The Unnamed - By Joshua Ferris Page 0,52

or in the tunnels, and they each had a bottle in a bag within arm’s reach. One of them owned a wheelbarrow, which had been pushed sideways against the wall, out of the way. It was rounded over with clothes and plastic bags, partially bungeed with a blue tarp. Tim stopped chewing to listen. They were speaking English, but he could not understand what they were saying. He got only the tone of complaint. He understood that the speaker had been wronged in some way, and that the injustice was more than just a minor slight. But as for the words themselves…

“They corset cheese to blanket trinket for the whole nine. Bungle commons lack the motherfucker to razz Mahoney. Talk, knickers! Almost osmosis for the whole nine. Make snow, eye gone ain’t four daze Don.”

“Uh-huh,” said the second man.

“And sheer traps ton elevate the chord dim. Eyes roaring make a leap sight socket.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Sheeeeee-it,” said the first man.

Then they fell into silence.

10

On the day he set the motion on Mike Kronish’s desk, he found himself in Bryant Park at lunchtime. He walked up to a kiosk where he purchased a turkey wrap and then made his way toward one of the green tables laid out in the shade. Under his feet, he sensed the final crunch of fallen leaves. He was mistaken—it was the opposite season for turning leaves—but he was too preoccupied to notice. He had but one thing on his mind: had Kronish seen the motion, and if so, what did he think?

He sat down, brushing off the table a languid-moving bee, and unsealed the sandwich from its plastic-wrap cocoon. He kept his eye on the BlackBerry. The day had acquired an edge of cold, but there were still plenty of people about, as if defiance could force spring to act appropriately. He paid no attention to their conversations. From the first bite of his sandwich to the last, he ate mechanically and without pleasure. The ache in his jaw told him he had finished. The duty of lunch had been acquitted. Shortly after, as if his stare at the mute BlackBerry all at once exerted an actual force in the world, Mike Kronish called. He recognized the number lit up on-screen and his heart began to flutter. His heart had done the same nearly twenty-five years earlier when, as a junior associate, a call from a senior partner, no matter how insignificant, was a mortal quest to prove one’s competence. He answered reluctantly in a voice he did not recognize. “Hello?”

“What’s this you put on my desk, Tim?”

“Who is this? Mike?”

“This motion for summary judgment. You write this motion?”

“Did you see that? I left that on your desk.”

“Who wrote it?”

“I did.”

“What for?”

“Oh, because, did you read it?”

“What would I do that for?”

“What for?”

“Who in their right mind would submit a motion for summary judgment in Keibler?”

“Because the strategy.”

“What strategy?”

“I’ve been following the case, Mike. I know it back and front. We both know sooner or later.”

“What do we both know?”

“Sooner or later, you’d want a motion for summary judgment in Keibler and there’s nobody can write that motion like I can.”

“First of all,” said Kronish. He paused to clear his throat. “One, perhaps you don’t know Keibler like you think you know Keibler. Keibler comes down to credibility disputes, and no judge is going to grant summary judgment when there’s a credibility dispute. Two, if you know Keibler, you know the Ellison deposition, and if you know Ellison then you know no, no motion for summary judgment. Three, Second Circuit last year heard Horvath, which is Keibler if you switch the Swiss concern for an Israeli, and the Second Circuit said no, in such cases, never summary judgment.”

“I forgot about Ellison,” he said.

“And Horvath?”

He had never heard of Horvath. He must have been out of commission when the Second Circuit decided Horvath. “I forgot about Horvath,” he said.

“Just switch the nationalities with Horvath and you get Keibler, and now there’s precedent not to grant summary judgment in such cases. So what strategy are you talking about?”

“I was thinking there were differences between the two.”

“Four, you don’t work on my team, Tim. You do and you don’t, you understand?”

“Mike,” he said.

“You hear what I’m saying, Tim?”

“Am I going to be a staff attorney for the rest of my life if I stay at Troyer, Mike? Or is there some way that I could get my old job back? I’d like to get my old job back, Mike. I’m healthy