So far, there were eleven hundred death cases. Or in other words, eleven hundred cases in which the dead person’s estate claimed Krayoxx was the cause. The medical proof was not exactly ironclad, though it was probably sufficient to become a question for a jury. Going along with their master plan, Nicholas Walker and Judy Beck spent almost no time discussing the basic issue of liability. They presumed, as did the horde on the other side, that the drug was responsible for eleven hundred deaths and thousands of other injuries.
After the formalities, Walker began by saying that Varrick would like to nail down the value of each death case. Assuming that could be done, they would then move on to the non-death cases.
Wally was on the shore of Lake Michigan, in a small rental a block off the water, with his darling DeeAnna, who was a knockout in a bikini, and he had just finished some pasta salad when his cell phone chirped. He saw the number, snatched the phone, and said, “Jerry, my man, what’s going on?” DeeAnna, topless in a nearby lounge chair, perked up too. She knew that any call from dear Jerry could be thrilling.
Jerry explained that he was back in Florida after two days in New York, secret meeting and all, hammering things out with Varrick, tough bunch, just the death cases, you know, but anyway, lots of progress, no deal, no handshake, certainly nothing in writing, but it looks as though each death case will be somewhere around $2 million.
Wally hummed along with an occasional smile at DeeAnna, who had inched closer. “Good news, Jerry, nice work. Let’s chat next week.”
“What’s up?” she cooed when the call was over.
“Nothing, really. Just an update from Jerry. Varrick has filed a bunch of motions and he wants me to take a look.”
“No settlement?”
“Nope.”
All she talked about now was the settlement. Sure, it was his fault for running his big mouth, but the woman was obsessed with the settlement. She didn’t have enough sense to play along as though she couldn’t have cared less. No. She wanted details.
She wanted money, and this was worrying Wally. He was already thinking of an exit strategy, just like his new hero Oscar. Ditch the women before the money arrives.
Sixteen million dollars. Seventeen percent of which would flow into the coffers of Finley & Figg, a total of $2.7 million, of which Wally would take 50 percent. He was a millionaire.
He crawled onto an air mattress and floated across the pool. He closed his eyes and tried not to grin. Soon DeeAnna was next to him, floating on the water, still topless, touching him occasionally to make sure he still needed her. They had been together for many months now, and Wally was finally getting bored. He was finding it more difficult to keep up with her constant demands for sex. He was, after all, forty-six, ten years older than DeeAnna, though her actual birth date was a moving target. The day and month had been nailed down, but the year kept inching forward. He was tired and needed a break, and he was also concerned about her fascination with his Krayoxx money.
It would be in his best interests to ditch her now, do the breakup routine, one he knew well, and get her out of his life and away from the money. This would not be easy and would take some time. Such a strategy would work well for Oscar too. Paula Finley had hired an obnoxious divorce lawyer named Stamm, and he was banging the war drums. During their first phone chat, Stamm expressed surprise at how little money Oscar cleared from his law practice and went on to imply that money was being hidden. He probed into the murky world of fees paid in cash, but he got nothing from Wally, who knew that territory well. Stamm mentioned the Krayoxx litigation, but got stiff-armed by Wally’s well-rehearsed denials that Oscar was involved.
“Well, it looks suspicious,” Stamm had said. “Mr. Finley is willing to walk away with nothing but his car and clothes after thirty years of marriage.”
“Oh no,” Wally had protested. “It makes perfect sense if you really got to know Paula Finley, your client.” They bickered for a while, as divorce lawyers do, then promised to talk later.
As bad as Wally wanted the money, he decided to delay the actual receipt of the cash for several months. Do the paperwork now, or in the next few weeks, keep it under wraps in court, then get rid of the women.
For what was supposed to be the slowest month of the year, August was proving to be quite productive. On August 22, Helen Zinc gave birth to an eight-pound girl, Emma, and for a couple of days her parents acted as though they had produced the first baby in history. Mother and child were in perfect health, and when they arrived home, all four grandparents were waiting, along with two dozen friends. David took a week off and found it impossible to stay out of the little pink nursery.
He was called back into action by an angry federal judge, one who evidently did not believe in vacations and was rumored to work ninety hours a week. Her name was Sally Archer, or Sudden Sal, as she had been aptly nicknamed. She was young and brash, extremely bright, and in the process of driving her staff into the ground. Sudden Sal ruled quickly and wanted every lawsuit settled the day after it was filed. David’s labor case had been assigned to Archer, who had minced no words in voicing her low opinion of Cicero Pipe and its sleazy practices.
Under pressure from multiple arms of the federal government, and Sudden Sal as well, the prime contractor convinced its sub, Cicero Pipe, to clean up its labor mess and legal problems and get on with its portion of the water-treatment plant. The criminal charges against the would-be arsonist, Justin Bardall, and others at the company would take months to untangle, but the wage-and-hour dispute could, and would, be wrapped up quickly.
Six weeks after filing the lawsuit, David hammered out a settlement that was hard for him to believe. Cicero Pipe agreed to pay to each of his five clients the lump sum of $40,000. In addition, the company would pay $30,000 each to another three dozen undocumented workers, most Mexican and Guatemalan, who had been paid $200 a week for at least eighty hours.
Because of the notoriety of the case, said notoriety being greatly enhanced by Oscar’s vigorous defense of his own property and the ensuing arrest of the wealthy owner of Cicero Pipe, the hearing before Sudden Sal attracted some reporters. Judge Archer began by recapping the lawsuit, and in doing so guaranteed she would be quoted by describing Cicero Pipe’s abuses as “slave labor.” She lashed out at the company, rebuked its lawyers, who were actually pretty nice guys in David’s opinion, and in general grandstanded for thirty minutes as the reporters scribbled away.
“Mr. Zinc, are you satisfied with this settlement?” Her Honor inquired. The agreement was in writing. The deal had been cut a week earlier; the only remaining issue was attorneys’ fees.
“Yes, Your Honor,” David said quietly. The three lawyers for Cicero Pipe hunkered down, almost afraid to look up.
“I see that you have submitted a request for attorneys’ fees,” Sudden Sal observed as she looked at some paperwork. “Fifty-eight hours. I would say, in light of what you have accomplished and the money you’ve obtained for all these workers, that your time has been well spent.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” David said. He was standing at his table.
“What is your hourly rate, Mr. Zinc?”
“Well, Your Honor, I have been anticipating that question, and the truth is that I really don’t have an hourly rate. My clients can’t afford to pay by the hour.”
Judge Archer nodded. “In the past year, have you billed anyone by the hour?”