The King of Torts (14 page)

“I feel like I’m doing something wrong,” she said at one point.

“No, the wrong has been done by someone else.

You’re the victim here, Adelfa, the victim and now the client.”

“I need to talk to someone,” she said once as she signed again.

But there was no one to talk to. A boyfriend came and went, according to Max’s intelligence, and he was not the type to seek advice from. She had brothers and sisters scattered from D.C. to Philadelphia, but they were certainly no more sophisticated than Adelfa. Both parents were dead.

“That would be a mistake,” Clay said delicately. “This money will improve your life if you keep it quiet. If you talk about it, then it will destroy you.”

“I’m not good at handling money.”

“We can help. If you’d like, Paulette can monitor things for you and give advice.”

“I’d like that.”

“That’s what we’re here for.”

Paulette drove her home, a slow ride through rush-hour traffic. She told Clay later that Adelfa said very little, and when they arrived at the housing project she did not want to get out. So they sat there for thirty minutes, talking quietly about her new life. No more welfare, no more gunshots in the night. No more prayers to God to protect her children. Never again would she worry about keeping her kids safe the way she had worried about Ramón.

No more gangs. No more bad schools.

She was crying when she finally said good-bye.

   CHAPTER 13   

The black Porsche Carrera rolled to a stop under a shade tree on Dumbarton Street. Clay got out and for a few seconds was able to ignore his newest toy, but after a quick glance in all directions he turned and admired it once again. His for three days now, and he still couldn’t believe he owned it. Get used to it, he kept telling himself, and he could manage to act as though it were just another car, nothing special, but the sight of it after even a brief absence still made his pulse quicken. “I’m driving a Porsche,” he would say to himself, out loud, as he buzzed through traffic like a Formula One driver.

He was eight blocks from the main campus of Georgetown University, the place he’d spent four years as a student before moving on to its law school near Capitol Hill. The town houses were historic and picturesque; the small lawns manicured; the streets covered by ancient oaks and maples. The busy shops and bars
and restaurants on M Street were just two blocks to the south, easy walking distance. He had jogged these streets for four years, and he’d spent many long nights with his pals prowling the hangouts and pubs along Wisconsin Avenue and M Street.

Now he was about to live here.

The town house that held his attention was on the market for $1.3 million. He’d found it cruising through Georgetown two days earlier. There was another on N Street and another on Volta, all within a stone’s throw of each other. He was determined to buy one before the end of the week.

The one on Dumbarton, his first choice, had been built in the 1850s and carefully preserved ever since. Its brick facade had been painted many times and was now a faded bluish color. Four levels, including a basement. The real estate agent said it had been immaculately maintained by a retired couple who had once entertained the Kennedys and the Kissingers and just fill in the blanks with all the other names one might want. Washington Realtors could drop names faster than those in Beverly Hills, especially when peddling property in Georgetown.

Clay was fifteen minutes early. The house was empty; its owners were now doing time in assisted living, according to the agent. He walked through a gate beside the house and admired the small garden in the back. There was no pool and no room for one; real estate was precious in Georgetown. There was a patio with wrought-iron furniture and weeds creeping in
from the flower beds. Clay would have a few hours to spare for the gardening, but not much.

Perhaps he would just hire a lawn maintenance company.

He loved the house and the ones next to it. He loved the street, the coziness of the neighborhood, everybody living near each other but respecting each other’s privacy. Sitting on the front steps, he decided he would offer one million even, then negotiate hard, bluff and walk away, and in general have a great time watching the Realtor run back and forth, but in the end he would be perfectly willing to pay the asking price.

Staring at the Porsche, he drifted away again to his fantasy world where money was growing on trees and he could buy anything he wanted. Italian suits, German sports cars, Georgetown real estate, downtown office space, and what was next? He’d been thinking about a boat for his father, a larger one of course, to generate more revenue. He could incorporate a small charter business in the Bahamas, depreciate the boat, write off most of its costs, thus allowing his father to make a decent living. Jarrett was dying down there, drinking too much, sleeping with anything he could find, living on a borrowed boat, scrambling for tips. Clay was determined to make his life easier.

