Marc Videon was The Necessary Evil. Corporate law firms didn’t want their CEO clients to go elsewhere to off-load their wives, because there was a chance they wouldn’t come back, so the firms were forced to employ a Necessary Evil. Davis had encountered one in every white-shoe Philly firm, and the suspect profile was so blatant it should have been unconstitutional: The Necessary Evil was always an outsider in a bad suit, nominally a partner and compensated on a salaried basis, and invited only to those firm social functions that the messengers went to, democratic events like the Christmas Party. Meeting Videon, Davis saw that he fit the bill, with his too-wide pinstripes that fit too tight on his squat form, a slightly greasy face with small features, and unnaturally dark hair that matched a pointy black goatee. “Sit down, please,” Videon said, seating himself. His office was as large as other Tribe partners’, but in law firms, everything was location, location, location, and Videon’s office was nowhere, stuck on the bottom floor of the firm near the duplicating department.
