"I'll get right to the point," Sandy said. "Do you know a man by the name of Jack Stephano?"
Mims thought quickly. "No."
"I didn't think so. He's a super-sleuth out of D.C. He was hired by Aricia, Northern Case Mutual, and Monarch-Sierra to find Patrick."
"So?"
"So take a look at these," Sandy said with a smile as he slid a set of gory color photos from a file. Mims spread them out on the table-Patrick's horrid burns in all their glory.
"These were in the newspaper, right?" he said.
"Some of them."
"Yeah, I think you spread them around when you sued the FBI."
"The FBI didn't do this to my client, Mr. Mims."
"Oh really." Mims released the photos and waited for Sandy.
"The FBI didn't find Patrick."
"Then why did you sue them?"
"Publicity stunt, designed to arouse some sympathy for my client."
"Didn't work."
"Maybe not with you, but you won't be on the jury, will you? Anyway, these injuries were the result of prolonged torture, inflicted by men working for Jack Stephano, who was working for several clients, one of whom happened to be Northern Case Mutual, a very proud publicly owned company with a solid reputation for corporate responsibility and six billion in stockholders' equity."
Talbot Mims was extremely practical. He had to be. With three hundred open files in his office and eighteen large insurance companies as clients, he didn't have time to play games. "Two questions," he said. "First, can you prove this?"
"Yes. The FBI can confirm it." ,
"Second. What do you want?"
"I want a high-ranking Northern Case Mutual executive here in this room tomorrow, someone with unquestioned authority."
"These are busy people."
"We're all busy. I'm not threatening a lawsuit, but think of how embarrassing this could be."
"Sounds like a threat to me."
"Take it any way you want."
"What time tomorrow?"
"Four P.M."
"We'll be here," Mims said, reaching forward to shake hands. He then left in a rush, his minions racing behind.
Sandy's own crew arrived mid-afternoon. A secretary answered the phone, which by then was ringing every ten minutes. Sandy had placed calls to Cutter, T.L. Parrish, Sheriff Sweeney, Mark Birck in Miami, Judge Huskey, a handful of lawyers in Biloxi, and Maurice Mast, the U.S. Attorney for the Western District of Mississippi. On a personal level, he called his wife twice to get reports on the family, and he called the principal of his third-grader's lower school.
He had spoken to Hal Ladd twice by phone, but met him for the first time at the Camille Suite. Ladd epresented Monarch-Sierra. He arrived alone, which Sandy found shocking because insurance defense lawyers always traveled in pairs. Regardless of the task at hand, there had to be two of them before the work began. Both listened, both looked, spoke, took notes, and, most important, both billed the client for the same work.
Sandy knew of two large, rich firms in New Orleans that, not surprisingly, had adopted a threesome approach to the practice of insurance defense.
Ladd was a serious sort in his late forties, and by reputation didn't need the assistance of another lawyer. He politely took a diet cola and sat in the same seat Mr. Minis had occupied.
Sandy asked him the same question. "Do you know a man by the name of Jack Stephano?"
He didn't, and so Sandy delivered the standard brief bio. Then he laid the color photos of Patrick's wounds on the table, and they discussed them for a moment. The burns were not inflicted by the FBI, Sandy explained. Ladd read between the lines. Having represented insurance companies for many years, he had long since ceased to be surprised by the depths to which they could sink.
Even so, this was shocking. "Assuming you can prove this," Ladd said, "I'm sure my client would prefer to keep it quiet."
"We're prepared to amend our lawsuit, drop the FBI, and name as defendants your client, Northern Case Mutual, Aricia, Stephano, and anybody else responsible for the torture. It's an American citizen intentionally wounded and scarred by American efendants. The case is worth millions. We'll go to trial right here in Biloxi."
Not if Ladd had anything to do with it. He agreed to call Monarch-Sierra immediately and demand that the chief in-house lawyer drop everything and fly to Biloxi. He appeared angry that his client had funded the search without informing him. "If it's true," he said, "I'll never represent them again."
"Trust me. It's true."
IT WAS ALMOST DARK when Paulo was blindfolded and handcuffed and led from the house. No guns were poked at him, no threats made. No voices whatsoever. He rode in the backseat of a small car, by himself, for an hour or so. The radio played classical music.
When the car stopped, the two front doors opened, and Paulo was helped from the back. "Come with me," came a voice at his shoulder, and a large hand took him by the elbow. The road under his feet was gravel. They walked a hundred meters or so, then stopped. The voice said, "You are on a road twenty kilometers from Rio. To your left, three hundred meters, is a farmhouse with a telephone. Go there for help. I have a gun. If you turn around, I will have no choice but to kill you."
"I won't turn around," Paulo said, his body shaking.
"Good. I will remove the handcuffs first, then I will remove the blindfold."
"I won't turn around," Paulo said.
The handcuffs were removed. "Now, I will remove the blindfold. Walk forward quickly."
The blindfold was yanked off, and Paulo lowered his head and began jogging down the road. There was no sound behind him. He didn't dare glance around. He called the police at the farmhouse, then he called his son.
Chapter 33
COURT REPORTERS arrived promptly at JL eight. Both were named Linda-one with an i and one with a y. They produced business cards and followed Sandy to the center of the suite, where the furniture had been shoved to the walls and chairs added. He placed Y at one end of the room, with her back to the window with the shades pulled tightly, and sat I at the other end, in a nook next to the bar with a clear view of all the players. Both desperately needed one last smoke. He sent them into the far bedroom. Jaynes arrived next with his group. He had a driver, an aging FBI agent who also served as bodyguard, lookout, and errand boy; he had an FBI lawyer; and he had Cutter and Cutter's immediate supervisor. From the Attorney General's office, he had Sprawling, an intense dark-eyed veteran who said little but gathered every sound. All six men wore either black or navy suits; all produced business cards, which Sandy's paralegal collected. Sandy's secretary took their coffee orders while the men shuffled as a group through the small parlor and into the den.
Next came Maurice Mast, the U.S. Attorney for the Western District of Mississippi, traveling light with only one assistant. He was followed by T.L. Parrish, alone, and the meeting was ready to begin.
The pecking order took care of itself. Jaynes' driver and Mast's assistant stayed in the parlor, where they found a platter of doughnuts and the morning papers.
Sandy closed the door, offered a cheerful "Good morning," and thanked them all for coming. They were seated around the room. No one smiled, yet they were not unhappy to be there. It was quite intriguing.
Sandy introduced both court reporters, and explained that their dual transcripts of the meeting would be kept by him and considered extremely confidential. This seemed to satisfy everyone. There were no questions or comments at this point because they weren't sure what the meeting was about.