26
Jeff rented a room at the Starlight Motel, twenty bucks an hour, and tried to convince the manager that nothing immoral was in the works. The manager feigned surprise and ignorance, even seemed a bit insulted that anyone would suggest bad behavior at a hot-sheets joint like his. Jeff explained that he was meeting three women, all lawyers, one of whom was his sixty-year-old aunt, and that they just needed a quiet place to discuss some sensitive issues. Whatever, said the manager. Would you like a receipt? No.
On another day, Mattie might have been nervous about her car being seen at the motel, but a week after Donovan’s death she could not have cared less. She was too numb to worry about such trivial matters. It was a small town—let ’em talk. Her mind was focused on far more important matters. Annette rode in the front seat, Samantha the rear, and as they parked next to Jeff’s truck she realized he was standing in the door of the room once occupied by Pamela Booker. Next door had been Trevor and Mandy. For four nights, long ago it seemed, they had taken shelter at the motel after living in their car for a month. With Samantha’s fearless lawyering and the clinic’s generosity, the Booker family had been rescued from the wilds and was now living peacefully in a rented trailer a few miles outside of Colton. Pamela was working at the lamp factory. The lawsuit against Top Market Solutions—Samantha’s first—was still unresolved, but the family was safe and happy.
“He’s probably been here before,” Annette said as they looked at Jeff.
“Enough of that,” Mattie said. The three lawyers got out of the car and walked into the tiny room.
“You’re serious about this spying stuff, right?” Annette asked, obviously not serious about it.
Jeff leaned against the pillows on the rickety bed and waved at three cheap chairs. “Welcome to the Starlight.”
“I’ve been here before,” Samantha said.
“Who was the lucky guy?”
“None of your business.” The three lawyers settled into the chairs. There were files and notepads on the bed.
Jeff said, “Yes, I’m dead serious about this spying stuff. Donovan’s office was bugged. So was his house. He suspected they, whoever they are, were watching and listening, and it’s best if we don’t take chances.”
“What did the FBI take from the house?” Mattie asked.
“They were there for two hours and found nothing. They took the computers, but by now they know the hard drives were replaced. All they’ll find is a bunch of obscene greetings to anyone who might be snooping. So, they’ll be back, I suppose. Doesn’t matter. They’ll never find anything.”
“You know you’re skirting around the edges of the law,” Annette said.
Jeff smiled and shrugged. “Big deal. You think Krull Mining is sitting around right now worrying about who’s playing by the rules? No, they are not. Right now they’re on the phone with the U.S. Attorney desperate to find out what the Fibbies scooped up in their raids today.”
“It’s a criminal investigation, Jeff,” Annette said with an edge. “One that is aimed at Donovan and those working with him, primarily you, if you in fact have possession of ill-gotten documents, or access to them. These guys are not going to disappear just because you outfoxed them with the hard drives.”
“I don’t have the documents,” he said, a throwaway that no one in the room believed.
Mattie waved her hand and said, “All right, all right, enough of this. We’re going to court Wednesday to probate his estate and I thought we were going to talk about that.”
“Yes, but there are more pressing matters. I’m convinced my brother was murdered. The crash was not an accident. The airplane has been secured and I’ve hired two experts to work with the state police in Kentucky. So far there’s nothing but they’re running tests. Donovan made a lot of enemies, but none bigger than Krull Mining. Some documents disappeared and they suspect he got his hands on them. The documents are deadly and Krull Mining was sweating blood, just waiting to see if Donovan would file the lawsuit. He did, scared the hell out of them, but did not reveal anything from the documents. Now he’s dead, and they figure it’ll be difficult to produce the documents. The next target could be me. I know they are following me, and probably listening. They’re using the FBI to do their dirty work. They’re tightening the noose, so I’ll be disappearing from time to time. If someone gets hurt it’ll probably be the guy on my tail. I’m royally pissed off about my brother and my trigger finger is itchy.”
“Come on, Jeff,” Mattie said.
“I’m serious, Mattie. If they’ll rub out someone as important as Donovan, they won’t hesitate to take out a non-player like me, especially if they think I have the documents.”
Samantha had cracked a window in a fruitless search for fresh air. The white plaster ceiling was stained with nicotine. The green shag carpet had old stains. She didn’t remember the room as being so depressing when the Bookers lived in it. Now, though, she wanted to bolt. Finally, she blurted, “Time out. Excuse me. I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I am just an intern, just passing through as we all know, and I really don’t want to hear what I’m hearing, okay? Could someone please tell me why I’m here?”
