The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [39]
Delroy nodded.
“And no rough stuff this time, Delroy. I just want to control him.”
Delroy shrugged and said, “You’re the boss.”
“Get me every newspaper article on the McCall murder case,” Scott said to Sue. He gestured at Bobby sitting on the sofa. “Sue, this is Bobby Herrin. He’s working with me on the case. Give her your card, Bobby, so she has your numbers.”
Bobby dug around in his pockets, pulled out a crumpled card, and handed it to Sue, who was holding out a stack of pink message slips to Scott.
“Reporters and TV producers. They want you to appear on the morning news shows, Dateline, 20/20, and—”
“Trash ’em. And call security: tell them to keep those reporters outside on the street.”
“Frank Turner’s still waiting.”
“Show him in.” To Bobby: “I always make plaintiffs’ lawyers wait.”
Scott slumped in his chair behind the mahogany desk. Last time he felt like this was after the knee injury his freshman season.
“Just when you think you got the world by the balls,” Scott said, “you find out the world’s got you by the balls.”
“Welcome to my world,” Bobby said.
Sue escorted Frank Turner into Scott’s office. Frank appeared every inch the rich plaintiffs’ lawyer, expensively dressed, his hair perfect, looking tanned and rested from another jaunt to Cancún aboard his personal Lear jet, the bastard. Frank had lucked into one major toxic tort verdict a decade ago, and he had never had to take a case to a jury again. His reputation forced every corporate defendant to settle for a substantial sum, one-third of which went into Frank’s pocket. So while Scott Fenney had a Ferrari, Frank Turner had a Lear.
Scott did not stand. “Frank, I didn’t expect you to come over personally.”
Frank grinned and said, “I always show up to collect funds.”
“Ah, the personal touch.” Scott gestured over at Bobby on the sofa. “Frank, Bobby Herrin. Bobby, Frank Turner, famous plaintiffs’ lawyer.”
They shook hands, then Frank gestured at the big blowup of Scott Fenney, number 22, on the far wall above the sofa.
“That the day you got a hundred and ninety-three yards against Texas?”
“Yep, that was the day.”
Frank’s eyes lingered on the blowup, and in Frank’s eyes Scott saw the envy of a tuba player. But Frank Turner was now a plaintiffs’ lawyer and he was here for money, so he finally turned to Scott and said, “You got the check?”
“You got the release?” Scott asked.
Frank held out a document, which Scott took and scanned to make sure the bastard hadn’t changed anything. Satisfied, he turned to the signature page and saw that sweet Nadine and sleazy Frank had both signed in triplicate. He then handed a cashier’s check to Frank Turner.
“One million dollars, Frank.”
Frank stared at the check a moment and then broke into a birthday-boy smile.
Scott said, “So is this what you do every day, Frank, walk from office to office picking up big settlement checks?”
Frank’s face took on an expression of thoughtfulness, then he smiled again. “Yeah, Scott, now that you mention it, that is pretty much what I do.”
The smile still on his face and a million-dollar check in his hand, he headed to the door, but stopped abruptly and turned back. He held the check up to Scott.
“Oh, just so you know, Scott, Nadine would’ve taken half a million.”
Frank was turning away again when Scott said, “Well, since we’re confessing, Frank, just so you know, Tom would’ve paid two million.”
Frank’s smile evaporated like a raindrop on the sidewalk outside and his shoulders slumped: the only thing that makes a plaintiffs’ lawyer lose sleep is leaving money on the table. He turned and slithered away, not thinking that he had just made $333,333.33, but that he had just lost the same amount. Which left Scott with something of a moral victory, at least.
“Asshole,” Scott said.
“Who, me?”
Sid Greenberg’s head was in the door. Scott motioned him in.
“Sid, meet Bobby Herrin.”
Sid stepped over and shook hands with Bobby. “How’d it go this morning? You taking