by Diane Capri
“Mitch, didn’t I read that your firm is very involved in representing plaintiffs in breast implant cases?”
“Why, Judge, do you want to file a claim?” He eyed my chest speculatively, but with a smile, hoping I wouldn’t be offended. He was wrong. I would never look at some man’s crotch and suggest anything about the size of the bulge, at least not to him.
“Fortunately, no. I am looking for some information, though, and I was hoping you’d just give it to me voluntarily.”
“Well, it’s not a secret. Of course, we don’t have as many cases as Christian Grover. But he advertised on a billboard and in The Tribune for months, so he got a lot more calls than we did. Besides that, his partner Fred Johnson, seems to have some inside track on the Morgan cases. Morgan was the hardest working plastic surgeon in town where breast implants were concerned. I’ve heard estimates as high as forty-five thousand surgeries he did. He claims to have made $35,000 a day doing implants in the eighties. We only took what we could get that we thought were sure winners.”
“How many cases does Grover have?”
“There’s no real way of knowing that. He brags at bar meetings that he’s got three-thousand-five-hundred plaintiffs, not including Johnson’s cases.”
“Really? I had no idea Grover represented so many women.”
“Oh, sure. We have about two-hundred clients, all referred by other lawyers. Grover got most of his cases directly through advertising, but he got a lot of referrals, too.”
“Why would one plaintiffs’ attorney want to refer cases to another?”
“Well, the thinking is that a particular plaintiff’s attorney will learn the science and make it his business to become experienced in handling the cases so that he can maximize the value of each claim. The referring attorney then gets a percentage of the final fee. It’s done all the time.”
“Doesn’t it get expensive to advance costs for all of those claims?” I imagined piles of dollars looking like the ransom money for one of the Rockefellers.
“Yes, in the beginning it was less expensive because the manufacturers were paying to remove the implants. Now, most of them refuse and the insurance carriers won’t pay, either. So, if your client wants to be explanted, which improves her case, you have to make a decision about advancing the costs. It can be as much as $5,000 a case.”
“Do you mean to say that Grover and Johnson can have as much as $1.5 million in costs in these cases?” I was incredulous. Tampa isn’t Los Angeles. A million dollars is still a rare commodity here.
“Actually, they could have more. That would just be the price of the removal surgery for each woman. There’s the cost of experts, getting documents and all the other trial preparation stuff. My firm alone has over $300,000 invested in these cases, and we’re a relatively small player. I’ve heard stories that some of the Texas lawyers are putting out over a million dollars a month.”
“How can they afford that?”
He smiled. “Everything’s bigger in Texas.” Since I didn’t return his smile, he said “I can’t speak for anyone else, but frankly, we can’t afford it. We took out lines of credit and loans with the local banks when we thought the cases would only last a year or so. Now, it’s been going on for years and the interest payments alone are staggering.” He drained his glass and I offered him another. He got up to get a beer from the bar for himself and Perrier for me. When he came back with the drinks, I’d had time to consider what he’d said. The mathematics were easy, but it was a hell of a way to gamble.
“What will you do?”
“Fortunately, our firm is well-funded. We’ve had our big successes over the years and we only accepted a limited number of cases. It’s not a real problem for us.” Sounded like wishful thinking to me, and I was not surprised when he continued a little more subdued. “Although we’ve all been taking home smaller incomes the past couple of years.”
He said this as if it were an afterthought. I was embarrassed for him. He was obviously trying to put the best face on it, but money must have been tight. Another thing I hadn’t noticed. Maybe Kate is right and I do spend too much time wrapped up in my own world, oblivious to others.
After a few moments of silence, he said, “I hear, though, that Grover is really having a problem. He not only borrowed enough money to fund his cases, but he also has been living off the anticipated settlements, which have just not happened as quickly as we all thought. They may not happen at all.”
“He always seems to be fine to me.”
He nodded and lifted one shoulder briefly. “The funny thing is that Johnson seems to be flush with cash all the time. I don’t know what their financial arrangements are, but it’s odd that one partner would be doing fine and the other struggling, when they’re both handling the same files.”
I thought about it, sipping my Perrier around the lemon wedge. Something was tickling my brain, elusive, but present. I let it go, and it boomeranged back.
“What do you mean, the settlement may not happen at all?”
“Well, in the beginning, when these cases were first filed, the science was unclear and it appeared that the plaintiffs had the better end of the argument because of the common sense approach, you know, ‘where there’s smoke there’s fire’.” George had said almost the identical words a few days earlier. Maybe he reads things other than the financial pages, after all.
“And now?” I asked him.
“Well, now scientific study after scientific study is coming out on the side of the safety of the implants. Just like the manufacturers said all along. Even though we can prove they didn’t properly test the product, it’s becoming more and more difficult to prove that these implants cause any adverse health effects.”
“This makes no sense. The last time I looked, causation was an essential part of any plaintiff’s case. If you can’t prove causation, why haven’t all of the cases been dismissed?”
