Sparring Partners

(1)

The law firm of Malloy & Malloy was well into its third generation, and, from all outward appearances, was prospering nicely, in spite of a rather shocking scandal not far in its past. For fifty-one years, it had litigated from the corner of Pine and 10th, in downtown St. Louis, in a handsome Art Deco building stolen in a foreclosure by an earlier Malloy lawyer.

Inside the doors, though, things were not going well. The patriarch of the firm, Bolton Malloy, had been gone for five years now, sent away by a judge after pleading guilty to killing his wife, an extremely unpleasant woman no one seemed to miss. Thus, the scandal: one of the city’s best-known lawyers convicted of manslaughter and stripped of his license. His sentence was ten years, but he was already plotting an earlier release.

His sons were running the firm and running it into the ground. They were the only partners, equal in stature, authority, and earnings, but they disliked one another intensely and spoke to each other only when necessary. Rusty, the older by seventeen months, fancied himself a hard-charging trial lawyer; he loved the courtroom and dreamed of big, splashy verdicts that would attract even more cases and no small measure of publicity. Kirk, the quieter one, preferred a safer office practice with fat fees for estate and tax work.

Rusty bought season tickets for the Cardinals every year and attended at least fifty games. In the winter, he rarely missed a Blues hockey match. Kirk eschewed sports and preferred the theater, opera, even ballet.

Rusty adored blondes and had married three of them. Only the second produced offspring, his only child. Kirk was still with his first wife, a pretty brunette, but things were unraveling. They had three teenaged children who had been raised properly but were now pursuing different versions of breaking bad.

Bolton and his late wife had raised the boys staunchly Catholic, and Kirk still attended Mass every Sunday. Rusty had disavowed the church during its sex scandals and could become hostile whenever the Pope was praised. He claimed to have joined an Anglican church, but never attended.

Proud Irish, the boys dreamed of college at Notre Dame. Being a year ahead of his brother, Rusty got in first and strutted off to South Bend. By then, by their late teens, the boys were so jealous of one another and competitive that Kirk was secretly praying Rusty would not get accepted. When he got in, Kirk decided he would push hard for an Ivy and another jab at one-upmanship. He was wait-listed at Dartmouth then squeezed in at the last moment.

Notre Dame football versus Dartmouth athletics. The trash-talking was brutal. When Rusty informed the family that he was applying to Yale Law, Kirk went into orbit and decided to apply to Harvard. Neither quite made the cut, though both had solid undergraduate résumés. Rusty’s second choice was Georgetown. Kirk’s was Northwestern, which at the time was rated four notches higher by a leading magazine. Kirk, therefore, went to a superior law school, but Rusty would have none of it.

Bolton fully expected both sons to return to the family firm in downtown St. Louis, and after paying every dime of their undergraduate and law school costs, he was firmly in control of their futures. However, to toughen them up, he insisted they spend a few years in the trenches getting their noses bloodied in the real world. Rusty chose a public defenders’ office in Milwaukee. Kirk became an assistant prosecutor in Kansas City.

Malloy & Malloy had always been knee-deep in politics, with Bolton playing both sides of the fence and donating to the politicians and judges with the best chances of winning. He had never cared which party a candidate belonged to. All he wanted was access, and he wrote the checks and raised the money to get it. Here, though, the boys split again. Rusty was a die-hard Democrat who despised big business and tort reformers and insurance companies. His friends were other street lawyers, tough brawlers who saw themselves as the protectors of the poor and injured. Kirk hung out with a richer crowd, lunching on the upper floors of tall buildings and playing tennis at the country club. He was proud of his record of never having voted for a Democrat.

The firm was so deeply divided that the two factions had separated, literally. Upon entering the plush lobby from Pine Street, one was greeted by a comely receptionist behind a sleek modern desk. For those seeking Kirk, she nodded to the right where he held forth in his wing of offices. For Rusty, she nodded to the left to his domain. Each kept his staff and underlings — associates, secretaries, paralegals, and gofers — on “their” side of the building. Mixing with the “other side” was frowned upon.

To be fair, there was rarely the need to mingle. Rusty’s cases involved hardball personal injury litigation, and his staff was experienced in accident reconstruction, medical malpractice, pre-trial maneuverings, settlement negotiation, and the actual courtroom work. Kirk worked by the hour for the well-heeled, and his staff was adept at writing wills an inch thick and manipulating IRS regulations.

The firm had not had a party in five years, since Bolton left. The old man had always insisted on a wine and cheese reception the first Friday of each month at precisely 5:00 p.m., to loosen up the staff and raise morale, and he encouraged everyone to overdrink at the annual Christmas bash. But those gatherings left with Bolton. As soon as he was sentenced, the two sides withdrew to their respective wings and silently adopted new rules of engagement.

To avoid his brother, Rusty worked hard on Mondays and Wednesdays and Friday mornings. Unless, of course, he was in trial. Kirk was more than happy to avoid the office those days and worked hard on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and occasionally on Saturday mornings. They often went weeks without speaking to or even seeing each other.

To provide some modicum of management in the midst of such hostilities, the firm relied on Diantha Bradshaw — the rock, the mediator, the unofficial third partner. Her office was in the demilitarized zone behind the front receptionist, equidistant from both wings. When Kirk needed something from Rusty, which was rare, he went through Diantha. Same for Rusty. When an important decision was at hand, she consulted with both of them, separately, then did whatever she thought was right.

In a profession where firms explode weekly, the Malloys should have split and pursued their own callings without the burden of family complications. But that could not happen for two important reasons. The first was a harsh partnership agreement Bolton had forced them to sign before he left for prison. Each agreed, practically at gunpoint, to remain as equal partners for the next fifteen years. In the event one decided to leave, then all of his cases and clients and fees would remain within the firm. Neither could afford to walk away. The second concerned the matter of real estate. The building was entirely owned by Bolton and he leased it to the firm for one dollar a year. He figured he was making money from its appreciation. A fair monthly rental would be somewhere in the neighborhood of $40,000. If the firm blew up, then everybody got evicted, past rent was jacked up and accelerated, and in general life for all involved would be miserable.

Bolton had always been a controlling, scheming, even shifty father, partner, and boss. No one missed him. His comments about early parole were upsetting.

Malloy & Malloy, both wings, needed Bolton to stay in prison.

(2)

It was early on a Thursday, a workday for Kirk, and he turned off 10th Street and into the underground garage beneath the Malloy building. There were a few scattered vehicles, belonging to Rusty’s staff, all there before 8:00 a.m. because the great man himself was in trial. Near the elevator were four reserved spots, with names on large signs to guard them. Rusty’s was occupied by a massive Ford SUV, a vehicle so large it barely fit within the tight space. On its bumper was a new sticker that read: hal hodge for governor, vote democrat.

Kirk parked opposite the Ford and next to a shiny Audi owned by Diantha. The fact that she was at the office so early meant she was monitoring the progress of Rusty’s latest courtroom adventure.

When Rusty went to trial, the entire firm, both sides, held its breath.

Kirk got out, grabbed his briefcase, and began walking toward the elevator. He stopped to sneer once again at Rusty’s bumper sticker. In his opinion, Hal Hodge was a useless bureaucrat who had spent twenty-plus years in the state legislature and had little to show for it. Kirk turned and admired the new sticker on the rear bumper of his own spotless BMW. reelect governor sturgiss, a real republican.

Kirk had supported Sturgiss four years earlier by writing checks and hosting fundraisers. He was a likeable enough politician whose greatest asset at the moment was the fact that he was already in office and likely to be reelected. Missouri was a solid red state.

In the elevator, Kirk adjusted his silk tie and straightened his collar. Attire was another flashpoint. When Bolton was in charge he ran things with an iron fist, including the dress code. He insisted on coats and ties, suits in the courtroom, and appropriate outfits for the women, though he did admire shorter skirts. The day after he went to prison, Rusty quickly caved to his younger staff and tossed aside all the rules. His associates and staff were now wearing jeans, khakis, boots, and never ties, at least around the office. In court, though, and in serious meetings, they could still look like lawyers. Kirk loathed the unprofessionalism and maintained Bolton’s dress code for his side of the building. His associates seethed at what they perceived as unfair treatment.

At Malloy & Malloy there was always a group seething about something.

The elevator opened into the main lobby, and for a moment Kirk toyed with the idea of wandering into Rusty’s wing to see how the trial was going. He walked over, went down the wide hallway, and realized that the lawyers and staff were in a meeting. He put an ear to the door of the conference room, then decided to leave it alone. An unexpected appearance by him would irritate his brother and disrupt the meeting.

Diantha was in there and she would brief him later. She was not watching the trial, but word from a mole was that it was not going well for the plaintiff.

(3)

On the other side of the door, Rusty paced while he talked. The mood was tense. His staff, all properly dressed for trial, seemed fatigued at 8:00 a.m., which was not unusual several days into a big jury trial. Tall coffee cups littered the long, marble conference table. A platter of pastries appeared to be untouched.

Rusty was saying, “So Bancroft called me last night around ten o’clock. Went through the usual bullshit, then said his client would pay one mil to settle everything.”

Diantha was not sitting at the table but in a corner, as if she was there because she had to be but wasn’t really involved. When she heard the magic words about the settlement offer, she closed her eyes and tried to conceal a smile.

“Of course, I told him hell no. In no uncertain terms, I said we are not settling, at least not for a lousy million dollars.”

Diantha, eyes still closed, frowned and barely shook her head.

He paused to look around the room, almost daring anyone to question him. “Are we all on board with this?”

Carl Salter was a jury consultant, neither a lawyer nor an employee of the firm, and an old friend of Rusty’s. The two had been through many trials over the years and pulled no punches with each other. He said, “Take the money, Rusty. This jury is not with you. You may have jurors one, three, and five, but that’s only half and it’s far short. Take the money.”

Rusty said, “I disagree. We have juror number two in our pocket. I’ve watched that woman for a week now and she’s with us. She actually cried when Mrs. Brewster testified.”

“She cries a lot,” said Carl. “Hell, I saw her crying during a recess yesterday.”

Rusty looked at an associate and said, “Ben?”

“I don’t know, Rusty. She does cry a lot. I think we have four out of six but it takes five. I don’t think we have the magic number.” Ben Bush had been Rusty’s top trial assistant for the past eight years. In most firms of any size he would have already been promoted to some level of partnership, but the Malloys didn’t promote well. They were generous with salary and benefits but not ownership.

Rusty glared at him as if he were nothing but a spineless coward, then jerked his head and looked across the table. “Pauline?”

She knew it was coming and didn’t flinch. Little caused Pauline Vance to react with anything but calm. She had been on Rusty’s staff for eleven years and had earned her reputation as a gutsy litigator who’d rather fight than settle.

She said, “I don’t know. The case has tried well and we’ve proven liability. The damages are horrific. I think the potential is still there for a huge verdict.”

Rusty smiled for the first time that morning.

Carl made the smile vanish when he butted in with “May I ask a question?” Without waiting for a response, he kept talking. “Did you by chance inform your clients that the hospital made an offer to settle the case?”

“No. It was late at night. I thought I would tell them this morning.”

“But it’s too late. You’ve already rejected the offer, right?”

“We’re not taking the offer, Carl. Understand? This case is worth a fortune because in about two hours I will stand before our wonderful jurors and ask them for thirty million dollars.”

Rusty was never bullied by his staff, or anyone else for that matter. He had the brass balls and fearless temperament of a seasoned trial lawyer. He still held the record for being the youngest lawyer in Missouri history to win a jury verdict in excess of a million dollars. At the age of twenty-nine he had cajoled a $2 million award out of a jury of his peers in a Cape Girardeau courtroom. It inspired him to sue at the drop of a hat, eschew settlements, join mass-tort scams, advertise, network, boast about his verdicts, live large and spend foolishly. Typical trial lawyer.

His career had been on track until the verdicts stopped coming.

He lowered his voice and looked at his staff. Always the actor, he said gravely, “You guys know how much we need a big verdict. Well, today we’re gonna get one. Let’s go slay the dragon.”

They grabbed their papers and briefcases and began to file out. At the door, Diantha said, “Say, Rusty, got a minute?”

“Only a minute,” he said with a phony smile. They were close friends and shared many secrets, and Diantha was probably the only person Rusty might occasionally listen to.

She nodded at Carl, who closed the door and joined them. When the three were alone, Diantha said, “We have a problem, a rather large one.”

“What is it?” Rusty snapped.

“You know damned well what it is, Rusty. You got an offer to settle the case and you did not consult with your client before you rejected it.”

Carl groaned and shook his head in frustration. Rusty glared at him, then said, “It’s not going to matter, Diantha. I’ve got this jury.”

“Carl thinks otherwise, as does your team. I watched their faces.”

“You’re not in the courtroom, Diantha.”

“But I am,” Carl said. “Take the money and salvage something.”

Rusty took a deep breath and seemed to stand down for a moment. Diantha moved in quickly. “Do you know how much we owe on this case for litigation expenses?”

“No, I’m sure—”

“Just over two hundred thousand dollars.”

“It’s an expensive game.”

“And we have a fifty percent contract with the client. A million bucks covers the debt, then we split the rest with the client. That’s four hundred thousand dollars for the firm, Rusty.”

“The Brewsters deserve much more. You should see the jurors look at Trey. They want to give that boy a fortune.”

Carl said, “Yes, they do, they’re very sympathetic, but it’s not going to happen, Rusty. You have not proven liability. The damages are huge, but the liability is thin. Bancroft will eat your lunch.”

Such language usually ignited Rusty, but he was still breathing heavily, and listening. His shoulders sagged even more and he looked deep into the eyes of Diantha. What he saw crushed him. She had no confidence. She doubted him. She thought he was about to lose, again.

“Carl is usually right, Rusty,” she said. “Let’s take the money and run. We’re up to our ears in bank loans.”

Rusty exhaled and managed another fake smile. “Okay, okay. I hate fighting with you guys.”

Carl said, “Take the money.”

(4)

Diantha walked them to the elevator and watched the door close. She hustled to the right side of the building, nodded at a young lawyer who was unpacking her briefcase, and tapped on the door of Kirk’s office. Without waiting, she pushed it open. He was standing behind his desk, as if waiting for her.

“The hospital offered one million to settle last night and Rusty just agreed to take the money.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Kirk said as he closed his eyes and raised his hands to the ceiling.

“He didn’t want to but Carl twisted his arm.”

“Hallelujah. Praise be to God.”

“There might be a problem, though.”

“What is it?”

“Bancroft called with the offer late last night and Rusty blew him off. Said no way. And of course he never thought about consulting with the client.”

“Late last night means he’d probably knocked back four or five doubles by the time Bancroft called.”

“I’m sure. He says he rejected the offer outright, but now plans to take the money this morning.”

“I’m sure the hospital would love to get out with only a million.”

“We’ll see.”

“How much cash do we have in the case?”

“Two hundred grand.”

“Two hundred grand? How can he spend so much money on a single case?”

“He always has, Kirk. The difference is that now he can’t quite seem to get the money back.”

“He’s lost the last three, right?”

“Four. This would be number five. Carl and Ben don’t like his chances.”

“We can’t afford another loss. He needs to stop suing people.”

“And you’re going to tell him that?” she asked.

“No. It would do absolutely no good. Litigation to him is like blood to a vampire. He loves the courtroom.”

“And once upon a time it loved him.”

“But he’s lost his touch.”

“I’ll check back later,” she said and turned for the door.

“Are you monitoring the case?” he asked.

“No, but I have a mole inside the courtroom.”

“Ben or Pauline?”

“I’ll never tell.”

“You’re very good with secrets, Diantha.”

“You have to be, around this place.”

(5)

A secretary led them back to the chambers and showed them in. Judge Pollock was already robed and chatting with Luther Bancroft, the lead defense attorney. A small band of his associates huddled in one corner, sadly lacking in clout and reputation to join the conversation. When Rusty marched in with his customary purpose, all eyes turned to him and he flashed a smile. Ben and Pauline were right behind him. Carl, the non-lawyer, did not qualify for the meeting.

After a round of terse “good mornings” and quick handshakes, Judge Pollock said, “So, gentlemen, I assume we are ready for closing arguments.”

Rusty smiled again and said, “Some good news, Judge. Late last night I took a call from Luther here and he made us an offer of settlement. I declined, but after a good night’s sleep we have decided to accept the sum of one million dollars to settle the case.”

His Honor was surprised and glared at Bancroft. “You didn’t mention a settlement offer to me.”

Bancroft said, “Well, Your Honor, I didn’t say a word about it because Mr. Malloy rejected my offer outright. He never even consulted with his client. Indeed, he was quite abrupt and used language you wouldn’t tolerate in open court.”

“I apologize, Luther,” Rusty said, condescending. “I didn’t realize you were so sensitive.”

“Apology accepted. Anyway, I informed my client and the offer was immediately taken off the table. I was instructed to try the case to the end. We’ve come this far. Let’s get it over with.”

Ben shot a look of desperation at Pauline, who appeared unmoved.

Rusty was surprised but recovered quickly. He rubbed his hands together as if itching for a fight and said, “Great! Let’s tee it up.”

Judge Pollock frowned at both lawyers and said, “Well, it seems to me that one million is a fair settlement, all things considered.”

Bancroft nodded gravely and said, “I agree, Judge, but my client was, and is, adamant. No settlement. The hospital firmly believes it did nothing wrong.”

“Let’s go!” Rusty said, ready to rumble.

“All right. Proceed to your tables. I’ll have the bailiff prepare the jury.”

All the lawyers filed out and headed for the courtroom. Ben Bush ducked into a restroom, locked himself in a stall, and sent a text message to Diantha: Defendant withdrew the offer after R’s rejection. Client never told. Headed for closing arguments. We’re so screwed!!

(6)

Under the steady gaze of everyone — lawyers, parties, spectators, clerks, bailiffs, and Judge Pollock — the six jurors filed in and took their seats. The seventh, an alternate, sat next to the jury box. There were no smiles, only the stressed looks of people who wished they were somewhere else.

The plaintiff’s table was closer to the jury box than the defense’s, and throughout the trial the jurors had been forced to look at Trey Brewster. He was positioned on their side by his lawyer, who, of course, wanted him exposed as much as possible. Trey was twenty-three years old but age didn’t matter anymore. Birthdays came and went and he had no clue. His eyes were always closed, his mouth perpetually opened, his head propped awkwardly on his left shoulder. One tube with oxygen ran to his nose. Another, with formula, ran down his throat. He had a feeding portal in his stomach, but Rusty wanted the jurors to see all tubes possible. As brain-damaged as he was, Trey could still breathe on his own, so there was no noisy ventilator to grate on the jurors. He weighed 120 pounds, down 80 since his surgery two years earlier. He was nothing more than a shriveled shell of a young man, and there was absolutely no chance his condition would ever improve.

His mother sat to his right with her hand always on his arm. She had the hollow-eyed, fatigued gaze of a defeated caregiver who could never give up. His father, to his left, stared blankly ahead, as if detached from the proceedings.

Judge Pollock pulled his mike closer and said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we have now made it to the end, or something very close to it. You’ve heard all the witnesses, seen all the exhibits, listened to the law as I have instructed you. This has been a long trial and it’s almost over. Again, I thank you for your service and patience. Both sides will now be allowed to make their closing arguments, and then you will retire for your deliberations. For the plaintiff, Mr. Malloy.”

Rusty stood and walked to the podium with great confidence. He looked at the six jurors and offered them a businesslike smile. Three met his gaze. Three looked away. Number two appeared to be ready to cry. He began without looking at notes.

“When my client, Trey Brewster, was admitted to GateLane Hospital for a routine appendectomy, no one in his family, no one on his medical team, no one in the world could have predicted that he would never regain consciousness, that he would spend the rest of his life paralyzed, brain-dead, in a wheelchair, fed by a tube, his bladder drained by catheters.”

Rusty’s voice was rich and heavy, his cadence dramatic. He was the only actor on the stage, and relished the moment. His opening was powerful. The courtroom was still and silent.

On the third row of the gallery, Carl Salter looked in the general direction of Rusty, but he was really watching all six faces, all twelve eyes.

And he didn’t like what he saw.

During the trial, Bancroft did a masterful job of passing the buck. The negligent party was not in the courtroom. An anesthesiologist with emotional and financial problems had been asleep at the switch. No, worse than that: he wasn’t even present for most of the routine surgery. He administered three times the customary level of ketamine, knocked the kid out, then failed to monitor anything during the thirty-minute operation. A week before, he had allowed his medical malpractice insurance to lapse. A week after, he filed for bankruptcy and fled the area. The hospital could be blamed for hiring him, but for his first eight years his work had been stellar. A terrible divorce ruined him, and so on. The bottom line was, he wasn’t in the courtroom. GateLane Hospital was, and it had done nothing wrong.

Carl knew the jurors were sympathetic — who wouldn’t be? But Rusty had proven a weak case of liability against the hospital.

(7)

For the second time in an hour, Diantha barged into Kirk’s office with hardly a knock. She announced, “The hospital withdrew the offer. They’re doing closing arguments.”

As always, Kirk was buried in paperwork. He shoved some of it away and threw up his hands. “What happened?”

“How am I supposed to know? Just a quick text. No deal, offer withdrawn, closing arguments.”

She fell into a leather seat on the other side of his desk and shook her head.

Kirk said, “So, let’s keep things clear. The offer came late last night and Rusty, drinking as always, rejected it. Said no, or something to that effect. He did not inform his client. So, if he loses again, then the client will have a beautiful lawsuit against Malloy & Malloy. Right?”

“That’s pretty clear, isn’t it?”

