Day yawns. One of the necessary exercises in leadership, he’s learned, is that, from time to time, someone’s head has to roll. The atmosphere in the firm had been growing a little lax of late. What’s needed now—especially with the influx of cases from the Amtrak disaster—is a heightened sense of tension, of urgency. So it’s time to dust off the chopping block. Though Samantha is as capable as Jason—probably more so, truth be told—Jason’s father is Senator Rutledge of Ohio, so Jason isn’t going anywhere.
A knock on the doorjamb pulls Day from his thoughts. He looks up as his secretary, Kristen, sticks her head through the doorway. “It’s one o’clock. Time for the press conference,” she says. “The reporters have set up their microphones in the conference room, and the security desk downstairs called to tell us that Mr. Balzac is on his way up.”
When Eva closes the door, Day cringes. The mere mention of Balzac’s name turns his stomach. The thought of having to sit next to that boor makes him shudder. But one does what one must.
Three minutes later, Vaughn Coburn stands before the TV in Mick’s office, watching Day and Balzac give their second press conference. Mick sits at his desk, watching with him. The spectacle is just like the first episode: Day and Balzac sitting side by side behind a small forest of microphones. Thin-shouldered Day sits erect and waves his long-fingered hands with fluid, almost effeminate, gesticulations. Balzac, stocky with black hair and beard, hunches over the table, looking like he’s ready to grunt.
Day begins by reading from Eddy’s Amtrak application for employment. “The very first thing on this application,” Day says, “is as follows: ‘I certify that the information contained in this application is true to the best of my knowledge. I understand that false information or the failure to provide complete information are grounds for dismissal.’”
Day pauses and waves the six-page document. Then he sets it down, turns the page, and reads, “Question: ‘Have you ever been convicted of a crime?’ And his answer?” Day asks, his voice thick with indignation. “His answer? ‘No.’” Day tosses the application across the table in disgust, then picks up a thick pile of papers. “Yet what do the public records show? That he’s been convicted of many crimes, from killing a police officer racing his car, to disorderly conduct, assault, and any number of driving violations. Outrageous. Absolutely outrageous.”
Day sits back, and Balzac takes over. “And that’s only half the equation. The other half is Amtrak’s own failure to investigate this convicted criminal before hiring him.” Here, Balzac holds up his own copy of the job application. “This application expressly gives Amtrak the right—and here I quote—‘to thoroughly investigate my past employment and activities.’ But Amtrak didn’t undertake any investigation. It simply hired this young man who, by the way, not only had a criminal record but also a history of alcohol abuse, and sat him down in the engineer’s cabin of a high-speed train packed with passengers.”
“Unconscionable,” says Geoffrey Day.
The press conference continues for another minute before the local Fox TV anchor cuts away to give her own brief synopsis of the train crash. Vaughn sighs and turns to Mick, who does not look happy.
“I asked you last week to think hard about whether you should be representing your cousin in this mess. Have you?”
Vaughn takes a deep breath. “I have. And I think that as long as he’s not facing any criminal charges, I can handle it. So far, all we’ve really had to contend with are a couple of strutting plaintiff’s attorneys—”
“And the NTSB.”
“Which is just an investigatory agency. And which has been fair to my cousin, with the exception of a single member of the go-team. We’ve faced tougher scrutiny than this. So have our clients. In the Hanson case, the press was actively trying to sabotage your friend, and the prosecutor and police seemed to have personal vendettas against him. And against you.”
Mick’s face sours. The Hanson case almost destroyed him—and his family. “Look, I don’t shy away from fights. Neither does Susan. You know that. This firm exists to fight. And you’re right about the Hanson case; we were getting it from all sides.” Mick rests his forearms on his desk, lowers his head. After a moment, he looks up at Vaughn. “All right. You can move forward with your cousin, for now. But if he gets charged criminally, we’re going to revisit this. Understood?”
“Absolutely.”
“In the meantime, I suggest you find whatever dirt you can on Day and Balzac. Have Tommy help.”
