He went to Columbia Law, graduated top of his class three years ago. Summa cum laude, Order of the Coif, editor of the law review. The kid was a superstar. But here’s the kicker. He didn’t take a job. Richard frowned. What do you mean he didn’t take a job? Graduates from Columbia Law get courted by every firm in the country. We pay them starting salaries of $215,000 just to breathe.
I checked the alumni records, Vargo continued. He had offers from Wachtell, Cravath, Skadden, all the big New York heavy hitters. He turned them all down. Every single one. He fell off the map for two years. Doing what? Nobody knows, Vargo said. But I dug into his bank records. Don’t ask me how. For the last two years, he’s been receiving a monthly stipend. Not a salary. A stipend from a blind trust listed as the Marshall Foundation.
Richard froze. The name triggered a distant memory from his own law school days. The Marshall Foundation, Richard whispered. You mean Thurgood Marshall? No, Vargo said. Joseph Marshall, the Supreme Court Justice, the one who retired five years ago, the great dissenter, the strictest, most brilliant legal mind of the last century. Richard felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach.
Justice Joseph Marshall was a legend. He was known for taking only one clerk every five years. A prodigy he would handpick and mentor in total seclusion. It was an urban legend in the legal world. They were called Marshall’s ghosts.
Lawyers trained not just to practice law, but to dismantle it and rebuild it. They were weaponized intellectuals. You’re telling me, Richard said, his voice trembling, that the kid in the hoodie is a Marshall ghost? I’m telling you that two days ago, Julian Banks received a wire transfer of $10,000 from the estate of Joseph Marshall with the memo line, “Go get them.”
The phone slipped from Richard’s hand and landed on his mahogany desk. He stared at the device. He wasn’t fighting a street lawyer. He wasn’t fighting a rookie. He was fighting the secret protégé of one of the greatest legal minds in American history. Julian Banks hadn’t wandered into that courtroom by accident. He hadn’t worn the hoodie because he was poor. He wore the hoodie to lower Richard’s guard, to make Richard arrogant, to make Richard sloppy. It was a hustle, a classic, brilliant hustle. The intercom on his desk buzzed. It was Sarah. Mr. Sterling, the partners are asking for an update. The Apex Horizon executives are here. They want to know why the eviction hasn’t happened yet. Richard rubbed his face. He looked 10 years older than he had that morning.
