by Neil Turner
What the hell is he up to? He clearly intended to put us on the defensive and is annoyed that we didn’t take the bait.
Cumming sighs theatrically and looks to the young lawyer seated to his right. “Lay it out for them, Mr. Daniels.” Cumming then pushes his chair back, crosses an ankle over his knee, and feigns a Jonathan Walton-worthy look of disinterest. Interesting that the two of them share the same dismissive pose. I mentally dub it “The Asshole Move.”
I resist the urge to mimic Cumming and settle for a display of mild interest by resting my arms on the table, then loosely clasp my hands together with fingers interlaced and settle my gaze on young Mr. Daniels. The guy is a cookie-cutter vanilla baby lawyer so common to big firms. I doubt I’d be able to tell him apart from his junior colleagues in a lineup five minutes after we walk out of here.
“We assume you’ve been following the progress of the NTSB investigation?” Daniels asks us.
I reach for a confused look. “Are you referring to Sandy Irving’s stories in the Sun-Times?”
“In part,” he replies.
“What else is there?” Penelope asks.
“We’ve heard from other sources.”
“Heard what from whom?” she presses.
The look of contempt Daniels turns on my partner suggests that these two have a history. “We’re not about to share information with you, Penny,” he replies with a smirk. “Do your own research. If you can afford to.”
So, there is a history here. Penelope hates to be called Penny, a fact Daniels seems to be well aware of. He’s trying to push her buttons. The slow smile that curls her lips while she pours herself some water signals that she’s got this.
“My, my, Matty,” she says to Daniels in a syrupy voice I would never in a million years have expected to hear coming out of her mouth, “you really need to get over your schoolboy infatuation with me. Does that little snub still smart after all this time, poor boy?”
Daniels reddens while he glares at Penelope. She smiles back sweetly before she sips her water, but there’s ice in her eyes.
I tap my finger on the table to get everyone’s attention, then lock eyes with Daniels and riff off Penelope’s schoolboy taunt. “Perhaps we can dispense with the infantile posturing so you can say whatever you’ve dragged us down here to tell us?”
Daniels’s poisonous glower lingers on Penelope for a second longer before he shifts his attention to me. “The point we wish to impress upon you is that culpability for the accident on September eighth is settling squarely on your clients.”
I make a minuscule wave-off motion when I sense Penelope gearing up to argue the point. We’re not here to squabble about blame. I want these guys to lay their cards on the table without telegraphing any sense of where our heads are. Penelope shoots me a sideways glance and settles back, signaling that it’s my show for the moment.
“Go on,” I tell Daniels while idly spinning my water glass with my fingertips.
“We all know that the left-wing strut on the Cessna failed,” he states is if it’s an acknowledged fact, then expands upon his point when we don’t respond. “The FBI has determined that the hundred-hour inspection due in August was not completed by your client.”
That’s news to me. Scary news. I do my best to tamp down my burgeoning fear while I continue to wait him out, interested to hear what other news Daniels has for us.
“There’s no evidence of fuel contamination,” he adds.
“No surviving evidence,” I note.
Cumming’s eyes rise to mine. He shoots a satisfied little smirk my way.
“You’re suggesting that the fix is in?” I ask Daniels.
He turns a smarmy smile on me and replies with a curt nod.
“I see,” I murmur. Penelope is tensing at my side, anxious to shoot back. I don’t think it’s time to do so. Not just yet. “You’ve asked us here to tell us how this should play out?”
Cumming drops his foot to the floor, pulls his chair in, and squares his shoulders. “That’s right.”
“And?” Penelope asks.
Cumming tents his hands and rests his chin on the tips of his thumbs. I sense that he’s about to tell us precisely why we’re here, so I settle back and nonchalantly roll a pen between my fingers. It would be poor form to appear as if we’re eager to hear his offer.
“Senator Milton realizes that no amount of money can bring back his loved ones,” Cumming begins with the air of a college professor addressing a particularly dim-witted class. He pauses to foreshadow the gravity of his next words, then solemnly announces, “We’re proposing a settlement of ten million dollars.”