Vaughn knows Day is playing by crooked rules from the fact that he somehow obtained Eddy’s employment records, probably from a mole working for the railroad. Hopefully, Day’s chicanery will prove his undoing.
“I’m going to call Arthur Hogarth,” Mick says, referring to the legendary P.I. attorney. “And ask him to talk to you.”
“Really? I thought A-Hog had a heart attack.”
“Four of them. The last one was eighteen months ago. He’s retired now and living in Boca. I referred some good personal-injury cases to him over the years, so I’m sure he’ll talk to you if I ask him.”
“That would be great.”
“Give me a few minutes to give him the heads-up that you’ll be calling. I’ll e-mail you his cell number.”
Vaughn returns to his office and waits until Mick’s e-mail comes through. Then he dials Hogarth’s number. A-Hog picks up on the first ring.
“So, you want to know about Geoffrey Day and Benjamin Balzac. What are you looking for?”
“Dirt.”
“How long do you have?”
Vaughn chuckles. Then, without revealing Erin’s identity, he shares her theory that Day and Balzac are going after Eddy to make him a scapegoat in order to prop up their punitive-damages claims. He also shares Erin’s view that Day and Balzac want to get the $200 million cap on damages raised.
“Raising the cap’s been tried before, without success. But Day and Balzac are both very well connected. Their tentacles reach into every hallway in DC. As did mine, until recently,” Hogarth adds with a sigh.
“So, what’s their background? Where did they come from?”
“Well, Day followed the traditional path of a big-time P.I. attorney. Right out of law school, he went to work for the most successful personal-injury firm in town. Worked hard at his cases, harder at office politics. Then, when the boss was least expecting it—right after marrying the man’s niece—he left the firm and took twenty of its biggest clients with him. That’s more than twice as many cases as I pilfered when I left my first firm. Day formed his own firm with that nimrod former governor of ours, Everett Lockwood. A good move because of Lockwood’s political connections and his family money, which kept Day’s firm afloat until the cases paid off. Day won some big verdicts. Made a name for himself. He was able to bring on some associates, who stole cases from their own firms, and after ten years or so, he was a major player. Now, he’s got his name on our best law school.”
“And Balzac?”
“Now there’s a horse of a different color. Benny Balls—that’s what they call him, you know—grew up in Upper Darby. He went to a small state college, then on to some law school in the Midwest. Rumor is he couldn’t get into any of the local law schools—didn’t have the grades. But Balzac had street smarts. I saw that right away and offered him a job when he interviewed. Everyone at the firm told me I was nuts, but I hired him anyway. He did well, at first. Then, I started to hear things about how he handled some of his cases. Don’t ask me what—I’d rather not say. And he was always fighting with the other lawyers—and our staff. He bullied people. Finally, I had to fire him.”
“How’d he take that?”
“Not well. But what could he do? I was one of the most powerful attorneys in the city, and he was still just a grunt. Not long after he left, I heard he’d hung his own shingle. For several years, he hustled slip-and-fall cases and low-end auto cases. My associates would run into him in discovery court from time to time and come back with stori
es about how rude he was to some judge or lawyer. Then, about five years out, he struck gold. He landed a medical-malpractice case and tried it to an eight-figure verdict. An enormous amount back then. I think it involved an amputation. You can look it up—the defendants tried to get the verdict thrown out, so there’s an appellate decision. It’s the McCord case, or McCrory. The money Balzac brought home was enough to lay the foundation for the firm he runs now. He bought that four-story brick behemoth on Delancey Street and filled it with associates.”
Vaughn pauses to take in what Hogarth has told him. “On television, Day and Balzac act like they’re best friends. But my source tells me they despise each other.”
“They’ve been at each other’s throats since the beginning of their careers. Day was the first associate to come to me and say I should fire Balzac.”
“So you were the P.I. attorney Day left and stole cases from?”
“Right after he married my brother’s child. The shit. I hired him and Balzac together. One fought openly with every other member of my team and disgraced the firm. The other used deception to earn my trust, then stole millions of dollars’ worth of cases from me. They’ve spent the years since then battling me, and each other, for business.”
