“It’s no joke. There’s a rapper named Shorty Shitstain, and Theo has his ringtone.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
The waitress brought Jack his beer. Two twenty-two-ounce bottles of Kirin. “It’s two for one,” she said.
“You’re not drinking that,” said Andie.
Jack reflected on his day. “Wanna bet?”
He filled his glass. Andie watched him drink about half of it down. Before he could wipe the foam on his sleeve and say ahhh, she dropped the news.
“What would you do if you couldn’t see or hear from me for five months?”
“Huh?”
“That’s what I thought you’d say.” She shifted in her chair, sat up a little straighter. “The new assignment I’ve been training for. The only way I can do it is if I go all-in. No visitation. No phone calls.”
“Why?”
“There have been some concerns raised. All stemming from the fact that I fall into the category of ‘someone you love.’”
Jack knew exactly what she meant. If Andie went undercover, Rene’s killer was a potential threat to the entire operation.
“Have you thought about passing on this assignment?”
She looked away, then back at him. “Is that what you want me to do?”
Jack poured more beer. He was suddenly ten years younger, sitting across from the sandy blonde with steely blue eyes who looked absolutely nothing like Andie and would eventually be his ex-wife. Marriage-killing questions like this one had become Cindy’s trademark. Is that what you want me to do? Was Jack supposed to say, “No, honey, I want what you want”? Or was the correct answer, “I can’t live without you, please don’t go”? With Cindy, the right answer was, by definition, whichever answer Jack didn’t give.
“Is this a trick question?” asked Jack.
“Only if you make it one.”
Definitely a trick question.
“Okay, let’s say you go all-in. You’re committed for five months.”
“It might not be five months,” said Andie. “That’s the outside time range.”
“Let’s assume the worst, five months. What would happen if Rene’s killer were caught before then?”
Andie considered it, then seemed to light up, liking where Jack’s train of thought was leading. “That would mean the threat against me is eliminated.”
“Right,” said Jack. “And when the threat is gone, there would be no need for you to be all-in.”
“That’s true.”
“So the five months of ‘no contact’ might turn out to be only two months.”
“Or one month.”
“Or none,” said Jack, “if he was caught before your assignment even started.”
Andie reached across the table and slid her hands into his. “We have to make that happen.”
Jack thought about the coming week. “You think we can do it by Monday?” He was only half serious.
His phone rang. No rap music—really, his phone. Jack was so tired of hearing Gaines’ voice that he didn’t care who might be listening. He just took the call.
“A hundred thousand dollars,” said Gaines.
“For what?” asked Jack.
“Your client drops the case and we sign a confidentiality agreement.”
“Seriously, that’s your offer?”
“That’s my client’s offer. I’d offer you ten cents.”
“A hundred thousand dollars barely covers ten more days in the hospital.”
“That’s ten more days of hope than your clients have now. Who knows? Maybe ten days are just enough to get Celeste out of her coma and back on her feet. Maybe when you present this offer to her parents, you point out how a hundred thousand dollars could make all the difference in the world.”
“You’re all heart,” said Jack.
“Ah, sarcasm. So tiresome. And so rude.”
“Your offer is rude.”
“The offer is generous. It’s your ticket out of a very bad situation.”
“Because that’s just the kind of guy you are, Mr. Kill-’Em-with-Kindness.”
“You don’t know the first thing about me, Swyteck. Some people get angry at big corporations who refuse to write a big check to a family like the Laramores. I get angry at lawyers like you who try to force companies to write big checks when the company has done absolutely nothing wrong. So if this comes across as personal, I don’t apologize.”
“No, it actually doesn’t come across as personal. It comes across as unprofessional. So while I will comply with the rules of ethics and present your offer to my clients, I can virtually assure you that both your offer and your non-apology will be rejected.”
“The offer is open until five o’clock Sunday night. Tell your clients to take it, Swyteck. While there’s still a way out.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Well played, Mr. Gaines.”
Sean Keating’s workday was ending where it had begun—in a bulletproof limousine that shuttled him between BNN headquarters in Manhattan and his fifteen-thousand-square-foot mansion in New Jersey. Keating had purchased one of the first Audi A8 L Security vehicles to roll off the line at the top-secret plant in Neckarsulm, Germany. Hot-formed armored steel, aramide fabric, special alloyed aluminum flooring, and multilayer glass—those core features and a patented antiballistic design stood between his life and the “extremists,” who Keating was absolutely certain were determined to silence him and the controversial voice of BNN. Just to throw off the enemy, Keating’s driver was under strict orders to take a different route to and from work every day. Tonight’s diversion had been wider than usual. They’d stopped at the airport to pick up BNN’s lawyer after a highly productive day in Miami.
“The pleasure was all mine,” Gaines said as he returned the car phone to its compartment.
“How soon can we wrap this up?”
Keating noted Gaines’ hesitation, as well as the quick glance at the bodyguard seated across from them in another row of leather seats. Keating had never formally introduced his lawyer to the Shadow, and he fully understood that it was simply Gaines’ nature to be careful about saying too much in front of people he didn’t know.
