Gray Mountain (45 page)

“We’re taking her computers, desktop and laptop,” Frohmeyer said.

The sudden interest in Samantha’s files was puzzling to Mattie and Annette. Samantha shrugged as if she had no idea. “My laptop is not here,” she said.

“Where is it?” Frohmeyer snapped.

“The technician has it. Some type of bug, I think.”

“When did you take it in?”

Hump threw up another hand. “She doesn’t have to answer
that. The search warrant doesn’t give you the right to interrogate potential witnesses.”

Frohmeyer took a deep breath, fumed for a second, then gave them a sappy grin. He followed Samantha to her office and watched closely as she removed her files from the army surplus cabinet. “Nice place you got here,” he said like a real smart-ass. “Won’t take long to search this office.” Samantha ignored him. She carried her files to the conference room where Banahan and another agent began flipping through them. She returned to her office and watched Frohmeyer slowly poke through her two file cabinets and the drawers to her rickety desk. He touched every piece of paper but took nothing. She hated him for invading her private space.

One agent followed Mattie into her office; another followed Annette. Drawer by drawer, they looked at all the files but removed nothing. Hump walked from door to door, watching and waiting for an altercation.

“Are all the laptops gone?” Frohmeyer asked Hump when he finished digging through Samantha’s office.

Annette heard the question and said, “Yes, we sent them all together.”

“How convenient. Guess we’ll be back with another search warrant.”

“All fun and games.”

They picked through hundreds of retired files. Three of them climbed into the attic and pulled out records Mattie hadn’t seen in decades. The excitement gave way to monotony. Hump sat in the hallway and shot the bull with Frohmeyer while the ladies tried to return calls. After two hours, the raid lost steam and the agents left, taking with them nothing but Samantha’s desktop computer.

As she watched it leave, she felt like the helpless victim in a backward country where the police ran rampant and rights were nonexistent. It was simply wrong. She was being bullied by the cops because of her association with Jeff. Now her property was being confiscated, and her clients’ confidentiality was compromised. She had never felt so helpless.

The last thing she needed was a good grilling at the hands of
Mattie and Annette. They had to be highly suspicious of her at this point. How much did she know about the Krull matter? What had Jeff told her? Had she seen any of the documents? She managed to sneak out the back door and retrieve the flash drives and spy phone from the law library. She went for another long drive. Jeff was not answering the phone and this irritated her. Right now she needed him.

Mattie was waiting when she returned to the office at dark. The laptops were back, safe and untouched.

“Let’s go sit on the porch and have a glass of wine,” Mattie said. “We need to talk.”

“Is Chester cooking?”

“Well, we never skip dinner.”

They had a nice stroll to Mattie’s house and decided along the way it was too chilly for porch sitting. Chester was busy elsewhere, so they were alone. They sat in the den and had a sip or two before Mattie said, “Now, tell me everything.”

“Okay.”

A
t about the same time, Buddy Ryzer parked his pickup truck at a scenic overlook, and walked two hundred yards along a trail to a picnic area. He sat on a table, put a gun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. Two campers found his body late Monday night and called 911. Mavis, who’d been on the phone for hours, got the knock on the door. Panicked neighbors rushed over; the house was chaos.

Samantha was sleeping soundly when her cell phone began vibrating. She did not hear it. Absent an arrest, why would anyone feel the need to call his or her lawyer at midnight on a Monday?

She checked it at 5:30, soon after she awoke in the fog of reliving the FBI raid. There were three missed calls from Mavis Ryzer, the last one at 12:40. A message in a trembling voice delivered the news. Samantha suddenly forgot about the FBI.

She was really growing weary of all this death. Donovan’s still haunted her. Francine Crump’s was not untimely, but its aftermath was causing problems. Two days before, on Gray Mountain, Samantha had again seen the white cross marking the spot where Rose took her life. She had never met the Tate boys, but felt an attachment to their tragedy. She often thought of Mattie’s father and the way black lung killed him. Life could be harsh in the coalfields, and at that moment she missed the rough streets of the big city.