Kirk exhaled in defeat and frustration and slid lower in his chair. He shook his head at Diantha, who looked just as irritated.

Kirk said, “Well, maybe Rusty can win one for a change.”

“Maybe so. A win would be nice. We could pay off some of his litigation loans.”

“I think you should go watch the trial. It’s just around the corner.”

Diantha actually laughed at this. “You couldn’t pay me to get near that courtroom.”

“I wasn’t serious. This is probably catastrophic, don’t you think?”

“Probably, yes. I got a bad vibe in the meeting early this morning. The jury is not with him.”

(8)

The jurors watched him closely. About half seemed convinced. The other half, skeptical.

He stood at a large whiteboard and held a blue marker. “Now, according to our experts, Trey has a life expectancy of fifteen years. That’s pretty sad for a young man who’s twenty-three years old and was racing dirt bikes before he encountered GateLane Hospital. So, give him fifteen years. To properly care for Trey, he needs to be in a facility with round-the-clock monitoring. His parents can no longer do it. That’s plain and simple. I mean, how much more convincing could a witness be than Jean Brewster? The poor woman is exhausted and cannot go on. So, let’s put Trey in an adequate facility, one with nurses, orderlies, housekeepers, technicians, plenty of medicine and that formula that somebody calls food. The average rate for such a place in the metro St. Louis area is forty thousand dollars a month, half a million a year, for fifteen years.”

Rusty masterfully scrawled on the whiteboard, tallied it all up, and showed the number of $7,500,000. But he wasn’t finished.

“Factor in inflation at three percent a year over fifteen years and the figure comes to...” In bold numbers he wrote and said, “Nine million dollars.”

He paused and walked away to allow that number to rattle around the courtroom. He took a drink of water from a paper cup at his table, then took his time returning to the podium. “Nine million dollars just to take care of Trey.”

The courtroom was silent because everyone knew bigger numbers were on the way.

(9)

Kirk said, “The old man called last night.”

“Whose phone?” Diantha asked.

“His. He has another cell phone.”

“I thought he was in solitary because they caught him with a cell phone.”

“They’ve caught him with several. He bribes the guards and they sneak in cell phones. Evidently it’s a big business in prison.”

“I’m sure he’s bribing everyone.”

“No doubt. One minute he’s playing poker with the warden, the next minute he’s in solitary, phoneless.”

“Why’d he call?”

“You know Bolton. I think he just wanted me to know that he has another cell phone. And, he’s expecting me tomorrow. It’s my turn to visit. We talked about that. We talked politics. We talked about his chances for parole next year.”

“He’s only served five years.”

“Yes, but he’s dreaming.”

“I like him better in prison.”

“Don’t we all?”

“What’s his plan?”

“He wouldn’t say over the phone, but I’m sure it involves bribery and politics.”

(10)

Rusty stood at the podium and aimed a red laser pointer at a large whiteboard. He looked at the jurors, then the whiteboard, and said, “Now, before Trey made the fateful decision to have routine surgery at GateLane Hospital, he was pursuing a rewarding career as a software designer and earning eighty thousand dollars a year. That career is gone. That salary is gone. Everything is gone, except your verdict. Under our laws, he is entitled to recover his lost income. Eighty thousand dollars times fifteen years comes to one point two million. Inflation will take it to two million. Add that to the future cost of his care, and his pain and suffering, and our total becomes seventeen million dollars.”

He put away the red laser, took a black marker, and carefully added the sum of $2,000,000 to $9,000,000 for “Care” and $6,000,000 to “Pain and Suffering.” He totaled it up nicely at $17,000,000.

All six jurors stared at the amount. It was a shocking sum of money, but seeing it in bold print lessened the impact. Rusty was making a case that the money was justified.

He walked to his table, found a report half an inch thick, and flipped pages as he returned to the podium. “According to its own financials, last year GateLane Hospital System had six hundred million more dollars in revenue than expenses. We don’t dare refer to the difference as ‘profits,’ because we know that GateLane is proud of its nonprofit status. That means it doesn’t pay any state or federal income taxes. So, after all of its expenses, including the seven million dollars it paid its CEO and the five million dollars it paid its chief operating officer, after all the fat salaries were paid, GateLane had six hundred million more dollars in the bank than when the year started. What does it do with all that extra cash? It buys other hospitals. It wants to be a monopoly so it can continue to raise prices.”

Luther Bancroft stood, shaking his head. “Objection, Your Honor. This is not an anti-trust case.”

“Sustained. Move along, Mr. Malloy.”

Without so much as a glance at the two, Rusty continued, “The only way to get the attention of a defendant like GateLane Hospital System is to slap it in the face with punitive damages.”

He paused for dramatic effect and stepped to the side of the podium. “Punitive damages. Damages imposed to punish a corporation, for-profit or otherwise, for wrongdoing. For gross negligence. How much would it take to get the attention of a mammoth hospital system like GateLane? One percent of its annual profit? Oops, sorry, can’t use that word, can we? Let’s call it something else. Let’s call it the ‘cushion.’ One percent of the cushion would be six million dollars. That’s a lot of money but it probably wouldn’t bother the CEO because he makes more than that. Two percent would be twelve million. You know what? I think three percent sounds better because that’s eighteen million bucks, and I’ll bet you that when you hit ’em with eighteen million bucks in punitive damages they’ll get the message. They’ll feel the pain. They’ll be more cautious about who they hire and keep on staff.”

Slowly, he uncapped the marker again and added $18,000,000 to the total.

All six jurors stared at the board and tried to comprehend handing over $35,000,000 of someone else’s money.

Rusty left them with “It’s a lot of money, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve been here many times before. I’ve tried a lot of cases and I’ve stood here before hundreds of jurors. And I’ve never asked for this kind of money.”

He stepped over and put a hand on Trey’s right shoulder. He looked at him pitifully, and, with a breaking voice, said, “But I’ve never had a client as deserving as my friend Trey.”

Fighting tears, he looked at the jurors and said, “Thank you.”

(11)

Diantha was behind her desk reading a document when someone tapped lightly on her door. Before she could respond, Kirk opened it and closed it behind him. He looked at her and said, “I can’t concentrate.”

“Neither can I,” she said.

“I hate it when he’s in trial,” Kirk said as he fell into an oversized leather chair.

“I hate it when he loses,” she said. “It’s okay when he wins, as I seem to recall.”

“No word from the courtroom?”

“No. My mole can’t use a phone in the courtroom. He or she should text me shortly.”

“Look, Diantha, I know tomorrow is my day to visit the old man, but I can’t go. Rusty went last month, and besides, he’s tied up with the trial.”

She gave him a look and asked, “Why can’t you go?”

“Because I have an appointment with my divorce lawyer.”

“Kirk, I’m so sorry. I thought you’d found a good therapist.”

“We’ve found all the best therapists, Diantha, but nothing can save us. It’s over. Or, I suppose it’s just beginning. It won’t be easy.”

“I was just hoping...”

“Yes, so were we. The truth is, we’ve known for a long time. Things just keep getting worse and we’re worried it might be affecting the kids.”

“I’m so sorry, Kirk.”

“I know. Thanks. Chrissy plans to file next week.”

“On what grounds?”

“She hates my guts. I can’t stand the sight of her. That good enough?”

“Depends on your lawyer. Who’d you hire?”

“Bobby Laker. A hundred thousand bucks for the initial retainer.”

“Who did she hire?”

“Scarlett Ambrose.”

“Wow. This should be a doozy. You guys have lawyered up with the two nastiest pit bulls in town. Can I come watch the trial?”

“Maybe. We might sell tickets.” He closed his eyes as if in pain and pinched the bridge of his nose. About a year earlier he had first confided in Diantha that the wheels were coming off at home. He felt she should know because it would eventually affect the firm. At his direction, she had informed Rusty, who, with three divorces under his belt, had no sympathy whatsoever.

He ran his fingers through his thick hair, offered her a fake smile, and asked, “Can you go see the old man?”

“Why me?”

“Because there’s no one else. It’s my turn and Rusty wouldn’t dare offer to pinch-hit, even if his trial is over. I could put it off a week, I guess, but you know how he is about the visits. He’s trying to control the firm from a prison cell.”

She frowned and studied a wall.

He continued, “Look, it’s a huge favor, okay? So I’ll owe you one. I swear I’ll pay you back in some marvelous fashion.”

She shook her head and mumbled, “You certainly will.”

(12)

Luther Bancroft buttoned the top button of his fine black linen jacket as he walked to the jury box. He didn’t bother with phony smiles or gushing praise for jobs well done. Instead, he went straight to the heart of the matter.

“Mr. Malloy here has you, the jury, confused with an ATM. He’s standing before you, smiling, dreaming, having far too much fun pushing buttons and waiting for a pile of cash to suddenly appear. He wants, let’s say, a million bucks for this, and a million bucks for that. He pushes some more buttons, more cash spits out. It’s all fun and games, free and easy money. Pain and suffering? How about five or ten million? Just push a button. Future medical expenses? How about five or ten more? How beautiful it is, growing on trees, just waiting to get picked. And the biggest one of all — punitive damages! The sky is the limit. Eighteen million has a nice ring to it, so push that button. And what’s the grand total? How much cash will the plaintiff’s ATM fork over? Thirty-five million! Isn’t this fun?”

The jurors absorbed this, at least three with some semblance of a smile.

Bancroft turned and took two steps toward Trey, and looked down at him with great compassion. He shook his head, looked to be on the verge of tears, and said to the jurors, “Ladies and gentlemen, who does not have great sympathy for this young man and his family? Their ordeal is ongoing and heartbreaking. Yes, they need a lot of money, for care and living expenses and everything else Mr. Malloy mentioned. Sure, Trey needs money, and lots of it.”

He paused and returned to the podium. “But, sadly, Trey Brewster is in the same boat with his lawyer. Neither has an ATM card. Neither has the right to expect GateLane to hand over a fortune. Why not, you ask?”

He let the question rattle around the courtroom for a second or two, then walked to the defense table and rather ceremoniously yanked up a pile of papers, which he waved at the jurors. “These are called jury instructions. This is the law, as agreed upon by both parties and the judge. In just a moment, when the lawyers are finally finished and we all sit down, the judge will read the law to you. And you took an oath to follow the law. And the law here is quite simple. Before you can consider damages, or in my terminology, before you can start having fun with the ATM, you must first determine liability. You must first decide that my client, GateLane Hospital, was negligent and deviated from the standard of care. Without liability, there can be no damages.”

The courtroom was silent. Bancroft had everyone’s attention, including Rusty’s, who was listening while pretending not to.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is a tragic case with horrendous injuries and damages, but, and please forgive me for saying this, but it is the cold hard legal truth, in this case, the damages do not matter. Because... there is no liability.”

He tossed the jury instructions onto the defense table, took one last look at the jurors, and said, “Thank you.”

Carl studied the faces of the jurors, then closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.

(13)

The reservation was for four people at noon. Tony’s, a swanky Italian place downtown, was Rusty’s favorite any day of the week, but especially at the end of a tough trial when good food and wine were needed. During a trial, the meals often deteriorated to stale pastries in the morning, cold sandwiches while working at lunch, and by dinner the nerves were shot to hell and nothing tasted good. When the jury disappeared to ponder its verdict, Rusty was always ready for a fine meal.

His little team followed the black-jacketed host to a choice table and took their seats. As soon as they were alone, Rusty, with a huge smile, said, “Okay, let’s have it. How great was my closing argument?”

It was not the time to be shy, because the boss was craving accolades. Pauline went first and said, “All six are incredibly sympathetic and you did a masterful job taking the sting out of such a huge amount of damages.”

“Were they shocked at the thirty-five million?”

Ben said, “I think so, at least initially, but they got over it. Number four rolled his eyes.”

“He’s been rolling his eyes from the beginning. He’s the last one we’ll get. Remember, I wanted to cut him. But I think we have a shot at the other five.”

Carl glanced at Ben with a look of exasperation.

The waiter appeared and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Malloy. Always a pleasure to have you here.”

Rusty smiled at him, and the diversion gave the other three a chance to exchange frowns.

“Hello, Rocco,” Rusty said. “How’s the wife and kids?”

“Doing great, sir. Thanks. Something from the bar to start with?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, we’ve just finished a big trial and the jury is out. We’re parched, and hungry too. How about some champagne?” He smiled at Ben and Pauline, as if they could say no.

Carl said, “Might be a bit premature.”

Rusty ignored this and said, “Veuve Clicquot, two bottles.”

“Excellent choice, sir. I’ll have them right out.”

Rusty frowned at Carl and said, “I’m getting a bad vibe from you, Carl. What’s on your mind?”

“The same thing that’s on your mind. That damned jury. I’m not nearly as confident as you.”

“Just wait. You’ll see.”

(14)

With the courtrooms empty and everyone — lawyers, judges, jurors, litigants, bailiffs — away for lunch, the grand hall on the main floor was almost empty. It was a long solemn corridor with a row of stately courtrooms on one side and tall stained-glass windows on the other. The walls were covered with portraits of the city’s greatest judges, all white, all male, all old and stuffy. Not a warm face to be found. Ancient and worn wooden benches lined the walls and between them were bronze and granite busts of governors, senators, and lesser politicians. Another white world.

On a bench at the far end of the corridor, almost hidden and certainly not wanting to be seen, the Brewster family prepared for lunch. Trey sat sleeping with his tubes still exposed. His mother gently selected one and began loading it with formula from a syringe. When he was fed, she sat back on the bench and put away her syringe. Mr. Brewster sat next to her, staring as always at a spot on the floor a few feet away, his sad eyes forever locked into a stare of thorough defeat.

From a shopping bag, Mrs. Brewster removed two small sandwiches wrapped in foil and two bottles of water. Lunch for the poor folks.

Nearby an elevator pinged and its doors opened. Luther Bancroft and an associate stepped out, both hauling bulky briefcases. They saw the Brewsters at the same time, and for a long second took in the family having lunch. Then they quickly continued walking down the long corridor. The Brewsters did not seem to notice them.

At the doors, the associate stopped and said, “You know, Luther, it’s not too late to settle. We should call GateLane and try to get those folks a few bucks.”

Bancroft scoffed and said, “We tried that yesterday and Malloy gave us the finger.”

“I know, I know. But they’re gonna be devastated when they leave here with nothing.”

“So you smell a big win for the home team?”

“Sure. Malloy got greedy and alienated the jury. You could see it in their eyes.” He nodded to the far end, toward the Brewsters. “But it’s not their fault. Let’s get them a million bucks to cover some of their expenses.”

Bancroft scoffed at the idea. “Malloy would just take all the money. Those poor folks wouldn’t see a dime.”

“It’s the fair thing to do, Luther.”

“I’m surprised at you. It was a trial, and since when are we concerned with fairness? This is about winning and losing, and we’re about to kick Malloy’s ass. Buck up, ole boy. This is hardball litigation and it’s no place for the sympathetic.”

Bancroft huffed away. The associate took one last look at the family, then followed his boss.

The Brewsters ate their sandwiches, in another world, oblivious to the conversation far down the hallway.

(15)

Rusty held a bottle of champagne and offered to pour more around the table, but everyone declined. So he filled his own glass for the last time.

Rocco stopped by and said, “Dessert, Mr. Malloy? Today’s special is chocolate mousse, your favorite. It is delicious.”

Ben grabbed his phone, gawked at it, and blurted, “It’s the clerk. The jury has a verdict.”

Dessert was instantly forgotten as the four exchanged looks. Rusty said, “Sorry, Rocco, we need to hustle back to court. The jury is ready.”

“Very well. I’ll fetch the bill.”

Rusty looked at his team and said, “That was quick, don’t you think?”

Their nervous glances said it all.

Thirty minutes later, they were in place at the plaintiff’s table, with the Brewsters close by. A door opened and the bailiff led the jurors to their seats. As they settled in, not a single one dared to look at the plaintiffs and their lawyers.

The judge pulled his mike closer and asked, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

The foreman stood and said, “Yes, Your Honor. We have.” He handed a slip of paper to the bailiff who, without looking, handed it up to the judge. He read it without expression, and, taking his time, said, “The verdict appears to be in order. It is unanimous and it reads: ‘We the jury find for the defendant, GateLane Hospital.’ ”

The courtroom was silent for a few seconds, until Mrs. Brewster collapsed into her husband’s arms. Rusty closed his eyes and tried to absorb the disaster. Then he glared at the jurors and wanted to lash out.

The judge said, “Both sides will have thirty days for post-trial motions. Again, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your service. You are excused. Court’s adjourned.” He tapped his gavel and disappeared from the bench.

(16)

Kirk stood at his window, hands on hips, staring at the glass, staring at nothing, speechless. Diantha sat in one of his leather chairs, looking at her phone, as if the bad news might somehow change into something good.

Kirk mumbled, “Another two hundred thousand dollars down the drain. We can’t afford his career as a high-flying trial lawyer.”

Diantha said, “We have to keep him out of the courtroom.”

“We need to keep him out of this law firm. Any ideas?”

“Nothing short of murder.”

“I’ve thought about that too.”

Kirk turned and walked to his desk and fell into the executive swivel. He looked at her with disgust and said, “When is his next trial?”

“I don’t know. I’ll check the calendar. Hopefully it’s a few years from now.”

“At the rate he’s losing, no defense lawyer will offer him a dime in settlement. Would you?”

“I don’t know what I would do, Kirk. I really don’t. This place is spinning out of control.”

“Well, maybe so, but when you see the old man tomorrow you gotta keep things positive.”

“He’s not stupid. I’ll go tomorrow, Kirk, but never again. It’s up to you and Rusty to visit your father in prison. It’s not fair to dump it on me.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” She got to her feet, walked to the door, and left without another word. Passing through the hallway on Kirk’s side of the firm, she caught a few glances from the staff. By now everyone knew that Rusty had bombed with another jury. It took only a matter of minutes for the news to spread. On his side of the building, things would be even gloomier.

Diantha needed to stay away from there. She had a desk covered with paperwork and her phone was ringing, but she needed to hide somewhere for a few minutes. She got on the elevator and punched the button for the seventh floor. When the door shut she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. A bell rang as she passed each floor. The first three were Malloy territory, the fourth was a real estate company, the fifth was a bunch of architects and accountants. As she went up and got away from the firm, the air seemed to lighten as the tension decreased. The seventh floor was a hodgepodge of small suites leased to engineers, insurance agents, and any number of professionals who came and went.

At the end of a long hall was the office of Stuart Broome, the unlicensed accountant who kept the books for Malloy & Malloy. Old Stu preferred the seventh floor because it was as far away as possible from the rest of the firm. He was not an elderly man but moved about as if he longed to be. He was sixty-two, to be exact, but with his unruly gray hair and white bushy eyebrows and waves of wrinkles across his forehead, he could easily pass for a man twenty years older. Tall by nature, but with a hump in his back, he worked standing at a treadmill desk that never moved. Someone should have suggested that Stu turn on the damned thing so he could burn some calories, as was the design, but they were not being burned and he had been adding at least five pounds a year for decades. With the potbelly up front and the hump in the rear, Stu was a model of human deformity and tried to conceal it under an oversized black blazer that he refused to take off. He wore it every day, along with a white shirt and the same black tie, same black trousers, and same unpolished black shoes.

Thirty years earlier, when Bolton Malloy made a killing by suing Honda for its defective three-wheelers, he hired Old Stu to keep him out of trouble with the IRS. As things evolved, the IRS wasn’t the problem. Bolton’s wife, the late and forgotten Tilda, routinely terrorized the office looking for money. Colluding with Bolton, Stu learned to hide as much as possible from Tillie. Shifting fees here and there became an established practice at Malloy & Malloy.

To avoid prying eyes, Old Stu worked alone in his little hidden corner of the building. He had fired so many secretaries and assistants over the years that even the thought of training another one was exhausting. He relished his privacy and did his work without the slightest hint of supervision. No one from the firm ever went near him, primarily because no one from the firm was welcome. Except Diantha. He had a soft spot for her and they could talk about anything.

These days the hottest topic was the firm’s survival.

She tapped on his door and entered before he said anything. He was standing on the treadmill, staring at the screen of an antique computer, crunching numbers. He rarely smiled but always managed one for her.

“Come in, dear,” he said, suddenly warm and welcoming. He stepped down from the treadmill and waved his hand at a dusty sofa in a corner.

“More bad news,” she said as she sat down.

“Rusty lost another one?”

“Yes. He asked the jury for thirty-five million dollars. He got nothing. Zero. Defense verdict.”

Stu sighed as his shoulders sagged. He fell into a chair and looked at her in total defeat. “Two hundred and seventeen thousand dollars, at last count. Not including the final bill from Carl, and we know that Carl’s final bills are always suitable for framing, don’t we?” He threw up both hands and said, “Poof.”

“This one will get worse. Rusty had a chance to settle last night for a lousy million, but he said no. Said it quickly before he thought about running it by his client. A million bucks would have covered our expenses and given the clients some change. I expect a malpractice notice very soon.”

“Well, we’ve certainly seen them before, haven’t we?”

“Too many. Rusty’s out of control and I’m not sure how to rein him in.”

“It’s in his blood, Diantha. Not too many years ago he was the most feared courtroom lawyer in the state, at least in civil cases.”

“Oh, I remember. Those were the days. Now he’s lost his touch.”

They studied the dust on the coffee table. After a moment she said, “Even more bad news. I’m going to see Bolton tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“It’s Kirk’s month to go but he’s meeting with his new divorce lawyer in the morning. The divorce will be a mess. I’m sure all of your records will be put on the table.”

“Bring ’em on. Which set should I show them?”