Annette rolled her eyes in frustration. Mattie sat with her arms folded across her chest. Jeff said, “Because I invited you. Donovan admired you and told you things in confidence.”
“He did? Sorry, I just wasn’t aware of that.”
“You’re part of the team, Samantha,” Jeff said.
“What team? I didn’t ask for this.” She massaged her temples as if suffering a migraine. A quiet moment passed. Mattie finally said, “We need to talk about his estate.”
Jeff reached for a pile of papers, took some, and passed them around. “This is a rough list of his ongoing cases.” Samantha felt like a Peeping Tom as she looked at information that no law firm, large or small, would ever voluntarily divulge. At the top of page 1, under the heading “Major,” were four cases—the Hammer Valley litigation, the Ryzer case against Lonerock Coal and its lawyers, and the Tate verdict. Number four was the Gretchen Bane wrongful death case versus Eastpoint Mining, the retrial of which was now scheduled for the following May.
“There is a handshake deal to settle Tate, but I can’t find anything in writing,” Jeff said as he flipped a page. “The other three are years away from being resolved.”
Samantha said, “You can forget Ryzer, unless other lawyers get involved. The litigation fund has pulled the money. We’ll pursue the black lung benefits, but Donovan’s fraud and conspiracy lawsuit is going nowhere.”
“Why don’t you take it?” Jeff asked. “You know the facts.”
Samantha was shocked at the suggestion and even faked a laugh. “Are you kidding? This is a complicated multistate federal tort case based on a theory that has yet to be proven. I have yet to win my first lawsuit and I’m still terrified of litigation.”
Mattie was flipping pages and said, “We can handle some of these, Jeff, but not all of them. I’m counting fourteen black lung cases. Three wrongful deaths. About a dozen environmental claims. I don’t know how he kept up with it all.”
Jeff asked, “Okay, here’s a question from a non-lawyer. Is it possible to hire someone to come in and run the firm, to handle the smaller claims and maybe help out with the bigger ones? I don’t know. I’m just asking.”
Annette was shaking her head. “The clients won’t stick because the new lawyer would be a stranger. And you can be certain that the other lawyers in town are circling like vultures. The good cases on this list will be gone in a month.”
Mattie said, “And we’ll get stuck with the bad ones.”
Annette said, “There’s no way to keep the office open, Jeff, because there’s no one to run it. We’ll absorb what we can. The Hammer Valley litigation has plenty of legal talent behind it. Forget Ryzer. In the Bane case, Donovan has co-counsel in West Virginia, so his estate will be entitled to a fee there if it’s ever resolved, but it won’t be much. I’m not familiar with these other wrongful death cases, but it looks like liability is not too solid.”
“I agree,” Mattie said. “We’ll look at them closer over the next few days. The most significant case is the Tate verdict, but that money is not in the bank.”
“I’ll be happy to step outside,” Samantha said.
“Nonsense,” Mattie said. “Probating a will for estate purposes is not a confidential matter, Samantha. The court file will be a public record, and anyone can walk into the clerk’s office and take a look. Plus, there are no real secrets here in Brady. You should know that by now.”
Jeff was handing over more papers and saying, “His secretary and I went over these accounts this weekend. The Tate fee is almost 700,000—”
“Less income taxes of course,” Mattie said.
“Of course. And, as I said, it’s just a verbal deal. I guess the lawyers for Strayhorn can back out, right Mattie?”
“Oh yes, and don’t be surprised if they do. With Donovan out of the picture, they could easily change their strategy and flip us the bird.”
Samantha was shaking her head. “Wait a minute. If they agreed to settle the case, how can they change their minds?”
“There’s nothing in writing,” Mattie explained. “Or at least nothing we’ve found so far. Typically, in a case like this, the two sides sign a brief settlement agreement and get it approved by the court.”
Jeff said, “According to the secretary, there is a rough draft of one in the computer, but it was never signed.”
“So we’re screwed,” Samantha said, allowing the word “we” to slip out unintentionally.
“Not necessarily,” Mattie replied. “If they renege on the settlement, the case moves forward on appeal, something Donovan was not worried about. It was a clean trial with no reversible error, at least in his opinion. In about eighteen months the verdict should be affirmed on appeal. If the Supreme Court reverses, it comes back for another trial.”
“Who’ll try it?” Samantha asked.
“Let’s worry about that when it happens.”
“What else is in the estate?” Annette asked.
