Gunther was not there to prove anything. His job was to contradict Dr. Hilo Kilvan and Dr. Robert Bronsky, experts for the plaintiff, and to muddy the waters so there would be considerable doubt in the minds of the jurors about just how deadly smoking really was. He couldn't prove smoking didn't cause lung cancer, and he argued that no amount of research had proved that smoking absolutely does cause it. "More research is needed," he said every ten minutes.
ON THE CHANCE that she might be watching, Fitch walked the last block to 120 Fulton Street, a pleasant stroll along the shaded sidewalk with leaves dropping gently from above. The building was in the old part of town, four blocks from the Gulf, in a neat line of carefully painted two-stories, most of which seemed to be offices. Jose was told to wait three streets over.
No chance of a body mike or a wire. She'd broken him of that habit at their last meeting, on the pier. Fitch was alone, wireless, mikeless, bugless, without a camera or an agent nearby. He felt liberated. He would have to survive by brains and wit, and he welcomed the challenge.
He climbed the sagging wooden stairs, stood before her unmarked office door, took notice of the other unmarked doors in the cramped hallway, and gently knocked. "Who is it?" came her voice.
"Rankin Fitch," he answered just loud enough to be heard.
A dead bolt rattled from the inside, then Marlee appeared in a gray sweatshirt and blue jeans, no smile at all, no greeting of any sort. She closed the door behind Fitch, locked it, and walked to one side of a rented folding table. Fitch took the measure of the room, a cubbyhole with no window, one door, peeling paint, three chairs, and a table. "Nice place," he said, looking at the brown water spots on the ceiling.
"It's clean, Fitch. No phones for you to tap, no vents for cameras, no wires in the walls. I'll check it every morning, and if I find your trail, then I'll simply walk out the door and never come back."
"You have a low impression of me."
"It's one you deserve."
Fitch looked again at the ceiling, then the floor. "I like the place."
"It'll serve its purpose."
"Its purpose being?"
Her purse was the only item on the table. She removed the same sensor-scan from it, and aimed it at Fitch from head to toe.
"Come on, Marlee," he protested. "I promised."
"Yeah right. You're clean. Have a seat," she said, nodding at one of two chairs on his side of the table. Fitch shook the folding chair, a rather thin job that might not meet his challenge. He lowered himself onto it, then leaned forward with his elbows on the table, which was also not too stable, so he was perched precariously at both ends. "Are we ready to talk money?" he asked with a nasty grin.
"Yes. It's a simple deal, really, Fitch. You wire me a bunch of money, and I promise to deliver you a verdict."
"I think we should wait until after the verdict."
"You know I'm not that stupid."
The folding table was three feet wide. Both were leaning on it, their faces not far apart. Fitch often used his bulk and his nasty eyes and his sinister goatee to physically intimidate those around him, especially the younger lawyers in the firms he hired. If Marlee was intimidated, she certainly didn't show it. Fitch admired her poise. She stared straight into his eyes, never blinking, a most difficult task.
"Then there are no guarantees," he said. "Juries are unpredictable. We could give you the money-"
"Drop it, Fitch. You and I both know the money will be paid before the verdict."
"How much money?"
"Ten million."
He managed a guttural discharge, as if choking on a golf ball, then he coughed loudly as his elbows flew up and his eyes rolled and his fat jowls shook in utter, sheer disbelief. "You must be kidding," he managed to say in a raspy voice, glancing around for a cup of water or a bottle of pills or anything to help him through this horrible shock.
She watched the show calmly, never blinking, never taking her eyes off him. "Ten million, Fitch. It's a bargain. And it's nonnegotiable."
He coughed again, his face slightly redder. Then he gathered his composure and thought of a response. He'd guessed in the millions, and he knew he'd sound foolish trying to negotiate down as if his client couldn't afford it. She probably had the latest quarterly reports for each of the Big Four.
"How much is in The Fund?" she asked, and Fitch's eyes instinctively narrowed. As far as he could tell, she hadn't blinked yet.
"The what?" he asked. No one knew about The Fund!
"The Fund, Fitch. Don't play games with me. I know all about your little slush fund. I want the ten million wired from The Fund account to a bank in Singapore."
"I don't think I can do that."
"You can do anything you want, Fitch. Stop playing games. Let's cut the deal now and get on with our business."
"What if we wire five now and five after the verdict?"
"Forget it, Fitch. It's ten million now. I don't like the idea of tracking you down and trying to collect the last installment after the trial. For some reason, I think I'd waste a lot of time."
"When do we wire it?"
"I don't care. Just make sure it's received before the jury gets the case. Otherwise the deal is off."
"What happens if the deal is off?"
"One of two things. Either Nicholas will hang the jury, or hell send it nine to three for the plaintiff."
The veneer cracked above the eyebrows, two long wrinkles pinched together as he absorbed these predictions, delivered so matter-of-factly. Fitch had no doubts about what Nicholas could do because Marlee had no doubts. He slowly rubbed his eyes. The game was over. No more exaggerated reactions to anything she said. No more feigned disbelief at her demands. She was in control.
"It's a deal," he said. "We'll wire the money, pursuant to your instructions. I must warn you, though, that wires can take time."
"I know more about wiring money than you do, Fitch. I'll explain precisely how I want it done. Later."
"Yes ma'am."
"So we have a deal?"
"Yes," he said, extending his hand across the table. She shook it limply. Both smiled at the absurdity. Two crooks shaking hands over an agreement no court of law could enforce because no court of law would ever know about it.
BEVERLY MONK'S APARTMENT was a fifth-floor loft in a dingy Village warehouse. She shared it with four other starving actresses. Swanson followed her to a corner coffee shop and waited until she had settled at a window table with an espresso, a bagel, and a newspaper with want ads. With his back to the other tables, he approached her and asked, "Excuse me. Are you Beverly Monk?"
She looked up, startled, and said, "Yes. Who are you?"
"A friend of Claire Clement's," he said as he quickly slid into the chair across from her.
"Have a seat," she said. "What do you want?" She was nervous but the shop was crowded. She was safe, she thought. He looked nice enough.
"Information."
"You called me yesterday, didn't you?"
"Yes, I did. I lied, said I was Jeff Kerr. I'm not."
"Then who are you?"
"Jack Swanson. I work for some lawyers in Washington."
"Is Claire in trouble?"
"None whatsoever."
"Then what's all the fuss?"
Swanson gave a quick version of Claire's summons for jury service in a huge trial and his duty to track down the backgrounds of certain prospective jurors. This time it was a contaminated landfill case in Houston where billions were at stake, thus the expense of digging so deeply.