She smiled at his candor and knew he wasn’t joking. She asked, “When Kirk and Rusty go visit Bolton, don’t they take the current financials?”

“Among other things. Bolton wants the prior month’s profit-and-loss, and year-to-date. Says he wants to know what’s happening in ‘his firm.’ Rusty went last month and according to him the old man wasn’t too happy with the numbers. Rising overhead. Declining income.”

“Why does he worry? He’s not coming back here. He’ll never get his license back, plus he’ll have the tobacco money.”

Old Stu smiled and repeated, “The tobacco money.”

(17)

The tobacco money.

In 1998, the four largest tobacco companies in America agreed to settle a series of massive lawsuits brought by forty-six states to seek reimbursement for the medical costs of smoking. The amount was over $300 billion, the largest civil settlement at that time. The companies also agreed to pay over $8 billion to the lawyers who had cooked up the litigation and brought the industry to the bargaining table. This, obviously, was an unheard-of bonanza for the plaintiffs’ bar, or at least for those lawyers who had rolled the dice and signed on early.

A trial lawyer friend he admired had convinced Bolton Malloy that the litigation was worth the risk. In the beginning, the lead lawyers desperately needed cash to fund the ever-expanding litigation, and they were passing the hat and rounding up investors. Bolton wrote a check for $200,000, over the objections of his two sons and everybody else in the building. Four years later, the tobacco companies, always on the defensive, wanted a truce and were willing to pay for it.

In the frenzy that followed, some lawyers got filthy rich. Those at the top of the pyramid had put serious skin in the game and taken enormous risks, and they were compensated first. One small firm in Texas was awarded $500 million. The money flooded down to the others and the payouts were based on the amounts invested. Bolton’s share came to $21 million, money he planned to keep for himself.

As usual, his wife knew little of the firm’s inner workings because Bolton had always tried to keep her in the dark. He put a lid on the settlement gossip and refused to talk about it, though he privately reminded his two sons that they had scoffed at the tobacco litigation and warned him to stay away from it. Bolton wanted a divorce but couldn’t stomach the thought of a protracted fight with hungry lawyers poring over his records.

Buying into the lawsuit proved to be his first brilliant move. His second was to defer payments of his fees and structure them so that they would be invested but not paid for ten years. Maybe in the meantime he could get a divorce, or even better, maybe his wife would just up and die. Her health was fragile.

Then she did die, rather mysteriously, without ever seeing the money, and Bolton went to prison for manslaughter. He’d been there for a month when the tobacco checks started arriving — $3 million a year for at least twelve years. Old Stu set up offshore accounts around the world and routed the money through a maze of entities that a hundred IRS agents couldn’t follow. He showed enough real income on the firm’s books to placate the tax collectors, but the vast majority of the tobacco money was piling up in shady havens where there was little regard for U.S. tax treaties.

Their secret plan was simple. As soon as Bolton got out of prison he would disappear, hopefully with a young blonde on his arm, to some exotic playground where he would retrieve his money and watch it grow. For his troubles, Old Stu would be handsomely compensated and retire in style as well.

Legally and ethically, the money belonged to Malloy & Malloy. All of it. And, technically, it was unethical for lawyers — Rusty and Kirk — to split fees with non-lawyers — Bolton. But the legal and ethical niceties were being ignored and the sons were simply unable to agree on how to confront the father.

A confrontation, though, was inevitable.

(18)

Diantha said, “It’s only a matter of time before they’ll want some of the money, you know?”

“I’m sure they will,” Old Stu said with a smile. “But they can’t find it.”

“Well brace yourself, because they’re coming. The firm is losing money. Both of them are heavily mortgaged. And now Kirk wants a divorce, which means some nasty boys will soon be going through your books.”

“Listen to me, Diantha. There’s a lot of shady stuff in those books. I know because I put it there, at my client’s insistence, of course. But I am not going to prison like my client, or because of my client.”

“That’s good to hear, Stu. Just make sure the rest of us are okay.”

(19)

By five each afternoon, the bar of the Ritz-Carlton was usually bustling with a well-heeled crowd of business travelers happy to pay twenty dollars a drink and hide it somewhere on their generous expense accounts. For this reason, attractive young women who worked in the downtown offices frequented the bar and its sweeping lounge. And because it had a reputation for attracting upscale local women, it also attracted upscale local professionals in need of a drink.

Rusty loved the place and was there at least once a week. Usually, he met other lawyers and judges to knock back a few before heading for the suburbs. Because he was single, he hung around after his pals headed home, and began hitting on women. That was his customary routine.

However, tonight he was at the bar alone, nursing his third Scotch and cursing another jury. He had been foolish to ask for so much money. He knew St. Louis as well as anyone, and he knew it was a conservative town with no history of jaw-dropping verdicts. Some cities were known for their freewheeling style of tort litigation and stunning awards. Miami, Houston, Boston, and San Francisco came to mind. But not St. Louis. He should have throttled back and asked for only $10 million. He had a $5 million and a $6.4 million under his belt, in years past, and ten would have made more sense. The problem, though, and he admitted this as he drank, was that his ego wanted more, much more. He wanted to single-handedly bring St. Louis into the modern era of staggering verdicts. He, Rusty Malloy, would be the King of Torts in town and smile as the lesser lawyers ran to him with their cases. He would pick and choose.

Three young women made a noisy entrance and Rusty looked them over. One he’d seen before, maybe even bought her a drink. They were about thirty, probably married and looking for some fun before heading home. Short skirts, heels, no sleeves, a lot of flesh on display. They sat in a corner and surveyed the bar scene. One glanced at Rusty, and when a second one did too, he nodded at Jose, the bartender, and nodded at the women. Jose knew what to do for Mr. Malloy — keep the tab open.

They were giggling when he walked up and said, “I’m buying the first round. What’ll it be?”

If they were expecting their husbands or boyfriends, they would have waved him off. They did not. The two on the couch moved a few inches apart and one patted the cushion. He fell in between them and quickly admired their legs. A waiter appeared and took their orders.

He had tried marriage three times and simply wasn’t cut out for it. He had never been faithful to any woman and it was too late, at the age of forty-six, to change his ways.

(20)

Diantha left the city at dawn and for once enjoyed the drive, for the first few minutes anyway. It was a pleasant change to zip along in no traffic and see it all over there on the other side headed inbound. She busied herself by sipping coffee and listening to the BBC on Sirius.

Saliba Correctional Center was two hours away and off the main highways. The roads got narrower until she approached the town of Kerrville, a deserted outpost in the heart of Missouri’s farm country. Large signs pointed this way and that, and it became obvious that the prison was vital to the community. There was little else in Kerrville. It was called a medium-security facility, designed to house 900 inmates. According to the internet, it currently housed almost twice that number. It was built in the 1980s when the War on Drugs was launched by tough politicians and all fifty states joined the prison construction boom as incarceration rates soared. To keep the softer inmates away from the drug traffickers, a minimum-security wing was added in 1995, and somewhere deep in its bowels resided the once Honorable N. Bolton Malloy.

Diantha parked in a vast lot and inspected her face in the mirror. No makeup, no jewelry, nothing to attract attention. Slacks, flat-sole shoes, a jacket, no skin showing from the neck down, as per the website. For a stylish woman who loved fashion and took plenty of time each morning putting herself together, she was surprised at how plain she looked.

Back in the early days when she was fresh out of law school and the first female associate at Malloy & Malloy, she had always made the effort to dress up for the office. The men appreciated it and Bolton especially enjoyed her company. The clerical staff was all young women and Bolton paid them well. He was a demanding boss who favored linen suits, silk ties, French cuffs, and Italian shoes. The unwritten dress code around Malloy & Malloy was that to succeed you’d better look good.

She left her cell phone and briefcase in the car and locked it. At the entrance of the administration building she paused for a second to look at the cheap bronze plaque the state had screwed into a cinderblock wall. It commemorated the distinguished career of an old warden who’d been dead for forty years. Winston Saliba.

Who finished high school with the dream of having a prison named in their honor?

Inside the doors was a grungy reception area and two guards who appeared ready to pounce on the next visitor. They took her driver’s license and ran her through the metal detectors. She filled out forms and was sent to a holding room where she waited half an hour. The chairs were plastic and unbalanced. The magazines were three years old. The place smelled of cheap antiseptic and gas heat. When it was her turn, a guard led her down a hallway, through locked doors, and into a pen where a golf cart awaited. He pointed to the back seat and they climbed in. He drove without a word, and she had nothing to say as well. Their pathway was a narrow paved road lined with chain-link fence ten feet tall and topped with glistening razor wire. On the other side were dozens of inmates out in the yard, staring at her.

How anyone, especially an older white guy like Bolton, could survive in such a dismal place was unfathomable. She saw a sign for Camp D and knew she was close. The mail she sent him went to Camp D.

Inside, the guard grunted this way and that and they entered a large visitation room with plastic tables and chairs scattered about, and vending machines lining the walls. There were no other visitors. Lay people visited only on the weekends. Lawyers could come and go as they pleased. He pointed to a corner where there were four doors under a sign that said attorney visitation rooms. He opened a door, showed her a seat, and said, finally, “He’ll be out in a minute. You got anything to hand over to him?”

“No.”

The narrow room was divided by a wall four feet high, and on top of it was a thick sheet of glass that ran to the ceiling. The minutes dragged on, and she reminded herself of how much she resented Rusty and Kirk for forcing her to be there. Bolton was their problem, not hers. She had not seen him in five years and that was not long enough.

His door opened and a guard appeared. Bolton was behind him and ignored her as the cuffs were removed. The guard left and closed the door. Bolton sat in his plastic chair and smiled at her. He picked up his receiver and said, “Hello, Diantha. I wasn’t expecting you.”

His first words were lies. Kirk had told him the night before, on his illegal cell phone, that she would be pinch-hitting.

“Hello, Bolton. How are you?”

“Swell. The days and weeks are passing. I’ll be out soon enough. How are you these days, Diantha? It’s so great to see you. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I’m well. Phoebe’s growing like a weed. Fifteen now and trying to drive me crazy.” She managed a quick smile, but it was difficult.

“And Jonathan?”

She nodded for a second and decided to tell a fib of her own. “Jonathan’s fine.”

“You look great, aging beautifully, which is not unexpected.”

“Thanks, I guess. You look almost dapper in your prison fatigues.”

And he did. Thin as a rail, fit, lean, and his matching khaki shirt and pants had obviously been starched and pressed. Those in the general population she had just driven past all wore white pants with blue stripes down the legs, and white shirts. Evidently the softer ones in Camp D got better clothes if they could afford them. Every month she deposited $1,000 in his account and the money went for food, clothing, books, and such luxuries as a color TV and portable AC unit. She would be sending more, per Rusty and Kirk, but the prison max was $1,000.

With plenty of time to sleep and rest and almost unlimited access to the outdoor gymnasium, Bolton looked younger than he had five years earlier when they said goodbye. That, plus no alcohol, no women, no eighteen-hour days at the office, and he appeared to be thriving in prison, at least physically.

And no complaints. According to Rusty and Kirk, the old man had never once blamed anyone for his bad luck. Nor had he shown the slightest remorse for the death of his wife. He had always maintained that he did not murder her. He had pled to manslaughter, a far less serious charge.

“So where’s Kirk?” he asked.

He knew damned well, but she played along. “He had an important appointment with his new lawyer. Things are not going well with Chrissy.”

“No surprise there. And Rusty?”

“He was in trial all week and couldn’t get things organized.”

“How’d the trial go?”

“He lost again. Asked the jury for thirty-five million, got zero. Big loss.”

He shook his head and seemed irritated. “I don’t know what’s wrong with that boy. Ten years ago he could pick a jury’s pocket for anything he wanted, now he’s washed up.”

“He’ll turn it around. As you know with trial work, there are hot streaks and cold ones.”

“I suppose. Did you bring the financial statements?”

“No, I did not.”

“May I ask why not?”

“Sure, you can ask. The answer is that I didn’t exactly volunteer to be here, Bolton. And I’m certainly not going to be told what to do by you, of all people. I don’t work for you anymore and I’ll never work for you again. You thought you owned me once, when I was a kid, and I still resent the things we did.”

“It was always consensual, as I recall.”

“I was a twenty-five-year-old kid fresh out of law school and you gave me a job. What happened after that was hardly consensual. You were all over me from day one and left little doubt that any resistance might lead to a termination. That’s what I remember.”

He smiled as he shook his head. “Well, well. Venus and Mars again. What I remember was a sexy young lady in short skirts who thought screwing the boss was the ticket to a partnership. Didn’t we have this conversation years ago when we reconciled? I thought this was all water under the bridge.”

“Your bridge maybe, Bolton. We carried on for three years and it was me, not you, who finally stopped it.”

“True, then we sat down and hashed through it and decided to remain friends. I’ve always treasured your friendship, Diantha, and your wisdom. I know that we reconciled.”

“Oh really. If our relationship is so cool, then why have I been in therapy for the past fifteen years?”

“Oh come on. You can’t blame me for all your problems.”

Both needed a truce, so they sat and ignored each other. After a long gap, she said, “I’m sorry, Bolton. I didn’t plan to say all that. I didn’t come here to beat you up over something that happened a long time ago.”

“You have a lot of anger and resentment.”

“I do, and I’m trying hard to overcome it.”

“Well, I would say I’m sorry but that’s already been said. Obviously it didn’t mean much. I have great memories of you, Diantha. I want you to like me. I swear.”

“I’ll try. Look, we’re here in prison and I’m supposed to be bringing smiles from the outside world. Not causing trouble. My problems are small compared to yours, Bolton. How do you survive in a place like this?”

“Day by day. Before long it’s a week, then a month, then a year. You stop crying, get tough, realize you can survive. You make sure you’re safe. Me, I’m lucky enough to have a little cash to spread around. You can buy almost anything in here.”

He smiled and clasped his hands behind his head, looked at the ceiling. “Almost anything, except what really matters. Freedom, travel, women, golf, good food and wine. But you know what, Diantha, I’m okay. This is almost over and I’ll be out soon enough. Statistically, I’ll have about twenty more years to live, and I plan to have a ball. I’ll leave St. Louis and all the bad memories, and I’ll go somewhere nice and quiet and start over again.”

“With plenty of money.”

“Damned right, with plenty of money. I was smart enough to buy into the tobacco settlement when you and the boys and everybody else in the office said don’t do it. The gamble paid off, then I was smart again and kept the money away from Tilda. May she rest in peace. I’m going to take the money and run away. Wanna go with me?”

“Is that another proposition?”

“No, it was a joke. Lighten up, Diantha, you seem to have more troubles than me and I’m the one socked away in this shithole.”

“How do you plan to get out?”

“Wouldn’t you love to know? Let’s just say I do indeed have a plan and things are coming together.”

“Let’s talk about something else. I’ve only been here for fifteen minutes.”

“Please don’t hurry, Diantha. There are no time limits on attorney conferences and you’re a rare bright spot for me.”

“What about the law firm? I’m sure you’re curious.”

“Great idea. How many associates do we have now?”

“Twenty-two. Eleven on each side. If Rusty hires one, then so does Kirk. Same for secretaries, paralegals, janitors. As always, the expenses and the net draws must remain perfectly equal. If one feels the other is somehow getting ahead, then there’s trouble.”

“What’s wrong with those boys?”

“You’ve been asking that question as long as I’ve known you.”

“Yes I have. I cannot recall a period of time when they got along. It was like a sibling war from the crib. They’re trying to destroy the firm, aren’t they, Diantha? I’ve seen the financials. I know what’s going on. Far too much overhead, far too little in revenue. As you remember, I ran a tight ship and watched every penny. I hired good people and I was generous with them. These two guys don’t have the sense to run a law firm.”

“It’s not quite that grim, Bolton. We have some talented lawyers that I’ve hired over the years and they are developing nicely. I’m still in charge, albeit by default. Since Rusty and Kirk don’t speak, everything crosses my desk and I manage the firm. The business is always up and down.”

“I suppose.”

He gazed wistfully at the ceiling and let some time pass. After a spell, he asked, “What do people say about me around town, Diantha?”

“That’s a funny question, coming from a man who never cared what others said or thought.”

“Don’t we all think about our legacy?”

“Well, to be honest, Bolton, when I’m asked about you it’s always in reference to Tillie’s death and your incarceration. I’m afraid that’s how you’ll be remembered.”

“Fair enough, I guess. Truthfully, I really don’t care.”

“Attaboy.”

“The odd thing, Diantha, is that I have no remorse. I have not missed that woman for a moment. In fact, when I think of her, and I try mightily not to, her death always brings a smile. Yeah, sure, I wish I hadn’t got caught and all that, and I made some dumb mistakes, but knowing that Tillie is in the ground brings me great joy.”

“I can’t argue with that. No one misses her, not even her two sons.”

“She was just awful. Let’s leave it at that.”

“You and I have never talked about her death, have we?”

He smiled and shook his head. “No, and we can’t talk about it now. These little rooms are not always secure. There could be leaks.”

She glanced around and said, “Sure. Maybe one day when you get out.”

“Are we going to be friends when I get out, Diantha?”

“Why not, Bolton? Just keep your hands to yourself. That was always your problem.”

He laughed and said, “It was, but now I’m too old for the chase, don’t you think?”

“No, I think you’re incorrigible.”

“No doubt. I’ve already planned my first trip. I’m going to Vegas to rent the penthouse at a tall shiny hotel, play cards all day, bet the games, eat steaks and drink good wines, and enjoy the young ladies. I don’t care how much they cost.”

“So much for rehabilitation.”

(21)

The death of Tilda Malloy had been imagined many times, and not just by her husband, though Bolton for decades had been by far the most active schemer. After ten years of tumultuous marriage, with no peaceful way out, he began to plot her demise.

It began with a sudden interest in trout fishing the rivers of the Ozarks, something he enjoyed but not nearly as much as he let on. Several times a year he and some friends, and later Rusty and Kirk, would drive three hours south from St. Louis into the mountains, rent cabins, and fish and drink like frat boys.

This led to the purchase of a log house retreat on Jack’s Fork River in southern Missouri. Bolton went through an elaborate and prolonged ruse of feigning a newfound love of the outdoors, and, with time, did in fact acquire a certain fondness for quiet weekends, especially when Tillie refused to join him. She had no interest in any activity that could not be undertaken within ten miles of her beloved country club. She thought the hills were full of hicks, fishing was a weird sport for boys only, there were bugs and crickets everywhere, and besides there wasn’t a decent restaurant to be found anywhere.

When she was diagnosed with coronary heart disease at the age of fifty-seven, Bolton was secretly delighted but maintained a passable front of the nurturing caregiver. Much to his dismay, she whipped herself into better shape, pursued a plant-based diet, exercised two hours a day, and claimed to feel better than ever. When one test after another showed better results, it became apparent that she was not dying anytime soon. Bolton went into a funk and resumed his decades-long fascination with her premature death.

Her first heart attack, at the age of sixty-two, had given her family a renewed hope. Though the topic was never discussed, life without Tillie was a constant dream for Bolton and his sons, and especially their wives. Tillie the mother-in-law was a meddling, conniving troublemaker.

Months passed, then years, and the old gal not only hung on but continued her evil ways with gusto. A second heart attack, at sixty-four, failed to slow her, and the entire family became depressed.

Yielding to pressure from Bolton, her doctor ordered her out of the city and into the hills for a two-week retreat — no phones, no internet, no television. Nothing but rest and bland food and lots of sleep. She had in mind a luxurious spa in the Rockies where her friends went to dry out, but Bolton insisted on his fishing cabin. She loathed the place and squawked for three hours as Bolton drove and fumed and fought the urge to whip the car over onto a gravel road and strangle her in a ditch.

For dinner, they ate civilly at the small, rustic table. Frozen fish entrees, plus a glass of wine for him. She said she wasn’t feeling well, the drive fatigued her, and she wanted to go to bed. As she prepared herself, Bolton, wearing thick gloves and sweating and scared out of his mind, removed an eight-foot king snake from a crate hidden in a closet and put it in their bed, on her side, under the blanket. He had mentally rehearsed this a thousand times, but who in hell knows what will happen when a king snake, one well fed and supposedly tame, whatever that meant, gets thrown onto cotton sheets he’s never felt before, then covered with a blanket. Would he freak out and slither out of bed and onto the floor and force Bolton to crawl crablike under the bed trying to catch him? Or would he freeze in place for a few seconds in anticipation of being discovered and the high drama to follow?

The snake cooperated and stayed put. Bolton managed to peel off the gloves before she came out of the bathroom, griping about the temperature. As she was preparing to pull back the covers, Bolton yanked them and screamed at the monstrous black, spotted snake lying on their beautiful white linen sheets. Tillie was so stricken that her vocal cords froze in terror and she could not utter a sound. She recoiled and fainted as she fell back and landed hard against a wall.

For a moment no one moved. Bolton kept one eye on the snake and glanced at his wife, who appeared to be unconscious. The snake raised his head slightly and looked down at Tillie, then turned to check on Bolton. Suddenly, he’d had enough and quickly weaved his way off the bed and onto the floor. When Bolton gave chase, the snake picked up speed and slid faster over the pine flooring. It was imperative to get the damned thing back in its crate, and out of desperation Bolton grabbed its tail, which caused the snake to immediately coil and strike. Bolton yelled as the tiny, razor-like teeth sunk into his left hand. Of course the snake was nonpoisonous — Bolton wasn’t that stupid — but he could still bite and it hurt like hell. Bolton backed away holding his hand and noticing blood. He went to the kitchen, each step careful now that the snake was on the loose, and put some ice in a bowl for his hand. He sat at the table and tried to collect himself. His breathing was labored and he was still sweating. He had to think clearly. Think of it as a crime scene, which in effect it was.