Jeff was looking at his handwritten notes. “Well, first of all, Donovan had a life insurance policy to the tune of half a million bucks. Judy is the beneficiary, and, according to the accountant, that money will pass outside his estate. So she’s in pretty good shape. He had 40,000 in a personal bank account, 100,000 in his law firm checking account, 300,000 in a mutual fund, and he had a litigation expense fund with 200,000 in it. His other assets are the Cessna, which of course is now worth nothing but insured at 60,000. His house and acreage are appraised by the county at one-forty and he wants that to be sold. His office building is appraised by the city of Brady at one-ninety, and I get that, according to his will. The house has a small mortgage; the office does not. Beyond that it’s all personal assets—his Jeep, his truck, his office furniture, etc.”
“What about the family farm?” Annette asked.
“No, Gray Mountain is still owned by our father and we have not spoken in years. I don’t have to remind you that he didn’t make it to his son’s funeral last week. Besides, the land is not worth much. I suppose I’ll inherit it one day, but I’m not counting my money.”
Samantha said, “I really don’t think I should be included in this conversation. It’s personal and private and right now I know more than his wife does.”
Jeff shrugged and said, “Come on, Samantha.”
She grabbed the doorknob and said, “You guys talk all the business you want. I’ve had enough. I’ll walk home.” Before they could respond, she was gone, outside the room and hustling across the gravel parking lot. The motel was on the edge of town, not far from the jail where Romey had taken her barely two months earlier. She needed the cool air and the walk, and she needed to get away from the Gray boys and their troubles. She had great sympathy for Jeff and the loss of his brother, she felt an emptiness herself, but she was also appalled at his recklessness. Tampering with the computers would guarantee more trouble from the FBI. Jeff was cocky enough to think he could outfox the Feds and disappear whenever he wanted, but she doubted it.
She passed some houses on Main Street and smiled at the scenes inside. Most families were either having dinner or clearing the table. Televisions were on; kids were at the tables. She passed Donovan’s office and felt her throat tighten. He’d been dead for a week and she missed him greatly. Had he been single, there was no doubt some manner of romantic and physical relationship would have sprung to life not long after she arrived in Brady. Two young single lawyers in a small town, enjoying each other’s company, both flirting and maneuvering; it would have been inevitable. She remembered Annette’s warnings about Donovan and his fondness for the ladies, and wondered again if she had been truthful. Or was she simply protecting her own interests? Was she getting Donovan all to herself and didn’t want to share? Jeff was convinced he was murdered; her father was not. How much did it really matter when Samantha considered what was obvious—he was gone forever?
She turned around and walked back to the Brady Grill, where she ordered a salad and coffee and tried to kill time. She did not want to return to the office, nor did she want to go sit in her apartment. After two months in Brady, she was feeling the boredom. She enjoyed the work and the daily drama around the clinic, but the lack of anything to do at night was getting monotonous. She ate quickly and paid her check to Sarge, the grumpy old man who owned the café, wished him a good night and pleasant dreams, and left. It was 7:30, still too early to turn in, so she marched on, taking in the brisk air and stretching her legs. She had walked every street in Brady and knew they were all safe. A dog might growl and a teenager might whistle, but she was a tough city girl who had endured far worse.
On a dark street behind the high school, she heard footsteps behind her, heavy sounds of someone who was not trying to follow in silence. She turned at a corner, and the footsteps did the same. She picked a street lined with homes, almost all with porch lights on, and turned onto it. The same footsteps followed. At an intersection, and at a place where she could scream and people would hear her, she stopped and turned around. The man kept walking until he was only five feet away.
“You want something?” she asked, ready to kick and scratch and yell if necessary.
“No, just out for a stroll, same as you.” White male, age forty, heavy beard, six feet two, bushy hair boiling out from under an unmarked cap, and a thick barn coat with both hands stuffed into large pockets.
“Bullshit, you’re following me. Say something quick before I start screaming.”
“You’re in way over your head, Ms. Kofer,” he said. Slight mountain twang, definitely a local. But he knew her name!
“You know my name. What’s yours?”
“Pick one. Call me Fred if you like.”
“Oh, I like Bozo better. Fred sucks. Let’s go with Bozo.”
“Whatever. I’m so glad you think this is funny.”
“What’s on your mind, Bozo?”
Unfazed, unflinching, he said, “You’re running with the wrong crowd, and you’re playing a game in which you don’t know the rules. You need to keep your cute little ass over in the legal clinic, where you can take care of the poor folks and stay out of trouble. Better yet, for you and for everyone else, pack your shit and go back to New York.”
