single word was the official State motto.

  She joined two other women near her in admiring
the mural inside the dome of the rotunda. It was about 150 feet above them, she guessed. Part of the painting depicted the Colonists in discussion with some Indians. Jenna recalled that the figure in the middle standing the tallest was Roger Williams, founder of the first permanent white settlement in Providence. She also remembered the point being stressed in school that the land in question was purchased, not taken, from the Narragansett tribe.

  As Troy Williams had directed, Richardson proceeded to the State Room, the room that provided entry to the Governor’s Executive Chamber. From her seat there, she glanced up often at the crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling and at the huge portrait of George Washington. It was painted by Gilbert Stuart, another son of Rhode Island who gained fame during Revolutionary times. The portrait was enhanced by an enormous gilded frame and hung over the marble fireplace just outside the entrance to the Governor’s office. America’s first President stood full length, one hand resting on a table, as he looked almost directly at the artist.

  Jenna realized she had wanted this time to relax, breathe deeply and go over in her mind the three or four questions she might be able to ask John Sacco during the brief period allotted her for the interview.

  Troy Williams saw her sitting there as he emerged from the inner sanctum carrying an armful of large files. He hurried past her toward the corridor. “Remember, Richardson, ten minutes,” he said, without slowing down. No sex discrimination there, she told herself, remembering that she also heard him call Jim Callum by his last name alone.

  The meeting went very well. Sacco suggested they sit close to each other, on opposite ends of the sofa. Without asking, he poured a cup of coffee for each of them from a white china pot. He expressed his pleasure at knowing she would be covering the political scene around the Statehouse for the rest of the year.

  “I suppose Jim Callum probably clued you in on where I go after hours when I want to meet people away from the office.” Richardson smiled and admitted that Callum certainly did. “Too formal and stuffy in here for some folks,” Sacco said. “Can’t get them to open up and tell me what’s really on their minds.” He also mentioned the names of several executives at the Herald, with good things to say about all of them.