PrivateSector

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

It was noon when Janet and I stepped off the elevator onto the twelfth floor of Morris Networks.

I had called Mom, Dad, and brother John, and explained to them that life was going to be a little different for a few days, that stupid Sean had stirred up some stupid shit, and the nice boys and girls of the Federal Bureau of Investigation were going to be hanging around and watching over all of their asses for the next few days. I suggested to John that this might be a good time to visit Mom and Dad-this was easier for the Feds, and cheaper, a point I had been asked to stress by my new government pals.

Mom told me to be careful, Dad snorted that he’d watch after his own ass, and John said he thought that instead of visiting Dad and thirty years of grudges, he would just take a private jet to Tahiti or somewhere obscure like that.

Janet called her family also, but she had become very uncommunicative toward me, and did not inform me how it went.

We had driven over in my car, and while I did not observe any coverage, I had been assured that at least ten federal eyes would remain on moi and Janet wherever we went.

But Tiffany Allison was not smiling as the elevator door opened. In fact, Miss Allison looked positively stunning: coiffed, manicured, and buffed to a fine shine, but indeed, she was not smiling.

Without any welcome or ado, she coldly escorted us to Jason’s door. Perhaps I was imagining things, but her ass, and it truly was a world-class ass, appeared to be wiggling and swishing more erotically than usual. Good-byes and fuck-yous take many forms.

She opened Jason’s door and ushered us inside, offering me one final, frosty look, and then shut the door behind us.

Jason climbed out from his circular desk and walked toward us. Jessica Moner remained seated at the glass conference table with an expression of icy hatred. Sean Drummond was not having a very good day with the ladies.

Jason approached Janet and said to her, “You must be the lawyer I spoke with this morning.”

“Janet Morrow,” she reminded him, curt but businesslike. “Frankly, I’m happy we were able to work this out. I hate going to court.”

“You should be glad. Jessica says you wouldn’t stand a chance. She’s not happy with me.”

“Don’t listen to her. You made the right choice.”

Jessica growled something that sounded like “my ass,” but maybe she was just complaining about having to lug that big thing around all day.

Jason, however, wanted to keep things cordial and professional, so he smiled at Janet and said, “Please… call me Jason.” He swung his arm to indicate our seats. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

So we sat at the glass table, and Jessica pulled a lump of papers out of her legal case and spread them around.

Jessica looked at Janet and me and said, “This is the agreement Drummond has to sign before we pay a fuckin’ dime to you ass-holes.. .” and so on, as she continued in her pithy way to lay out the basic terms and conditions. It was all fairly boilerplate-a long-winded, legalistic way of saying that in return for not launching a suit, and keeping my mouth shut, the corporation of Morris Networks hereby pays me seventy million dollars.

Still, it was surreal listening to her babble on. Having already faxed Jessica’s office my checking account number, in mere minutes, seventy million dollars was going to start flowing across a thin copper wire and end up mine, all mine.

Actually, after Janet’s cut, half mine.

After Uncle Sam’s cut, a quarter mine.

After the fine Commonwealth of Virginia took its bite, less than a quarter mine.

What a country.

She finally finished her spiel, saying to Janet and me, “Now… read the fuckin’ contract and be sure you agree to our terms and stipulations.”

I glanced at Janet and she glanced back. The ice was thin under my butt, but she had to tolerate me, and for the greater good of Western civilization, we had to get through this. Also, one, or possibly two people at this table might have played a hand in her sister’s death and putting her father into intensive care, not to mention adding both our names to the killer’s social register, so this was tough going. But as I said, we had to play our roles, and we had to read through the agreement to be sure Jessica hadn’t slipped any nasty willies into the small print.

Thus, for the better part of the next ten minutes, we browsed and parsed the text like the good lawyers were both were. Jason acted like his usual caffeinated self, and he fidgeted, fiddled, and twitched. Three times, he trekked to his desk and inspected his beloved monitors. I caught him, once or twice, gazing curiously at Janet, perhaps calculating whether she was a candidate for a weekend in Bimini. Not a chance, pal.

Jessica sat and steamed. I caught her eye once or twice, and found myself wondering, not at all absently, or charitably, if she was the one who ordered the hits.

She certainly fit a profile. She had serious anger management issues, as my New Age friends would say; a big bone up her ass, in my words. Also, she liked to come across as a badass, and one has to wonder where that act stops. Talk shit, and pretty soon you have to act like a shit, my mother always used to warn me. Jessica was clearly Morris’s consigliere in matters of law and business. But did that also extend to matters of life and death?

Or was it Jason himself? It was hard to believe a guy with his moolah and fame would take such risks. But he had taken his bath in corruption, and crime tends to be a greased slope. One step nearly always begets another. The human conscience is funny- once subjected to the concept of elasticity, it never completely snaps back into place. Also, Jason had the most to lose, and nearly always that’s where you locate the greatest guilt. He was a visionary with grand ambitions, and so were Hitler, Stalin, and Mao. The vision consumes the soul, and the innocents who stand in the way get trampled and buried.

Janet finally announced, “Everything looks in order.”

“Then it’s acceptable?” Jason asked her, and then me, and we both nodded.

He said, “Then, I’d like to say a few words, if you don’t mind.”

I replied, “You’re buying the podium.”

I had the sense he did not find me funny. He studied my face. “I’m very disappointed in you, Sean. I thought you and I had bonded.”

“Not half as disappointed as I am in you, Jason. I never realized what an unsafe or crooked workplace you run.”

“I trusted you.”

“And I’m doing you a big favor, keeping this out of court.”

“I’m not so sure,” he said. “You look perfectly healthy to me.”

“Internal injuries are tricky, Jason. Beneath the surface, I’m shattered, a shambling wreck, horribly scarred and disfigured.”

Jason did not reply to this. But his eyes narrowed. I would’ve taken it for anger or exasperation, but it was more likely frustration. Jessica had obviously put him up to making one last stab, and we had to play this out for whatever recording device she had hidden in this office. If I admitted, if I even intimated, I was blackmailing his company, or faking my injuries, I’d lose the grounds for the civil suit, and, with it, the threat of exposure. And of course, seventy million frequent-flier miles would at some point in the future end up back in Jason’s vault.

I scribbled my name on three copies of the settlement, then shoved them across the table at Jason. He sighed, and then scrawled his name. Then our lawyers added their signatures, and the agreement was stamped by Jessica with the certified seal of the Commonwealth of Virginia.

I said, “I believe we get one copy of that.”

Jessica threw it across the table.

I did make a point to say “thank you” before we left.