“Are you threatening me, Bozo?” Damned right he was. The threat was being delivered in a dramatic and unmistakable fashion.
“Take it any way you like, Ms. Kofer.”
“So, I wonder who you work for. Krull Mining, Lonerock Coal, Strayhorn Coal, Eastpoint Mining—there are just so many thugs to choose from. And let’s not forget those crooks in nice suits over at Casper Slate. Who signs your paycheck, Bozo?”
“They pay me in cash,” he said as he took a step closer. She threw up both hands and said, “One more step, Bozo, and I’ll scream so loud half of Brady will come running.” A group of teenagers made a loud approach from behind him, and Bozo lost interest quickly. Almost under his breath he said, “We’ll be watching.”
“So will I,” she retorted, but had no idea what she meant. She exhaled mightily and realized how dry her mouth was. Her heart pounded and she needed to sit down. Bozo disappeared as the teenagers passed without a word or a glance. Samantha began a rapid zigzag back to her apartment.
One block from it, another man materialized from the darkness and stopped her on the sidewalk. “We need to talk,” Jeff said.
“This must be my night,” she said, as they began walking away from her apartment. She replayed the encounter with Bozo, and kept her eyes moving for more signs of him. There was nothing, though, from the shadows. Jeff listened and nodded as if he knew Bozo personally.
He said, “Here’s what’s going down. The FBI paid a visit here today, but they also raided the offices of the other three law firms that signed on to sue Krull Mining in the Hammer Valley case. These guys are friends of Donovan’s—they were all at his funeral last week. Two firms in Charleston, one in Louisville. Lawyers who specialize in toxic torts and pool their resources and manpower to fight the bad guys. Well, they got raided today, which means, among other things, that the FBI, and we assume Krull Mining too, now know the truth, and the truth is that Donovan did not turn over the stolen documents to the other lawyers. Not yet. That was not the plan. Donovan was very careful with the documents and he did not want to incriminate the other lawyers, so he simply described what’s in the documents. The strategy among the lawyers was to file suit, drag Krull Mining into court, goad the company and its lawyers into telling a bunch of lies under oath, then produce the documents for the judge and jury to enjoy. In the general opinions of the lawyers, the documents are worth at least half a billion dollars in punitive damages. In all likelihood they will also lead to criminal investigations, indictments, and so on.”
“So the FBI will be back shortly, this time looking for you.”
“I think so, yes. They believe Donovan had the documents, now they know the other lawyers do not, so where are they?”
“Where are they?”
“Close by.”
“And you have them?”
“Yes.”
They walked a block in silence. Jeff called out to an old man sitting under a blanket on a porch. A few steps later, she asked, “How did he get the documents?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“I’m not sure. But knowledge is not a crime, is it?”
“You’re the lawyer.”
They turned a corner onto a darker street. Jeff coughed, cleared his throat, and began, “At first, Donovan hired a hacker, this Israeli guy who travels the world selling his talents for nice sums of money. Krull had digitized some of its internal stuff, and the hacker got inside without too much of a hassle. He found some pretty interesting material about the Peck Mountain mine site and slurry pond, enough to get Donovan excited. It was obvious, though, that Krull had kept a lot of records out of its digital storage system. The hacker went as far as he could, then bailed out, covered his tracks, and disappeared. Fifteen thousand bucks for a week’s work. Not bad, I guess. Risky, though, because he got caught on another job three months ago and is now sitting in jail in Vancouver. Anyway, Donovan made the decision to scope out Krull’s headquarters near Harlan, Kentucky. It’s a small town and it’s kinda strange having such a big operation based in such a rural area, but that’s not unusual in the coalfields. Donovan visited a few times, always changing disguises; he loved the cloak-and-dagger stuff and thought he was a real genius at espionage. And he was very good. He picked a holiday weekend, Memorial Day of last year, and went in on a Friday afternoon, dressed like a phone repairman. He rented a white, unmarked cargo van and parked it with some other cars in a lot. He even put fake license plates on the van. Once inside, he vanished into an attic and waited until closing time. There were armed security guards and surveillance cameras outside, but not much inside. I was watching from nearby, so was Vic, both of us armed and ready with an emergency plan in case something went wrong. For three days, Donovan was on the inside and we were on the outside, hiding in the woods, watching, waiting, fighting off ticks and mosquitoes. It was miserable. We were using high-frequency radios to keep in touch and to keep each other awake. Donovan found the kitchen, ate all the food, and slept on a sofa in the lobby. Vic and I were sleeping in our trucks. Donovan also found the records, a treasure trove of incriminating documents that detailed Krull’s cover-up of the Peck Mountain site and all its problems. He copied thousands of documents and put the originals back in the files as if nothing happened. On that Monday, Memorial Day, a cleaning crew showed up, and they almost caught him. I saw them first, called Donovan, and he barely made it back into the attic before the janitors entered the building. He stayed there for three hours, smothering in the heat.”