The bleeding stopped but the swelling did not. He wrapped his hand tightly with a dish towel and went to check on his dear wife. She hadn’t moved but had a faint pulse, much to his chagrin. Almost dead presented several scenarios, all of which he had walked through a thousand times. None, though, involved a damned snakebite that would be impossible to hide. He splashed some cold water in her face but she did not respond. The pulse grew fainter but wouldn’t go away. He circled wide to avoid another encounter with the snake, who when last seen was disappearing under the sofa.

Bolton’s future depended on the next few decisions. He would get only one chance to make things work. He checked his wristwatch. 9:44. She had been out for maybe ten minutes. What was the snake doing under the sofa, or had he moved on to another hiding place?

Bolton knew from his careful research that the nearest EMT unit was in the town of Eminence, the county seat, population 600, and it was a volunteer outfit. A prompt response by a well-trained team of medics was unlikely. However, failure to call 911 would only raise suspicions.

He really wanted a shot of bourbon but fought the temptation. There was a decent chance he would be talking to doctors and nurses and he did not want alcohol on his breath.

Her pulse grew weaker.

He opened the doors and with a broom tried to sweep under the sofa. No sign of the snake and it was important to find the damned thing.

At 11:00 p.m., Bolton finally called 911 and reported that his wife was having breathing problems and complaining of chest pains. He thought she might be having a heart attack. The dispatcher sounded as though she had walked in off the street and was taking her first call. Bolton gave his name and the address of his cabin, which, like many in the area, was hard to find in broad daylight. He intentionally neglected to mention a crucial left turn at an intersection, thus guaranteeing the ambulance would take forever.

He loaded the snake’s empty crate into the trunk of his car, to dispose of later. He spoke to Tillie again as he squeezed her wrist. She wasn’t making this easier. Because of her dedication to fitness she weighed only 110 pounds, and for this he was grateful. He managed to fling her over his shoulder, stagger down the front steps, and toss her into the rear seat. She did not make a sound.

Poplar Bluff was an hour away and had a nice regional hospital. He planned to arrive well after midnight and hopefully the A-team would be gone. He drove as slowly as possible and took several wrong turns. Not a sound from the back seat. At the edge of town, he stopped at an all-night convenience store for a coffee to go. With no one looking because there was no one else to be seen, he reached into the rear and checked her pulse again. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Tilda Malloy, his quarrelsome wife of forty-seven long and unhappy years, was finally dead.

Bolton hurried on to the hospital and wheeled into the emergency entrance.

(22)

The snake had not fled the house. He was coiled on the kitchen floor having a snooze when the crew arrived and saw him. They kept their distance as they searched the house and found no one. Oddly, all doors were open, all lights were on.

The dispatch log would reveal that the call from Mr. Malloy came in at 11:02. The EMTs reported arriving at 11:55, after several wrong turns. They secured the house, closed the doors, and checked out at 12:20.

And they took the snake with them. The unit chief had a thing for reptiles, enjoyed collecting them, and often did a Serpent Safety routine at area schools. He had never seen such a beautiful, and rare, speckled king snake and had no trouble capturing him. He assumed he was not a pet, but would readily bring him back if so requested. No request would ever be made.

The ER records would show that Mr. Malloy arrived at 1:18 a.m., with his nonresponsive wife in the rear seat. She was put on a stretcher, rushed into an exam room, and promptly declared dead.

A nurse quizzed Mr. Malloy and got the basics. She noticed his swollen and bandaged hand. He waved her off and said he had injured himself working on the deck the previous afternoon. A doctor insisted on looking at his hand and was intrigued by the odd semicircle of bite marks. Mr. Malloy insisted he had not been bitten by anyone or anything, and became uncooperative. The nurse noticed blood on the deceased’s nightshirt and asked Mr. Malloy about it. Of course it was his. His hand was bleeding when he had no choice but to haul her from the bedroom to the car. The doctor asked if they could take photos of his wound and he refused.

Two deputies arrived with an injured drunk driver, and their presence emboldened the doctor. He asked Bolton again if he could photograph his wound, and when he angrily declined the doctor nodded at a deputy. The two came over and had a look at Bolton’s left hand.

“Looks like a snakebite,” one of them said. “Nonpoisonous. A rattler and you’d have two deep fangs and swelling out your ass.”

The other deputy concurred and said, “A perfect row of tiny teeth. Big constrictor. I’d say either a corn snake or a king snake.”

Bolton waved them off with “Please, guys, I’ve just lost my wife. Could I have some privacy here? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure. Sorry.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

They left and Bolton puttered around the hallway, waiting for someone to tell him what to do next. The hospital wasn’t busy and he grew irritated at the delay. About an hour after he’d arrived, the same doctor pulled up a chair and asked if he wanted coffee. It was almost 2:30 in the morning, not his usual coffee hour. The doctor explained the protocol: At around 8:00 a.m., the funeral home director would come to the hospital and discuss the death. Bolton would be needed to verify the identity of the deceased and discuss her medical history. When satisfied with the cause, the funeral home director would then prepare a death certificate.

“She wanted to be cremated,” Bolton said gravely. She did not. Tillie wanted a full-blown Catholic Mass, with communion. Bolton was secretly opposed to this because he was afraid of a sparse crowd.

The doctor replied, “Well, under Missouri law you have to wait twenty-four hours before you can cremate a loved one.”

“I know Missouri law,” Bolton said rudely. “I’ve practiced it for forty years.” Which was true, though he had never specialized in cremations. He was now sharp on that little niche in the law, because he had mentally rehearsed this scenario a hundred times.

The doctor was patient and said, “Okay, why don’t you get some sleep and meet me and the funeral home director here at eight?”

“I’ll do that.”

He left Poplar Bluff and returned to his cabin. Fifty-one minutes, no traffic at all. He was trying to anticipate trouble. The EMTs had left a sticker on the cabin door giving the times of their arrival and departure. Bolton tiptoed through the house, holding a broom as a weapon, searching high and low for the damned snake. It was quite possible he had returned home and slithered up through the walls to the attic, but Bolton wasn’t about to poke around up there. He closed the doors and turned off most of the lights. He gathered all of Tillie’s shoes and clothing and packed them into her suitcase. Her other stuff — old pajamas, a bathrobe, underwear, toiletries, hiking boots she’d never worn — he loaded into a cardboard box and placed next to the suitcase in the trunk of his car. He wanted no sign of her left in his cabin.

Though he was calm and in no hurry, he felt a bit on edge and needed a strong shot of bourbon. He stretched out on the sofa in the den, sipped for a while, got sleepy and almost nodded off, then remembered it was the snake’s first stop when he was fleeing the scene. He jumped up and walked around the cabin and finally eased onto the bed, but he smelled something odd and was certain it was an oil or some other bodily fluid left behind by the slimy reptile. Convinced the house was uninhabitable, he got a quilt and retired to a wicker rocker on the porch where he, with the help of a second bourbon, fell asleep in the chilly air.

Promptly at six a coyote howled from somewhere close and Bolton jumped out of his skin. He showered, changed clothes, loaded the car, and left at seven. It was early Sunday morning and no one else was awake. Near a country store, he stopped at a county dumpster and threw away all evidence of Tillie, as well as the crate the snake had lived in for the past four months. Lighter now, he hurried back to Poplar Bluff. Fifty minutes even.

At the hospital, he met with the same doctor and nurse, along with the funeral home director. He showed them his driver’s license and swore he was the husband of the deceased. He even produced their current passports that he had packed just in case his scheme got this far. Once they were convinced he was indeed the husband, they asked him about her medical history. Without a doubt, in his opinion, the cause of death was cardiac arrest. In great detail, he listed Tillie’s health problems: the coronary disease, the two heart attacks, the long list of doctors who had treated her, the hospitalizations, the avalanche of meds. His recall was impressive and he proved his case. His only embellishment was a fictional account of their last hours together when she complained of chest pains and he insisted on rushing her to the doctor. But she wouldn’t go. At the end, at the most crucial moment, she had gasped and flung both hands over her chest as she fell to the floor. He tried mouth-to-mouth but it didn’t work.

Of course, the snake was never mentioned.

The doctor, nurse, and funeral home director unanimously agreed. The cause of death written onto the certificate was cardiac arrest.

They loaded her into a simple metal casket, one used for such occasions, and rolled her into the back of the hearse. Bolton followed it to the funeral home across town where she was put on ice while time passed. Bolton’s idea of a productive day was not one wasted hanging around a funeral home.

The director had a busy afternoon planned because there were three “clients” waiting to be viewed that afternoon, after church let out. All three had been properly embalmed and two of the wakes would involve open caskets. Bolton managed to ease into the visitation rooms and take a peek at the corpses. He was not impressed with the mortician’s talents. After killing an hour, he managed to catch the director in his office and said, “Look, I know the law requires you to wait twenty-four hours before cremating someone, but I’m in a hurry. I need to get back to St. Louis and start planning a funeral. My family is waiting for me now and everyone is terribly upset. It’s sort of cruel to make us wait. Why can’t we do the cremation now and I’ll be gone?”

“The law says twenty-four hours, Mr. Malloy.”

“I’m sure there’s a loophole somewhere that allows for an expedited procedure for the health and safety of those involved. Something like that.”

“I’m not aware of such a loophole.”

“Look, who’ll ever know the difference? Go about it quietly now and I’ll be on the road. No one from the State of Missouri will come around checking your records. I’m in a real bind here and need to get home and see my family. They are distraught.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Malloy.”

Bolton pulled out his wallet and slowly opened it. “How much does a cremation cost, anyway?”

The director smiled at his ignorance and said, “Depends on several factors. What type of cremation do you have in mind?”

Bolton huffed and rolled his eyes. “Well, I don’t have anything in mind, except for the process of your putting her into the oven and then giving me a box of ashes to take home.”

“So, a direct cremation?”

“Whatever.”

“Do you have an urn?”

“What an idiot. I forgot to bring one. Hell no, I don’t have an urn. I’ll bet you’ve got one for sale.”

“We have a selection, yes.”

“Okay, back to the question. How much does a cremation cost?”

“A thousand dollars for a direct cremation.”

“How much for an indirect?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Forget it.” Bolton handed over his silver American Express card and said, “Ring me up. And I want the cheapest urn.”

The director took it. Bolton pulled out some bills, counted ten $100s, and laid them on the desk. “An extra thousand if you’ll get it done by noon today. Okay?”

The director looked at his closed door and cut his shifty eyes around the room. Then he scooped up the cash and made it disappear faster than a blackjack dealer. “Come back in two hours,” he said.

“You got it.” Bolton drove around for a while and finally remembered to call his sons with the news that their mother was dead. Both kept their composure and there were no breakdowns. He found a waffle house and had pancakes and sausage with the Sunday edition of the Post-Dispatch. He ate as slowly as possible and downed four cups of coffee. He enjoyed the obits and wondered if they might soon include his late wife.

By 12:30 he was racing back to St. Louis with her remains in a cheap plastic urn in the trunk. He could not remember such a feeling of exhilaration, of complete freedom. He had pulled off the perfect crime, disposed of a woman he’d wished a thousand times he’d never met, and his future was suddenly glorious and unburdened. He was only sixty-five years old, in perfect health, and within a year his tobacco fees would start arriving like golden eggs. His forty-year career as a hard-charging lawyer was over and he couldn’t wait to travel the world, preferably with a younger woman. He had two in mind, both lovely divorcées he’d been itching to take to dinner for a long time.

(23)

A week after Tilda’s funeral, a small private affair that drew little interest, Bolton moved aggressively to collect $5 million in life insurance. He and his wife had purchased matching joint policies years earlier, primarily because he was convinced she would meet an early demise, though he assured her at the time it was in her best interest because, according to the actuaries, he would likely die first. When the insurance company dragged its feet, Bolton, with typical trial lawyer bluster, threatened to sue for bad faith and all other applicable torts. It was a rare strategic blunder.

The insurer decided to investigate the death and hired a security company known for its bare-knuckle tactics. Its investigators, most of whom had military and CIA experience, were immediately suspicious because of the timing of Bolton’s movements that fateful night. Two hours and sixteen minutes elapsed from his 911 call to his arrival at the ER in Poplar Bluff. Several test runs proved that the average driving time was only 52 minutes, and that was obeying all traffic laws. It was easy to assume that a reasonable person might push the speed limit a bit when hauling in a heart attack victim. It seemed as though Bolton had certainly taken his time.

He would be questioned about it, but much later.

Another factor was the day and time. It was late on a Saturday night in rural Missouri, not exactly the time and place for heavy traffic.

The ER doctor and nurse told the investigators that, in their opinions, Mrs. Malloy had been dead for at least an hour. Minimal rigor mortis was setting in with the muscles beginning to stiffen. In her notes, the nurse described Mr. Malloy as “uncooperative” and the doctor remarked that he seemed unbothered by his wife’s passing. Both described the mysterious bite wound to his left hand. He refused treatment for it and would not allow the deputies to photograph it. One deputy was certain it was a bite from a large constrictor.

The break came in an encounter at the Ozark Mountain Snake Roundup, an annual event in Joplin that drew fans, handlers, collectors, charmers, and aficionados from the mountains and hollows and beyond. The unit chief from the Eminence Volunteer Fire Department was a regular and was proudly displaying his snakes, including two new additions: a five-foot timber rattler he had trapped in a ravine, and the eight-foot speckled king snake he had taken from the Malloy cabin a month earlier.

A handler from Kansas City seemed particularly enthralled with the king and finally asked, “He sure looks familiar. Mind if I ask where you got him?”

“Found him in a cabin on an ER call.”

“He sure looks like Thurman.”

“Who’s Thurman?”

“Thurman’s a king I bought from a dealer in Knoxville when he was only a foot long. He kept growing and growing, never seen a speckled king eight feet long before. You?”

“No, not even close. Five feet is about the longest. How long did you raise him?”

“Three years. Got pretty attached to him. Guy stopped by the shop last year and just had to have Thurman. I said what the heck, shot him a big price, and he paid me six hundred dollars.”

“Six hundred dollars? Never heard of that much.”

“Guy had plenty of money. Drove a big German car. I think he was from St. Louis.”

“Don’t remember his name, do you?”

“No. You said the snake was in the cabin.”

“Yeah, all the doors were open, nobody at home. There was a 911 call and by the time we got there the place was empty. Thurman here was coiled up in the kitchen like it was home. I’m just sort of babysitting him.”

“So you wouldn’t want to sell him?”

“Not now. Maybe in a year if he’s not claimed.”

“Why would anybody abandon Thurman?”

“Hell if I know.”

The handler left and the unit chief forgot about him. Thirty minutes later he was back. “Say, you asked me the name of the guy who bought Thurman. I called the shop and my son checked the records. Guy’s name was Malloy. Ring a bell?”

“Yep, that’s him. He owns a cabin on Jack’s Fork River.”

In due course, the investigators for the insurance company made it to Eminence and checked the 911 logs and recordings. They bumped into the unit chief who told them all about Thurman. He invited them to his farm out in the country where he kept his snakes, but they politely declined. Just send some photos, if you don’t mind, they asked.

They sped off to Kansas City and tracked down the handler, who identified a photo of Bolton Malloy as the customer and also provided them with a copy of the sales receipt.

The insurance company then sent its lawyers to meet with the Missouri Attorney General, a longtime political hack who was not a fan of Mr. Malloy. The lawyers laid out a purely circumstantial case claiming that, while Bolton may not have actually killed his wife, he was certainly complicit in her death. Murder could never be proven, but they had a good chance with manslaughter. In addition, Bolton may have possibly committed insurance fraud by filing a claim after her death.

The investigation, as well as the actions by the Attorney General, were kept secret and Bolton had no clue what was happening. The insurance company continued to stall with the strategy of forcing Bolton to file suit. He finally took the bait and sued, and was immediately bombarded with an avalanche of discovery requests. The insurance lawyers couldn’t wait to get him in a big conference room for an all-day deposition.

Before that happened, though, Bolton was ambushed early one morning in the reception foyer of his beloved law firm when a gang of policemen surrounded him. As they walked him outside in handcuffs, the cameras were waiting. The scandal erupted with a media explosion and for days the legal community talked of nothing else. Front page, six o’clock breaking news, the works. He bonded out quickly and fled to his cabin where he holed up with a shotgun and tried in vain to sleep amid nightmares of snakes crawling under the covers.

His lawyers proclaimed innocence but said little else and stayed busy behind the scenes. The tabloids pounded the story for weeks but it eventually grew old. The State pushed hard for a twenty-year sentence, the max, but Bolton quietly insisted on a trial. When the date was a month away, his lawyers convinced him to plead guilty to manslaughter and take ten years. Otherwise, he might die in prison.

His lawyers painted a grim picture of what would happen when Thurman made his appearance at the trial. Imagine an experienced snake handler, maybe even the unit chief himself, removing the snake from his crate and holding him up in front of a mortified jury. This is the snake, ladies and gentlemen, that Bolton Malloy purchased for $600, took to his cabin by the river, kept him there for four months, for the right moment when he could show him to his wife, Tillie, a woman with a bad heart, a woman who, like virtually everyone, was deathly afraid of snakes.

Can you imagine, his lawyers went on, what the world would think when large color photos of Thurman got splashed across front pages from coast to coast? And what if the judge allowed cameras in the courtroom? There would never be a snake as famous as Thurman.

He took the ten-year offer.

Disgraced, humiliated, convicted, banished to a prison like a common criminal, he went away. Two months after he began serving his time, the first installment of the tobacco money landed in a foreign bank account Old Stu was guarding. Its arrival softened the harshness of prison and gave new meaning to his life.

(24)

It is three days after her trip to the prison. Diantha sits in a deep, well-worn leather chair with her stocking feet resting comfortably on a low, padded ottoman. The chair and the ottoman are expensive, as is everything else in the office. She appreciates the fine things because she’s certainly paid for them. Mimi is now at $250 an hour, certainly less than what Diantha bills, but on the high side for therapists in the Midwest. When they met fifteen years earlier, they were beginning their careers and their rates were much lower. They have grown up together, succeeded in their careers, and could almost be close friends but for the fact that Mimi is the therapist and Diantha is the patient. Years earlier they decided it was more important to stick with the professional relationship than to jettison it and become pals.

Mimi is saying, “I didn’t like the idea of you going to prison to see him.”

“I know. We had that discussion. I went.”

Mimi sits in her chair, a modern funky executive swivel with wheels, and she likes to roll around on the birch floor. They talk slowly and softly and seldom make eye contact once the session starts, once the initial pleasantries are dispensed with.

“And how did you feel when you saw him? What was your first thought?”

“There were so many.”

“No, there was only one first thought.”

“Oddly enough, I was struck by how good he looks. He’s seventy-one, been locked up for five years, but he’s trim, tanned, in shape. Then I felt guilty for dwelling on his looks.”

“Nothing wrong with that. You once found him attractive and the feelings were mutual.”

“Yes, and then I asked myself how I could’ve slept with this old guy for so long. He was married, everybody knew what we were doing. Why did I do it?”

“We’ve spent the last fifteen years talking about that, Diantha.”

“Yes, we have, and I still can’t believe it.”

“We can’t go back there, Diantha, or change what happened. We’ve moved on. That’s the reason I advised you not to go. Seeing Bolton again brought back memories and issues that you have confronted and vanquished. Now I worry that in many ways we’ll have to start over.”

“No, I’m okay, Mimi. I had my reasons for going. I wanted to see the great man in prison, dressed like an inmate, moved around in handcuffs, the works. I wanted to see him humiliated, stripped of all his assets and titles and trial lawyer glories. And for that reason it was worth the trip. I won’t do it again, but I’m glad I went.”

“He’s not exactly broke, from what you’ve said.”

“Oh no. Bolton is getting money these days from some old settlements. That brings up another issue.”

“And it is?”

“Compensation. Bolton owes me for what he did. He took advantage of a naive young lady who worked for him. I felt trapped and thought there was no way to say no. It was never entirely consensual.”

“Please, Diantha. You’re reverting and that’s dangerous.”

Diantha says, “I’ve made my decision, Mimi. I made it driving home from the prison. Bolton owes me, and it’s time to collect.”

(25)

Neither partner could remember the last attempt at a private meeting. They had worked so hard to avoid one. At the moment, though, the issue was too critical to dump on Diantha’s desk and hope for the best. The dumping had become routine and both partners were ashamed of it, though neither would dare admit this. And neither had the spine to stop it.

An agreement as to time and place took almost a week to iron out. They agreed initially that they would not meet in the office, but after that simple matter was locked up everything else became complicated. Kirk suggested a private room at one of his country clubs, but Rusty despised all of them and all of the members as well.

“What do you want, a strip club?” Kirk had retorted in an email.

Since both loathed the sound of the other’s voice, they avoided phones.

“Not a bad idea,” Rusty wrote back, hours later.

For several reasons, they did not want to be seen together.

Eventually they agreed to meet in a hotel suite in Columbia, two hours away. Of course they drove separate cars and traveled alone.

Since Kirk’s travel expenses were about to be picked through by his wife’s divorce lawyers, they managed to agree that the room would be reserved by Rusty, who, at the moment, was between wives.

They met at 3:00 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon and no one from the office had any idea where they were, no small feat for two important men who kept themselves surrounded by staff. Rusty arrived first, checked in, and found a diet soda in the mini-bar. Fifteen minutes later, Kirk knocked on the door. They managed to say polite “hellos” and shake hands. Both were determined to act civilized and speak in measured tones. Both knew that one stray word could cause a brawl.