Now her favorite client was dead, and she was facing another funeral. She put on jeans and a parka and went for a walk. As the sky began to lighten, she shivered in the cold and once again asked herself what, exactly, was she doing in Brady, Virginia. Why was she crying over a coal miner she had met only three months earlier? Why not just leave?

As always, there were no simple answers.

She saw a kitchen light on at Mattie’s and pecked on the window. Chester, in his bathrobe, was making coffee. He let her in and went to fetch Mattie, who was supposedly awake. She took the news hard, and for a long time the two lawyers sat at the kitchen table and tried to make sense out of a senseless tragedy.

Somewhere in the pile of the Ryzers’ records, Samantha had seen a payment on a life insurance policy of $50,000.

“Isn’t there some type of exclusion for suicide?” she asked, cradling her cup with both hands.

“Typically, yes, but it’s only for the first year or so. If not, then a person could load up on insurance and jump off a bridge. If Buddy’s policy is older, then the exclusion has probably expired.”

“So, it looks like he killed himself for the money.”

“Who knows? A person who commits suicide is not thinking rationally, but I suspect we’ll find out that life insurance was a factor. He had no job, no benefits, and their small savings account was gone. That, plus three kids at home and a wife with no job. He was facing years of even more bad health, and the end would not be pretty. Every coal miner knows a victim of the disease.”

“Things start to add up.”

“They do. Would you like some breakfast, maybe a piece of toast?”

“No thanks. I feel like I just left here. I guess I did.” As Mattie topped off their coffees, Samantha said, “I have a hypothetical for you. A tough one. If Buddy had a lawyer ten years ago, what would have happened to his case?”

Mattie stirred in some sugar and frowned as she considered this. “You never know, but if you assume the lawyer was on the ball and found the medical records you discovered, and that he or
she brought Casper Slate’s fraud and cover-up to the court’s attention, somewhere along the way, then you have to believe he would have been awarded benefits. Just speculating here, but I have a hunch Casper Slate would have acted quickly in order to keep their crimes away from the court. They would have conceded the claim, folded their tent so to speak, and Buddy would have received his checks.”

“And he wouldn’t have been breathing more coal dust for the past ten years.”

“Probably not. The benefits aren’t great, but they could have survived.”

They sat in perfect silence for a while, neither wanting to speak or move. Chester appeared in the doorway with an empty cup, saw them frozen in deep thought, and disappeared without a sound. Finally, Mattie pushed back and stood. She reached for the wheat bread and put two slices in the toaster. From the fridge she withdrew butter and jam.

After a couple of bites, Samantha said, “I really don’t want to go to the office today. It feels violated, you know? My computer got snatched yesterday, all my files were rifled through. Both Jeff and Donovan thought the place was bugged. I need a break.”

“Take a personal day, or two. You know we don’t care.”

“Thanks. I’m leaving town and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

S
he left Brady and drove an hour before allowing herself one glance into the rearview mirror. No one, nothing. Jeff called twice but she refused to answer. At Roanoke, she headed east, away from the Shenandoah Valley and the interstate traffic. With hours to kill, she worked the phone, arranging details, leaning on people as she meandered through central Virginia. In Charlottesville, she had lunch with a friend from the Georgetown days. At ten minutes before 6:00 p.m., she took her position at a corner table at the bar in the Hay-Adams hotel, one block from the White House. Neutral turf was required.

Marshall Kofer arrived first, promptly at six, looking as dapper
as ever. He had readily agreed to the meeting; Karen had been a bit more reluctant. In the end, though, her daughter needed help. What her daughter really needed was for her parents to listen and provide some guidance.

Karen was only five minutes late. She hugged Samantha, pecked her ex properly on the cheek, and sat down. A waiter took their drink orders. The table was away from the bar so there was privacy, for the moment anyway. Samantha would be in charge of the talking—it was her show all the way—and she would not allow any awkward pauses as her parents sat down together for the first time in at least eleven years. She had told them on the phone that this was not a social event, and it was certainly not a misguided effort to patch up old issues. More important matters were at hand.

