Dead Money (37 page)

My colleague, I said. Dorita Reed.

FitzGibbon rose and bowed elaborately.

Have we met before? he asked.

We have, said Dorita. Good to see you again.

FitzGibbon nodded uncertainly. Sat down. Ramon scowled. I began wondering if the expression had been tattooed on his face at birth.

We’re not sure how much progress we’ve made, I said. But there are a few issues we’d like to talk to you about. That might lead somewhere.

Okay, said FitzGibbon.

These trusts, I said. I understand that they were set up by your father?

Yes, he said warily. Ramon leaned forward. Raul lit a long slim cigarette. He looked unconcerned.

And they were intended for the benefit of your children?

Ye-e-s, he said, drawing it out.

The part that speaks to your ‘issue,’ correct?

That’s right, he said slowly.

FitzGibbon looked at Raul.

Ramon’s scowl deepened.

And you also know that there are conditions that have to be fulfilled before your children get the capital, right?

FitzGibbon looked confused.

There are some conditions, interjected Raul.

I looked at him. He looked as placid and content as always.

One of which is that they not have been convicted of a felony, correct?

That’s one of them, yes, said Raul.

Which is an interesting coincidence, I said.

Excuse me for a moment, said Raul pleasantly. I’m not sure I understand. How did you get this information? It was my understanding that you couldn’t handle that matter. You had a conflict, or something.

Oh dear. An inconvenient detail.

The phone rang. Raul picked up the phone. He listened.

Yes, he said. I understand.

I looked around for Ramon. He wasn’t there.

Raul leaned over and whispered something in FitzGibbon’s ear.

Then he turned to me.

Excuse me, Mr. Redman, he said, but something has come up.

Pardon me? I asked.

Terribly sorry, he said. We must attend to it right away.

He nodded toward the door.

I looked at FitzGibbon for help. He was gazing out the window. I looked back at Raul. He was looking steadily at me.

His Look said: Get the hell out of here.

Well, perhaps we can speak later in the day? I asked.

Perhaps, said Raul. We’ll let you know.

Ramon returned. He parked himself in front of FitzGibbon’s desk, arms crossed. Obscuring my view of the Patriarch.

I looked at Dorita. She looked as frustrated as I felt.

I couldn’t just leave it at that.

Listen, I said, I don’t know what’s set you guys off, but I’m just asking a few questions. We’ve learned a few things. Things that may lead to
other things. We’re working for
you
, Mr. FitzGibbon.

I craned my neck to try to get some eye contact with the Patriarch. Ramon shifted to block my view.

Our job is to clear Jules, I said to FitzGibbon, trying to project my voice through Ramon’s midsection. Surely you want to help us any way you can?

I really think it would be better if you left, said Raul.

Calm and cool.

I looked at Dorita.

She shrugged.

We left. What else were we going to do? Start a fistfight?

Wouldn’t be prudent.

Ramon followed us out the door. Into the elevator. He followed us to the lobby. He followed us into the street.

Dorita and I picked up the pace once we got outside. Ramon fell behind. I looked back. He was going back into the building.

Well, I said, there goes what little was left of my career.

And mine.

Shit.

FitzGibbon’s probably on the phone to Warwick as we speak.

Or the Bar Association.

Or both.

Damn. We may have gotten Kennedy in trouble too.

Jesus. You’re right.

And we didn’t even get to the phone calls.

Let’s get a drink.

When we had found a suitable watering hole, we sat down and looked at each other.

What’s done is done, said Dorita.

I suppose, I said.

That was really something.

If we didn’t know before that there were some guilty consciences around that place.

We sure do now.

Looks like the whole bunch of them are in on it.

In on something. The question is, on what? We still don’t have a sliver of evidence tying any of them to Larry Silver. Other than your esteemed client, of course.

Our
client, I said. In any case, you’ll be tracking down the slivers this afternoon. While I continue the investigation of our friend Dr. Steiglitz.

Dorita sighed, rolled her eyes.

I’ll see what I can do, she said. Call me later.

You can count on me, I said, without conviction.

