Stern felt a crestfallen look droop through his face. The thrill of being professionally revived had blinded him to the risks Marta recognized. Seeing that, Stern’s daughter softened. She motioned him to one of the armchairs and sat down beside him. He was sure she was going to repeat the same points in a kinder tone.
‘Dad, you need to know something. Solomon and I have reached a decision. We’re going to retire. I want to start winding up by the end of the year.’
In the moment, it felt as if she was telling him she was going to die. He was too flabbergasted to answer. Marta leaned toward him, her hands joined pleadingly.
‘I’ve loved working with you, Dad. I’m one of the most blessed people I know. But Sol and I have a lot of life left and we want to do other things.’
‘What have I been working for?’ he finally stammered. It has been his fixed assumption that Marta would be the beneficiary of the years of intense labor, the lost nights and weekends that always have felt to Stern as if they are somehow reflected in the rich glow in his office’s dark paneling. But he knew his words were a mistake as soon as he heard himself.
‘Jesus, Dad,’ Marta said indignantly. ‘Talk about manipulative.’
He lifted his hands, he now the one imploring.
‘Marta, I apologize. That is not what I should have said. Nor even what I meant. This news requires some adjustment.’
‘Half the defense lawyers in this city would be happy to come into this practice. We both know that. My stepping aside is probably going to be a bonanza for you.’ She was referring to the price another lawyer would pay to be known as Sandy Stern’s law partner and to inherit the flow of calls that will still come here for years.
‘This is not about money, Marta,’ he answered. It was something of a touché in their conversation and made up a bit for his gaffe of a moment before. Nonetheless, in the ensuing silence, he could do little more than shake his head. ‘I had no inkling,’ he said.
‘Neither did we,’ his daughter said, but their logic, as she explained, made sense. Money had long since stopped being an issue for Solomon and her. Their youngest child, Hernando—called Henry for Marta’s grandfather—was about to graduate college. There was now an interval when they could travel freely before Clara, their daughter, would presumably begin a family, which would keep them here more. Marta’s small eyes were intent as she detailed their thinking.
‘It’s not as if I’m rejecting you,’ she added.
But she was. Not in a way that was inappropriate. Yet she was rejecting what was most important to him, what defined him. She was an outstanding lawyer, but she was admitting that she did not share her father’s consuming faith in the law that for him rivaled what many feel for religion.
That night, he slept little, trying to put together the pieces. He went to her the next morning as soon as he arrived at Morgan Towers. Marta’s office is of the same large dimensions as Stern’s, something he insisted upon. Nevertheless, her space is far less formal than her father’s, which she routinely compares to an upscale steak house, with its low light, pleated crimson leather seating, and stained-glass lamps. Marta’s office is never neat. There are stacks of papers and boxes all over the room, and the walls are crowded with family pictures and abstract art. The furnishings, mid-century modern, teak-armed pieces, always look to Stern like they have been rescued from Goodwill.
‘Marta, sharing my profession with my child, working with you side by side—this has given me a pleasure as deep and fundamental as breath. But we both know that my energy for this is waning. I am grateful you have stayed here as long as you have. When you retire, so will I.’
She was still for a second.
‘You can’t blackmail me into staying,’ she said coldly.
‘“Blackmail”?’ He had spent most of the night composing these words. Disbelieving and stunned, he sunk into the chair in front of her desk.
Between them, for years, it sometimes seems that there has been a contest to decide which of them is more awkward, more obtuse, the bigger clod. After a second, Marta appeared to recognize that she was today’s winner. She swept around her desk and folded her father in her arms. Always quick to cry, she removed her reading glasses to dab at her tears.
‘Dad, I would hate to think I was forcing you to shutter the office.’
‘You certainly are not. As you pointed out, I could easily combine with a younger partner. This is my choice, Marta.’
‘Dad, what will you do, if you aren’t practicing? I never even considered that you’d quit.’
‘What do other people do? I shall read. Travel if my health holds out. Perhaps I can mediate or consult. I can go down to the Central Branch Courthouse and step up on cases for free.’ He’d had that vision for years: nudging aside an overburdened public defender and standing beside some woebegone boy in handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit. In Stern’s fantasy, the shock in the courtroom would be as palpable as if Superman had appeared in his cape, announcing he was here to stand up for Truth, Justice, and the American Way. Of course, the reality these days was that if anyone even recognized Stern’s name, it would probably be only the judge or the more elderly court personnel, and certainly not his would-be client.
So together Marta and her father made their announcement. Marta agreed to put off retirement until the conclusion of the Pafko trial. After that, Stern & Stern would close its doors. From his colleagues, Stern encountered considerable skepticism. Wasn’t he the one who’d always asked why a healthy person would quit doing the one thing in life at which he’d always most desired to succeed? In the worst moments of chemo a decade ago, when he often felt too weak and sick to get out of his chair, he was in the office nonetheless.
After Helen passed, everyone told him that in the first year or two, the survivor of a happy marriage either dies or resolves to go on. But going on doesn’t have to mean going on the same way, does it? A period of redefinition could be invigorating. He makes similar statements frequently. But at night, he often feels like he is leaping into a void as terrifying as death. Still, he has not wavered publicly. For Marta and him, US v. Pafko will be the end. Which has raised the stakes in many ways.
“Dad, you need to be careful,” Marta tells him now. “If I had to read Sonny’s mind, she’s probably more inclined to think you’re playing her by claiming to be old and confused. She knows you well enough to understand how much you’d love your last verdict to be a not guilty, especially in a case no one thinks you can win.” Inclined to protest, Stern mutes himself. Winning is like sex—the spirit inevitably craves the next occasion. “But you don’t want her thinking you’d step over the line to get that result. You’ll end up damaging a relationship that means a lot to both of us. And it will be bad for Kiril if Sonny stops treating you with mega-respect.”
He can only nod. He has practiced for sixty years believing that his duty to the law is even greater than his duty to individual clients. It would be catastrophic to his judgment of himself if his last acts in the profession took him beyond the boundaries he has always faithfully observed.
II. MURDER
7. Day Two: The Victims