He felt twenty years younger already. He was going places.
CHAPTER 28
At 7:30 the following morning, Rochelle arrived nice and early with plans to enjoy her yogurt and newspaper with no one but AC around, but AC was already playing with someone else. Mr. Finley was there and quite chipper. Rochelle could not remember the last time he had arrived before she did.
“Good morning, Ms. Gibson,” he said in a warm, hearty voice, his lined and craggy face full of joy.
“What are you doing here?” she asked suspiciously.
“I happen to own the building,” Oscar said.
“Why are you so happy?” she asked, dropping her purse on her desk.
“Because last night I slept in a hotel, alone.”
“Maybe you should do it more often.”
“Don’t you want to know why?”
“Sure. Why?”
“Because I left Paula last night, Ms. Gibson. I packed up, said good-bye, walked out, and I’m never going back.”
“Praise the Lord,” she said, wide-eyed and wonder-struck. “You didn’t?”
“Yes, I did. After thirty miserable years, I’m a free man. This is why I’m so happy, Ms. Gibson.”
“Well, I’m happy too. Congratulations.” In her eight and a half years at Finley & Figg, Rochelle had never met Paula Finley in person, and she was delighted about this. According to Wally, Paula refused to set foot on the property because it was beneath her dignity. She was quick to tell folks her husband was a lawyer, with the requisite implications of money and power, but was also secretly humiliated by the low standing of his firm. She spent every dime he earned, and if not for some mysterious family money on her side, they would have gone broke years earlier. On at least three occasions, she had demanded that Oscar fire Rochelle, and he had tried twice. Twice he’d limped back to his office, locked the door, and licked his wounds. On one noted occasion, Ms. Finley called and wanted to talk to her husband. Rochelle politely informed her he was with a client. “I don’t care,” she said. “Put me through.” Rochelle declined again and instead put her on hold. When Rochelle picked up again, Paula was cursing, near cardiac arrest, and threatened to march right down there and straighten things out at the office. To which Rochelle responded: “Do so at your own risk. I live in the projects and I don’t scare too easy.” Paula Finley did not appear, but she did berate her husband.
Rochelle took a step over and gave Oscar a firm hug. Neither could remember the last time they had touched for any reason. “You’re gonna be a new man,” she said. “Congratulations.”
“Should be a simple divorce,” he said.
“You’re not using Figg, are you?”
“Well, yes. He works cheap. I saw his name on a bingo card.” They shared a laugh, then began swapping gossip at the table.
An hour later, during the third firm meeting, Oscar repeated the news for the benefit of David, who seemed a bit confused by the enthusiasm the news was generating. Not a trace of sadness anywhere. It was obvious that Paula Finley had made plenty of enemies. Oscar was almost giddy at the thought of shedding her.
Wally summed up his conversations with Jerry Alisandros and spun the news in such a way that it seemed as though big checks were practically in the mail. As he rambled on, David suddenly figured out the divorce. Unload the wife now, and quickly, before serious money rolled in. Whatever the scheme was, David smelled trouble. Hiding assets, rerouting funds, setting up bogus bank accounts—he could almost hear the conversations between the two partners. Warning flags went up. David would be curious and vigilant.
Wally exhorted the firm to kick into high gear, to get the files in order, find new cases, set aside everything else, and so on. Alisandros promised to provide medical screeners, cardiologists, all manner of logistical support to prepare his clients for the settlement. Every current case was worth serious cash; every prospective case could be worth even more.
Oscar just sat there and grinned. Rochelle listened intently. David found the news exciting, but he was also cautious. So much of what Wally said was hyperbole, and David had learned to cut it in half. Still, half would be a wonderful payday.
The Zinc family balance sheet had dipped under $100,000 in buried cash, and while David refused to worry, he was thinking about it more and more. He’d paid Sandroni $7,500 for a case that was probably worthless. He and Helen had committed $300 a month to Thuya’s support, which would hopefully go on for years. They had not hesitated to do this, but reality was setting in. His monthly gross from the firm was rising steadily, though it was unlikely he would ever earn what he’d made at Rogan. That was not his benchmark. With a new child, he figured he needed $125,000 a year to live comfortably. Krayoxx just might shore up the balance sheet, though he and the two partners had not discussed his slice of the pie.
The third firm meeting ended abruptly when a woman the size of a linebacker, in sweats and flip-flops, barged through the front door and demanded to speak to a lawyer about Krayoxx. She had taken it for two years, could actually feel her heart getting weaker, and wanted to sue the company that very day. Oscar and David vanished. Wally welcomed her with a smile and said, “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place.”
———
The family of Senator Maxwell hired a Boise trial lawyer by the name of Frazier Gant, the number one man in a mildly successful firm that handled mostly tractor-trailer accidents and medical malpractice. Boise is not exactly on the big-verdict circuit. It rarely sees the liberal awards common in Florida, Texas, New York, and California. Idaho frowns on tort litigation, and juries there are generally conservative. But Gant could put together a case and get a verdict. He was someone to reckon with, and at the moment he happened to have the biggest tort case in the country. A dead senator, stricken on the Senate floor, and the cause of death pinned squarely on a huge corporation. It was a trial lawyer’s dream.
Gant insisted on meeting in Washington, as opposed to Boise, though Layton Koane was perfectly willing to meet anywhere. In fact, Koane preferred anywhere but Washington because that would bring Gant into his office. The Koane Group leased the top floor of a brand-new sleek, shiny ten-story building on K Street, that stretch of asphalt packed with the real power brokers in Washington. Koane had paid a fortune to a New York designer to project the image of pure wealth and prestige. It worked. Clients—current and prospective—were awed by marble and glass the moment they stepped off the private elevator. They were in the midst of power, and they were certainly paying for it.
With Gant, though, the tables were turned. It was the lobbyist who would be handing over the money, and he preferred a more low-key meeting place. But Gant insisted, and some nine weeks after the senator’s death, and, more important, at least to Koane and Varrick, almost seven weeks after the FDA yanked Krayoxx, they introduced themselves and settled around a small conference table at the far end of Koane’s personal office. Since he was not interested in impressing a client, and he found this particular task distasteful, Koane didn’t waste time.
“I have a source who tells me the family will settle for five million without a lawsuit,” he said.
Gant frowned, a quick sharp grimace as if a hemorrhoid had twitched. “We can negotiate,” he said, a throwaway line that meant nothing. He’d flown in from Boise to negotiate and nothing more. “But I think five is on the low side.”