The drinks arrived and everyone reached for a glass. Samantha thanked them for their time, apologized for the short notice, then plunged into her narrative. She began with the Hammer Valley litigation, and Krull Mining, and Donovan Gray and his lawsuit. Marshall had known the facts for some time, and Karen had heard most of it just after Christmas. But neither knew about the stolen documents, and Samantha spared no details. She had actually seen them, and was assuming they were still buried deep in Gray Mountain. Or at least most of them. Krull Mining was after them, and now the FBI had been enlisted to do its dirty work. She admitted she was seeing Jeff but assured them it was nothing serious. Frankly, she owed them no explanations. Both feigned disinterest in her new relationship.

The waiter was back. They ordered another round and something to snack on. Samantha described her meeting in New York with Jarrett London, and his efforts to pressure her and Jeff into delivering the documents as soon as possible. She admitted she felt like she was getting sucked into activity that, if not illegal, was clearly questionable. She had now been the target of an FBI raid, which, though misguided, had certainly been dramatic and frightening. As far as she knew, the U.S. Attorney in West Virginia was spearheading the investigation and evidently was convinced that Krull Mining was the victim of a theft and conspiracy. It should
be the other way around, she argued. Krull Mining was the guilty party and should be brought to justice.

Marshall agreed wholeheartedly. He asked a few questions, all of them aimed at the U.S. Attorney and the Attorney General. Karen was cautious in her comments and questions. What Marshall was thinking, but could never say, was that Karen had most likely used her considerable influence to bust him and send him to prison a decade earlier. With clout like that, why couldn’t she help her daughter now?

A cheese platter arrived but they ignored it. Both parents agreed that she should not touch the documents. Let Jeff run the risks if he so chose, but she should leave them alone. Jarrett London and his band of litigators had the brains and money to handle the dirty work, and if the documents were as valuable as they believed, they would figure out a way to nail Krull Mining.

Can you get the FBI to back off? Samantha asked her mother. Karen said she would give it her immediate attention, but cautioned that she had little influence with those guys.

The hell you don’t, Marshall almost mumbled. He had sat in prison for three years and schemed of ways to retaliate against his ex-wife and her colleagues. But, with time, he accepted the reality that his problems had been caused by his own greed.

Have you thought about simply leaving? her mother asked. Pack up and get out? Call it an adventure and hustle back to the city? You gave it your best shot and now you’ve got the FBI breathing down your neck. What are you doing there?

Marshall seemed sympathetic to this line of questioning. He’d served time with some white-collar guys who, technically, had broken no laws. If the Feds want to get you, they’ll figure out a way. Conspiracy was one of their favorites.

The more Samantha talked, the more she wanted to talk. She could not remember the last time she’d had the undivided attention of both parents. In fact, she was not sure it had ever happened. Perhaps as a toddler, but then who could remember? And, listening to her worries and troubles, both parents seemed to forget their
own issues and rally to support her. The baggage was left behind, for the moment anyway.

Why did she feel compelled to stay “down there”? She answered by telling the story of Buddy Ryzer and his claim for black lung benefits. Her throat tightened when she told them of his suicide, about twenty-four hours ago. She would go to a funeral soon, at a pretty church out in the country, and watch from a distance as poor Mavis and the three kids melted down in emotional anguish. If they’d had a lawyer, things would have been different. Now that they had one, she couldn’t pack up and run when the pressure was on. And there were other clients, other folks with little voices who needed her to at least hang around a few months and pursue some measure of justice.

She told them about the job offer from Andy Grubman. Marshall, predictably, disliked the idea and referred to it as “just a spiffed-up version of the same old corporate law.” Just pushing paper around a desk with one eye on the clock. He warned that the firm would grow and grow and before long it would look and feel just like Scully & Pershing. Karen thought it was far more appealing than staying in Brady, Virginia. Samantha confessed she had mixed feelings about the offer, but, in reality, she expected to say yes at some point.

T
hey had dinner in the hotel restaurant, salads, fish, and wine, even dessert and coffee. Samantha talked so much she was exhausted, but she allowed her fears to be heard by both parents, and the relief was enormous. No clear decisions had been made. Nothing had really been resolved. Their advice was largely predictable, but the act of talking about it all was therapeutic.