What a nest of vipers, these civil litigators.
“If they’re such antagonistic competitors, why are they working so closely together on the Amtrak-crash litigation?”
“There’s only one reason: they believe they can get more of the cases by holding themselves out as a team. They may be the biggest P.I. firms in town—now that I’m gone—but they aren’t the only ones. By presenting a united front—and making it seem inevitable that they’ll control the litigation—Day and Balzac will dissuade other firms from trying to seize the litigation themselves.”
Vaughn considers Hogarth’s explanation. On the surface, it sounds plausible, but Vaughn senses there’s more to it. “And just how much do they stand to gain from the crash?”
“The math’s not hard. Even if the cap remains at two hundred million, the standard one-third contingency will generate fees of sixty million, the lion’s share of which will likely go to Day and Balzac. And Day needs the money.”
“Needs the money?” This surprises Vaughn. “Why?”
“Two reasons: Penn Law and Relazac.”
The Penn donation Vaughn knows about. “What’s Relazac?”
“A nationwide litigation that Day engineered against Glaxon Pharmaceuticals. He invested millions before the cases fell apart on him. Word on the street was that Day was about to go under but found a white knight at the last minute to float him.”
Vaughn makes a mental note to ask Erin about Relazac, then weighs what Hogarth has told him about Day and Balzac. “Which of the two should I be more concerned with?”
A-Hog laughs. “That’s like asking which to be more afraid of, a cobra or a rattler.” He pauses for a moment, then says, “It’s a close call; they’re both predators. But I’d be a little more worried about Day. That’s only because Balzac doesn’t try to hide what he is. He’s the rattler—no lack of warnings from that one. Day’s the cobra, hiding in the grass, striking you before you know he’s there.”
Vaughn pauses, and while he’s thinking, A-Hog asks, “How is any of this going to help you defend your engineer?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. But I feel like I’m on a sheer rock face, grabbing for any handhold I can find. So, thank you for taking the time to talk with me.”
“Don’t worry about it. And if you need any more help moving forward, give me a call. I’m bored out of my skull.”
“Retirement’s not what it’s cut out to be?”
Hogarth snorts. “My doctor told me I had to give up working to save my life. Well, let me tell you something: saving my life is killing me.”
Vaughn laughs, and they both hang up. He leans in to his computer, pulls up Westlaw, and finds the case A-Hog mentioned. McCrory v. Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania, et al. After a two-week trial, Balzac won a $12 million verdict for his client, a fourteen-year-old girl who developed osteosarcoma, a bone cancer, in her left leg. The leg had to be amputated to prevent the spread of the cancer. Tragically, the surgeon—Dr. Matthew Anderson—mistakenly amputated the healthy right leg. When he realized his error, Anderson told the girl and her devastated family that the left leg still had to be removed. The patient and her parents sued Anderson and the hospital both, and won.
The hospital appealed, claiming the jury had been improperly inflamed by emotion, but what amazes Vaughn is that the cause of the jury’s passion wasn’t because of anything that Balzac had done, but rather was the result of Anderson’s own epic offensiveness on the stand. The record contained more than a dozen exchanges between Anderson and Balzac, and between Anderson and his own counsel, in which the surgeon insulted the young plaintiff, dismissed the seriousness of his mistake, and even laughed openly at the girl and her parents. Some of Anderson’s more noteworthy remarks included: “That one wasn’t going to be a runway model anyway,” and “Well, she’s too old for hopscotch.”
Vaughn reads and rereads the appellate court’s decision affirming the verdict. What the hell went on at that trial? Dr. Anderson’s behavior on the stand made no sense whatsoever. He had to have known that his outlandish remarks would only provoke the jury.
Vaughn prints out the case. He’ll reach out to Balzac’s opposing counsel in the case to find out if something happened at the trial that sheds light on the surgeon’s erratic behavior.