He grinned again, kind of lopsided this time and lifted his glass. “It’s the American way. There’s still enough evidence to get the cases to the jury. As long as there’s no definitive proof that the illnesses these women are suffering are caused by something other than their implants, then the cases still go to the jury and the juries are still sympathetic enough to award damages to the victims in the most severe cases.”
Mitch’s face changed. He set his drink aside and crossed his hands on the table between us. How sincere he can look when he wants to, I thought. No wonder juries have been so sympathetic to him, giving his clients whatever he asks for.
Mitch said earnestly, “What I’m curious about is why you asked me over here on a Saturday afternoon to talk about this when we could have discussed it any Saturday morning. What I’m telling you is public knowledge, and I’m sure you’re going to get most of it from that Jones case you’re trying right now. Why the rush?”
A legitimate question I’d been waiting for but didn’t intend to answer. “It doesn’t have anything to do with the Jones case, Mitch, but that’s all I can say. I do appreciate your coming over on such short notice and filling me in, though. How’s Annie and the kids?” Such an obvious change of subject; he got the point.
Mitch graciously let the matter drop, and we talked about his family a while before he said he needed to get home for dinner. I thanked him for his advice and wished him luck with his financing.
When I went back upstairs to talk to Carly, she was nowhere to be found. I searched the remainder of the house, the restaurant and the grounds. Her clothes were gone and when I got outside, her car was gone. She had to have left while I was talking with Mitch. Deja vu, dammit. This is just great. Now what? People think I have no patience, but really, I’m just patient for such a long time that when I finally lose it, they’re surprised. I mean, really, wasn’t more than twenty years of patience with Carly enough already?
I didn’t bother running as I went down the stairs out into the parking lot. I asked the valet if he had seen Carly. He said she had run out to her car and
sped off across the bridge about fifteen minutes earlier. Again, I had no idea where she’d gone or how to find her. I went back upstairs and tried the cellular phone in her car, her office, and her house, all with no luck.
These disappearing acts were really beginning to make me angry. Besides that, I hadn’t had a chance to persuade her to go to the police. Now what was I supposed to do? It would serve her right if I just called Hathaway and turned it all over to him.
Old habits die hard. So I let it sit through the weekend, and give Carly one more last chance to come back, go to the police, or do something to report what she’d seen. If she didn’t do it, I would have to. I picked up some distractions, a glass of iced tea, the Friday Times I hadn’t had the energy to read yesterday afternoon, and Saturday’s Tribune, and took them out onto the veranda to try my mind control theory: think about something else. It worked briefly until page three of the Times, below the fold, the mention of Morgan’s name caught my eye.
Dr. Michael Morgan’s friends and colleagues have been cooperating with Tampa Police in an effort to locate Dr. Morgan, missing for over a month. Yesterday, one of the neighbors reported sighting a woman entering Dr. Morgan’s house by the side door. When he was unable to locate the woman, Chief Ben Hathaway obtained a search warrant for Dr. Morgan’s home today. Although details of the search have not been released, Chief Hathaway said that he now suspects foul play.
I dropped the rest of the Times and picked up Saturday’s Tribune, searching all the pages in the first section until I found another small item.
Limited details of the disappearance of Dr. Michael Morgan were released to the press today in a news conference by Chief Ben Hathaway. Chief Hathaway said in a prepared statement: “We are trying to identify a dark four door sedan, possibly a Lincoln Town Car or a Cadillac, seen by a neighbor outside Dr. Morgan’s home three weeks ago. We are now treating Dr. Morgan’s disappearance as a homicide. We believe Dr. Morgan’s body was in the car. We identified tire tracks on the grass near the side door of Dr. Morgan’s house.”
An eye witness came forward yesterday. Chief Benjamin Hathaway told reporters that the witness saw the car, saw its lights go on and saw it drive away. Chief Hathaway told reporters that Dr. Morgan’s home contained evidence relating his disappearance to homicide.
“We found evidence of a struggle, blood soaked tile and other physical evidence consistent with homicide.”
It was getting more and more difficult to protect Carly, not to mention me. George and I struggled with the issues most of the night. We didn’t get to bed until 3:00 a.m., and we were no closer to a decision on what to do. I wondered what other careers I might like all through the sleepless night, but I could only see the down sides to all of them.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tampa, Florida
Sunday 5:30 a.m.
January 17, 1999
It wasn’t hard to get up for my golf game with Dr. Aymes Sunday morning since I never went to sleep. I was in no mood to play, but it was way too late to cancel. George was more fortunate; he was snoring softly when I crept out of the bedroom. I snatched the Sunday papers off the front porch and searched for further news of Dr. Morgan. I didn’t have to look far. While the disappearance of a once prominent surgeon may not command front page coverage, his death did, although still below the fold.
No closer to solving the mysterious disappearance of Dr. Michael Morgan, Police Chief Ben Hathaway released further details of the investigation Saturday. He said police found Dr. Morgan’s scheduling notebook inside his home and are in the process of interviewing everyone with whom Dr. Morgan had contact in the weeks before his disappearance. Because there are no signs of forced entry or burglary, police believe Dr. Morgan may have been killed by someone he knew.
