The Partner (Page 74)

Sandy smiled too. "Yes. That’s why I’m here. My client would like to offer a very quiet settlement with Clovis’ family."

"What does family mean?"

"Surviving spouse, children, and grandchildren."

"I guess I’m the family."

"What about your brother?"

"Nope. Luther died two years ago. Drugs and al-kyhall."

"Then you’re the only person with a right to sue."

"How much?" she blurted out, unable to hold it, then was embarrassed by it.

Sandy leaned a bit closer. "We’re prepared to offer twenty-five thousand dollars. Right now. The check’s in my pocket."

She was leaning down too, getting lower and closer to his face, when the money hit and stopped her cold. Her eyes watered and her bottom lip quivered. "Oh my God," she said.

Sandy glanced around. "That’s right, twenty-five thousand bucks."

She ripped a paper napkin from the holder and in doing so knocked over the salt shaker. She dabbed her eyes, then blew her nose. Sandy was still glancing around, hoping to avoid a spectacle.

"All mine?" she managed to say. Her voice was hoarse and low, her breathing rapid.

"All yours, yes."

She wiped her eyes again, then said, "I need a Coke."

SHE DRANK a 44-ounce Big Gulp without a word. Sandy sipped his bad coffee and watched the foot traffic come and go. He was in no hurry.

"The way I figure it," she finally said, clear-eyed now, "is that if you walk in here and offer twenty-five thousand right off the bat, then you’re probably willing to pay more."

"I’m in no position to negotiate."

"If I sue, it might look bad for your client, you know what I mean? The jury will look at me, and think about poor old Clovis getting burned up so your client could steal ninety million dollars."

Sandy sipped and nodded. He had to admire her.

"If I got me a lawyer, I could probably get a lot more money."

"Maybe, but it might take five years. Plus, you have other problems."

"Such as?" she asked.

"You were not close to Clovis."

"Maybe I was."

"Then why didn’t you go to his funeral? That might be hard to sell to a jury. Look, Deena, I’m here ready to settle. If you don’t want to, then I’ll get in my car and go back to New Orleans."

"What’s your top dollar?"

"Fifty thousand."

"It’s a deal." She stuck forth her beefy right hand, still moist from the Big Gulp, and squeezed his.

Sandy pulled a blank check from his pocket and filled it in. He also produced two documents; one was a short settlement agreement, the other was a letter from Deena to the prosecutor.

The paperwork took less than ten minutes.

FINALLY, there was movement on the canal in Boca. The Swedish lady was seen hurriedly shoving luggage into the trunk of Benny’s BMW. She sped away. They tracked her to Miami International, where she waited two hours before boarding a plane to Frankfurt.

They would be waiting in Frankfurt. They would patiently watch her until she made a mistake. Then they would find Mr. Aricia.

Chapter 39

THE PRESIDING JUDGE’S last official act in the matter was an impromptu hearing of an undetermined variety, in his office, and without the accused’s attorney present. Nor the prosecutor. The file would indicate no record of the meeting. Patrick was rushed through the rear of the courthouse by three escorts, up the back stairs, and quietly into Huskey’s chambers, where His Honor waited, robeless. No trial was in session, and on an otherwise typical day the courthouse would have been peaceful. But four prominent lawyers had been arrested that morning, and the gossip was bouncing along the hallways at full throttle.

His wounds were still bandaged and prevented tight clothing. The aqua surgeon’s scrubs were nice and baggy, and they also reminded people that he was hospitalized, not jailed like a criminal.

When they were alone and the door was locked,

Karl handed him a single sheet of paper. "Take a look at this."

It was a one-paragraph order, signed by Judge Karl Huskey, in which he, upon his own motion, recused himself in the matter of State versus Patrick S. Lanigan. Effective at noon, an hour away.

"I spent two hours with Judge Trussel this morning. In fact, he just left."

"Will he be nice to me?"

"As fair as possible. I told him that, in my opinion, it’s not a capital murder trial. He was very relieved."

"There’s not going to be a trial, Karl."

Patrick looked at a calendar on the wall, the same kind Karl had always used. Each day for the month of October was packed with more hearings and trials than any five judges could handle. "Haven’t you bought a computer yet?" he asked.

"My secretary uses one."

They had first met in this room, years earlier when Patrick arrived as a young, unknown lawyer representing a family devastated by a car wreck. Karl was presiding. The trial lasted for three days, and the two became friends. The jury awarded Patrick’s client two point three million dollars, at that time one of the largest verdicts on the Coast. Against Patrick’s wishes, the Bogan firm agreed to settle the case for an even two million dollars during appeal. The lawyers took a third, and after the firm paid some debts and made some purchases, the remaining fee was split four ways. Patrick was not a partner at the time. They reluctantly gave him a bonus of twenty-five thousand dollars.

It was the trial in which Clovis Goodman was the star.

Patrick picked at Sheetrock peeling in a corner. He examined a brown water spot on the ceiling. "Can’t you get the county to paint this room. It hasn’t changed a bit in four years."

"I’m leaving in two months. Why should I care?"

"Remember the Hoover trial? My first in your courtroom, and my finest hour as a trial lawyer."

"Of course." Karl crossed his feet on his desk, his hands locked behind his head.

Patrick told him the Clovis story.

A FIRM RAP on the door interrupted the narrative near the end. Lunch had arrived, and it would not wait. A deputy walked in with a cardboard box, and the aroma floated from it. Patrick stood close by as it was unloaded on Karl’s desk: gumbo and crab claws.

"It’s from Mahoney’s," Karl said. "Bob sent it over. He said hello."

Mary Mahoney’s was more than a Friday afternoon watering hole for lawyers and judges. It was the oldest restaurant on the Coast, with delicious food and legendary gumbo.

"Tell him I said hello too," Patrick said, reaching for a crab claw. "I want to eat there soon."

At precisely noon, Karl turned on the small television mounted in the center of a set of bookshelves, and they watched without comment the frenzied coverage of the arrests. It was a mum bunch. No comments from anybody, certainly the lawyers, in fact their office doors were locked; Maurice Mast surprisingly had nothing to say; nothing from the FBI. Nothing of any substance, so the reporter did what she’d been trained to do. She lapsed into gossip and rumor, and that’s where Patrick entered the piece. Unconfirmed sources told her that the arrests were part of an ever-widening investigation in the Lanigan matter, and to prove this she flashed up uncontroverted footage of Patrick entering the Biloxi courthouse for his appearance. An earnest colleague appeared on the screen, informed them in hushed tones that he was standing outside the door of the Biloxi office of Senator Harris Nye, first cousin to Charles Bogan, in case anybody had missed the connection. The Senator was off in Kuala Lumpur on a trade mission to bring more minimum-wage jobs back to Mississippi, and thus unavailable for comment. None of the eight people in the office knew anything about anything; thus they had nothing to say.