THREE HOURS UNTIL THE STEIGLITZ APPOINTMENT
. I tried not to think about my now-defunct career. I wondered whether I should warn Kennedy.

Of course I should.

But I couldn’t bring myself to call him.

I looked for some sand to bury my head in.

I flipped open the laptop. Twenty-first-century sand.

I googled Steiglitz. Eighty-eight hits. The guy got around.

He published a lot of papers. Gave a lot of speeches. Was heavily involved in politics. Hung with movie stars and models.

There were some lawsuits too. You can’t be a doctor in the United States of America and not get lawsuits. I counted nine. That didn’t seem to be a huge number, for a prominent addiction specialist. But medical malpractice was not my field. I made a note to check with Terry O’Reilly.

Terry was an old law school buddy who did a thriving malpractice business. He made a hell of a lot more money than I did, and wasn’t half as smart. He’d asked me more than once to join him. I’d been tempted. All that dough. But I knew I could never bring myself to be an ambulance chaser. Too seedy. I knew they justified it as a crusade for the little guy. But that’s not how I saw them. Extortionists, they were to me. Find a victim. Drag out the boilerplate. Fill in the blanks. File the complaint. Wait for the settlement. Take thirty percent. Buy a new Bentley.

I didn’t want any part of it.

But that didn’t sour my friendship with Terry. He was a good guy. And a better golfer. We didn’t talk business.

Most courts had websites. On many of them you could access the pleadings. The briefs, the motion papers. Some even had transcripts of trial proceedings. It took me a while, but I managed to track down
some information on each of the nine Steiglitz cases. A couple were what you’d expect. Some poor depressive finally succeeded on his fourteenth suicide attempt. Great. Let’s sue everybody. Steiglitz was named in the complaint, along with every other doctor, nurse and orderly and the hospital involved. Plaintiffs’ lawyers liked to cast a wide net. Haul in as many insurance companies as they could. Spread the pain. Make settlement more palatable. Take their thirty percent. Buy another yacht. Upgrade the summer castle in Bordeaux.

A couple of the other cases were also routine. Bad reaction to drugs. Sue the drug company, the doctor who prescribed it. The pharmacy. The maker of the bottle it came in. Whatever.

One caught my eye, though.
Jane Doe
v.
Steiglitz
. No other defendants. Records sealed.

Interesting. It was very rare that a judge would agree to seal the records. Litigation in America was supposed to be open, public. Justice in secret was justice denied. Where minors were involved, or rape victims, their identities could be protected. Here, the ‘Jane Doe’ on the caption indicated something of that sort. But the whole file sealed? Well. Must be something there worth finding out about.

I called Terry. He commiserated about Melissa. I brushed it off. I’m okay, I said. Let’s play golf.

It’s the middle of winter, Rick.

Right. You know a Dr. Hans Steiglitz?

Sure. Big mover and shaker in addiction. Had him as an expert witness once.

Really? Not a client though?

Not a client. Why, you want to sue him?

Not yet. Just wanted to find out something about him. He treated Melissa.

Ah. Finally you’re coming around.

I didn’t say that.

I can hear it in your voice. He’s like all the rest. All talk and fucking up everything he touches. You want to sue him?

I said no. I want to find out some stuff. You think you can help me?

Depends on what it is.

I told him about the sealed file.

Damn. That’s a tough one.

I’m not asking you to steal the file. I’ve got other guys for that.

He laughed.

Just ask around. See if you can find out what the case was about. It could be nothing. I don’t know. I just need to know enough to see if it’s worth following up.

Sure. But it’ll cost you two strokes on Sunday.

It’s the middle of winter, Terry.

Right.

Like I said. A good guy.

IT WAS RAINING
. My stomach was hurting. My scalp was tingling. I knew these feelings. They were the same ones I got on the way into court. Butterflies, but worse. Stage fright, but more extreme.

It was too much. I had to have a cigarette to calm it down. I had to have a lot of cigarettes to calm it down.

I asked the driver if I could smoke.

Sure, he said. No problem. Then I can too.

Relief. It was a long ride out to Westchester. Smoke-free, it would have been interminable.