And maybe someone we all know, I thought. The rest of the article repeated the information printed in the earlier stories. Incredibly, there was no link, and no speculation, connecting Morgan’s disappearance with the unidentified body. How could they be so dense? Wasn’t it obvious to everyone? The timing, the disappearance, the homicide? It just didn’t make sense to me and I couldn’t figure it out. But George wasn’t up yet so I could discuss it with him, and the dogs are good listeners but somewhat short on analytical ability. I couldn’t wait any longer. I left the paper propped by the coffee pot and dashed out to Great Oaks.
You know you’re playing with serious golfers when they have a 6:30 tee time on Sunday. Only a serious player get on the course at prime time. I was paired with Dr. Aymes. The other two golfers were Grover’s partner, Fred Johnson, and another doctor I didn’t know. We walked up to the first tee promptly at 6:30 and the men were 240 yards down the first fairway four minutes later.
I thought Dr. Aymes was just being snide when she said my ten handicap was high for the group. She wasn’t. These golfers were going to end up waiting for me, and it put me at an immediate disadvantage. It wasn’t until later that I figured out she had deliberately invited me knowing I wouldn’t be able to compete, even if I’d had a clear head for the game. In my present state, I was about to get killed. On the golf course, that is.
Marilee hit her first drive from the blue tee about 220 yards. I held my head high, hit from the red tee, and landed just about thirty yards behind her. We got into the cart and she drove.
“Nice shot, Willa. But if you want to play with the better golfers, you’ve got to shoot from the blue tees.”
“Not today,” I said.
“No guts, no glory.”
“Maybe, but with this group, I’ll be lucky if I can keep my head above water.” My temples were starting to throb, a dull pounding resembling the beat of a Johnny Mathis tune. I put my sunglasses on as well as my visor. The dim pre dawn light was too much. I was just thrilled with the idea of bright, glaring sunshine in half an hour.
“Just hit ‘em straight, and you’ll beat these two. I always put them together because they end up in the woods and it saves time.” I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or just being Marilee.
She zipped the cart over to my ball and we were off. I finished the hole with a double bogey and felt grateful. Marilee missed a par by a five foot putt.
By the third hole, Marilee had me laughing with her outrageous commentary, and I’d decided her sharp wit wasn’t meant to be malicious. My headache was a slow Bob Seeger tune by this time, but rock ’n roll suits me better anyway. “Who’s your usual partner, Marilee?”
“Michael Morgan. But he hasn’t played in a month.”
“Why not?”
“He’s out of town or something. I haven’t heard from him. And his substitute is Carolyn Young, but she couldn’t make it today.”
“Why not?” I felt like a parrot.
“I don’t know. When I called her, she just said she couldn’t play.”
This was an opportunity too convenient to pass up, and I was glad I hadn’t just called and canceled. I asked her, feigning nonchalance, how she knew Dr. Morgan and Dr. Young.
“We were all at various stages of our practice at UCF about fifteen years ago. We had a foursome including Dr. Zimmer going on then.”
“I had no idea you all knew each other so well.” Even in my weakened state, I silently blessed the concept of synchronicity. Maybe I’d become a believer yet. Somewhat like Dorothy on her return trip from Oz, I began to repeat to myself, “There are no coincidences in life, there are no . . .”
“We were all close until Carolyn stole my project. Then, I stopped talking to them for ten years. Mike wormed his way into this foursome and then Carolyn started coming. When she plays, I play with Johnson. I certainly couldn’t spend two hours in a golf cart with her.”
“What did she steal from you?”
“The whole thing. Everything they used to start MedPro. The idea, the grant prospect. All of it.”
She tried to act like this was ancient history, but I could tell she was still bitter about it. “We were close once, Carolyn and I. We shared an apartment a
nd we both worked in the research department at UCF. She was younger than I, and she always seemed so vulnerable, somehow. I tried to take care of her, I guess. It was my idea to concentrate on a more responsive gel. I had a grant prospect I thought I could sell to UCF and I was putting together a proposal. It’s up to a tenured professor to find enough money to pay at least sixty percent of her salary, so it was an important prospect to me. It would have covered my salary for three years. I was excited, so I told her about it and she stole it. As simple as that.”
We were on the fifth hole by this time. It’s a long hole, but it dog legs to the right, and I was trying to figure out which club to hit off the tee for the best position on my second shot.
“Try your three wood,” Marilee said. “Your driver will put you past the turn.”
I pulled out my three, hit the ball way off to the left and cursed under my breath. “It works better if you hit it straight,” she smirked.
“Thanks for the tip.” I said, with as much sarcasm as I dared, as she walked up to the tee.
“Carolyn Young never had an original thought in her life.” The venom in her words might not have sent the ball that extra twenty yards, but if the ball had been Carolyn Young’s head, she’d be in the next county. If it had been my head, at least this damn pounding wouldn’t be connected to my body any more.
Marilee must have read my thoughts. “That’s how I improved my game. Every time I stepped up to the tee, I imagined Young, Morgan or Zimmer’s head instead of the ball. Improved my drives two-hundred percent.”
On the way back to the cart, I asked her, “How did Carolyn Young steal your project?”