Ten million? The original lawsuit was for twice that. What’s going on?
Penelope goes straight to the heart of the matter. “How do you propose to apportion that settlement?”
Cumming shifts his gaze to her. “Five million from Windy City Sky Tours, two point five million each from AAA Avgas and R & B Ramp Services.”
Hmmm. Billy and Rick carry exactly that much liability insurance. Coincidence? Probably not, but the point is moot if R & B’s insurer gets away with dropping its policy retroactively. How should we play this?
“So?” Cumming asks while we contemplate the offer.
I hold up a hand and mutter, “Thinking.” A look at Penelope confirms that she’s doing the same, arms crossed while she stares up at the ceiling. The big question to me is why they’re proposing a settlement at fifty cents on the dollar. What’s changed? The rich shits at Windy City will hardly miss five million, ditto for AAA Avgas’s two and a half mil or, to put it properly, two point five million from the pockets of the Luciano crime family. They probably launder that much cash every day or two. Even R & B can scrape through this if their insurance pays up. What’s going on beneath the surface here that we don’t understand?
“Does anyone accept responsibility?” Penelope asks.
Good question. Whoever takes the rap can probably say good-bye to a future in the aviation industry.
Cumming shrugs. “Given the mountain of evidence that is coming to light against them, it’s clear that R & B has to.”
Well, that explains what this is all about. AAA Avgas stays in business. Windy City, too… assuming the rich pricks want to keep playing around in the air-tourism business. Rick and Billy—the only defendants in the case who need the work and love aviation—will find themselves cast into the wilderness without a pot to piss in.
“So, you want to pin the whole mess on our client,” I say.
“Our clients can’t be shown to be liable,” Daniels blurts.
The implications of his statement escape me, at least until I sense Penelope tense at my side.
“Your clients?” she asks sharply while Cumming glares at Daniels. Then, with barely constrained venom, she adds, “and here we thought Senator Milton was your client in this matter. You’re representing AAA Avgas, as well? Or is it Windy City? Maybe both?”
Daniels is wearing a deer-in-the-headlights expression.
“Can we say conflict of interest?” Penelope asks sharply.
“Does the good senator even know about this conversation?” I ask Cumming. I’m having difficulty coming to terms with the notion that a firm as storied as Butterworth Cole could be involved in something so slimy—and I’ve developed a decidedly jaundiced view of the state of business ethics.
“Of course, he does!” Cumming splutters unconvincingly.
The snake!
Penelope wags an admonishing finger at the other end of the conference table while her eyes settle on Daniels. “I think that’s going to turn out to be a very damaging gaffe, Matty.”
I sense Daniels’s career flashing before his eyes as he reddens and shoots a terrified sideways glance at his boss. The murderous expression on Herbert Cumming’s face suggests that those fears are well placed. Daniels’s young colleagues look almost as frightened as he does. I meet his gaze and lift my water glass in a little toast before taking a sip.
&n
bsp; Penelope slowly rises to her feet and, in a parody of Herbert Cumming’s earlier pretentious professorial performance, begins to pace slowly around our end of the table. “Another mistake you folks seem to be making is to assume that you’re the only people with sources inside the NTSB investigation and law enforcement.” Her eyes settle on Cumming. “Of course, to those of us who are familiar with Butterworth Cole’s leadership, that level of hubris isn’t unexpected.”
To my surprise, the possibility that we might have our own conduits of information seems to blindside Cumming and company. Although it might be working to our benefit at the moment, their lack of regard for the legal juggernaut known as Brooks and Valenti rankles. Penelope has stopped pacing and is glaring at Cumming as if she’s having the same thought.
I slap both palms down on the tabletop and fix what I hope is a shrewd smile on my face. “You’d just love to wish away any questions about how a novice pilot named Megan Walton happened to be at the controls of that aircraft on September eighth, wouldn’t you?”
Cumming looks as if he’s about to wet his pants, not exactly the expression one expects from an arrogant senior partner of a prestigious Chicago law firm.