So many times I’d been there. The first, the second time, I’d paid attention to every detail. I’d talked endlessly with the staff. I’d read and reread the pamphlets. I’d wanted so badly to make it work. To get the old Melissa back.

By the third or fourth trip the cynicism had set in. Going to the clinic after every new relapse became a depressing routine. There was nothing I could do. It was up to her. If she didn’t really want to stop, it wasn’t going to happen. They told me that. But it still was hard to take. The helplessness.

I’d begun to wonder whether it really was possible. To slay the Monster.

The well-manicured grounds came into view, discreetly separated from the surrounding stately homes by a rustic stone wall.

It all looked gray in the rain.

My heart went cold.

Not a bad thing, actually, for the job I had to do. Squeezing information from a reluctant witness. No room for extraneous emotion.

Steiglitz showed me into his office. It was expansive, elegant. Just like he was. Or thought he was. He was his usual slick and unctuous self. His handshake was firm and dry. It lasted just the right amount of time to convince you of his genuine sympathy. He didn’t sit behind a desk. He ushered me into an armchair. Pulled one over for himself. Just two guys sharing their feelings. Open up. Share. Let’s make it all feel better.

The first task was to make him comfortable in his assumptions.

I told him that Melissa’s death had made me do some hard thinking. That I’d finally realized it. That I too had a drinking problem.

He was solicitous. He questioned me gently, but extensively. My drinking habits. A little family history. My motivations. My rationale.

That part required no mendacity. Fact was, I was getting out of control. I was more and more needing several drinks just to feel normal. I had the shakes in the morning. I was up to eight double Scotches a day, easy.

Yes, I had a problem.

In fact, so convincing was my story that I almost decided to admit myself into the clinic, right then right there.

Steiglitz did not approve. Too many bad associations with the place, he said.

That, I couldn’t argue with.

My cell phone rang. Terry. I apologized to Steiglitz. Took the call. Terry told me what he’d found. Not a smoking gun. But maybe enough. Enough to make an educated guess.

I hung up the phone. Apologized again.

No, no, said Steiglitz, not a problem.

He carried on where he’d left off. I should find a group in Manhattan I’d be comfortable with. He’d suggest a few. I could try them out. See if there was one I would respond to. They weren’t all clones of twelve-step hell. There had to be a group or two for cynical, successful guys like me. Guys who weren’t going to put up with the usual quasi-Christian pabulum.

Sure, I said. Sounds good. I’ll try that. Thanks.

I did not get up to leave. I pulled the silent thing on him. I looked him in the eye.

I knew that if I was right about him, he’d be drawn in. A guiltless conscience would just say, ‘Well, I’m glad we’ve made some progress.’ Would get up, put out his hand. Whatever. Indicate the audience was over.

Well, he said, I’m glad we’ve made some progress.

He got up. Put out his hand.

Damn. The guy was good.

There’s something else I want to talk about, I said.

Oh, he said with a broad smile. Of course. I didn’t mean to be rude.

He sat back down.

That’s okay, I said. I understand. You’re a busy man.

Well, I guess I am, he said expansively, with a touch of pride. But I can always spare some time for an old friend.

An old friend? Too big a stretch.

The first crack in the facade.

I wanted to ask you about something I came across, I said.

Yes? he said, his head cocked to the side in a simulacrum of interest.

Jane Doe.

Jane Doe?

Yes. Jane Doe.

I’m afraid I’m at a loss.

Jane Doe, I repeated once again. It’s a name the courts use to mean ‘anonymous.’ When there’s a confidentiality order. When to make the name public would cause so much harm that the public’s right to know is secondary.

Silence.

Do you follow me? I asked.

Yes, he said. His smile had stiffened.

You’ve got a Jane Doe case, don’t you?

I do?

You do.

Ah.

I was waiting for him to call Security. Have me thrown out. I could see him calculating the consequences. If Jane Doe were nothing, that’s exactly what he’d do. Call my bluff. Throw me out. But if there was something there, throwing me out would only delay the inevitable. He’d go for damage control.

I had a big edge. He didn’t know what I had in my hand.