The Wrong Man

33

The law firm of Dembrow, Lane, and McCabe was twenty lawyers, covering the gambit for its corporate clients. They had a bankruptcy practice and an intellectual property group, but their bread and butter was serving the everyday needs of large companies, from labor and employment to regulatory compliance to transactional work to litigation.

A quick Google search told me that the firm laid off ten lawyers, a third of their workforce, just over a year ago. Corporate law firms rose and fell with the fate of their clients, and therefore with the economy. Some of these midsize firms were successfully using the economic downturn as a marketing tool- big-firm representation at a small-firm price, that kind of thing-but apparently not so for Dembrow, Lane.

Their offices were what you’d expect, designed to impress but not impressive. The conference room to which they led us on the thirty-second floor had a view of the commercial district, which was buzzing on a Friday morning.

I was alone. I’d thought about bringing along Bradley John, who had uncovered this information two days ago. And it would have been nice to have Shauna here, who can read people with the best of them. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought it was better just the two of us.

Bruce McCabe entered the conference room at nine forty-five-fifteen minutes late-without apology. He was about six feet tall and a little soft in the midsection. He had a high-and-tight haircut and dark, deep-set eyes. I knew from the bio on his firm’s website that McCabe started in the military, serving in the JAG Corps, before he moved to the private sector some twenty years ago. What the bio didn’t say, but what I caught as a vibe from the moment he entered the room, was that Bruce McCabe was a humorless man, with an intensity bordering on anger.

He made a point of checking his watch before he even offered his hand to me. “My morning is full,” he said. “I made some time for you but not much.”

“I appreciate you doing that,” I said.

“You didn’t exactly ask nicely.”

That was true. When I couldn’t even get him on the phone, I threatened his secretary with a subpoena. Then I repeated the threat to him. It was an empty threat, in fact. A subpoena would have tipped the prosecution to my strategy. My case wasn’t all that good on innocence, so I needed to at least keep the element of surprise. But he didn’t know that. The subpoena threat got his attention. That told me something, right there.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said.

“I represent Tom Stoller, the man charged with Kathy Rubinkowski’s murder.”

“You said that on the phone.”

“We have some questions about her death.”

“You said that on the phone, too. Are you going to tell me something new?”

I fixed my glare on him. Okay, asshole. Here’s something new: “Kathy Rubinkowski was working on a lawsuit filed by LabelTek Industries against one of your clients, Global Harvest International. We were wondering if Kathy had ever expressed concern with you over anything related to that case.”

McCabe studied me for a long time. Then he said, “I thought you were conceding that your client shot Kathy. I thought this was only about insanity.”

“We’re exploring options,” I said.

“I see.” He drummed his fingers on the countertop of the conference room table. “Well, the answer is even if she did express concerns to me, I wouldn’t tell you.”

That’s the same answer I would have given. Probably the only one he could give.

“I see that the case settled,” I said. “Not six months into it, before depositions, just after the New Year in January.”

McCabe opened his hands. “Is there a question?”

“The question is why,” I said.

“You couldn’t possibly expect me to tell you why my client chose to settle a lawsuit.”

“If the case settled for thirty cents on the dollar, no. Or fifty cents. Or even eighty cents. But a hundred and thirty cents? Plus attorneys’ fees? Global Harvest gave LabelTek everything they asked for and much more.”

McCabe drilled a stare directly through me. He was the lead counsel on the case. At best, I was telling him he got his ass kicked. But we both knew I was suggesting something else-that he laid down, that his opponent was sniffing a little too close to something sensitive, and they paid a king’s ransom to make them go away.

“Since you seem to know so much about that case,” he said, “and because it’s a matter of public record, I don’t mind reminding you that LabelTek only estimated damages at three million dollars. In fact, it turned out that their information showed that number to be much higher.”

“C’mon, Counsel. Neither of us is stupid.”

McCabe chose to channel his anger into a forced smile. I do that sometimes, too. “Is there anything else, Mr. Kolarich?”

“Did you like Kathy Rubinkowski?”

“Of course I did. Everyone did. We were devastated by the news.”

“Then I would think you’d want to bring her killer to justice.”

“Of course I do. But I’m not going to abrogate the attorney-client privilege so you can go on a wild-goose chase.”

I nodded and thought for a moment. McCabe began to push himself out of his chair.

“You know anything about Summerset Farms?” I asked.

He settled back in his chair and looked out the window. “Summerset…”

“The company that was served with the subpoena just before you settled the lawsuit, Bruce. It was also the subject of a separate subpoena issued the same day to the state agriculture department. You haven’t heard of Summerset?”

“I… don’t recall anything about… about a Summerset Farms.”

“That’s odd,” I replied. “Because you’re their lawyer.”

It’s hard to keep a poker face when you’re busted that badly. McCabe wasn’t very good at it. He could have played it off any number of ways. He could have said yes, of course he was Summerset’s lawyer, he meant only that he couldn’t remember the subpoena.

Bradley John had made that connection yesterday. Summerset Farms was incorporated in this state, and every corporation has to designate someone as its agent for service of process and other matters. They named Bruce McCabe. That was strange, actually. Normally, you’d name one of the corporate officers or some employee. Summerset had named its outside counsel. It was another question I would try to answer, starting today.

“This meeting is over, Counsel.” McCabe got to his feet.

“Good enough,” I said. “I understand your position. You don’t hold the privilege. So I’ll have to go to the person who does.”

He blinked twice. “What’s that?”

“I’ll have to subpoena Randall Manning. The big guy at Global Harvest. The one who signed the settlement agreement.”

McCabe paused. “Just because he signed the settlement agreement doesn’t mean he has knowledge of the settlement.”

“Then he can tell me that. After I subpoena him.”

“I’ll quash that subpoena.”

“You mean you’ll try to quash it. You’ll fail. You ever met Judge Nash?”

McCabe grew tense. He was considering his options. I was learning more and more as I went along here. “I could speak to him about a limited waiver,” he suggested. “Maybe he’ll let me discuss this in more detail.”

I made a show of weighing that option. “Nah, my curiosity is piqued. I’m going with the subpoena.” I got to my feet. “Thanks for your time. I’ll copy you on the correspondence.”

“Wait,” he said.

I stopped at the door.

“What if I were to arrange something? You and Mr. Manning and I could have an informal discussion. There’s no need for a subpoena.”

“That’s the spirit, Bruce.” I tapped the door. “First thing next week, or I issue that subpoena.”