They sat at a small table and sipped sodas. Kirk asked, “You talked to the old man lately?”

“Last week, briefly. You?”

“He called last night. Proud of his latest cell phone. Said next time not to send Diantha. He wants one of us. As you know, I had to beg off.”

“Yeah, sorry about the divorce and all. I’ve been down that road several times and it’s never pleasant. No chance of a reconciliation?”

“No way. We’re too far gone.”

“I hear she’s hired Scarlett Ambrose.”

“Afraid so.”

“It’ll get nasty.”

“It’s already nasty. I’m moving out this weekend.”

“Sorry to hear that. You know, I’ve had three divorces, nothing to brag about. But I managed to settle all of them without the messy fighting.”

“I know, I know. Look, we didn’t drive here to talk about our divorces. The topic is money. We’re both in rough shape financially. Because of the divorce, I’m probably in more of a jam. The law firm is bleeding cash and the future isn’t looking too good. Can we agree on this?”

Rusty was nodding along. A pause, and he said, “Meanwhile, the old man is sitting fat in prison and counting the days until he gets out. The tobacco money is piling up and we can’t touch it. Can we?”

“Of course not. Stu controls it and he keeps it hidden. Here’s the rub. That money belongs to this law firm, not to Bolton Malloy. He’s been disbarred, disgraced, sent to prison, and he’ll never practice again. It’s against all manner of ethics for this firm to split fees with a non-lawyer. That’s understood. What worries me is that he and Stu are hiding the money and evading taxes. What if the IRS comes in with guns blazing and wants to dig through the books? What if they find the hidden loot? Guess who gets indicted. Probably not Bolton, though I’d point the finger at him pretty damned quick. It’s more likely that they’ll come after the two of us.”

“Agreed. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying exactly what you and I have been thinking ever since the tobacco money hit the table. We are entitled to a chunk of it. We were partners in this firm when the tobacco litigation was settled and we should get a share.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know. You got a number?”

Rusty stood and walked to a credenza where he riffled through a briefcase. He pulled out some papers and dropped them on the table in front of Kirk. “I ran some numbers last night, something I’m sure you do all the time. At the settlement, the court approved fees for Malloy & Malloy to the tune of twenty-one million. The old man wisely deferred his share and structured a deal to postpone it for ten years, hoping of course that our dear mother would pass in the meantime. We all know that story. So for ten years the money churned at a rate of about five percent a year. Five years ago, the annual payments of three million hit home, or hit somewhere in Stu’s world. At that moment, the pile was just over thirty-five million. Now, assuming the money is earning only five percent a year, and paying out at three million, then the payments will continue for another fourteen years. Bolton is almost seventy-two. What the hell is an eighty-year-old man going to do with that much cash?”

“I know all this, Rusty.”

“Sure you do. I’m just repeating myself so I can justify taking some of the money now.”

Kirk frowned and looked out the window. “What about Stu?”

“We make him rich. Give him a slice, enough to get a smile, enough to let the old fart quit and go home and water his roses. The conspiracy will take the four of us working together.”

“Diantha?”

“Of course.”

Kirk stood and paced to the door and back, rubbing his jaw with every step. “I had a long talk with her last night. The meeting with the old man was not a good idea. It brought back a lot of old issues that I thought they had resolved. Evidently not. To put it bluntly — she wants some of the money. She figures she’s entitled to it after all these years.”

“How convenient,” Rusty said.

“Whatever. She’s determined and she will not be denied.”

“Great. Let’s cut her in. How do we get Stu to cook the books for us for a change?”

“She thinks it’ll be easy. She thinks Stu might be getting cold feet with all the money he’s hiding and the taxes he’s evading. He even mentioned something about not going to prison on behalf of the old man’s schemes.”

Rusty smiled and said, “I love it. What’s her figure?”

“We’re equal, okay? All four of us. We take a million each to start with, keep it offshore where it’s hiding right now. Next year we take half a million each and leave one mil for the old man. Same for the following year. If it goes well, and there’s no reason it shouldn’t, we’ll split the fees until the payments stop, or until he gets out of prison. We can adjust the distributions any way we like. But we gotta stick together.”

“How do we snooker the old man?”

“Get Stu to dummy up the monthly financials. As long as Bolton’s in prison he won’t know the truth. When he gets out, he’ll certainly cause trouble, but we’ll have the money. What’s he gonna do, sue us for taking fees we’re entitled to?”

Rusty stopped smiling and said, “He’ll evict us from his building.”

“So what? If he does, we’ll go somewhere else, or maybe just shut it all down. That’s not a bad thought. Take a break from the law.”

“While we count our money.”

For the first time in years the Malloy boys enjoyed a moment together. The gorilla in the room had finally gone away. They had confronted Bolton and his monstrous fees, and they were not afraid. Driving home, Kirk was all smiles as he listened to Bach and dreamed of a far more pleasant life away from Chrissy and away from the law.

Rusty decided to hang around the hotel. He’d paid for the room, no sense hustling back home to an empty house. At five he entered the hotel lounge, got a drink at the bar and kept one eye on the door, ready to pounce on the first attractive prospect.

(26)

But Old Stu would have none of it.

He listened somewhat attentively as Diantha walked him through her tortured history with Bolton. She thought she was convincing but his homely old face became stone cold when she broached the subject of money. Damages. Compensation for sexual harassment. Since there was never spare cash lying around the firm, at least not above the table, Old Stu knew immediately that she had her eye on the treasure being accumulated offshore.

She plowed on and explained that the “boys” were getting restless and needed an “increase” in their compensation. He was nonplussed.

She wanted to remind the unlicensed accountant that he was an employee of the firm and could be terminated at any moment for any reason, or no reason at all, but she decided to keep the big arrows in her quiver and fight another day. She would regroup with the partners and plan their next move. The first, at least in her opinion, had been a disaster.

She left Stu’s office on the seventh floor and rode the elevator alone all the way down. She told her secretary to hold all calls and locked herself in her office. She kicked off her heels and stretched out on the sofa. Napping was impossible. The stress was too great. She had failed miserably in her first attempt to convince Stu to join their secret raid on Bolton’s beloved tobacco money. Who would she call first, Kirk or Rusty?

The answer was obvious. Kirk was a buttoned-up office guy who never got his hands dirty. Rusty was a street brawler who knew how to charm and negotiate. If the sweet-talking didn’t work, then he was always ready to twist arms, or kneecap an enemy if necessary. If anyone could bully and threaten Old Stu, it was Rusty Malloy.

Early that morning, Stu had emailed to her, Kirk, and Rusty the previous month’s financials. Things were bleaker than she’d thought. The banks would be calling soon and there would be the usual tense meetings.

She walked to her desk, sat with her feet on it, and studied the financials. Each year, Kirk and Rusty paid themselves $480,000 in salaries, with year-end bonuses based on the firm’s performance. The bonuses, always equal, per Bolton, were hammered out in a closed-door session each year on December 30. It was by far the most dreadful day of the year. Both partners came loaded with endless numbers, and Diantha had to referee. For the past three years, Kirk had raised hell because his side of the firm, the “right side,” had grossed far more than Rusty’s. Rusty fought back with five- and ten-year trends clearly proving that his personal injury practice was far more lucrative than Kirk’s. Only four years ago, his “left side” had doubled the gross revenue from his rival.

That was before he began losing jury trials, and losing big.

Rivals? Why were they rivals and not partners paddling the same boat? Bolton said they had never pulled together. And now the boat was sinking.

If the business continued on course for two more months, there would be no year-end bonuses. Indeed, the gap between revenue and expenses was large enough to require Kirk and Rusty, again bound by a partnership agreement, to step up and cover the deficit, an ugly scene that had never happened before.

It was obvious to Diantha that the only smart moves were to drastically cut expenses, fire associates, get rid of staff, reduce the salaries of the two partners, and somehow convince Rusty to stop taking risky cases. None of which was remotely possible, and she was not about to make suggestions.

As she studied the financials, she asked herself again how a once prosperous firm could work its way into such a mess. She was about to leave for the day and go shopping when her secretary tapped on the door.

A process server was waiting in the lobby, a kid with a hoodie and oversized sneakers. “You Diana Bradshaw?” he asked rudely.

“The name’s Diantha Bradshaw.”

He looked at his paperwork and seemed to struggle with the words. “Right, and you’re the registered agent for Malloy & Malloy, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“I’m a process server for the law firm of Bonnie & Clyde. Here’s a lawsuit we filed two hours ago.”

He handed it over. She took it without saying thanks. The kid disappeared.

Bonnie & Clyde were nothing but trouble. They were perhaps the most famous lawyers in St. Louis and not because of their legal talents. Husband and wife, they had been small-time divorce sloggers out in the suburbs until Clyde settled a tractor-trailer case and netted some money. His wife had always gone by the name of Bonita. Their teenaged son watched too much television and particularly enjoyed the schlocky ads run by personal injury firms. He came up with the idea of renaming his mother and blasting the airwaves with “Bonnie and Clyde” ads that featured them dressed like Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway and holding submachine guns as they shook down slimy insurance executives for mountains of cash that went to their clients. They changed the name of their law firm to Bonnie & Clyde.

At first the local bar was horrified by the ads and sent a letter, but by then lawyer advertising was out of control, and it was protected speech anyway.

The injured clients poured in and Bonnie and Clyde got rich. They expanded their firm, hired a bunch of associates, and became infatuated with billboard advertising.

They had been hired by the parents of Trey Brewster, and they were suing Rusty and the firm for legal malpractice. Ten million compensatory and ten million punitive.

Diantha read the poorly drafted lawsuit and mumbled to herself, “I’d rather have their case than ours.”

(27)

For the dirty work, and there was no small amount of it around any credible personal injury firm, Rusty had several contacts to choose from. The most experienced was an ex-cop named Walt Kemp, an investigator with his own firm of case runners, accident hounds, ambulance chasers, witness locators, and so on. Walt knew the streets and had feelers in many dark places, including prisons.

They met for egg-and-sprat sandwiches at a Russian deli in Dutchtown in the old part of the city. Walt’s nondescript office was around the corner where the rent was cheap.

“I gotta weird one for you,” Rusty said in a low voice.

“Won’t be the first time,” Walt said with a smile as he wiped beer foam off his mustache.

“You know someone at Saliba Correctional?”

“You mean, like your father?”

Rusty coughed up a nervous laugh and said, “Yep, the old man is still there. Anybody else?”

“Inmates or guys with guns?”

“Not inmates. Somebody with authority.”

“Probably. What’s going on?”

“Well, it does involve Bolton. He’s been there for five years and from time to time gets his hands on a cell phone.”

“Not at all unusual. In every prison there’s a huge black market for phones. Along with drugs and pretty much anything else.”

“Right, well, Bolton’s got one now, and to be honest, he’s driving us crazy with it. Can’t seem to keep his nose out of the firm’s business.”

“What are you asking?”

“Drop an anonymous call to prison security, tell them inmate number two-four-eight-eight-one-three has a cell phone. They’ll find it and slam him into solitary for a month. He’s been there before.”

“You want your father in solitary?”

“Just for a month or so. He’s driving us crazy and causing far too much trouble.”

Walt took a bite and started laughing. When he could speak he said, “This is awesome. I love it.”

“Just do it, okay?”

“Sure. Who gets the bill? The firm?”

“Yes, but call it something else. You’ve always been creative when it comes to billing.”

“That’s because I work for a bunch of lawyers.”

“Just get it done. The sooner the better.”

“Right away, boss.”

(28)

One of the most crucial steps in mounting a successful coup was to cut communications. When they confirmed that Bolton was again in solitary confinement, the next step was to neutralize the opponent’s allies. Again, it was up to Rusty.

He barged into the cluttered office of Stuart Broome on the seventh floor, unannounced and ready for battle. Old Stu was caught completely off guard. No appointment had been made. Rusty had not set foot in the office in many months.

“We need to talk,” he said tersely, leaving no alternative.

“Well, good morning, Rusty. What’s the occasion?” Stu said sarcastically as he stepped down from his motionless treadmill.

“The occasion is this, Stu. It’s time for the firm to distribute some of the tobacco money you and Bolton are hoarding offshore. The fees are being paid to the law firm of Malloy & Malloy, a firm that no longer includes our dear father. You have a couple of choices here, Stu, so listen carefully. The first choice is to say no, we can’t have access to the money because you’re loyal to Bolton and not to us, and in that case I’ll fire you immediately and escort you out of the building. I have two security guards in the hallway, armed, I might add, and when you’re fired then you will leave without touching anything on your desk.”

Stu’s face was ashen and he almost gasped. When he spoke his voice was labored and scratchy. “You have guards? It’s come to this?” He made it to his sofa and sat down hard.

“That’s what I said, Stu. Armed guards. Termination without pay or severance, and if you want to sue us then we’ll see you in court. Should be able to keep things tied up for several years while you fork out huge sums of money to your lawyers.”

“What’s the other choice?”

“Play ball with us and get rich. We’re forming a little venture that will be highly profitable for the four limited partners.”

“Four?”

“Me, you, Kirk, and Diantha. Equal partners. We’ll take our share of the tobacco money now and as it comes in.”

“Bolton will kill me, Rusty. And he’ll probably take out you three while he’s at it.”

“Bolton is in solitary confinement right now, Stu. And when he gets out he’ll still have five more years to serve. He thinks he’ll get parole but that won’t happen because he keeps getting caught with contraband and he’s even been accused of bribing guards. Same old Bolton. Right now he can’t touch us. We’re not taking all of his money, so he’ll be a rich man anyway.”

“How much are we taking?”

“A million each up front for starters. Then half a mil each year for a spell. We’ll figure it out later. The money stays offshore so no one knows about it.”

Stu scratched a sagging jaw and looked as if he might cry. He couldn’t hold eye contact and stared sadly at his shoes as he said, “I’ve never been tempted to steal money.”

“Steal!” Rusty roared. “Are you kidding me? This money represents honest legal fees earned by our law firm, a firm that Bolton was forced out of in disgrace when he got himself convicted, disbarred, and sent off to prison. So far he’s been able to bully us and keep us away from the fees, but that game is over. Bolton can’t keep all this money, Stu. Nor can we. What we’re proposing is a fair split of the fees, nothing more or less.”

“But I’m not a lawyer and I can’t split fees.”

“True, but you can damned sure take some bonuses, can’t you?”

Stu liked this and began thinking of the initial installment. He stood and tried in vain to straighten himself, the hump in his back working at odds against his protruding belly. It would have been a pathetic thing to watch but for the smile on his face, a real rarity. In a lighter voice he said, “You know, if you fire me you’ll never find the money.”

Rusty was ready for it and shot back, “You think we’re stupid? We know a firm of forensic accountants often used by the FBI. They could go to the source of the money, the tobacco companies and their insurers, and track it down. The IRS can do the same, if they want to.”

Hemmed in on all fronts, Old Stu grudgingly caved in. “Okay, okay,” he said, raising both hands as if in surrender. “Count me in.”

“Attaboy, Stu. Good move.”

“I can’t believe I’m knifing Bolton in the back. I can never face him again.”

“Maybe you won’t have to. Maybe he’ll serve his time, take his money, what’s left of it, and ride off into the sunset. He has no friends to speak of around here, Stu. You know that.”

“But he thought I was his friend.”

“He used you, Stu, same way he used everyone else in his life. Don’t shed any tears over Bolton Malloy. He’ll be fine. And so will we.”

“I guess we will.”

(29)

Over the next week or so, Stu met separately with each of his three co-conspirators and explained the impenetrable web of offshore bank accounts and shell companies he had established on behalf of Bolton and his tobacco money. They were duly impressed and even flabbergasted at the intricate maze designed to hide it and keep it away from American tax collectors, or those from anywhere else. As if they had rehearsed, all three were adamant in their desire to move “their” money yet again to foreign banks they could deal with privately and directly. Stu felt a bit slighted, as if they couldn’t wait to get the money away from him.

Rusty bolted first. To impress a new girlfriend, he chartered a jet and away they went to the British Virgin Islands where they spent a week in an oceanside villa and lounged by the pool. When she needed time in the spa, he met with his new bankers and verified that the money was in hand. More was on the way, he assured them, and they spent a few pleasant hours devising an investment strategy. With a million in hand and at least half that much due every year, investing was much less complicated.

Late one afternoon, sitting on a shaded terrace with the shimmering indigo ocean around him, and drinking a rum punch, Rusty began to have serious thoughts about quitting the law. He was tired of the pressure, the grind, the hours, the unpleasantness of dealing with his brother, and he was especially tired of getting his ass kicked in the courtroom. He was forty-six years old and wondering if he had peaked at such a young age as a trial lawyer. He had certainly lost his touch with juries. Insurance companies no longer feared him.

Why not take his new money and live a simpler life on a beach?

Diantha and her husband, Jonathan, were not currently living together, but the idea of a trip to Europe sounded good as a way to maybe re-ignite the romance. When the first three days went well and they promised to renew their vows, she finally told him about the new fee-splitting arrangement at Malloy & Malloy. Jonathan was impressed and seemed even more determined to make the marriage work. They met with bankers and planned ways to manage the cash. After a few days in Zurich, they flew to Paris and roamed the streets arm in arm.

Kirk was unable to dash off and check on his new fortune because his wife’s divorce lawyers would soon be picking through his pocket change. Every movement and every expenditure would be subject to their scrutiny. Terrified of leaving a phone, text, or email trail, he finally managed to contact a London banker through an encrypted email account. Once their communications were secure, Kirk moved his money to a British bank domiciled in the Cayman Islands. It would be safe there, regardless of how many lawyers Chrissy hired.

The secret infusion of funds actually emboldened Kirk to attempt to settle the divorce and offer her almost everything they owned, plus reasonable alimony. The child support alone would be brutal, but, after all, they were his kids too and he wanted to provide. However, it became apparent that her lead lawyer, the infamous ball-squeezer Scarlett Ambrose, was out for blood and wanted another trophy victim. She wanted a nasty trial with perhaps some press coverage to further boost her oversized ego. Chrissy seemed to have been thoroughly brainwashed by her manipulative lawyer and would not negotiate. The breakup was caused by the mutual hatred of the parties, not bad behavior by either one. Scarlett, though, needed dirt, and she was unleashing her bloodhounds on Kirk’s finances.

Let them sniff, he said to himself. I have a fresh pile of new money buried under the sandy beaches of the Cayman Islands.

(30)

It was Rusty’s turn for the monthly visit to Saliba Correctional Center. He had made the awful trip at least thirty times in the past five years and dreaded every mile of the journey. He remembered those earlier trips and how his resentment grew the closer he got to the prison. He remembered the struggle to have pity on his father for being imprisoned and wearing fatigues like the common criminals and working for fifty cents an hour in the library and eating wretched food. At the same time he loathed the man for manipulating the lives of so many, especially his two sons. He still chafed at the brutal partnership agreement Bolton had forced Rusty and Kirk to sign, one that bound them together at the hip and forced them to stay together. Most of all, he despised the old man for his greed, his determination to keep all of the tobacco money for his own glorious retirement.

Oddly enough, he did not fault his father for the death of his mother. No one did, really. Rusty and Kirk resented the fact that Bolton had been clumsy enough to get caught and disbarred, and had embarrassed the family and the firm, but no one had missed Tillie, not for a split second.

Today was different. The harsh feelings were gone, because Bolton’s fortune was being distributed to deserving people, and he had not a clue. Rusty was almost looking forward to the visit so he could secretly laugh in the face of the greedy old man. For the first time in his life he was getting the best of his father.

Outside the attorney visitation room, the guard asked the usual question, “Sir, do you have anything to give to the prisoner?”

Rusty handed him a large envelope and said, “The monthly financials, that’s all.”

The guard opened the envelope, removed five sheets of paper covered with numbers, scanned them quickly as if he knew what he was looking at, and placed them back in the envelope. Rusty was amused by this show of security. No one could possibly understand the numbers Old Stu had put together for Bolton this month.

Rusty went inside the booth-like room and took his seat. Ten minutes passed before Bolton emerged on the other side, holding the envelope. He looked tired but managed a smile. They exchanged greetings and Rusty reported that his daughter, and only child, was doing well in boarding school. Her mother, his second wife, had shipped her off years ago.

Bolton said, “I understand Kirk and Chrissy are finally splitting up. How are their children doing?”

Rusty never saw their children and had no idea. Back when he was a free man, Bolton never saw them either. He was asking only to be polite, and Rusty wondered why he even bothered. The Malloy family had never been one to gather by the fire on Christmas Eve and exchange gifts. It was Tillie’s fault. She was a cold, hard woman who’d had little time for her own grandchildren and despised her daughters-in-law.

They talked about the law firm and some new cases that looked promising. Rusty was much more like his father than Kirk was. In his day, Bolton loved to brawl in the courtroom and made his mark in personal injury litigation. He despised lawyers who hid in their offices and never went to court.

“So you’ve lost four in a row,” Bolton said with arched eyebrows.

Rusty shrugged as if it meant nothing. “The nature of the game, Dad, you know that better than most.” It stung but Rusty tried not to show it. To duck another question, Rusty served up one of his own. “How was solitary confinement this time around?”

Bolton opened the envelope and removed the papers. Without looking at Rusty he said, “I can take anything these assholes dish out.”

“I’m sure of that. But why don’t you lay off the cell phones? That’s the third or fourth time you’ve been caught. You can forget about parole with a record like that.”

“Let me worry about parole. Looks like business was good last month. Revenue up, expenses holding steady.”

