Adam’s reach may be longer, and his grasp more vital, than I had imagined.
The fact that he could get the carrier to open its purse so cheerfully and that they would allow Adam to publish the amount, which is what he really wanted, surprised even me.
While my partner was doing his legal research to justify whatever we would get, I was doing my own. I knew that Adam sat on a number of corporate boards.
Burrowing my nose into some publications, I discovered that the actual number was seven, unless I missed some, which I may have. All of these are large multinational businesses, with home offices in the U.S. Their boards include the usual list of corporate suspects, names you might recognize from government positions they’ve held in the past, or causes they’ve championed. These are people who make their living, to the tune of fortunes, just by being connected. They have developed a business celebrity. Corporations may wait in line to have them join their boards. Because they are on one board, they get on another. Because their name appears on those two, they pick up a third. Once they are there, competence is assumed. At the end of the day, they are sitting around the boardroom comparing handicaps on the back nine, making a million or more a year, and pocketing the company pens paid for by investors. It is not just in Hollywood where perception becomes reality.
What I learned by doing my research was that three of the Devon Insurance board members cross-pollinated with Adam on other boards. That was all I needed to know.
The settlement, and the publicity that now follows it, serves the purposes of Rocker, Dusha by bringing to an end any ugly speculation as to why Nick may have died. Confronted by client’s questions at a cocktail party, Adam or his partners can now say, “Haven’t you heard? Oh, yeah, Nick’s death was an accident.” To business clients for whom the exchange of dollars is like breathing air, the payment of cash is reliable evidence. The payment of nearly four million dollars by a sober and staid insurance company will be viewed as irrefutable proof that Nick was just another random victim in a violent world. Within a year, Adam will have most of his corporate clients trying to recall just how Nick died and thinking maybe it was lightning.
I’d like to hope that Adam has more respect for me than to believe I would be flattered by his article. Though I suspect if he thinks it would sweeten his offer for Harry and me to join the firm, he would see no harm in a little icing on the cake.
I scan the rest of the newsletter. Another office in the works. This one in Houston with an eye toward petroleum, gas, and oil ventures. All of the partners may not be happy, but Adam is still on the move, building his equity interest in Rocker, Dusha.
I stick the newsletter behind the flap in the seat in front of me and turn to the computer printouts of Tresler’s campaign contributions that Harry has been working on. He has underlined two of the names from Nick’s list of PAC contributors. One is a partner in the firm’s office Washington, D.C. The other is one Jeffery Dolson, a partner in their San Francisco operation. Both men show up not only in the address book of Nick’s handheld device, but also in the date book, which shows meetings in their respective cities with times and dates. Dolson, in San Francisco, met with Nick twice in the two months before Nick was killed, if the date book is accurate. The last time was only nine days before the shootings. It’s the reason I am flying to San Francisco this afternoon instead of directly to Capital City.
Rocker, Dusha’s offices in San Francisco are located at One Market Plaza overlooking the Bay Bridge and the waterfront. The location is pricey, but within grasping distance of the city’s financial district. Here the firm occupies two floors on the upper levels, squeezed in between another law firm downstairs and a securities trading company above.
It is almost five o’clock, closing time as I step off the elevator onto carpeted floor and approach the reception counter.
A young Asian woman with a telephone headset is seated at one of the stations behind the counter. Two other women are gathering their things getting ready to leave for the evening.
The woman smiles. “Can I help you?”
I give her my card. “I’m here to see Jeffery Dolson.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. I just flew into town this afternoon and took a chance that he might be in.”
“Just a moment.”
Dolson heads up the firm’s M amp;A division. Mergers and acquisitions is the place where lawyers capitalize on the laws businesses buy from Congress, the ones designed to ensure that wealth remains concentrated in as few hands as possible, usually by wiping out small investors. Talk to lawyers working in this field and they will tell you that corporate management getting rich when their companies go broke is just part of the normal business cycle. For people who believe the world is changing too fast, they should take comfort in the fact that a lot of money in America is still made the old-fashioned way, by stealing it.
The receptionist is talking through the transparent tube on her headset to somebody in the back or upstairs.
“I don’t know. Just a minute. I’ll ask him.” She looks at me. “Can I ask you what it regards?”
“I had lunch with Adam Tolt in San Diego this afternoon, and I wanted to stop in and see Mr. Dolson.” All of this is true, none of it responsive to her question. Just the same, Tolt’s name does its magic. As the woman turns her back to me, she cups a hand over the end of the little tube, but I can hear her mumble into the mouthpiece. “Apparently, he’s been referred by Mr. Tolt.”
Open sesame. Three minutes later, I’m being ushered up the elevator by a secretary with my business card in one hand and a key to let us off the elevator on the executive level in the other. I follow her through the labyrinth of partitions to the far side of the building where the hallway is wide and the rosewood paneling is real. She knocks on the door at the end of the hall, the one with Dolson’s name engraved in plastic on the wall next to it.
“Yes. Come in.”
The door is opened, and I can see a large corner office with windows on two walls. One of these looks out at the cabled spans of the Bay Bridge. Through the other, I can see the single spire of the Ferry Building.
The man behind the desk is young. I would guess mid-thirties. He is straightening his tie, and from the look of his desk, with some papers sticking out of the partially closed top drawer, I suspect he has been cleaning up for my arrival. What the dropping of an important name can do to create a little anxiety.
Dolson shimmies around the partially open drawer that he has now given up on, and makes his way to my side of the desk. We shake hands as he looks at my card. “I understand you just flew into town?”
“Yes. A flight from San Diego. I had lunch with Adam Tolt today, and your name came up a couple of times. I thought that as long as I was coming north on other business it might be a good idea if we met.”
“My name?” he says. “How is he? Mr. Tolt, I mean. I see him about once every six months or so. When some of the division heads get together to compare notes.”
“He’s fine. Doing great,” I tell him.
“So did Adam, Mr. Tolt, send you to see me?”
“No. Actually your name came up in another context. I understand that you knew Nick Rush?”
His pupils float away from my face over to the wall of windows behind me and back again, as if they crossed the bridge and returned, all within less than a second.
“Nick Rush?” he says.
“Yes. Nick was a friend,” I say. “And your name came up.”
“Really?” This is an octave higher than his last statement. I can tell he’d like to ask in what context Nick might have mentioned his name, but he doesn’t.
“It’s terrible what happened to him,” he says.
“I understand that Nick came up here to your office, to meet with you about a week or so before he was killed?”
Like he’s been hit by a train. “Ugh? What?”
“I understood the two of you had a meeting here in your office?”
His lips are moving, sort of quivering, but nothing is coming out. “Oh. Oh that,” he says. “Guess with everything going on I forgot about it.”
How do you forget your last meeting with a man who is murdered nine days later?
“Then the police haven’t talked to you?”
“Why would they want to talk to me?”