I channel Ben Larose. “Poor Megan was marginally rated in that aircraft—perhaps not even that. Her instructor is a pretty sketchy guy, so who knows how that rating came about, huh? Then there’s the apparent nepotism involved in her landing the gig at Uncle Jonathan’s company to consider. What does Senator Milton make of that?”
“Probably nothing,” Penelope sneers. “His attorneys probably haven’t told him about any of this.”
“Unless he has sources that are keeping him apprised of the NTSB investigation,” I say, tag teaming with my partner while my eyes bore into Cumming. “Think that’s a possibility, what with him being a senator and all?”
Penelope fixes Cumming in her sights and once again demonstrates a mastery of the law and legal research that I can only aspire to. “Did you put in the time and effort to do a deep dive into the corporate structure of your client?” Before he can answer, she adds, with exquisite sarcasm, “Oh, I’m sorry, I should have specified which of your clients I’m referencing. I’m talking about Windy City Sky Tours.”
Cumming seems to have recovered his poker face as he stares back at her without uttering a word. His young flunkies are going to have to work on perfecting their poker faces. With the exception of Matty Daniels, their wide eyes and surprised little O-shaped mouths suggest they can’t believe what their fearless leader has been up to. Daniels appears to be the only one who knew.
“There’s that hubris again, Herbert,” Penelope scoffs with a smile that is anything but a pleasant expression. Her eyes track between him and his acolytes. “None of you remembers the dangers of hubris from Greek mythology?”
Nobody replies. Cumming is staring at her with open hostility. The others are simply afraid. I stifle a chuckle. She is so kicking their asses.
Penelope braces her hands on the edge of the conference table and stares hard at our cowed adversaries. “Your friends, clients, or whatever they are—Jonathan Walton, Caitlyn Tyson, and Oliver Franklin—were pretty clever in their bid to shield their personal assets from any legal jeopardy arising out of the operations of Windy City. I imagine that’s why Walton is cocky enough to trust that his lawyers have succeeded in erecting an impenetrable force shield around him and his pals, huh?” She pauses while a thought seems to occur to her. “There’s that hubris thing again. Hmmm. Maybe that’s why you’re all in bed together? Shared hubris.”
I’m not sure exactly where she’s headed with her little lecture, but I’m enjoying the ride. Our Butterworth Cole friends are not. My partner’s IQ may well exceed that of everyone else in this room. Combined.
“Tony was right about Megan Walton being the key to understanding your settlement offer,” Penelope says directly to Cumming. She waits for him to respond. He doesn’t. She straightens up, braces her right elbow in her left palm, rests her chin in her other palm, and taps the end of her index finger on the tip of her nose. I know the move but realize that she’s not really pondering the problem; she’s just playing with her audience.
“It seems to me that your Windy City friends are in deep doo-doo if Megan Walton is found to be at fault for the crash, gentlemen,” she continues. “Especially if it comes out that she was underqualified to be flying paying customers in an aircraft like the Cessna 210. Hmmm?”
“There’s been no suggestion of that,” Cumming shoots back.
Penelope arches her eyebrows as if she’s surprised to hear so silly a thing. “Maybe not that you’ve heard about.”
I finally twig onto where Penelope is going. “That would suggest stunning negligence on the part of Windy City Sky Tours, wouldn’t it?” I ask Cumming.
He doesn’t bother to respond.
Penelope fixes another laser stare on Cumming and agrees with my assessment. “Yes, it would. A clear case of gross negligence and willful misconduct of that magnitude would almost certainly pierce the veil of liability that Windy City’s owners are trying to hide their assets behind.”
Meaning that Senator Milton would have a clear shot at the personal fortunes of Jonathan Walton, Caitlyn Tyson, and Oliver Franklin, in addition to the assets and liability insurance of Windy City and the estate of Megan Walton. That’s some serious coin. I turn an admiring look on Penelope. As usual, even when I thought I’d worked out where her head is, my partner was already a step or two beyond the rest of us. The junior Butterworth Cole attorneys seem to be as surprised as I am. Herbert Cumming doesn’t. If he knew this, shouldn’t he have been pushing to prove the Windy City gross negligence and willful misconduct that Penelope is postulating?