“Good management,” Rusty quipped. The fact that the old bastard insisted on examining the monthly financials for a firm he would never again be a partner in was maddening. At times he had hinted that he planned to return to Malloy & Malloy in full combat mode and run things just like in the old days; at other times he boasted of taking his money and heading for the islands. The truth was that he was permanently disbarred. Old habits die hard, though, and Bolton had kept his eye on the numbers for over forty years.

If he believed that business was good it was only because Stu had finally been persuaded to cook the books in favor of the partners, as opposed to cooking them for Bolton. Old Stu was now a proud member of the conspiracy, and the financials Bolton was so impressed with were about as accurate as an application for a payday loan.

Bolton put down the papers and said, “I’m asking a favor, Rusty.”

Rusty immediately flinched. “What is it?”

“I want you to support Dan Sturgiss for reelection.”

“He’s a Republican.”

“I know what he is.”

“He’s also an idiot.”

“Who happens to be in office and will likely be reelected.”

“I’ve never voted for a Republican. That’s Kirk’s side of the street.”

“He’s gonna win, Rusty. Hal Hodge is not a strong candidate.”

“Weak or strong, he’s still a Democrat. Where’s this coming from?”

“You boys just don’t get politics, do you? You’re so hung up on who’s a Democrat and who’s a Republican, and you lose sight of the real goal. Winning! It’s much more important to pick the winners, Rusty, regardless of affiliation.”

“I think I’ve heard this before, at least a thousand times.”

“Well, stop hearing and try listening. Sturgiss will win by ten points.”

The old man was usually right and had a knack for not only picking winners but worming his way inside their campaigns right before the voting. Cash didn’t hurt.

Rusty knew exactly where he was headed. He said, “And you’re convinced Sturgiss is your ticket outta here?”

“I’m convinced Hal Hodge is not. I can talk to Sturgiss. As you know, the governor has tremendous influence with the parole board. Let’s get him reelected and I’ll apply for parole.”

Oh, dear Father. If you only knew how many people, including most members of your family, want you to stay here and serve every day of your ten-year sentence.

“I’ll think about it,” Rusty said, to placate the old man. And he certainly would think about it. He would ponder all possibilities to help keep him locked away.

They spent an hour talking about the old days. Bolton was always curious about what happened to the lawyers and especially the judges he had known back in the day. Only a couple bothered to write him a note from time to time, and visits were rare. He felt abandoned by the bar association he had once proudly served as vice president.

But self-pity was not in his genes. He was a tough old guy who was serving time he deserved. If he stayed healthy he would one day walk free with ten to fifteen years in which to raise hell, travel the world, and try his best to spend his fortune.

(31)

The dinner cost $25,000 a plate and was prepared by a hot new Spanish chef Kirk flew in for the occasion. The setting was the handsome lobby of Malloy & Malloy, decorated with enough flowers for a gangster’s funeral. The city’s leading event organizer was in charge and had rented the finest silver, flatware, china, stemware, and table linens. Two well-stocked bars served premium liquors and fine champagne. Waiters in black tie whirled about with trays of raw oysters and caviar. A string quartet played softly in a corner as the guests arrived and milled around.

Kirk had promised Governor Sturgiss a million-dollar fundraiser. He had called in all his chips, twisted the same old weary arms, and worked his impressive Rolodex. The result was a brilliant success. He had sold fifty-six places to the top Republican donors in St. Louis, and the event would net at least 30 percent more than the original goal.

The Sturgiss campaign was thrilled. The race was closer than anyone expected and had not gone as smoothly as four years earlier. Fundraising was lagging, though Hal Hodge was still behind in the money hunt. A million-dollar evening was sorely needed, and once again Kirk Malloy had come through.

He was there, the man of the hour, with his staff but not his wife. He and Chrissy were far beyond public appearances. His crew greeted the guests, chatted with them, laughed at anything remotely funny, drank as much as they wanted, and would recede into the background when the dinner began. The price of a seat was far beyond their pay grade.

Rusty wouldn’t be caught dead at a Republican fundraiser, and Kirk always returned the favor. Diantha, of course, was there because she was such a fixture. She was also there because Rusty would want to know the details. When he hosted political parties at the office, Kirk always wanted the gossip.

She was sipping champagne and trying her best to avoid the most odorous person in the room, an operative named Jack Grimlow, better known as Jackal. She had seen several governors come and go and they all had a drudge like Jackal, a henchman adept at the shadier side of politics. Jackal was the bagman for Sturgiss, his fixer, confidant, dealmaker, conspirator, sounding board, and sometimes leg-breaker. Diantha loathed the man because he was so repugnant, and he was also aggressive with women. He touched far too much. His was a position of power and it was well known that the Jackal was always on the prowl. He finally caught her at the bar and she managed to keep her distance. They talked about the race ad nauseam, then he surprised her by asking if she’d seen Bolton lately.

She lied and said she had not. For fun she said, “I hear he and the governor talk occasionally.” She had heard nothing of the sort.

Jackal laughed, he was always laughing, and replied, “Seems like I do recall the gov saying something about a chat with Bolton.”

“They’ve caught him several times with contraband cell phones.”

“Sounds just like Bolton, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

The headwaiter tapped a spoon to a glass and called everyone to order. Kirk proudly stepped forward and welcomed his guests. He thanked them for their generosity, promised a delicious meal, as well as a small number of short speeches, and asked everyone to find their place.

Dinner for the elites was served.

(32)

A week later, Rusty was working from home on a Tuesday because Kirk was in the office. Even though flush with hidden cash, the brothers simply could not let go of their past, or their present for that matter.

Walt Kemp called and said they should meet for lunch. He wouldn’t give a reason but said it was important. Of course it was. They’d met for lunch maybe three times in the past ten years, so something was up. Rusty drove to the same Russian deli in Dutchtown, where he found Walt at the same table. They enjoyed the same egg-and-sprat sandwiches with Czech pilsner. Halfway through, Walt finally got around to business.

“So we got hired to watch another cheating husband, big divorce case. Ever hear of a guy named Jack Grimlow?”

“I know him.” Rusty nodded with a smug smile. “Sleazy political operative, works for the governor. Nicknamed Jackal.”

“Figured you’d know him. He runs the gals pretty hard and his wife is fed up. He doesn’t know it yet but she’s hired some really sharp divorce lawyers and they’re watching every move. We got the call, liked the money, and are now involved. Jackal’s got at least two full-time girlfriends and hits on everything else. A busy boy. His wife’ll pop him soon enough and he won’t know what hit him.”

“Terribly interesting and I wish him nothing but bad luck, but why am I hearing this?”

“Hang on. We couldn’t pick up his trail online or with his phones, so we hired some hackers to take a look.”

“That’s illegal in at least fifty states.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lawyer. We know that and we’re not stupid. The hackers, shall we say, are not U.S. citizens and work from the safety of Eastern Europe. They’re quite good, almost got caught when they went trolling through the CIA’s super-safe, hacker-proof systems about five years ago. You remember that?”

“No, and I’m barely hanging on here.”

“Almost there, Rusty, and it’ll be worth it. So, we’re watching Jackal’s secret emails and tracking him as he bed-hops around the state, always on official business following the governor around. Seems like the gov, too, likes an occasional frolic and Jackal can always arrange things.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Got the proof, but I digress. Anyway, we found some emails that were unrelated to women but directly related to a scheme of selling pardons.”

“Sturgiss is selling pardons?”

“Don’t be surprised. It’s happened before in other states, not recently and not very often, but it has happened. The governor has an absolute right to pardon anybody convicted of a state crime, and that could be worth some money.” Kemp drained his beer and wiped his mustache. “Now, you gotta figure that since most guys in prison don’t have a dime and they come from low-income families, the customer base for selling pardons is quite small.”

“That’s pretty obvious.”

“But, for someone who understands politics and whose family can put together some cash, it might work.”

“I’m following.”

“You also gotta figure that Sturgiss is not a wealthy man and will leave office now or in four years without a lot of assets. Why not make some easy bucks, sign your name a few times, sell some pardons, take the cash and bury it somewhere? With an operator like Jackal doing the dirty work, it’s a piece of cake.”

“I think I know where this is going.”

Kemp looked at his empty plate and then looked at Rusty’s. “You finished?”

“I am now.”

Kemp glanced around and almost whispered, “Good. Let’s walk to my office around the corner and I’ll show you an email that might interest you.”

“I can’t wait.”

Kemp’s office was an old store on a street lined with the same. It had been gutted and refurbished. With its worn pine floors, brick walls, and high ceilings, it was more attractive than Rusty expected. They walked into a long conference room with wide screens on both ends. Kemp opened a laptop, scrolled and pecked, found what he wanted and looked at one of the big screens.

He said, “This is an email Jackal received on one of his hidden accounts, three weeks ago. His address is MoRam7878@yahoo.com. The sender is RxDung22steele@windmail.com. Have no idea who the sender really is.”

Rusty gawked at the screen and slowly read the email: “Eyeballs with BM at Saliba CC, confirmed agreement at two mil, full and complete, done after January.”

He was silent for a moment as the reality hit. Kemp finally said, “There are eighteen hundred inmates at Saliba, don’t know how many could be BM, but only a handful. The way I read it, the sender met with Bolton in prison and cut a deal for a full and complete pardon, in January, for two million dollars.”

“January would be after the inauguration, assuming Sturgiss gets reelected. Any follow-up after this email?”

“No, at least not on any of the accounts we’ve discovered. Jackal is a smart guy and stays away from email and texts as much as possible. He carries at least three phones in his pockets and he’s always talking to someone, but from what we gather he tries to avoid leaving trails.”

Rusty shook his head and walked around the conference table. From the far end he asked, “Any indication that anybody else knows about this?”

“Like who?”

“Like the FBI.”

“No, none at all. This is collateral damage. We were looking for sex, remember? That’s all we’re getting paid to do. We stumbled onto this.”

“What will you do with it?”

“Absolutely nothing. We’re not getting involved. I’m showing it to you because it’s your old man and you’re my client. And besides, if we took this to the FBI they’d probably bust us for hacking. No sir, we know nothing.”

Rusty walked to within two feet of Kemp, pointed a finger, and said, “Walt, as far as you and I are concerned, I never saw this email. Okay?”

“You got it.”

He punched a remote and the screen went black.

(33)

About half of the seventh floor of the Malloy building was occupied at the time. The remaining spaces were either awaiting new tenants or being renovated by those who’d already signed leases. Rusty found a small empty office suite last used by an insurance broker. The utilities were on, and most of the furniture was gone. He moved a table and pulled together some folding chairs. No one would ever find them up here. Old Stu was far down the hall and rarely came out.

Diantha approached the meeting with uneasiness and concern. Nothing about it added up. First, Rusty and Kirk were almost never together in the same room. Second, to her knowledge they had never held a meeting on the seventh floor. Third, her little phone chat with Rusty had been cryptic and suspicious enough to set off alarms. He had ducked all of her questions.

They were seated in the room when she arrived, and a quick glance at both of them was cause for even more concern. They had been raised with money and status and had never lacked confidence. They were at times arrogant and condescending. They believed they were a notch above everyone else and expected to get their way, and from their father they had inherited a fearlessness that often bordered on bullying.

One look at them now and it was clear that they were troubled, even frightened. She had never seen them so rattled. There were no greetings. She sat down and pulled over another folding chair for her substantial handbag. She removed her cell phone, turned off the ringer, and placed it by the handbag. Neither Rusty nor Kirk could see her cell phone or were the least bit interested in it.

For reasons she would never fully comprehend, she casually picked up her phone as if to check messages, tapped the Voice Memos app, then tapped the Record button. She put the phone down and glanced at Rusty. His cell phone was on the table.

The deft maneuver, made with no forethought or purpose, would profoundly impact the rest of her life and the lives of so many she knew well.

Kirk looked at her and said, “We’re here because the governor has evidently decided to sell some pardons and Bolton has agreed to purchase one for two million dollars.”

She stifled a gasp but couldn’t keep her mouth closed. She rocked back as if hit with something and repeated the words in a mumble. She looked at Kirk but there was no eye contact. She looked at Rusty and he was nervously chewing a fingernail.

He said, “The deal is being handled by Jackal, no surprise there. A private investigator I know came across some of Jackal’s secret emails. I saw one that confirmed the bribe. Two mil for a full and complete pardon in January. Looks like the deal’s been cut.”

She breathed hard and gawked at both of them. “Okay, is anybody with a badge in on the plot?”

“No, don’t think so. My contact has told no one and will stay quiet. Doesn’t want to get involved, doesn’t want the attention.”

“I’m somewhat surprised at Dan Sturgiss. Had him pegged for a stand-up guy.”

“He’s broke,” Kirk said. “And his campaign needs cash.”

Rusty said, “And he also listens to Jackal, who’d steal from his grandmother. Bolton’s playing them like a fiddle. He’ll be out before we know it.”

All three took a deep breath and considered that awful scenario. Diantha glanced down at her cell phone. One minute, 52 seconds of a recorded conversation that could roil the state in an unprecedented scandal. What would it mean for her? Should she turn off the recorder? Should she leave the room? Her mind was whirling and her thoughts were muddled.

Kirk cleared his parched throat and said, “We all know what’s at stake here. If Bolton walks he’ll find out immediately that a chunk of his offshore money is missing. We’ll have to confess, there’s no hiding it. He’ll go nuts on us and evict the law firm from this building. Malloy & Malloy will be history. He’ll hire some tough lawyers and come after us with brutal litigation to recover his money. And he’ll likely win in court. And, Bolton being Bolton and a disciple of the scorched-earth theory, he’ll probably go to the U.S. Attorney and demand a criminal investigation.”

“Is that all?” Diantha asked, as a knot the size of a softball clotted in her bowels.

“That’s all I can think of right now. Give me some time.”

Rusty was frowning hard. “I’m not sure he’d go so far as to hound us with criminal charges, but nothing would surprise me.”

“Eviction?” she asked.

“It’s in the lease,” Kirk said. “I reread it an hour ago. He owns the building and he can order his old law firm out in ten days. The rest of the tenants get thirty days and there must be good cause. Not so for Malloy & Malloy.”

Rusty said, “Eviction will be the first step. Then the lawsuits. And it will not be possible to keep it quiet. Front-page news again as the Malloys slug it out.”

Kirk said, “I can see the headline. ‘Malloy Brothers Accused of Fleecing Firm While Father Sits in Prison.’ ”

Diantha said, “Hang on. When we all agreed to take some of the money, we felt as though we were entitled to it. Legitimate legal fees, earned by Malloy & Malloy, right? And Bolton is no longer a member of the firm.”

Kirk was shaking his head. “That sounds good in theory, but the truth is that the fees were earned entirely by the old man. We were all opposed to the tobacco litigation, as he has reminded us often enough, and once the tide turned he kept the file to himself. He never talked about it, mainly because he didn’t want Tillie to know.”

Rusty said, “And don’t forget that damned partnership agreement. Signed the day before he left for prison. We agreed not to touch the tobacco money. I’m not sure that section is enforceable, but you can bet he’ll use it like an assault weapon.”

A long, heavy pause ensued as the three tried to absorb the unfathomable. Finally Diantha said, “I’m not so sure he’ll fight over the money. He still has plenty of it and there’s more on the way. A big fight will bring a lot of unwanted attention, and the offshore business could be discovered. Talk about messy. Bolton is in the middle of some serious tax evasion here and it could land him in a slammer where bribes don’t work.”

“Good point,” Kirk said.

Rusty was shaking his head again. “The problem is that we can’t predict the unintended consequences. We don’t know what Bolton will do, and there will be no way to control him. I for one cannot believe that he’ll take this without a big fight.”

“Agreed,” Kirk said. “He’ll come out swinging and then start throwing bombs.”

Diantha said, “Okay, but this is a bribery scheme involving Bolton and Governor Sturgiss, right? We have nothing to do with it. What if we play the role of the good citizen and tip the FBI? It’ll be a huge scandal, a tsunami, but we’ll go untouched. Sturgiss goes down, gets his just rewards. Bolton gets ten more years and dies in prison. The money’s ours.”

Rusty kept frowning. “Sounds good but it won’t work. Any criminal investigation into Bolton Malloy will eventually lead to the offshore money. At that point we’re all screwed.”

Kirk and Diantha exchanged glances with raised eyebrows, as if to say, This guy is quicker than we are. Thinks like a crook. Glad he’s on our side.

Rusty cracked his knuckles and raked his fingers through his hair. They could almost hear him thinking. Then he said, “Here’s an idea that’ll work and everything will be kept quiet. Plus, Bolton will stay where he is. Let’s go to Jackal and tell him we know about the bribery scam with the old man. Since they want a bribe, we’ll give ’em one. We’ll pay two-point-five million to keep Bolton where he is for the rest of his sentence. Sturgiss gets his money plus a little extra. We keep the bulk of ours. Bolton is told the deal is off and he’ll think Sturgiss got cold feet.”

Now Kirk’s jaw dropped. “You want to bribe the governor to keep Bolton in prison?”

“I thought I was fairly plain. Did you get it, Diantha?”

“I did. I’m speechless.”

“Tell me why it won’t work,” Rusty said with a nasty grin.

They were indeed speechless. Kirk leaned back in his chair and glared at the ceiling as if searching for an answer up there. Diantha pinched the bridge of her nose and felt a headache roaring in from the back of her neck. Then she remembered her cell phone. The recording was now at 22 minutes, 46 seconds, and counting, and it had scooped up a conversation that could land all three of them in prison with Bolton.

It was imperative that she now play defense. “I’m not so sure about it,” she said.

Rusty said, “It’s beautiful. The more I think about it, the more perfect it becomes. Five more years with Bolton locked away and we’ll have most of the tobacco money.”

Diantha asked, “What if Jackal says no?”

“Then we tell him we’re going to the FBI. He’ll back down. I can handle that clown.”

Kirk chuckled at first, then began laughing. “It’ll work. Jackal will grab it because it’s more money but also, and more important, there’s no crime. Think about it! Selling a pardon is obviously a crime. But taking a bribe to do... what? Not sell a pardon? It’s never been heard of.”

Rusty was revved up and kept going. “You can’t find a statute in any state that makes it illegal to not sell a pardon. It’s beautiful.”

Diantha glanced down: 24 minutes, 19 seconds, and counting and getting deeper. To save her neck, she said firmly, “I’m not in, boys. I don’t like it and I disagree. There’s got to be something illegal about it.”

“Come on, Diantha,” Kirk said. “We’re all in this together, aren’t we?”

“Hell no. We’re all splitting the tobacco money because we’re entitled to a portion of it. This is something different. You guys are on your own here.”

She grabbed the cell phone, dumped it into her handbag, rose dramatically, stood without a word, and left the room. She practically sprinted to the elevator and expected one of them to call her name. She ducked into the stairwell and was halfway between the fifth and sixth floors when she stopped to catch her breath. She pulled out her cell phone and turned off the recorder: 26 minutes, 27 seconds.

Now what was she supposed to do with it?

(34)

Mimi walks to a large window and gazes at the traffic below. It has been a long session, almost ninety minutes, and she is in no hurry because her patient has not been this fragile in many years. Mimi crosses her arms, speaks casually to the glass. “You don’t trust them now, do you?”

The answer is slow and deliberate. “No.”

“Have you ever trusted them?”

“I think so. We’ve worked together for eighteen years, got off to a rough start and all, but over time we came to respect each other. Now, though, their worlds are unraveling and they’re under pressure. Their problems are self-imposed but then most are, aren’t they?”

“Have they ever engaged in criminal conduct before?”

“Not to my knowledge. They may have danced around some campaign finance laws, something they learned from their father, but I have no direct knowledge of it. As I said, they believe they are committing no crime if they pursue this plan.”

“And you’re a lawyer. What’s your opinion?”

“It’s bribery, plain and simple, and I can’t believe they feel otherwise. They’re very bright and they know it’s illegal.”

Mimi turns and leans against the glass, arms still crossed. She looks at Diantha, who’s lying on the couch, heels off, eyes closed. Mimi says, “It seems to me that you’re in a dangerous predicament. Are you afraid?”

“Yes, very. There are too many crooks involved and something will go wrong. When that happens, no one knows who’ll get caught in the crossfire.”

“You’ve got to protect yourself. And trust no one.”

“There’s no one to trust.”

(35)

Of the many lawyers currently working in the office of the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of Missouri, Diantha knew only one. She had served on a committee honoring “Women in the Law” with Adrian Reece, a career prosecutor known for her tenacity in going after sex traffickers. They kept in touch and enjoyed long lunches in which they happily bitched about the clumsy antics of their male counterparts.

Diantha called and immediately had Adrian on the phone. She said they had to meet as soon as possible. She had adjusted her afternoon schedule and leaned on Adrian to do the same. Two hours later, they met at a busy shopping center, in an ice-cream parlor with a rowdy birthday party in one corner. The racket provided excellent cover.

Over stale coffee, Diantha handed over a letter she’d addressed to the Honorable Houston Doyle, U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District. She nodded and said, “Please read it.”

Adrian looked puzzled but adjusted her reading glasses.

Adrian glanced around and said, “You’re not joking.”

“Of course not. How soon can you have this in Doyle’s hands?”

Adrian glanced at her watch, though she knew what time it was. “I saw him this morning so he’s in town. How urgent is this?”

“Very. The election is almost here.”

Adrian considered this and seemed somewhat dazed. “Selling pardons? It’s just, so, old-fashioned, you know?”

“Wait till you hear the rest of the story.”