“How did he get the documents out?”
“Trash bags, just another load of garbage. He put seven bags in a Dumpster behind the office building. We knew the garbage truck would run Tuesday morning. Vic and I followed it to the landfill. Donovan walked out of the office, changed costumes and became an FBI agent, and showed up at the landfill with a badge. The people who work at landfills really don’t care where the stuff comes from, or what happens to it, and after a few harsh words from Agent Donovan they threw up their hands. We loaded the trash bags into the rental van and sprinted back to Brady. We worked around the clock for three days sorting, arranging, and indexing, then we hid the documents in a mini-storage not far from Vic’s home near Beckley. Later, we moved them again, and again.”
“And the good folks at Krull Mining had no clue that someone had vandalized their offices?”
“It wasn’t that clean. Donovan had to jimmy some locks and break into some file cabinets, and he kept some of the original documents. He left a trail. There were surveillance cameras all over the exterior, and we’re sure they recorded images of him. But you would never know it was him because of the disguises. Plus, Donovan and Vic thought it was important for Krull to know that someone had been there. We went back later that afternoon, that Tuesday, and watched from a distance. Police cars were coming and going. Folks were obviously agitated.”
“It’s a great story, but it strikes me as being incredibly reckless.”
“Of course it was. But that was my brother. His philosophy was that since the bad guys are always cheating—”
“I know, I know. He told me more than once. What’s on his computer hard drives?”
“Nothing sensitive. He wasn’t stupid.”
“Then why did you take them?”
“He told me to. I had strict instructions in the event something happened to him. There was a case in Mississippi a few years back where the FBI raided a law office and grabbed all the computers. Donovan lived in fear of that, so I had my orders.”
“And what are you supposed to do with the Krull documents?”
“Deliver them to the other lawyers before the FBI finds them.”
“Can the FBI find them?”
“Highly unlikely.” They were approaching the courthouse from a narrow side street. Jeff pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to her. “It’s a prepaid cell phone,” he said. “Your very own.”
She stared at it and said, “I have a phone. Thanks.”
“But your phone is not secure. This one is.”
She looked at him and did not reach for the phone. “And why might I need this?”
“To talk to me and Vic, no one else.”
She took a step back and shook her head. “I don’t believe this, Jeff. If I take that phone, then I join your little conspiracy. Why me?”
“Because we trust you.”
“You don’t even know me. I’ve only been here for two months.”
“Exactly. You don’t know anyone, or anything. You’ve yet to be corrupted. You don’t talk because you have no one to talk to. You’re smart as hell, fun to be around, and very cute.”
“Oh great. Just what I need to hear. I’ll look spectacular in an orange jumpsuit with chains around my ankles.”
“You would, yes. You’d look great in anything, or nothing.”
“Was that a pickup line?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, the answer is not now. Jeff, I’m seriously considering packing my bags, hopping in my rented car, slinging gravel out of here, as you locals like to say, and not stopping until I get to New York City, where I belong. I don’t like what’s happening around me and I did not ask for all this trouble.”
“You can’t leave. You know too much.”
“After twenty-four hours in Manhattan I’ll forget it all, believe me.”
Down the street, Sarge slammed the door to the café and lumbered away. Nothing else moved on Main Street. Jeff gently took her arm and led her off the sidewalk to a dark spot beneath some trees near a memorial to Noland County’s war dead. He pointed to something in the distance, far behind the courthouse, two blocks away. Almost whispering he said, “See that black Ford pickup truck parked next to the old Volkswagen?”
“I don’t know a Ford from a Dodge. Who is it?”
“There are two of them, probably your new pal Bozo and a jackass I refer to as Jimmy.”
“Jimmy?”
“Jimmy Carter. Big teeth, big smile, sandy hair.”
“Got it. How clever. What are Bozo and Jimmy doing sitting in a parked truck at eight thirty tonight?”
“Talking about us.”
“I want to go to New York, where it’s safe.”
“Can’t really blame you. Look, I’m disappearing for a couple of days. Please take this phone so I’ll have someone to talk to.” He slid the prepaid cell phone into her hand, and after a second or two, she took it.