13
WEDNESDAY, JULY 9
The neon-blue display on Erin’s nightstand clock reads 2:15 a.m. Vaughn is on his back, Erin straddling him, her hips pumping rhythmically. Both of them are slick with sweat; it’s a hot night in July, the temperature hovering close to ninety, and hot air flows through the open window. Erin’s back is arched, her head back. Her eyes are half-closed. Vaughn and Erin grip each other’s hands tightly, and he feels her nails digging into his flesh. Vaughn opens his eyes to watch her. He enjoys her firm breasts; her large, dark nipples; her thin hips; her plump, pink lips. Mostly he loves seeing the rapture on her face; Erin gets more lost in it than any other woman he’s ever been with. For Erin, sex is an act of complete surrender. Not to Vaughn, but to something inside herself.
Erin begins to move faster, and her breathing speeds up. Her muscles tense. Her rhythm breaks into manic thrusting. She sighs, then moans, then groans, until, at last, she spasms and gasps. Vaughn climaxes with her, and they grind and crash against each other until they are spent.
When they’re finished, Erin falls onto Vaughn and they kiss each other deeply. Vaughn’s tongue tastes her salt. Her sweet musk fills his nose. Then she rolls off him, onto her back.
“Skinny V,” she whispers, her nickname for him. “Except where it counts,” she adds, more to herself than to him.
This was the third time Vaughn and Erin made love that night, and the fourth night in a row they’ve been together—and neither has let up, or wanted to. Only now that he’s been with her again does Vaughn realize how much he’s missed her. How stupid it was to let her go. What was he thinking? That the world was filled with women like Erin? That he’d have no problem meeting someone else with whom he’d share such passion?
Vaughn recognizes much of himself in her: the same animal that paces inside him, recoiling at the restraint required by everyday life.
Vaughn turns his head to look at Erin. Her breathing is steady now, and he knows she’s asleep. He closes his own eyes and drifts off. But his worries don’t let him rest long, and he’s fully awake after just a few hours. Quietly, he leaves the bed and dresses. He walks to Erin’s side of the bed, leans over, and kisses her gently on the forehead. She doesn’t stir.
It’s 5:15 a.m. when Vaughn leaves Erin’s building, and the sunlight is beginning to leak upward on the eastern horizon. Even before the sex, the night had been a fun one. Erin baked ziti and he’d brought a bottle of red table wine. They laugh
ed as they ate, then rented My Cousin Vinny and laughed even harder. Questions about the crash, the NTSB’s investigation, and Day and Balzac spun around inside his head, but he did his best to push them down, to just take a night off, enjoy his newfound thing with Erin. It wasn’t easy, but by the time they went to bed, he was feeling good.
Vaughn pauses on the brick plaza outside the building and takes a deep breath. The air is still hot and humid. Vaughn hears birds chirping across Sixth Street, in Washington Square. He doesn’t notice the black Escalade parked against the sidewalk until its driver exits the SUV.
“Now this is interesting,” says Johnny Giacobetti, walking around the vehicle toward Vaughn. “The engineer’s defense attorney spending his nights with one of the crash victim’s P.I. lawyers.”
Vaughn stares as Giacobetti lets the words hang.
“So tell me,” the enormous man continues, “are you pumping her for information, or is it the other way around? Or are the two of you just pumping each other, period?”
Vaughn’s face reddens. He’s pissed. He knows there’s no way he could take this giant, but he could get in enough punches to make the thug remember him. “That’s disrespectful,” he says.
Giacobetti laughs. “We’re talking respect now? That’s good. Respect my business.”
“Oh yeah? Exactly what is your business here?”
“Here? As opposed to that run-down little farmhouse in Lancaster County where your cousin is holed up? That’s a good question. And the answer is that I’m not there right now because Mr. Nunzio hasn’t made up his mind about your cousin yet. But he’s thinking about it. Especially after those lawyers showed everyone what a liar your cousin is at that press conference.”
“None of that had a goddamned thing to do with the accident,” Vaughn says, trying to hide his alarm at the mobsters’ discovery of Eddy and Kate’s hideout. “All those hucksters are trying to do is whip up public sentiment against Eddy, and Amtrak. To get punitive damages down the line, if the cases ever go to trial.”
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