Thank You for Smoking

'Don't hold back, please. It's very counterproductive.'

'He's dead. Why does it matter what he was going to do?'

'Everything matters.'

'He asked me to consider taking the fall, in order to spare the industry massive embarrassment. In return for which I'd be extremely well compensated. I decided I wasn't going to do that, and fight it all the way. Then he died.'

'Was this conversation recorded?'

'No.'

'Too bad. Not that it would have been admissible, but we could have gotten it into the press's hands. It would have caused such an uproar that it would have made it very difficult to empanel a jury. And we'd have ended up with a dumber one. You'll have gathered by now that I like a dumb jury. Dumber the better. Now, as to this matter of Mr. Boykin suggesting that BR may have had something to do with these tobacco liability litigants' deaths by smoke inhalation, that,' he said, puckering, 'is a very full can of worms.'

'Yes. Nightcrawlers.'

'Though again, we have no evidence.'

'So, we'll start an investigation into their deaths,' Nick said. 'We'll feed the press, shake the bushes, the trees. Something'll drop out of them. It'll be great.' Nick rubbed his hands together.

'Perhaps. But before we go pointing fingers at high places, you need to consider. It is a high-risk defense strategy. Because if there isn't something, and we've gone trampling on graves, alleging conspiracies that even Oliver Stone would reject, then we'll end up making everyone extremely mad, especially the judge, and you might end up serving a longer stretch of time than even the maximum. At sentencing time, he can decide to make you serve the term for each count consecutively, rather than simultaneously. He can also send you to a maximum security prison. And I'm not sure that's an experience you would enjoy. Of course, that's your decision. Myself, I like a good courtroom dust-up. But it's your ass, not mine. As it were.'

Nick was considering all this, to the sound of steel doors clanging shut in his ears, when Carlinsky's secretary came over the speaker. 'It's Mr. Rohrabacher, from the Academy of Tobacco Studies. He says it's extremely urgent. I told him you were with a client.'

Carlinsky said to Nick, 'I guess I should take that.'

He picked up the phone. 'Yes. Yes. Yes, he is here. I see. Have you told him? I see.' He looked at Nick and arched his eyebrows. 'Yes. All? Well, yes. We handle those. Of course. We're a large firm. I see. Let me speak with the managing partners and I'll have an answer for you by the end of the day.'

Carlinsky hung up. He cleared his throat. 'I'm afraid this is awkward. I'm informed that you are no longer with the Academy of Tobacco Studies.'

This was a common phenomenon in Washington, finding out from a third party that you've just been fired. Usually, you hear about it on CNN, or over the phone from a reporter calling to confirm that the locks on your office were changed while you were out picking up your dry cleaning. Nick was not all that surprised, especially after receiving the frosty interoffice memo from BR informing him that he was not welcome at the Captain's funeral.

'Well, to hell with him. Let's fight him.'

Carlinsky pursed his lips and furrowed his brows. 'That might be awkward.'

'I know you're expensive. But I'm sure we can work something out. You can attach my salary for the rest of my life.'

'It's not that. It's a conflict of interest.'

'What conflict of interest?'

'I can't defend one client by pitting him against another client.'

'What 'another' client?'

'Our firm has just been asked to become legal counsel to the Academy of Tobacco Studies.'

'You mean, just now?'

'Yes. Obviously, having the Academy of Tobacco Studies as a client would mean a considerable amount of business. What with all these smokers suing. But I guess I don't need to tell you that, do I?'

'No,' Nick said, 'you don't.'

'If it were just my decision, it would be one thing. But I have a fiduciary responsibility to report the offer to the partners. On the other hand, who knows. Perhaps they'll decline.'

'What I don't understand,' Nick said, 'is why you didn't tell me you were such a dick before.'

'I assumed you knew,' Carlinsky said.

Nick stepped off the elevators into the Academy's reception area. Carlton was waiting for him.

'Nicky,' he said, blushing. 'Could I have a word with you?'

'Okay,' Nick said. 'We can talk in my office.'

'Uh, that's what I need to talk with you about.' Carlton was whispering. 'BR said — gee, Nicky, I feel like a real asshole having to tell you this.'

'I think we're all feeling like that these days, Carlton.'

'Yeah. Do you want me to bring your stuff to your apartment, or.?'

'That would be fine. Do I get to say good-bye to people, or is this a Stalin thing, where I just disappear without a trace?' Carlton blushed again. 'If it was me… '

Jeannette clicked by, looking very smart in suede. 'Nick,' she smiled. 'Just leaving?' She looked at Carlton. 'I told you I wanted those budget numbers now.' She turned and walked off in the direction of BR's office.

Carlton said, 'Our new executive VP. What a fuckin' headache, huh?'

Tobacco Lobby Fires Nick Naylor

Rohrabacher Says He Is 'Shocked' By the FBI's Evidence Against Him

BY HEATHER HOLLOWAY MOON CORRESPONDENT

The Mod Squad was no longer meeting at Bert's, but in a dark corner of the Serbian Prince restaurant in suburban Virginia. They deemed this a safe bet, since not many people went to Serbian restaurants anymore. It was so empty, in fact, that they wondered how it managed to stay open. Bobby Jay said that it was obviously a front for Serbian arms merchants. In any event, it was a suitable milieu for the Merchants of Death, for two reasons. The press wasn't likely to find them here; nor were the Muslims. The FBI, seeking revenge for Nick's escape in the taxi, seemed to have convinced Akmal that Nick was an agent provocateur working for the Israelis, and had provided him with his phone number, address, mother's maiden name, everything. What space was left on Nick's answering machine tape after all the calls from reporters was taken up with abuse and threats from a number of people with Middle Eastern accents.

'They cut off my medical insurance,' Nick said into his black coffee. 'Do you know how hard it is to get medical insurance when your previous place of employment was the Academy of Tobacco Studies?'

'Do you need health insurance if you're a federal prisoner?' Polly said. Polly, herself fleeing reporters, was in elegant mufti, sunglasses, and shawl. She looked like a cross between Jackie O and Mother Russia. And with the sunglasses, in this dark, she kept knocking things over.

'No,' Bobby Jay said, stirring his coffee with his hook. 'Prisons have their own doctors. Naturally, they're very highly qualified, all from Ivy League medical schools.'

'Could we not talk about this,' Nick said morosely.

'I'm sure it won't come to that,' Polly said, touching his arm.

'That's what everyone's been telling me. Like, I might get really lucky and end up on a converted military base in a desert for ten years. It's a very consoling thought.'

'Sounds a whole lot better to me than Lorton,' Bobby Jay snorted. Lorton was the prison in Virginia where they sent the overflow hard cases from the D.C. jails. It enjoyed a reputation as a not particularly nourishing environment, especially for inmates of the Caucasian persuasion.

'You're not going to Lorton,' Nick said, annoyed by the attempt at one-downmanship. 'You're a handicapped Vietnam vet, it's a first offense. You'll get six months, suspended. So please, spare me the Ballad of Reading Gaol.'

'Oh yeah? Then how come the lawyers tell me the prosecutor is just itching to put