“Sharp,” Keating said, “are you hearing any of this?”
The Shadow was completely stone-faced, his lips barely moving. “Only if you tell me to, sir.”
Keating glanced over at his lawyer. “There you have it,” he said.
Gaines smiled uneasily, as if knowing that he was supposed to be satisfied.
Keating said, “So how soon can you make this go away?”
“He’ll come back with ten million,” said Gaines. “But we won’t need to go anywhere near that high. He’s an amateur.”
“Nobody who’s handled as many death cases as Swyteck has handled is an amateur. Somewhere beneath that self-deprecating veneer is a lawyer who will burn you, if you let him.”
“By Sunday night he’ll be pissing in his pants and begging me to offer him fifty thousand dollars payable in biannual installments over the next twenty-five years.”
Keating was unimpressed. “There are no hero points for saving me a few bucks, Ted. The CEO of BNN doesn’t take this kind of interest in a personal-injury case because it’s a matter of nickels and dimes. These allegations go to the heart of this network’s integrity as a news-gathering organization. If it takes the million dollars I’ve authorized to settle it, so be it. It may make sense to take a shot at dismissal on Tuesday, but by Wednesday at the latest I want Swyteck’s signature on a confidentiality agreement, and I want this behind us.”
“I hear you.”
Keating adjusted his seat. A footrest motored into position, and the full-body massage feature vibrated. Luxury was a close second to security.
“I read the rough transcript from today’s hearing before Judge Burrows,” said Keating. His seat was reclined at his preprogrammed fifty-degree angle, his eyes closed. “I have a few thoughts on how Tuesday should unfold, if this doesn’t settle before then.�
�
Gaines helped himself to a sparkling water from the mini refrigerator. “Swyteck has to survive Monday before we get to Tuesday.”
“He’ll survive Monday,” said Keating.
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
Keating sat forward, opened his eyes, and shot a look at his lawyer that left no room for doubt. “He will survive Monday. Now let’s talk about Tuesday.”
Gaines’ expression—an unsettled mix of fear and confusion—was exactly what Keating had expected. It was a natural response to a laserlike glare from an insanely rich and powerful man who worked in a corporate bunker and rode to work in a virtual tank. Keating had seen the same reaction many times before—from men with much bigger balls than Ted Gaines.
Gaines drank from his green bottle of sparkling water. “Okay, let’s talk about Tuesday.”
“This hearing cannot be about BNN reporters shutting down the flow of information from the ambulance to the emergency room.”
“That’s the core of Swyteck’s case. He’ll lead with that.”
“Not if Judge Burrows doesn’t let him.”
“The judge ordered him to put on enough evidence to show that his case has merit. That’s his best evidence.”
“You need to make the judge understand that this hearing isn’t about Swyteck’s best evidence. It’s about the weakest link in his case.”
Gaines seemed to catch his drift. “Okay, I think I see where you’re headed.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Judge Burrows made it clear that he’ll dismiss the case unless Swyteck is able to make a credible showing that he has some chance of winning. Your point is that Swyteck can’t win by proving simply that BNN interfered with a data transmission. He has to be able to show that BNN’s actions actually caused his client to go into a coma.”
“That’s what I want the hearing to be about. Who caused Celeste Laramore to go into a coma? Who’s the real villain? Now, that’s great television.”
His last remark made Gaines pause.
“Not that this is about TV ratings,” said Keating.
“No,” said Gaines, “of course not.”
“So that’s the game plan,” said Keating. “You go into court on Tuesday, and you don’t argue about whether or not BNN intercepted data trying to find out if Celeste was alive or dead. You get as sanctimonious as you possibly can, you look the camera in the eye and say, ‘Judge, we want to keep this short and simple. So for purposes of today’s hearing, let’s all assume—contrary to fact—that BNN interfered with the transmission of data from the ambulance to the ER. Your Honor, even if you make that assumption, Mr. Swyteck’s case is still frivolous. Here’s why.’ You with me, Ted?”
“Yes,” said Gaines. “Except I think you meant to say ‘look the judge in the eye.’”
“What?”
“You said ‘look the camera in the eye.’ I think you meant ‘judge.’”
“Right. Of course. Look the judge in the eye.”
“Because there are no cameras in this courtroom. The complaint was filed under seal at BNN’s request. The hearing is closed to the public.”
“I understand,” said Keating. He glanced out the window, thinking. Daylight was in its final moments, and the tinted glass was like a fuzzy green shroud over the headlights of oncoming cars. “We need to fix that,” said Keating.
“Fix what?”
He glanced back at Gaines. “If we are going to take this all the way to a hearing on Tuesday, I’m going all-in. I want Tuesday’s hearing open to the public.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Tell the judge to open it up.”
“Hold on a second,” said Gaines. “We’re the ones who got the judge to enter an emergency order that required Swyteck to file his lawsuit under seal. We’re the ones demanding that the case be kicked out of court because Swyteck violated that order. After all that chest-thumping about the need for secrecy, now you want the hearing on this motion to be open to the public?”
“Exactly.”
“Come on, Sean.”
