“When?”
“Thirty days?”
“Great. Thirty days is $540 million in lost revenue.”
“I got the math, Reuben.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“I got it, Reuben, okay?”
Massey’s eyes were flashing, and his right index finger was jabbing through the air, in the direction of his lobbyist. “Listen to me, Layton. If this drug is not back on the market in the very near future, I’m coming to Washington to fire you and your firm, then I’ll hire a whole new bunch of ‘government affairs specialists’ to protect my company. I can get a meeting with the vice president and the Speaker of the House. I can have drinks with a dozen or so senators. I’ll take my checkbook and a truckful of cash, and if I have to, I’ll take a carload of hookers to the FDA and turn ’em loose.”
Koane offered a fake smile as if he’d heard something funny. “No need for that, Reuben. Just give me a little time.”
“We don’t have a little time.”
“The quickest way to get Krayoxx back on the market is to prove it’s not harmful,” Koane said coolly, wanting to divert the chatter away from being fired. “Any ideas?”
“We’re working on it,” Nicholas Walker said.
Massey stood again and returned to his favorite window. “Meeting’s over, Layton,” he growled, and did not turn around to say good-bye.
A s soon as Koane was gone, Reuben relaxed and felt better about the morning. Nothing like a human sacrifice to get a hard-nosed CEO in good spirits. As Nick Walker and Judy Beck checked their e-mails on their smartphones, Reuben waited. When he had their attention, he said, “I suppose we should discuss our settlement strategy. What’s the timeline now?”
“The Chicago trial is on track,” Walker said. “There is no trial date, but we should hear something soon. Nadine Karros is watching Judge Seawright’s calendar, and there’s a nice gap in late October. With some luck, it might happen then.”
“That’s less than a year after the lawsuit was filed.”
“Yes, but we’ve done nothing to slow it down. Nadine’s putting up a stiff defense, going through all the motions, but no real obstacles. No motion to dismiss. No plans for summary judgment. Discovery is proceeding nicely. Seawright seems to be curious about the case and wants a trial.”
“Today is June 3. They’re still filing lawsuits. If we start talking settlement now, can we string it out until October?”
Judy Beck responded. “No problem at all. Fetazine took three years to settle, and there were half a million claims. Zoltaven took even longer. The tort bar is thinking about one thing-the $5 billion we charged off last quarter. They’re dreaming of that much money hitting the table.”
“It will be another frenzy,” Nick said.
“Let’s get it started,” Massey said.
CHAPTER 26
Wally was sitting in divorce court on the sixteenth floor of the Richard J. Daley Center, downtown. On tap for the morning was Strate v. Strate, one of a dozen or so miserable little divorces that would forever (hopefully) separate two people who had no business getting married in the first place. To untangle things, they had hired Wally, paid him $750 in full for an uncontested divorce, and after six months were now in court, on opposite sides of the aisle, anxious for their case to be called. Wally waited too, waited and watched the procession of scarred and warring spouses trek meekly to the bench, bow at the judge, speak when their lawyers told them to, avoid eye contact with each other, and after a few somber minutes leave, unmarried again.
Wally was in a group of lawyers, all waiting impatiently. He knew about half of them. The other half he’d never seen before. In a city with twenty thousand lawyers, the faces were always changing. What a rat race. What a grinding treadmill.
A wife was crying in front of the judge. She didn’t want the divorce. Her husband did.
Wally could not wait until these scenes were history. One day soon he would spend his time in a swanky office closer to downtown, far away from the sweat and stress of street law, behind a wide marble desk with two shapely secretaries answering his phones and fetching his files and a paralegal or two doing his grunt work. No more divorces, DUIs, wills, cheap estates, no more clients who couldn’t pay. He would pick and choose the injury cases he wanted and make big money in the process.
The other lawyers were watching him warily. He knew this. They mentioned Krayoxx from time to time. Curious, envious, some hoping Wally would strike gold because that would give them hope. Others, though, were eager to see him fall flat because that would prove their drudgery was what they were meant to do. Nothing more.
His cell phone vibrated in his coat pocket. He grabbed it, focused on the name and number of the caller, then jumped from his seat and sprinted from the courtroom. As soon as he cleared the doors, he said, “Jerry. I’m in court. What’s up?”
“Big news, Brother Wally,” Alisandros sang. “I played eighteen holes of golf yesterday with Nicholas Walker. Ring a bell?”
“No, yes. I’m not sure. Who?”
“We played on my course. I shot a 78. Poor Nick was 20 strokes back. Not much of a golfer, I’m afraid. He’s the chief in-house lawyer for Varrick Labs. Known him for years. Prince of an asshole, but honorable.”
There was a gap Wally needed to fill here, but he could think of nothing helpful. “So, Jerry, you didn’t call to brag about your golf game, right?”
“No, Wally. I’m calling to inform you that Varrick wants to open a dialogue on the issue of settlement. Not actual negotiations, mind you, but they want to start talking. This is the way it usually happens. They crack the door. We get a foot in. They tap-dance. We tap-dance. And before you know it, we’re talking money. Big money. Are you with me, Wally?”
“Oh yes.”
“I thought so. Look, Wally, we have a long way to go before your cases are in a posture to be settled. Let’s get to work. I’ll line up the doctors to do the exams-that’s the crucial part. You need to jack up your efforts to find more cases. We’ll probably settle the death cases first-how many do you have now?”
“Eight.”
“Is that all? Thought it was more.”
“It’s eight, Jerry, with one on the fast track, remember? Klopeck.”
“Right, right. With that hot chick on the other side. Frankly, I’d like to try that one just to stare at her legs all day.”
“Anyway.”
“Anyway, let’s kick into high gear. I’ll call later this afternoon with a game plan. Lots of work to do, Wally, but the fix is in.”
Wally returned to the courtroom and resumed his wait. He kept repeating, “The fix is in. The fix is in.” Game’s up. Party’s over. He’d heard it all his life, but what did it mean in the context of high-powered litigation? Was Varrick throwing in the towel, surrendering so quickly, cutting its losses? Wally assumed so.
He glanced at the haggard, beaten-down lawyers around him. Ham-and-eggers just like himself who spent their days trying to squeeze fees out of working stiffs with no money to spare. You poor bastards, he thought.
He couldn’t wait to tell DeeAnna, but first he had to talk to Oscar. And not at Finley amp; Figg, where no conversation was ever private.
T hey met for lunch two hours later at a spaghetti house not far from the office. Oscar had had a rough morning trying to referee six grown children fighting over their dead mother’s estate, in which there was virtually nothing of value. He needed a drink and ordered a bottle of inexpensive wine. Wally, at 241 days sober, had no
