“What’s on the high side?” Koane asked.
“My client doesn’t have a lot of money,” Gant said sadly. “As you know, the senator devoted his life to public service and sacrificed a lot. His estate is only half a million, but the family has needs. Maxwell is a big name out in Idaho and the family would like to maintain a certain lifestyle.”
One of Koane’s specialties was the shakedown, and he found it somewhat amusing to be on the other end of one. The family consisted of a widow, a very nice, low-key woman of sixty whose tastes were not expensive, a forty-year-old daughter who was married to a Boise pediatrician and maxed out credit-wise on all fronts, a thirty-five-year-old daughter who taught school for $41,000 a year, and a thirty-one-year-old son who was the problem. Kirk Maxwell Jr. had been battling drugs and alcohol since he was fifteen, and he was not winning. Koane had his research, and he knew more about the family than Gant.
“Why don’t you suggest a figure?” he said. “I mentioned five, now it’s your turn.”
“Your client is losing about twenty million a day in revenue because Krayoxx is no longer on the market,” Gant said smartly, as if dealing in inside information he’d cleverly gathered.
“It’s more like eighteen, but let’s not nitpick.”
“Twenty has a nice ring to it.”
Koane glared over his reading glasses. His jaw dropped slightly. In this business nothing surprised him, and he was faking it now. “Twenty million bucks?” he repeated, as if dumbfounded.
Gant gritted his teeth and nodded.
Koane recovered quickly and said, “Let me get this straight. Senator Maxwell was here for thirty years, and during that time he received at least $3 million from Big Pharma and its related PACs, much of it from the pockets of Varrick and its executives, and he also took about $1 million from folks like the National Tort Reform Initiative and other groups seeking to severely restrict lawsuits, bogus and otherwise. He took another $4 million from doctors, hospitals, banks, manufacturers, retailers, a very long list of good-government groups determined to cap damages, limit lawsuits, and basically slam the courthouse door on anyone with a claim of injury or death. When it came to tort reform and Big Pharma, the dear late senator had a perfect voting record. I doubt if you ever supported him.”
“Occasionally,” Gant said without conviction.
“Well, we couldn’t find any record of any contribution from you or your firm to any of his campaigns. Face it, you guys were on opposite sides of the street.”
“Okay, why is that relevant now?”
“It’s not.”
“Then why are we discussing it? He, like every other member of the Senate, raised a lot of money. It was all legal, and the money was always spent to get him reelected. Surely you understand this game, Mr. Koane.”
“Indeed I do. So he drops dead and now blames Krayoxx. Are you aware that he had stopped using the drug? His last prescription was in October of last year, seven months before he succumbed. His autopsy revealed significant heart disease, congestion, blockage, none of which was caused by Krayoxx. You take this case to trial and you’ll get buried.”
“I doubt that, Mr. Koane. You’ve never seen me in the courtroom.”
“I have not.” But Koane had the research. Gant’s largest verdict was $2 million, half of which was set aside on appeal. His previous year’s IRS 1040 listed an adjusted gross of just under $400,000. Chump change compared with the millions Koane raked in. Gant was paying $5,000 in alimony and $11,000 a month on a highly mortgaged golf course home that was underwater. The Maxwell case was, without a doubt, his ship coming in. Koane did not know the specific terms of his contingency fee, but according to a Boise source Gant would get 25 percent of a settlement and 40 percent of a jury verdict.
Gant leaned forward on his elbows and said, “You and I both know this case is not about liability, and it’s not really about damages. The only real issue here is how much Varrick is willing to pay to keep me from filing a big, splashy lawsuit. Because if I do, then we keep the pressure on the FDA, don’t we, Mr. Koane?”
Koane excused himself and went into another room. Reuben Massey was waiting in his office at Varrick Labs. Nicholas Walker was also at the table. They were using a speakerphone. “They want $20 million,” Koane said, then braced for the attack.
But Massey received the news without emotion. He believed in using his products and had just popped a Plazid, his company’s version of the daily happy pill. “Wow, Koane,” he said calmly. “You’re doing a helluva job at the negotiating table, old boy. Start at five, now you’re up to twenty. We’d better grab the twenty before you get it up to forty. What the hell’s happening down there?”
“Nothing but greed, Reuben. They know they have us over a barrel. This guy freely admits the lawsuit is not about liability or damages. We can’t take any more bad press, so how much are we willing to pay to make Maxwell’s case go away? It’s that simple.”
“I thought you had some great source whispering in your ear to the tune of $5 million.”
“I thought so too.”
“This is not litigation. This is armed robbery.”
“Yes, Reuben, I’m afraid so.”
“Layton, Nick here. Have you countered?”
“No. My authority was five. Until you say so, I cannot go higher.”
Walker was smiling as he spoke. “This is the perfect time to walk away. This guy Gant is already counting his money, several million, he thinks. I know the species, and they’re very predictable. Let’s send him back to Idaho with empty pockets. He won’t know what hit him, neither will the family. Koane, tell him your limit is five and the CEO is out of the country. We’ll have to meet and discuss all of this, which could take a few days. Warn him, though, that if he fires off a lawsuit, then all settlement talk goes away.”
“He won’t do that,” Koane said. “I think you’re right. I think he’s counting his money.”
“I like it,” Massey said, “but it would be nice to wrap this up. Go to seven, Layton, but that’s all.”
Back in his office, Koane settled into his chair and said, “My authority is seven. I can’t go higher today and I can’t get the CEO. I think he’s traveling in Asia, probably on a plane.”
“Seven is a long way from twenty,” Gant replied with a frown.
“You’re not getting twenty. I spoke with in-house counsel, who’s also on the board.”
“Then we’ll see you in court,” Gant said, zipping up a thin briefcase he hadn’t used.
“That’s a pretty lame threat, Mr. Gant. No jury in the country will give you $7 million for a death that was caused by heart disease completely unrelated to our drug. And the way we litigate, a trial is three years away. That’s a long time to sit and think about $7 million.”
Gant abruptly stood and said, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Koane. I’ll see myself out.”
“When you leave, Mr. Gant, our offer of $7 million comes off the table. You go home with zero.”
Gant stutter-stepped slightly, then regained his stride. “See you in court,” he said, tight-lipped, and left through the door.
Two hours later, Gant called on his cell. Seemed the Maxwell family had reconsidered, came to its senses, at the prodding of their trusted lawyer, of course, and, well, $7 million sounded pretty damn good after all. Layton Koane carefully walked him through each issue at stake, and Gant was happily on board with all of it.