“Swyteck had one good point today,” said Keating. “We are the media, the free press, the First Amendment. BNN can’t be arguing for closed hearings.”
“The judge won’t like the flip-flop.”
“That’s why you get paid the big bucks, Ted.”
Gaines shook his head slowly, as if taken by the size of the task. But he didn’t shy away. “All right,” he said. “We’ll get it done. If you’re sure this is what you want.”
“Absolutely sure. Look, the bloggers have already picked up everything that was posted on that Facebook page. The genie’s out of the bottle, and we have nothing to lose by making this hearing public. We’re hammering Jack Swyteck, and as the Sydney Bennett trial proved night after night, that makes for excellent television. This is prime stuff for Faith Corso.”
Gaines drank the last of his water and sank farther into his seat, allowing his gaze to come to rest on the television screen in the console. The sound was off, but it was tuned to BNN. “Not that this is about TV ratings,” he said quietly.
“No,” said Keating. He found the remote, smiling wryly as he turned up the volume. “Not in the least.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Jack took BNN’s offer straight to Ben Laramore.
The hospital’s main-floor cafeteria was crowded, no privacy, so they met in the friends-and-relatives lounge on the ICU floor. It was a depressing room with one window, forest-green walls, and black pleather chairs. The darkness was by design, so that visitors on night watch for a loved one in the ICU could slip away every now and then and catch some sleep. Around midnight the couches and spare blankets would be in high demand, but for the moment, Jack and his client were alone.
“A hundred thousand dollars does us no good,” said Laramore. He was seated on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
“That’s what I told Ted Gaines,” said Jack.
Laramore was staring at the floor, silent. Jack watched him in the dim glow of a small lamp on the end table. He’d known Ben Laramore for less than a week. Jack had seen him tired. He’d seen him sad. He had not yet seen him this way. He looked beaten.
Jack spoke softly. “I wasn’t suggesting you should take it. But it’s my obligation as an attorney to convey every settlement offer to my client.”
He looked up sharply. “Then do it.”
“I just did.”
Laramore jumped up, energized with misdirected anger. “No. Go tell Celeste.”
“What?”
He grabbed Jack by the arm, pulling him up. “Come on. Go convey the offer to your client.”
“Ben, please.”
“I’m serious. You’re licensed to be part of this half-assed system. Go do your job as a lawyer. Go tell Celeste that after putting her in a coma, BNN has graciously put enough money on the table to keep her breathing all the way until Wednesday. Maybe even Thursday.”
“Ben, calm down and have a seat. Please.”
Laramore breathed out in disgust, muttering a brief apology as he returned to the couch.
“He’s pretty cocky, this Gaines,” said Laramore. “Is that because the judge is going to throw us out of court?”
“Clearly Mr. Gaines thinks so.”
“What do you think?”
“I think if we prepare for this hearing the same way we would prepare for trial, then we’ll be okay.”
Laramore leaned back and sank deeper into the stuffed pleather couch. “Let me ask you something,” he said. “What is Celeste’s case worth if we get past the hearing on Tuesday?”
“There will be plenty of fighting about that,” said Jack. “A lot of expert testimony.”
“Ballpark it.”
“A twenty-year-old woman who could require sixty years of care. Total care, if she stays in a coma. Some level of care seems likely even if she comes out of it.”
“So you’re giving her no chance of complete reco
very?”
“I’ve ruled out nothing. That’s why I don’t want to put a number in your head. But if we can establish liability, and if there is no significant change in Celeste’s condition, this is an eight-figure case.”
“And they’re offering us a hundred grand?”
“That’s the first offer.”
“The only offer,” said Laramore. “And that’s the problem. Celeste doesn’t have six months or a year for these guys to come up with an acceptable number on the eve of trial. She’s been in a coma for six days. That’s already too late for some of the cutting-edge procedures that doctors are doing for patients in comas. Every day that we dance around with these jackasses, another opportunity passes.”
“That’s why Tuesday is so important,” said Jack. “Right now, BNN has us back on our heels. But if we make a good showing on Tuesday, we’ll have the upper hand.”
“You believe that?”
“I do,” said Jack. “That’s the main reason I came all the way over here.”
“What, to tell me to keep my chin up?”
“No. To convince your wife that we need her help.”
“No, absolutely not,” said Mrs. Laramore. “I won’t leave Celeste to go sit in a courthouse all day.”
Jack and the Laramores were inside the ICU, standing right outside Celeste’s room. The hallway was as far away from Celeste as Mrs. Laramore would go. They kept their voices low, mindful of other patients with open doors.
“The plan is for you to be our first witness,” said Jack. “You can head straight back to the hospital as soon as you finish. Two hours, tops, including travel time.”
“And what if that two-hour window is when Celeste finally opens her eyes?” Her upper lip trembled, and Jack wasn’t sure if she could finish her thought, but he gave her time. “What if Celeste looks out and doesn’t see her mother, doesn’t have anyone to calm her fears or hold her hand and give her strength to wake up?”
Jack had no answer, and she wasn’t looking for one anyway.
“I can stay here,” said Ben.
She glared at her husband, clearly unhappy with the solution. “Celeste needs her mother.”
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