draft response Kathy sent her parents. It doesn’t appear in the final version filed in court.”
Okay. That might be something. Or it might be nothing. Global Harvest didn’t list Summerset Farms as one of the purchasers. So what?
“Who is Summerset Farms?” I asked.
“There isn’t much online about them. Looks like they’re a local company that grows wheat and makes a granola and a cereal they sell locally.”
“Okay. Is that it?” I asked.
“Nope.” He shook his head vigorously, full of pride in his discovery. He slid another document in front of me. “Here is a subpoena that LabelTek issued to Summerset Farms.”
I looked it over. It was a subpoena duces tecum, meaning a subpoena for records only and not for a personal appearance. It requested “copies of any and all contracts, invoices, shipping orders, correspondence, and any other like documents pertaining to the purchase of Glo-Max 2. 0 Fertilizer from Global Harvest International or its subsidiaries or agents.” It also requested the name of the individual at Summerset Farms “most knowledgeable about any transactions involving Glo-Max.”
A lot of legalese, but I got the drift. “Somehow,” I said, “the lawyers at LabelTek had reason to know about Summerset Farms, even though Global Harvest didn’t mention them.”
“Right, and it took me a day to figure out how.” Bradley was enjoying himself. The thrill of a discovery, a breakthrough, which I certainly hoped this was.
“The sale of certain fertilizers are governed by state and federal regulations. I’m not going to pretend to know the full extent, but I do know that our state’s Department of Agriculture, maybe in concert with the feds, maybe separate-”
“Bradley, cut to it.”
“Okay. The state agriculture department requires that companies report sales of certain kinds of fertilizer. The state tracks the sales and movement.”
“So if someone looked it up, they could see that Global Harvest sold Glo-Max fertilizer to Summerset Farms.”
“Something like that,” Bradley said. “The database doesn’t include all the information. You don’t know for sure which brand of fertilizer was purchased from reading the public portion of the database. But you can see that Summerset Farms is listed as a purchaser, yeah.”
Bradley showed me another document. Another subpoena. This one was issued to the state Department of Agriculture.
“Same day that LabelTek subpoenaed Summerset Farms,” he said, “January fifth, they also sent a subpoena to the state Department of Agriculture.”
Right. Same date, January 5. Same basic information requested. They wanted to know if the state had any records of Summerset Farms purchasing the Glo-Max product.
“Okay,” I said. “The lawyers for LabelTek weren’t going to trust their opponents in litigation to list all their customers. I mean, the more sales Global Harvest made, the more money LabelTek can claim as royalties, right? So they subpoenaed Summerset Farms and the Department of Agriculture. That makes sense. That’s what I would have done. Take a shot. See what you find.”
“Right,” said Bradley.
“And-what did they find?”
A wide grin spread across Bradley’s face. “Nothing,” he said.
“Okay, I’ll bite. Why did they find nothing, Bradley?”
He slid another document in front of me. The caption read, “Motion for Voluntary Dismissal and for a Good- Faith Finding.”
I was no expert in civil litigation, but I knew what a voluntary dismissal was-it meant the lawsuit was being dropped. I was vaguely aware, through Shauna, that settlements had to be approved by the court. The court had to find that the settlement was made in “good faith.”
Okay, fine-the parties settled. Civil lawsuits settle far more often than they go to trial. That’s one of the myriad reasons I loathe civil litigation.
“Check the date,” Bradley said.
The motion for voluntary dismissal was filed on January 8.
“Interesting,” I said.
“Three days after the subpoenas were issued,” said Bradley. “And that includes the time to actually reach a settlement. Look at the signed settlement agreement. The date is January seventh.”
He was right. The settlement was signed on January 7 by someone named Randall M. Manning, CEO and president of Global Harvest International.
“And factor in that it takes at least a few conversations to reach a settlement,” I said. “And then draw up the papers.”
Bradley was nodding enthusiastically. “That means they settled the lawsuit almost immediately upon seeing those subpoenas.”
Okay, but we were still missing something. I hadn’t read these documents, but Bradley obviously had.
“How much was the settlement?” I asked.
This kid couldn’t stop grinning. “Remember I said that LabelTek estimated damages at three mil?”
“I do.”
“They settled for four million, plus over a hundred thousand in attorneys’ fees.”
“Wow.” I got up from my chair and started pacing. I wished I had my football. “So Kathy Rubinkowski, preparing draft answers to written discovery in the lawsuit, makes a list of Glo-Max purchasers that includes Summerset Farms. Then somebody, ultimately, removes Summerset from that list. Then the enterprising lawyers representing LabelTek check the state database, take a shot, and issue subpoenas to Summerset and the Department of Agriculture.”
“Yep.”
“And basically before sundown the next day, Global Harvest has completely laid down. Not only do they settle, but they settle for more than LabelTek was requesting, and they pay their attorneys’ fees. That’s got to be the first time in recorded history that a case settled by giving the plaintiff every dollar they asked for, plus an additional third, plus fees.”
“And the case had only just begun,” said Bradley. “They hadn’t even taken depositions yet. It’s not like a witness turned on them or something. This is totally bizarre.”
“You forgot the best part,” I said. “Kathy Rubinkowski was murdered on January thirteenth.”
Bradley kicked up his feet onto the conference room table, his performance completed.
“You believe in coincidences, Boss?”
My young associate deserved a gold star. He’d found a thread. Now we had about two weeks to see how hard we could pull on it.
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” I said. “But I do believe in cover-ups.”
33
The law firm of Dembrow, Lane, and McCabe was twenty lawyers, covering the gambit for its corporate clients. They had a bankruptcy practice and an intellectual property group, but their bread and butter was serving the everyday needs of large companies, from labor and employment to regulatory compliance to transactional work to litigation.
A quick Google search told me that the firm laid off ten lawyers, a third of their workforce, just over a year ago. Corporate law firms rose and fell with the fate of their clients, and therefore with the economy. Some of these midsize firms were successfully using the economic downturn as a marketing tool- big-firm representation at a small-firm price, that kind of thing-but apparently not so for Dembrow, Lane.
Their offices were what you’d expect, designed to impress but not impressive. The conference room to which they led us on the thirty-second floor had a view of the commercial district, which was buzzing on a Friday