(36)

In an office overwhelmed with modern variants of bad behavior — cybercrime, terror cells, meth labs, narco-trafficking, kiddie porn, hate groups, insider trading, credit card fraud, online piracy, and Russian hacking, to cite a few examples — the idea of a governor selling pardons was indeed old-fashioned. So simple, so low-tech, so nostalgic. And so irresistible that Houston Doyle dropped everything else on his jam-packed daily planner to welcome the Honorable Diantha Bradshaw into his huge and imposing office in the Thomas F. Eagleton U.S. Courthouse, four blocks from Malloy & Malloy.

He was appointed by a Democratic administration. Sturgiss was a Republican. Not that it mattered. Catching a governor from either party was an idea so delicious that Doyle couldn’t believe his good fortune. The publicity would dwarf every other case already on his crowded docket and any that could possibly arrive later.

Diantha and Adrian sat on one side of the rich mahogany table, courtesy of the taxpayers. Doyle sat on the other side next to Foley, a ranking agent of some variety from the FBI. They hurried through the necessary chitchat and got down to business.

“Who is Stuart Broome?” asked Doyle, holding the immunity agreement.

Diantha said, “He’s the in-house accountant for Malloy & Malloy. Confidant of Bolton, longtime master of creative bookkeeping, knows everything about hiding money in places most travel magazines have never heard of.”

“And why do you want immunity for him as well?”

“Because he’s an employee of the firm who’s always done what his boss told him to do. Because he’s my friend. Because he’s not guilty, and even if he has done something wrong it’s because Bolton told him to. If he doesn’t get immunity, then no deal.” She could push as hard as she wanted because Doyle badly wanted a governor.

“Very well. I’ve reviewed your agreement with our people and it’s in order.” Doyle signed it, slid it across, and Diantha signed it as well.

Doyle struggled to contain his eagerness. He smiled and said, “Now, let’s hear the recording.”

Diantha pulled out her cell phone, placed it in the center of the table, and tapped it. The three voices were quite clear.

Since she had listened to it twice, she knew every word, but sharing it with the U.S. Attorney and the FBI was another matter. She had almost convinced herself that she was not stabbing old friends in the back, that her actions were reasonable and justified in light of what the old friends were up to. She had the right to protect herself, and Stu, from consequences that were thoroughly unpredictable. But reality hit hard as she listened to the voices she knew so well. She was ratting them out, and their lives would never be the same. Nor would hers. She was hit with a wave of guilt and kept telling herself to be strong.

Doyle listened with his eyes closed, as if hanging on every word. Foley tried to take notes but gave up halfway through.

At the end, Diantha did a convincing job of walking away from the plot and staying innocent. When she stopped the recording, Doyle asked, “Any indication that the money has changed hands?”

“There has been no exchange. Stu Broome would know it.”

“And you’re convinced these guys are serious about bribing the governor not to pardon their father?”

“Yes, and I’m even more convinced that Bolton would try to bribe his way out of prison. I’m a little surprised at Kirk and Rusty, but then they’re under a lot of pressure. The money has changed everything.”

“Do you know how much Bolton has?”

“Roughly. His payout from the tobacco settlement is three million a year and it began five years ago. They run a fraction of it through the firm to make things seem legit, but the vast majority of the money is hidden offshore in various tax havens. Mr. Broome knows where it is.”

Foley needed to appear involved, so he said, “Three million bucks a year. For how many years?”

“Depends on how much it’s earning, but at least twelve years, maybe more.”

“And these fees are not unusual in your business?”

“I didn’t say that. The tobacco settlement was a historic bonanza for trial lawyers, but there have been others. Bolton just got lucky and signed on early.”

Doyle waved him off and said, “Let’s save this for later. The pressing issue is approval from Washington. We need to move fast. I assume the Malloys will be meeting with Jackal in the near future.”

“That’s a good assumption,” Diantha said. “How will I know what’s going on?”

“Well, we can’t let you in on the investigation, but you can call me anytime. Or Adrian here. I’ll keep her posted. I suggest you return to the firm and act as though nothing is going on.”

Foley said, “But be careful what you say because we’ll be listening.”

“Got it.”

(37)

The enthusiasm for nabbing a felonious governor, especially a Republican, was shared by those who mattered in Washington. Emergency meetings were thrown together at the Justice Department and the FBI headquarters in the Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue. The Attorney General and the FBI director signed on quickly and fired off orders to Missouri. Important men in dark suits left D.C. on a private jet and headed to St. Louis. By 10:00 p.m. search warrants had been issued and surveillance plans were coming together.

Jackal’s three cell phones were tapped, along with those of Rusty and Kirk. Bugs were installed throughout the law firm and the offices of the Sturgiss reelection campaign. Warrants allowed the FBI to monitor the emails of the players. It took an FBI hacker four hours to track down Jackal’s secret addresses. When everyone was in place, they waited.

But not for long. As Diantha predicted, Kirk made contact with Jackal. Rusty played the other side of the street and loathed getting near Sturgiss and his gang. The call went from Kirk’s cell to one of Jackal’s, and since both used the same service provider the eavesdropping was even easier. Not surprisingly, they agreed to meet over lunch the next day at a suburban country club, far away from downtown. It was one of Kirk’s clubs and he knew most of the men who hung around during the day, waiting for golf or happy hour. Familiar turf, and if strangers were lurking he would notice them. He also liked the idea of lunching and being seen with someone so close to the governor.

After the club’s general manager was served with a search warrant and its attorney arrived to look it over, the FBI descended on the place. There were three dining rooms available for lunch. Mr. Malloy preferred the Mens Grille, near the pro shop. Women were still excluded from the area. There was also the Banquet Room, which was fancier, and the FBI suggested that it should be closed the following day due to problems with the ovens. The GM at first objected, but fell in line quickly when reminded by the lawyer that the club would cooperate fully. The third dining room was called the Patio, and Mr. Malloy had been known to eat there, though not nearly as often as his wife.

At nine the following morning, Kirk’s secretary called to reserve a table for two in the Mens Grille. It was then temporarily closed for an hour, due to plumbing issues, while a team of FBI technicians bugged two tables the general manager selected. When Kirk arrived at noon and parked near the pro shop, no less than eight FBI agents were watching and filming his every move. Same for Jackal, who appeared five minutes later. When they were shown to their table, two hidden cameras recorded their hearty greetings.

Of the ten tables in the grill, eight were occupied. The staff had been warned to carry on as if nothing was unusual.

A federal grand jury soon heard the entire conversation. The indictable portion was:

KIRK: So we know about the plan to spring our father in January, after some funds change hands.

JACK: [Laughs.] Oh really. Not sure what you’re talking about.

KIRK: Come on, Jack. We’re in the loop. Two mil for a full and complete pardon.

JACK: [After a long pause.] Well, well, I must say I am surprised. I guess Bolton decided to include his boys.

KIRK: Not at all. Bolton has said nothing about it. We picked it up from another source, verified with an email from one of your secret accounts, which really isn’t that secure so you should be more careful, Jack. We know the deal is going down and Bolton plans to walk in January. Not sure where the two mil goes but I guess that’s none of our business. So cut the crap and talk to me face-to-face with no bullshit, because we know.

JACK: You gotta problem with the deal?

KIRK: A major problem. Our lives are much less complicated without Bolton sticking his nose into the firm’s business. He got only ten years, a rather light sentence for disposing of our mother. He deserved twenty. Bottom line, Jack, is that he’s served five years and a pardon now will cause a major shit storm that Sturgiss can’t survive.

JACK: [A grunt, a fake laugh.] Sturgiss won’t care once he’s reelected. He can’t run again after four more years. He couldn’t care less about what the wacky newspapers say.

KIRK: Okay, okay, let’s not argue politics. My point is that we are opposed to a pardon.

JACK: [Another laugh.] Let me get this straight. You want to keep your old man in prison. Right?

KIRK: Yes, that’s correct. And we’re willing to pay.

JACK: [Laughs some more. Takes a long pause.] Gotta say, Kirk, this is a new one. I just thought I’d seen it all. [Another pause.] So, uh, now that we’re in a bidding war with Malloys on opposite sides, how much are you willing to pay?

KIRK: Two point five.

JACK: [Whistles.] Okay. Plain enough. Two point five to forget the pardon and keep the ole boy behind bars.”

KIRK: “That’s it. And the gov gets the added benefit of not breaking the law. He’s not selling a pardon.

JACK: The governor is not involved, Kirk.

KIRK: No of course not.

JACK: I’ll uh, discuss it with the committee and get back. Time is of the essence. What if I pop by your office tomorrow?

KIRK: That’ll work. I’ll be in.

The following day, the FBI trailed Jackal as he was driven, in a black SUV registered to the campaign, from its headquarters to the Malloy building. He got out on the sidewalk, never bothered to look around, and went in through the front door. Most thugs engaged in a criminal enterprise would at least glance at the surroundings, but Jackal had far too much experience to appear ill at ease.

There were no FBI agents inside the firm because it was deemed too risky, but Kirk’s office, as well as the three conference rooms in his suite, were filled with enough bugs to start a plague. Two vans filled with technicians and listening devices were parked at the curb.

Six days later, the grand jury would hear the second conversation.

Again, the indictable portion was:

KIRK: Have a seat.

JACK: No thanks. This won’t take but a second. The committee met last night to consider your bid and decided it’s a tad low. The price is three mil. Half now, as soon as possible, for the campaign, payable to our PAC, all nice and clean. The other half is due in January, and we’ll handle it offshore.

KIRK: [Grunts.] Why am I not surprised? You guys raise the price for all your pardons.

JACK: It’s not a pardon. It’s a non-pardon. In or out?

KIRK: [A long pause.] Okay. okay. We can do three.

JACK: And there’s the small matter of my broker’s fee. Two-fifty, payable up front, offshore.

KIRK: Of course. Anybody else?

JACK: Here are the wiring instructions. Keep this close. No paperwork anywhere, no emails, texts, cell phone calls. Everything leaves a trail.

KIRK: That’s what they say.

Jackal was trailed back to the campaign headquarters. An hour later, Kirk called Rusty at home and replayed the conversation. They cursed the governor and Jackal, and struggled with their next move. Neither wanted to pay the bribe, but the thought of Bolton out of prison and on the loose was beyond unsettling. Finally, they agreed to move forward. Kirk would ride to the seventh floor, have a chat with Old Stu, give him the wiring instructions, and start the ball rolling.

The conversation was eavesdropped and recorded. When Kirk entered Old Stu’s office, every sound was scooped up by the bugs. Stu played along, took the wiring instructions, made a copy for the FBI, and promised to start the two wires: the first to the campaign for $1.5 million, and the second to a numbered Swiss account for $250,000.

Kirk had serious doubts if anyone with the campaign, including Sturgiss himself, knew of Jackal’s “brokerage commission.”

He left the firm for lunch and went to the extended-stay hotel suite he was renting by the month. He’d been there for two weeks and was already tired of the place. As cramped as it was, he was delighted to be out of his house and away from Chrissy.

He stood in a hot shower for a long time, trying to wash away the grime and filth of dirty politics.

(38)

Diantha met Adrian Reece after work in a wine bar near Washington University. They ordered a half-bottle of a Riesling and retired to a dark corner. Diantha had resisted the temptation to call Houston Doyle directly because she knew he was a busy man and wouldn’t divulge much.

Adrian was cautious with her update. The surveillance had worked beautifully. The three conspirators had said more than enough to get themselves indicted. The grand jury would see the case in three days and everyone expected formal charges. Governor Sturgiss would be investigated soon after the election. Word had come from the highest places in Washington that Sturgiss would not be charged with anything until well after the votes were counted. When and if he were charged, he would be presumed innocent and entitled to a fair trial. A quick indictment just before the election smacked of raw politics, and the Attorney General said no.

Early the next morning, Diantha called both partners at home and said that a meeting of the three was imperative. Rusty declined because it was a Tuesday, a day he avoided the office and his brother. She knew that but didn’t care. The meeting was necessary, even urgent. Be in her office at noon.

Diantha assumed that the surveillance extended to her private spaces as well — office, phones, computers — and that was okay with her. The meeting had nothing to do with any illegal activity Kirk and Rusty were cooking up. The meeting was long overdue and she was on a mission.

When they arrived, in various stages of belligerence, she began pleasantly with “This is unfinished business from many years ago, and if you don’t do what I ask then I’m walking out the door. I have my letter of resignation prepared and I’m ready to go. As we know, I’ll take a lot of valuable information with me.”

That startled them enough to get their complete attention. They gawked at her as she picked up a document and said, “This is a new partnership agreement that will go into effect today and shift around the ownership of this law firm. I’m joining as a full equity partner, with equal rights. That’ll make three of us.”

“You’re asking for a third?” Kirk asked.

“Yes.”

Rusty appeared confused and said, “Okay, but an equity deal means you have to buy into the firm. If you want to own a piece, then you have to pay for it.”

“I know how it works, Rusty. I can argue that I’ve already bought my ownership here because I should’ve been made a partner years ago, and because I’ve been kept on an employee’s salary for far too long, and because I have not been allowed to share in the profits, and because I paid dearly a long time ago when I was sexually harassed and abused by Bolton, and thanks to your own dysfunctional relationship with each other I’ve been the de facto managing partner for years, and the MP in any firm has an equitable stake.”

They took this like a slap in the face and both seemed unable to breathe. Rusty finally caught his breath and said, “But a full third?”

“A third of what?” she demanded, ready to pounce on a question she knew was coming. “Right now a third of this firm is not worth much. With our rising debts, bloated overhead, plummeting revenues, and lack of success in the courtroom, this is not exactly an attractive asset.”

“We’ll bounce back,” Rusty said, but only to defend his turf.

“Maybe,” she said. “And when we do I want a third of the net profits.”

“What about the tobacco money?” Kirk asked.

“We have a deal in place for that money. The four of us. This deal is about the law firm of Malloy & Malloy and who owns it. I should’ve been cut in as partner years ago. Take it or leave it, fellas. I’m not negotiating.”

Rusty said, “Well, can we at least read it first?”

“Sure.” She handed both a copy, and of course each tried to finish first. Kirk said, “You cut out the language that prohibited us from hitting the tobacco money.”

“Yes, I thought that was a nice touch. This agreement, fellas, is for a future with no Bolton Malloy in it.”

Rusty tossed his copy on the table and said, “I’m in.” Both signed and gave her a hug.

If you boys only knew, she thought to herself as they left her office.

(39)

The grand jury was confused by the facts and the charges and wrestled with the case for over two hours. It was difficult to believe that the Malloy brothers were willing to spend such a huge sum of money to keep their father in prison. Houston Doyle handled the case himself and patiently explained that first, the firm and its partners were quite wealthy, and, second, the elder Bolton was well along in his bribery scheme to free himself. Doyle was forced to present the theory that the boys missed their mother and held a grudge against their father.

A majority of the jurors were appalled at the thought of their governor being on the take and wanted to indict him as well, forget the election. Doyle assured them that an investigation was underway and the FBI was watching Sturgiss. His day of reckoning would come.

In the end, they returned indictments against Kirk, Rusty, and Jack Grimlow. One count of conspiring to bribe a public official, a Class E felony with a maximum penalty of four years in prison and a $10,000 fine.

Adrian Reece called Diantha that night with the news and asked her to avoid the office the following morning. Stay at home, don’t answer the phone, and watch the news.

At 3:10 in the morning, Rusty’s cell phone beeped and he snatched it off the night table. A vaguely familiar voice said, “Rusty, this is an old pal. The FBI has a warrant for your arrest and they’re coming to your office this morning. Something about bribery.” Before Rusty could say a word, the caller was gone. The line dead.

He sat in the dark for several minutes and tried to gather his thoughts but it was impossible. He threw on a jogging suit and sneakers, tossed some toothpaste in his travel kit, grabbed as much cash as he could find, and went downstairs without turning on any lights. He eased out back, got into his Ford SUV, and quietly left the neighborhood.

The FBI had listened to the call, had stuck a tracking device to his fuel tank, and was watching him as he thought he was making an escape. Rusty was approaching a thoroughfare when blue lights appeared from everywhere.

For Kirk, a Friday morning meant a day away from the office. He had planned to work in his hotel suite for a few hours, then make another painful visit to see his divorce lawyer. Such a visit, though, would seem like a trip to the ice-cream parlor compared to what was about to happen.

At 7:00 a.m., there was an abrupt knock on his door. It did not sound like housekeeping, and certainly not at that hour. He stepped to the door and asked, “Who is it?”

The response buckled his knees. “FBI! Open up. And we’re armed.”

Jackal was in Kansas City with the governor, campaigning hard with just days to go. He was dragged out of a hotel room before dawn and marched through the lobby. Thankfully, it was empty. An aide sent word to Governor Sturgiss.

By 9:00 a.m., word of the arrests had been leaked to the press and reporters appeared at the Malloy building and also at the jail. When the first bits of information hit the internet half an hour later, Diantha was waiting nervously on the sofa and staring at her laptop. By 10:00 a.m., the story not only had legs but was raging through the cyber world. A local TV station broke for news and weather at 10:00, and there were the first photos of the defendants, or at least two of them. The Malloy brothers in mug shots. As the story grew, Diantha’s phone vibrated nonstop.

At 11:00, she instructed her secretary to tell all employees of the firm to go home and lock the doors. She was not coming in. She called Old Stu to check on him and he said he was happily missing the show downstairs, said he was all wrapped up in some new accounting rules for deferred depreciation.

At noon, Houston Doyle held a press conference to chat about the case. Reporters assaulted him with questions about Governor Sturgiss, who, obviously, had not been charged with anything, but it wasn’t difficult to add two and two and get four. The alleged crimes involved a public official. Jack Grimlow worked exclusively for the governor. Doyle maintained a solid wall of nondisclosure and would not implicate the governor in any way. More than once, though, he said that the investigation was ongoing and he expected more charges. That drove the reporters crazy.

At 2:00 p.m., away from the stampede of reporters, Rusty and Kirk appeared via remote cameras in front of a federal magistrate. They had not had time to retain counsel, though both were busy trying to do so. They were being held separately and could not compare notes or give each other advice. Rusty requested a reasonable bond but the government objected pending a more thorough hearing. The assistant U.S. Attorney described both men as having access to money and owning vacation homes. Thus they, at least for the time being, should be considered flight risks. It was also noted that just three weeks earlier, Rusty Malloy had chartered a private jet for a vacation in the Caribbean.

The fact that the government knew this stunned Rusty because it proved that the FBI had been digging through his life for some time.

The magistrate, a man Rusty knew on a first-name basis, did not buy the flight risk argument, but was not ready to set a bond either. He ordered a bail hearing for 9:00 a.m. Monday.

Barring some slick end run by a defense lawyer, the Malloy brothers would spend the weekend in jail.

(40)

The slickest defender in town was F. Ray Zalinski, a white-collar-crime specialist Rusty had known for years. F. Ray had begun the day in federal court in Columbia, but upon hearing the news raced back home to St. Louis. At 2:45, he finally made it to the jail and was taken to an attorney conference room where he waited half an hour for his client. Rusty eventually arrived in handcuffs and a faded, oversized orange jumpsuit. When the jailers removed the handcuffs and closed the door, the two awkwardly sat at the metal table.

With a raspy, wounded voice, Rusty said, “Thanks for coming.”

F. Ray offered a quick smile and said, “I assume you want me for the defense, right?”

“Sure, thanks. I tried to call.”

“So how are you doing?”

“How do you think? Not good. I’m still in shock, you know? Still sleepwalking through this, can’t believe it. Every minute or so I have to remind myself to try and breathe.”

“I got Doyle on the phone driving in and we discussed bail. Looks like you might be here for the weekend, get out Monday.”

Rusty shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Whatever. It’s not that bad. I feel safe. A lot safer in here than out there. You seen the news?”

“No, not yet.”

“It’s awful. Everything’s awful. I can’t believe it.”

“You want to talk about the charges?”

Rusty shook his head and scratched a jaw. A minute passed. “Back when I finished law school, my father made me work as a public defender, said I needed to get my hands dirty, learn what life was like in the streets. I had a lot of clients, all of them poor, almost all guilty, and I learned the lesson that you, the lawyer, never ask a criminal client if he’s guilty, if he did the crime. Why? Because they never tell the truth. Second, because you don’t want to know the truth.”

“I’d like to hear the truth, Rusty. It’ll make it easier.”

“Okay. The truth is that Bolton had a deal with Sturgiss to buy a pardon for two million dollars. We found out about it. We went to Jackal and offered to top Bolton’s deal to kill the pardon. For a lot of reasons, Bolton needs to stay in prison.”

“How much?”

“Jackal came back and said it would cost three million, plus a little on the side for him. We agreed to their terms.”

“Who tipped the Feds?”

“Don’t know.”

“Okay. As far as the Feds are concerned, assume they’re listening to everything. Do not talk to your brother or anyone at the firm. In fact, don’t say a word to anyone period. If you get out Monday we’ll find a place to hide. You okay until then?”

“Yes. If Bolton can survive five years in prison, I can handle a long weekend in jail.”

“Good. Something else to start thinking about. There are multiple defendants and not all will be treated the same. It’s never too early to go to Doyle and get a deal.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Cooperate, Rusty. My job is to get you off free and clear, but if that doesn’t work, then to get you the best deal. You gotta think about saving your own skin because you can bet your ass the others will try to save theirs.”

“Turn state’s evidence?”

“You got it. Rat ’em out for a good deal. Play ball with Doyle, make his case easier, and you get off much lighter. The big question, Rusty, is this: Can you turn on Jackal?”

“No problem.”

“Can you turn on your brother?”

“Sure.”

“Let me hear your best pitch.”