The disdain dripping from her words and the malice in her eyes telegraph Penelope’s belief that that’s precisely the outcome Cumming is seeking to prevent with today’s settlement offer. “So, Herbert, who’s the Butterworth Cole client you’re acting on behalf of this morning? The Walton family? The Tysons? The Franklins? It certainly isn’t Senator Milton.”
Cumming stares imperiously down his nose at Penelope as if she’s a fly on a hot dog that he’s about to shoo away. It strikes me as a stunning display of arrogance in the face of such a devastating accusation.
“Actually, never mind,” Penelope says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’m sure the Illinois Bar Association will get to the bottom of it.” She gathers up her purse and portfolio before she leads me to the door leading out of the conference room. Then she pauses and looks back. “As for how deeply you’re in bed with the Lucianos and their lawyers, I guess we’ll just put a bug in the FBI’s ear and let them muck around in that mess.”
Cumming’s arrogant expression disintegrates into dust the moment Penelope mentions making a referral to the FBI.
“I think you know where you can stick your settlement offer,” I say in a snide aside.
Penelope shoots a surprised, unreadable look my way. “We’ll show ourselves out.”
“They can stick their settlement offer? What was that?” she asks hotly when we’re in the elevator. I know I’m in trouble but don’t know why until she adds, “If we can get Rick and Billy’s insurance company on the hook for the two and a half million and R & B doesn’t admit to any wrongdoing, I’ll take the deal in a heartbeat.”
Oh. Sorry, Billy. Sorry, Rick. Sorry, Mel.
Penelope’s gaze softens by the time the elevator reaches the lobby. She punches my shoulder as we step outside, winks, and warns me, “I’ll beat you up next time you tell anyone that we’ll do something without talking to me first. Understand?”
Properly chastened, I nod.
She meets my gaze. “I’ll touch base with Cumming this afternoon to let him know that we’ll take the settlement offer under advisement and discuss it with our client.”
What if Cumming spurns Penelope’s olive branch because of my asinine outburst? “I’m sorry,” I mutter.
She waves my ap
ology aside and sets off down Wacker Avenue with me following meekly in her wake. By the time we reach the parking garage, my mind is once again fully occupied with my missing daughter.
Chapter Twenty-Five
After yet another afternoon with no progress in the search for Brittany, I microwave my third consecutive dinner of penne pasta, wash it down with a beer, break out the bourbon, and glumly settle into Papa’s La-Z-Boy. Jake sent some technicians by earlier to sweep the house. No cameras. No listening devices. So, that’s a bit of a relief. His print guy left a mess on and around the La-Z-Boy that took me twenty minutes to clean up. No word yet whether or not the exercise proved fruitful. I’m sure Jake will tell me when he knows something. There’s also promising news on the R & B front, however. Penelope calls to inform me that Butterworth Cole will await the results of our consultation with Billy and Rick regarding the settlement offer. Which leaves the matter of Billy and Rick finding the means to pay their portion. To that end, we have an affidavit from Rick’s hepatologist stating that Rick’s liver issues and transplant were the result of a genetic condition, not alcohol abuse.
“You’ve been busy,” I say. “Still in the office?”
“Afraid so,” she replies. “I just scheduled a face-to-face meeting with a lawyer and senior claims executive of R & B’s insurance company. With the hepatologist’s report, they’ll have to reinstate Rick and Billy’s policy.”
“And if they don’t?” I ask, suspecting the insurer won’t give in without a fight. In all likelihood, it will produce a hired gun or two who are willing to dispute the testimony of Rick’s doctor.
I can hear the smile in Penelope’s voice when she replies, “I’ll threaten them with a massive lawsuit to not only reinstate the policy but to pay damages. I’ve done a little research for precedents.”
“And you like our chances?” I ask.
“I do.”
“Well, then, so do I. Did you have a nice chat with your pal Herbert?”
She laughs. “A nice chat? With Herbert Cumming? No, but it was productive.”