The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [64]
You can imagine my surprise when Mr. Jones and Ms. Spronger arrived in the company of Ariel Dearth. I could not completely conceal my chagrin at seeing the ubiquitous lawyer, but I dissembled my reaction enough to get through the obligatory introductions and handshakes. Mr. Jones wore chinos and a short-sleeved, open-collared jersey, and I could not but note again the musculature of his arms and shoulders. Ms. Spronger sported denim overalls, and for a moment I thought she might be a member of the maintenance staff. Mr. Dearth wore a contentious expression and one of those tweed hunting jackets with a leather patch at the shoulder, fitting attire for a predator, when you think about it.
“Are you their counsel?” I asked after we, the mobile, had sat down at a stark table and Mr. Jones had pulled his wheelchair up to it.
He appeared to think my question over, perhaps consulting the lawyer within. “I am,” he said.
“In what capacity?”
“We’re suing the university,” Ms. Spronger announced.
“Bobba …,” Mr. Dearth started.
She bridled. “Just because we’ve hired you doesn’t mean I’ve like given up my First Amendment rights.”
Mr. Dearth nodded perfunctorily and turned to me. “I want to know, Mr. de Ratour, what gives you the right to threaten my clients with a police investigation?”
“Because, Mr. Dearth, it’s a fact, not a threat.”
“And you know it’s strictly against the rule of the subcommittee for any member to contact disputants privately without the consent of the Chair.”
I had to suppress a laugh. “You mean you had the consent of the Chair to solicit these good people as clients?”
“That’s privileged information.”
“I’m sure it is.” I turned to the disputants. “Are the grounds on which you plan to sue the university also privileged information?”
“We —” Mr. Jones started.
“That’s privileged,” Mr. Dearth said.
“We’re victims of an institution that like created a working atmosphere in which people like want to rape one another.” Ms. Spronger spoke with what seemed like pride.
“Ms. Spronger …” Mr. Dearth twitched his nose in frustration.
“How much are you suing the university for?” I asked.
“We haven’t settled on an amount,” the learned counsel said emphatically.
“We’re not concerned with the money part of it,” Ms. Spronger added with a touch of indignation. “It’s a way of like sending a message.”
“How much is the message going to cost the university?”
“Is this germane to your interests?” Mr. Dearth asked.
“Five big ones.” A large smile lit up Mr. Jones’s handsome face.
“Five million dollars!” I repeated, incredulous.
“Five big ones each.” Mr. Jones seemed to be enjoying his freedom of speech.
“Have you settled on a contingency fee?”
“I advise against answering that question.”
“Is it thirty percent? Forty? Fifty?”
The disputants were nodding.
I turned to Mr. Dearth. “Have you no shame, sir?”
He shrugged. “It is a long shot.”
“It’s a way of like effecting social change,” Ms. Spronger said, as though in defense of her attorney.
“I suppose making lawyers rich through this kind of extortion is a form of social change,” I said.
Mr. Jones leaned back and laughed. “Makes lots of change, anyway.”
“What have we got to do with what happened to those professors?” Ms. Spronger began immediately, speaking as though she had been accused of something.
“Perhaps nothing,” I said, Investigator de Ratour now, professional to my fingertips. I paused for effect. “And perhaps everything.”
Sitting across the table from me, she in a chair and he in his wheelchair, they exchanged glances at my words then looked to their attorney.
I thought this curious, as curious as their insistence that they meet with me together.
“What are you saying?” asked Mr. Jones.
I shook my head. “I don’t want to prejudice any answers you might have to my questions.”
“They are not prepared to answer any questions