A door slammed and interrupted his spending, if only for a moment. The Realtor had arrived.

__________

PACE’S LIST of victims stopped at seven. Seven that he knew of. Seven that he and his operatives had been able
to monitor. Tarvan had now been pulled for eighteen days, and from the company’s experience they knew that whatever the drug did to make people start killing usually stopped working after ten days. His list was chronological, with Ramón Pumphrey being number six.

Number one had been a college kid, a student at George Washington who had walked out of a Starbucks coffee shop on Wisconsin Avenue in Bethesda just in time to be spotted by a man with a gun. The student was from Bluefield, West Virginia. Clay made the five-hour drive there in record time, not hurried at all but rather as a race car driver speeding through the Shenandoah Valley. Following Pace’s precise instructions, he found the home of the parents, a rather sad-looking little bungalow near downtown. He sat in the driveway and actually said out loud, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Two things motivated him to get out of the car. First, he had no choice. Second, the prospect of the entire $15 million, not just one third or two thirds. All of it.

He was dressed casually and he left his briefcase in the car. The mother was home but the father was still at work. She reluctantly let him in, but then offered some tea and cookies. Clay waited on a sofa in the den, pictures of the dead son everywhere. The curtains were drawn. The house was a mess.

What am I doing here?

She talked about her son for a long time, and Clay hung on every word.

The father sold insurance a few blocks away, and he
was home before the ice melted in the tea glass. Clay presented his case to them, as much of it as possible. At first there were some tentative questions—How many others died because of this? Why can’t we go to the authorities? Shouldn’t this be exposed? Clay fielded them like a veteran. Pace had prepped him well.

Like all victims, they had a choice. They could get angry, ask questions, make demands, want justice, or they could quietly take the money. The sum of $5 million didn’t register at first, or if it did they did a wonderful job of deflecting it. They wanted to be angry and uninterested in money, at least initially. But as the afternoon dragged by they began to see the light.

“If you can’t tell me the real name of the company, then I won’t accept the money,” the father said at one point.

“I don’t know the real name,” Clay said.

There were tears and threats, love and hatred, forgiveness and retribution, almost every emotion came and went during the afternoon and into the evening. They’d just buried their youngest son and the pain was numbing and immeasurable. They disliked Clay for being there, but they thanked him profusely for his concern. They distrusted him as a big-city lawyer who was obviously lying about such an outrageous settlement, but they asked him to stay for dinner, whatever dinner might be.

It arrived promptly at six. Four ladies from their church hauled in enough food for a week. Clay was introduced as a friend from Washington, and was immediately subjected to an all-out cross-examination by the
four. A hard-nosed trial lawyer couldn’t have been more curious.

The ladies finally left. After dinner, as the night wore on, Clay began to press them. He was offering the only deal they would get. Shortly after 10 P.M., they began signing the paperwork.

__________

NUMBER THREE was clearly the most difficult. She was a seventeen-year-old prostitute who’d worked the streets most of her life. The police thought she and her killer had once had a business relationship, but there was no clue as to why he would shoot her. He did so outside a lounge, in front of three witnesses.

She went by the name of Bandy, without the need of a last name. Pace’s research had revealed no husband, mother, father, siblings, children, home address, schools, churches, or, most amazing, police record. There had been no funeral. Like two dozen others each year in D.C., Bandy had received a pauper’s burial. When one of Pace’s agents had inquired at the city coroner’s office, he had been told, “She’s buried in the tomb of the unknown prostitute.”

Her killer had provided the only clue. He had told the police that Bandy had an aunt who lived in Little Beirut, the most dangerous housing ghetto in South East D.C. But after two weeks of relentless digging, the aunt had not been found.

With no known heirs, a settlement would be impossible.

   CHAPTER 14   

The final Tarvan clients to sign the documents were the parents of a twenty-year-old Howard University coed who’d dropped out of school one week and been murdered the next. They lived in Warrenton, Virginia, forty miles west of D.C. For an hour they had sat in Clay’s office and held hands tightly, as if neither of them could function alone. They cried at times, pouring out their unspeakable grief. They were stoic at other times, so rigid and strong and seemingly unmoved by the money that Clay doubted they would accept the settlement.