“Okay, Kirk negotiated directly with Jackal. I was not in the room. They cut the deal, not me. I thought the whole idea of paying Sturgiss to keep Dad in prison was some sort of a joke. I didn’t realize they were serious.”

“I like it. Might just work.”

(41)

Three doors down, Kirk sat with his new defense team — two lawyers and a paralegal. His orange jumpsuit fit better than his brother’s and was not quite as faded.

The lead lawyer, Rick Dalmore, was handling the initial meeting while the other lawyer and the paralegal took notes. Kirk was not as forthcoming as his brother.

Dalmore asked, “Now, who first had the idea of making a counteroffer to Jack Grimlow?”

Kirk replied, “Oh, it was Rusty’s idea. I thought he was crazy, still think he’s crazy. Someone, I don’t know who, tipped him. Rusty claimed he saw an email that confirmed Dad was trying to bribe Sturgiss. Rusty went nuts, got this crazy idea that Dad has to remain in prison and serve his full term. So Rusty came up with the idea of upping the ante, out-bribing Dad. It was insane.”

“But you met with Jackal.”

“I did. Met with him twice. First time at the country club, second time in my office.”

“Why did you meet with him if you didn’t trust him?”

“You kidding? No one trusts Jackal, but he’s a big man who works for the governor. The governor is my friend. Rusty refused to meet with Jackal because Rusty can’t stand the guy. He hates most Republicans. So I had to. By then I was convinced the whole thing was a joke and that Rusty would not go through with it.”

“So the conspiracy was Rusty’s idea?”

“Every bit of it.”

Dalmore smiled at the paralegal, then smiled at Kirk. “This will become a question of survival, and to survive you may have to testify against your brother. Does this bother you?”

“No, not at all.”

“So you can do it?”

“Yes, no problem.”

“Good. I like your story. We can do something with it.”

(42)

Thanks to two martinis expertly prepared by Jonathan, who was now back home and working harder than ever to be the attentive husband, Diantha managed to sleep for seven hours before waking at dawn. It would be another dreadful day.

Jonathan, who had his own bedroom, was already awake and she could smell the coffee. She eased into the kitchen and asked, “How bad is it?”

“Terrible,” he said, as he poured her a cup and set it on the table next to the Saturday edition of the Post-Dispatch. The bold headline across the front page screamed MALLOY BROTHERS ARRESTED IN PARDON SCAM. Just below were three large black-and-whites of Kirk and Rusty, with one of Bolton between them. Halfway down the column on the right side was a photo of Jack Grimlow, identified as a top aide to Governor Dan Sturgiss.

“Oh boy,” she mumbled as she lifted her cup. She read the first article, then a second. With the indictment sealed, Houston Doyle saying little, and no word from the defendants or their lawyers, there were not many facts to explore or embellish. The implication, though, was fascinating. It appeared as though the press was initially under the impression that all three Malloys were in cahoots in a conspiracy to purchase a pardon for “several million dollars.”

She glanced at Jonathan’s laptop and asked, “What’s online?”

“Everything and nothing. They’re all repeating the same stories.”

She looked at her phone and saw a thousand calls. Her mailbox was full and would remain so.

Jonathan said, “Most of the reports are careful not to get too close to Sturgiss, as of now. A few, though, have already jumped to conclusions. Some of the crazies want him indicted immediately since the election is only three days away. You wouldn’t believe the garbage out there.”

“It’s always out there.”

“Made The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Tribune, half a dozen other papers. Everyone smells a link to Sturgiss so the story is raging. Ever hear of Whacker?”

“No.”

“It’s just another online news source, but it has an article about the history of pardon-selling in America. Pretty good read. There have been a few cases, usually involving bribery of parole boards and stuff like that. The last case was in the 1970s in Tennessee. Governor named Ray Blanton was accused of selling pardons, along with liquor licenses and anything else he could find around the mansion.”

“That’s nice.”

“Sorry. I’m rambling. Third cup. Is there a link to Sturgiss?”

She glared at him, tapped her lips with an index finger, and said, “Don’t know.” He rolled his eyes. He had forgotten her warning that someone might be listening. She had real doubts about the FBI bugging her home, but she could not be certain. She assumed they were listening to her cell phone and covering every square inch at Malloy & Malloy.

As the sun lightened their breakfast nook, she spent some time online while Jonathan scrambled eggs and toasted wheat bread. Their daughter, Phoebe, was fifteen and would probably sleep until noon, as she did on Saturdays if no one bothered her.

The doorbell rang at 7:05 and Jonathan gave her a look. He went to the front door, opened it slightly, and had a quick chat with a reporter holding a small recorder. Jonathan explained to the man that he had about thirty seconds to get off his property before he called the police. He slammed the door and watched through the blinds.

Diantha’s favorite associate at the firm was Ben Bush, Rusty’s longtime litigation associate. She scrolled through her recent calls and saw four from Ben, all on Friday afternoon. She called him, woke him, and asked him to stop by her house as soon as he was up and moving around.

At 8:00 a.m., she sent an email to all twenty-two associates, seventeen paralegals, twenty-eight secretaries, and a dozen assorted staff, informing them that the office would be temporarily closed. All were encouraged to work from home and stay as current as possible. Those who had court appearances were expected to honor them. The press was to be strictly ignored. Firm business was more confidential than ever.

Ben Bush arrived at 9:00 and was greeted by Jonathan. “Keep your coat on,” he said as they entered the kitchen. Diantha was dressed in jeans and an overcoat and shook hands with her friend. She jerked her head to the right and said, “I’d like to show you something.” They stepped outside onto the patio and walked slowly across the backyard.

“You got my email?” she asked.

“I did. Thanks. Everybody is panicked.”

“With good reason. We’ll keep the place closed for a week, maybe longer. Maybe forever.”

“That’s comforting.”

“There is absolutely no reason to feel comfortable or optimistic. I’d like for you to go to the jail and see Kirk and Rusty. Tell them to stop calling me. Both tried last night from the jail. The FBI is listening everywhere — my phone, their phones, your phone, who knows how many, but those two clowns have got to stay off the phone. Got it?”

“Sure. The FBI is listening to me?”

“Probably yes. They got warrants a week ago and it’s safe to assume everything is bugged.”

“Shit! So that’s why we’re out here in the cold weather, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, okay. They’re getting out Monday, right?”

“That’s the plan. They cannot return to the office anytime soon, okay? Convince them of that. They gotta lay low. The press is everywhere.”

“I got calls last night.”

“Monday morning, I want you to visit, not call, the security company and get the passcodes and key cards changed. For the entire firm.”

“You’re locking out Rusty and Kirk?”

She turned and managed to offer a tight smile while glaring a hole through his eyes. “Listen to me, Ben. They’re not coming back, okay? The FBI has them on tape making the deal with Jack Grimlow to bribe Sturgiss. They’re dead guilty. They’re going to be convicted, and of course that means automatic disbarment. There goes the firm. Malloy & Malloy will no longer exist, and who would hire us anyway?”

As stunned as he was, Ben’s second or third reaction was to ask: “How do you know so much?” Then, “Who tipped the FBI?” But he filed his questions away for another day.

He tried to absorb it all and looked away. “So, we’re all out of work?”

“Afraid so. How many good cases does Rusty have right now? I counted eight.”

“How do you define ‘good’?”

“Potential settlement value of at least half a million.”

He closed his eyes and tried to calculate. “Close, but I’d say more like five or six.”

“Why don’t you take those cases and hit the door? I’ll authorize the firm to release the files to you.”

Ben smiled and nodded and wasn’t sure what to say.

She said, “You’ve been there for almost ten years, Ben. That’s a long time for a Malloy associate. With no chance of becoming a partner, the associates don’t hang around.”

“Seems like we’ve had this conversation before. I’ve been thinking about leaving for some time. Hell, we all think about leaving.”

“Well, the moment has arrived.”

“Folks are already jumping out of windows. It was always toxic, and now this. You can bet no one will brag about working at Malloy & Malloy.”

“It’s very sad. Once a great firm.”

“I can’t believe they’re going to prison, Diantha. They don’t deserve something that harsh.”

“Agreed, but it’s out of our control. They’re just like their father, Ben. Good folks at the core, but privileged and above the law.”

“What’ll happen to Bolton?”

“Nothing good. We’ll talk about it later. Go see Kirk and Rusty and report back. Can you meet here in the morning? We have a lot of stuff to go over.”

“Sure.”

“And stay off your phone.”

(43)

In the scheme of correctional priorities, libraries were not that important. An old Supreme Court decision decreed that every prison must have one, along with current books and periodicals, so that inmates have access to the knowledge that might help their cases. Those with active appeals used the library and leaned on the ex-lawyers who held forth. There were three of them at Saliba, each with a wide repertoire of colorful stories about where they went wrong and how they got caught.

In his five years at Saliba Correctional, Bolton had become a decent jailhouse lawyer, with two releases to his credit. Two notches in his belt. He had commandeered one cluttered corner of the library, cordoned off with old metal shelves. He even had a desk, a hand-me-down from some state agency, and he kept it spotless.

Saturday morning he sat at his desk, all alone. Before him was the latest edition of the Post-Dispatch. He stared at himself in disbelief and asked what went wrong. He had a deal! Why was he on the front page again?

He stared at the faces of his two sons and wondered how in hell those two boneheads had managed to screw up everything.

(44)

By the time the video bail hearing started at 9:05 Monday morning, the legwork had been done by the lawyers and their clients were ready to walk. The magistrate set the number at a million dollars each for Kirk and Rusty and ordered them to surrender their passports. He declined to require ankle monitors but forbade them from leaving the state.

Rusty’s fancy condo was tax-assessed at $2.1 million and mortgaged at $1.3. The magistrate allowed him to tender in trust the deed and walk out with no cash involved. F. Ray Zalinski left the jail through the front door for the benefit of the press, while an associate slipped out of the basement garage with their client hiding in the rear seat. Once out of the city, they stopped at a biscuit joint and enjoyed breakfast. From there they drove two hours to a fine rehab clinic for a month’s treatment for alcoholism and drug abuse. Rusty had not used drugs since college, nor was he an alcoholic. According to F. Ray, the first trick in a white-collar defense was to get the client clean and sober and use rehab in negotiating for a lighter sentence. Also, any felonious behavior could always be blamed on the substance abuse.

Kirk’s morning did not go as smoothly. His fine home in a gated community had sufficient equity to satisfy the magistrate. However, it was still jointly owned with Chrissy, who had no interest in jeopardizing her one-half ownership. She refused to sign anything and told Dalmore, his lawyer, that she didn’t care how long he stayed in jail. Dalmore tracked down Diantha, who brought in Old Stu, who finagled a “loan” to Kirk for $100,000, the cash required to satisfy the bail bondsman.

Jack Grimlow’s bond was only $250,000, and he paid 10 percent to another bondsman for his freedom. When he walked out at noon, Kirk was still in his cell. Grimlow also managed to dodge the reporters. The election was the next day and he did not want to be seen.

(45)

The nonstop coverage of the Malloy scandal would have continued at full throttle if not for the election. On Tuesday, the voters went to the polls in lackluster numbers. Hal Hodge, the challenger, had failed to inspire anyone outside his base. Dan Sturgiss had begun the race with a commanding lead, then tried several different ways to blow it. The pardon-selling scam still raging around him didn’t help, but by ten o’clock on election night he was still 200,000 votes ahead, out of 3,000,000 cast, and it was clear he was on his way to a second term. When he addressed his admirers in a hotel ballroom, he took a few moments to declare his innocence and claimed no knowledge of any bribery conspiracy. He even managed to get choked up and almost cried at the thought that anyone could think such terrible thoughts about him. He vowed to “fight on!”

Houston Doyle watched the vote counting and the speech with his wife at home in their den.

She asked, “Do you believe him?”

“No. But he’s a pretty good liar.”

“Will he be indicted?”

“You know I can’t discuss the case with you.”

“Sure, that’s what you always say, and then we discuss the case.”

“It depends on Jack Grimlow. If he doesn’t budge and takes the fall, then it might be impossible to nail Sturgiss. The money never changed hands.”

“Okay, got that. So how do you convict the Malloys?”

“We have them on tape conspiring to bribe. Unfortunately, we don’t have Sturgiss on tape.”

“So he dodges the bullet?”

“Right now, I’d say it’s fifty-fifty.”

(46)

By Thursday the election was old news and the press was once again enthralled with the Malloy brothers, neither of whom had been seen. Nor were their lawyers saying anything.

News was made anyway, however, late in the afternoon when the Missouri State Bar Association announced it was temporarily suspending the licenses of Kirk and Rusty, pending further investigation.

Kirk got the news while in the conference room of Nick Dalmore, his criminal defense attorney. The suspension meant he could not enter his office, which was locked tight anyway, nor could he contact any of his clients. He left Dalmore’s and went to the office of Bobby Laker, his divorce lawyer. Scarlett Ambrose, Chrissy’s pit bull of a litigator, was making demands and wanting more documents.

From there, Kirk went to his hotel room and got drunk.

Rusty didn’t have access to booze but he would kill for a drink. He was still tucked away in a clinic getting rehab he didn’t need, and he was already bored. They took away his laptop, but he managed to cajole them out of it, so he was watching his world crumble on the internet.

On Friday morning, one week after the arrests, his attorney, F. Ray, met with Houston Doyle in the big office in the federal building. F. Ray was ten years older and the two had known and respected each other for years. Normally, Houston would have deferred to his elder and been happy to have the meeting in F. Ray’s office, a splendid suite forty floors above St. Louis. But these days Houston was the U.S. Attorney and all meetings were held at his beck and call. Besides, F. Ray needed something, a huge favor, and Houston wanted the begging to be done on his turf.

After sipping coffee and dissecting the election, F. Ray got serious with “Look, I know this is preliminary, but I want to plant a seed. I want you to think about cooperation from my client. If he rolls over, takes a deal, then your case gets much easier.”

“Thanks, Ray. I know you’re really concerned about how easy my cases are. What can Rusty offer me?”

“Full cooperation.”

“You mean he’ll squeal on his own brother?”

“There’s no love lost. They’ve been at war since they were kids.”

“So what’s his story?”

“Bolton had the deal cut at two million for a full pardon. Kirk wants Bolton in prison, so he went to Jackal with a better deal. Rusty thought it was a joke — bribing a governor to keep someone in prison.”

“Ha, ha.” Doyle stood and walked to the mahogany conference table. At one end was a small audio box with a round speaker wired to it. He pointed to a seat and said, “Please, join me.” F. Ray was puzzled but did what he was told.

When both were seated, Doyle said, “There are three tapes. The first was made by a witness who will not be named. The second and third are FBI. I think you’ll enjoy them.” He tapped a button and the first recording began. “Kirk and Rusty at their office,” Doyle said. “The woman’s voice has been altered, not that you would recognize it.”

Half an hour later, Doyle tapped a button and the third tape stopped. He said, “Your client is lying to you.”

F. Ray was shaking his head, deflated. “Well, it won’t be the first time.”

“No cooperation, Ray, because I don’t need it. With these tapes I got both of them by the balls. You want to play these recordings to a jury?”

F. Ray shook his head some more. Finally he said, “What do you want?”

“Unofficially, I’ll offer thirty months each, full fine of ten grand, five years before they can apply for reinstatement.”

“Ouch.”

“Could be worse. We could go to trial and play the tapes. Kinda reminds me of when Bolton took a dive to keep that big snake away from the jury. Sometimes the proof is just too strong.”

(47)

Later that morning, Diantha sent an encrypted email to the associates and all other employees of the firm. She explained that the actions of the State Bar in freezing the licenses of Kirk and Rusty gave the firm no choice but to remain closed for an indefinite period. She was optimistic that business “might” resume after the new year. She cautioned that the situation was fluid and nothing was certain. Signing off, she wrote: “In spite of it all, I wish you Happy Holidays. Diantha Bradshaw, Managing Partner.”

They had always known her as the managing director. Did this signify that she was the sole remaining owner of the firm?

At 2:00 p.m. Friday afternoon, she met Stuart Broome in the lobby of the Robert A. Young Federal Building downtown. He seemed older than ever and was walking with a cane. They rode the elevator to the offices of the IRS and were shown to a small conference room. The appointment with Ms. Mozeby, the field director for the state, was for 2:15. She arrived five minutes late and brought two flunkies with her. No one offered coffee.

In securing the meeting, Diantha had been forced to slog her way through several layers of bureaucracy until she found someone who understood the gravity of the situation. That person, name now forgotten, had successfully lobbied Ms. Mozeby to grant an audience. To expedite matters, Diantha had emailed a secure document, two pages in length, outlining the issues. At least they would not start from scratch, and some of the shock would be negated.

Diantha set the tone by beginning with “I’d like to offer you a copy of an immunity agreement signed by the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District. It covers both myself and Mr. Broome here.”

“I’ve spoken to Mr. Houston Doyle and am aware of the agreement,” Ms. Mozeby said coldly, officially.

Diantha nodded and continued, “The tax evasion involved here is ongoing and we, on behalf of the law firm, want to address it, file amended returns, and pay what is owed.”

“How much has Bolton Malloy received in fees from the tobacco settlement?”

“Fifteen million. Three million a year for the past five years.”

Ms. Mozeby was impressed and glanced at the flunky to her right. She asked, “And how much has he declared in income?”

Diantha looked at Old Stu who said, “We’ve run about ten percent of it through the firm. The rest has been kept off the books and hidden in tax havens around the world.”

“And who knows where it’s hidden?”

“I do. I put it there, at the direction of my employer, Bolton Malloy. He wanted a fairly aggressive evasion scheme.”

“And how long will the fees continue?”

Diantha said, “Based on an estimated annual return of four percent, the income stream should last for at least eleven more years.”

“And where will these payments go?”

“To the law firm that earned the fees, Malloy & Malloy. Once the current mess is cleaned up, we will declare all income and play it straight.”

“Okay, but the law firm appears to have some rather significant problems right now, if you don’t mind my saying so. I just read the newspapers. Is it fair to ask how long the firm will survive?”

“Fair enough. I can assure you the firm will survive until all of the tobacco money has been received.”

“Eleven years?”

“Eleven, twelve, thirteen. Doesn’t matter.”

“And you admit that you’ve known about this evasion?”

“I didn’t know the specifics and never saw the money, until this year. I’d like to remind you of the immunity agreement.”

“Got it.” Ms. Mozeby took a deep breath and managed a forced smile. She glanced to her right and her left and said, “Very well. When do we see the records?”

Old Stu held up a thumb drive and said, “They’re all right here. I can go over them with you. Take about an hour.”

“Great. Let’s get to work.”

(48)

The following weeks turned into a nightmare for Diantha. For sixteen hours a day she rarely left the windowless office in the basement of her home. Presiding over the implosion of a sixty-year-old law firm was an impossible task that she was not prepared for. Who was? Where was the handbook on how to handle disgruntled clients, desperate associates, demanding judges, missed deadlines, shrinking fees, cash shortages, unreasonable bankers, frightened secretaries and paralegals, a monstrous social media backlash, the ever-obnoxious press, and lawyers circling like buzzards ready to pounce on the carcass? Amid the chaos, she was constantly distracted by the investigations into the Malloys’ crimes, as well as the IRS probe into Bolton’s tax shenanigans. She stayed at home because she felt safer and did not want to risk being tracked down by Rusty or Kirk, or their lawyers. Both the offices of F. Ray Zalinski and Nick Dalmore desperately wanted to chat with her and resorted to sending investigators to her home. A security guard hired by Jonathan ran them off.

She did talk to lawyers, and plenty of them. Houston Doyle called every other day with an update. Kirk and Rusty had lawyered up in a big way, and it would be weeks or months before a trial date was set. Doyle did not anticipate going to trial, but no meaningful plea negotiations would begin until months passed and the lawyers got fat. She could not comprehend the horror of walking into a crowded courtroom and testifying against her two longtime colleagues, and Doyle repeatedly assured her that it would not happen. He was confident that, in the end, they would plead to thirty months and be sent to a nice federal pen.

She dreamed of that scenario. The longer they were without their licenses, the longer the firm accumulated the tobacco money.

And she, Diantha Bradshaw, was the firm.

She talked to Justice Department lawyers representing the IRS and was pleased with the progress of the investigation. Because of Stu’s fastidious records, the money was not hard to find. Early in December, she was advised, confidentially, that Bolton Malloy would soon be indicted on five counts of tax evasion.

She talked to dozens of lawyers with cases pending against the Malloy firm and begged for time. She talked until she was tired of the sound of her own voice.

Sleep was fitful and there was never enough of it. She had no appetite, though Jonathan continued to cook for her. Phoebe, her daughter, shamed her into doing yoga and riding a stationary bike.

She had to get away. When Phoebe’s holiday break began, the family fled to New York, then Paris, where they spent the Christmas season at their favorite hotel. From there they drifted by train to Zurich where a beautiful snowfall had just blanketed the city. Diantha met with some bankers. Back home, Old Stu moved some more money around. She met with a lawyer and established a private Swiss office for Malloy & Malloy in the heart of Zurich’s financial center.

They took another train up to the Alps, found a quaint hotel in Zermatt, and skied for a week. When they had enough of the slopes, they returned to Zurich with no plans to leave anytime soon. The family had made the unanimous decision to stay in Europe.

They found a spacious apartment on the fifth floor of a new building on the banks of the Limmat River. They leased it for a year and enrolled Phoebe in an international school.

From her narrow balcony, Diantha looked across the river to the gleaming office tower of Föderation Swiss Bank, the new home of her tobacco money.

She wanted to be close to it.