But they did, though of all the clients he’d processed Clay was certain that the money would affect them the least. With time they might appreciate it; for now, they just wanted their daughter back.

Paulette and Miss Glick helped escort them out of the office and to the elevators, where everybody hugged
everybody again. As the doors closed, the parents were fighting tears.

Clay’s little team met in the conference room where they let the moment pass and were thankful that no more widows and grieving parents would visit them, at least not in the near future. Some very expensive champagne had been iced for the occasion, and Clay began pouring. Miss Glick declined because she drank nothing, but she was the only teetotaler in the firm. Paulette and Jonah seemed especially thirsty. Rodney preferred Budweiser, but he sipped along with the rest.

During the second bottle, Clay rose to speak. “I have some firm announcements,” he said, tapping his glass. “First, the Tylenol cases are now complete. Congratulations and thanks to all of you.” He’d used Tylenol as a code for Tarvan, a name they would never hear. Nor would they ever know the amount of his fees. Obviously, Clay was being paid a fortune, but they had no idea how much.

They applauded themselves. “Second, we begin the celebration tonight with dinner at Citronelle. Eight o’clock sharp. Could be a long evening because there is no work tomorrow. The office is closed.”

More applause, more champagne. “Third, in two weeks we leave for Paris. All of us, plus one friend each, preferably a spouse if you have one. All expenses paid. First-class air, luxury hotel, the works. We’ll be gone for a week. No exceptions. I’m the boss and I’m ordering all of you to Paris.”

Miss Glick covered her mouth with both hands.

They were all stunned, and Paulette spoke first, “Not Paris, Tennessee.”

“No, dear, the real Paris.”

“What if I bump into my husband over there?” she said with a half-smile, and laughter erupted around the table.

“You can go to Tennessee if you’d like,” Clay said.

“No way, baby.”

When she could finally speak, Miss Glick said, “I’ll need a passport.”

“The forms are on my desk. I’ll see to it. It’ll take less than a week. Anything else?”

There was talk about weather and food and what to wear. Jonah immediately began debating which girl to take. Paulette was the only one who’d been to Paris, on her honeymoon, a brief tryst that ended badly when the Greek was called away on emergency business. She flew home alone, in coach though she’d gone over in first class. “Honey, they bring you champagne in first class,” she explained to the rest. “And the seats are as big as sofas.”

“I can bring anyone?” Jonah asked, obviously struggling with the decision.

“Let’s limit it to anyone who doesn’t have a spouse, okay?” Clay said.

“That narrows the field.”

“Who will you take?” Paulette asked.

“Maybe no one,” Clay said, and the room went quiet for a moment. They had whispered about Rebecca and the separation, with Jonah supplying most of
the gossip. They wanted their boss happy, though they were not close enough to meddle.

“What’s that tower over there?” Rodney asked.

“The Eiffel Tower,” Paulette said. “You can go all the way to the top.”

“Not me. It don’t look safe.”

“You’re going to be a real traveler, I can tell.”

“How long are we there?” asked Miss Glick.

“Seven nights,” Clay said. “Seven nights in Paris.” And they all drifted away, swept along by the champagne. A month earlier they had been locked in the drudgery of the OPD. All but Jonah, who’d been selling computers part-time.

__________

MAX PACE wanted to talk, and since the firm was closed Clay suggested they meet there, at noon, after the cobwebs had cleared.

Only a headache remained. “You look like hell,” Pace began pleasantly.

“We celebrated.”

“What I have to discuss is very important. Are you up to it?”

“I can keep up with you. Fire away.”

Pace had a tall paper cup of coffee that he carried around the room as he moved about. “The Tarvan mess is over,” he said, for finality. It was over when he said it was over, and not before. “We settled the six cases. If anyone claiming to be related to our girl Bandy ever surfaces, then we’ll expect you to deal with it. But I’m convinced she has no family.”