“Whatever. As far as my client is concerned, at this point it probably doesn’t matter.” He’s talking to himself. “The public perception is such that …”
He trails off, looking into the distance, calculating the public perception.
“Well,” he concludes, “Giselle is protected.”
“How is that?”
“Worst-case scenario: Mason is in breach of her contract. We pull the product, we sue, bam-boom.”
He slaps the table two times and seems ready to get back on the plane.
“I don’t understand. How would she be in breach?”
“We have a morals clause.
“Show me.”
• • •
Although it is almost eight o’clock at night in St. Louis the lights are burning at the advertising agency of Connell and Burgess. Somebody back there sends a copy of the morals clause in Jayne Mason’s contract through the hotel fax. I read it line by line as it feeds off the machine:
M. MORALS. If Spokesperson should, prior to or during the term hereof or thereafter, fail, refuse or neglect to govern Spokesperson’s conduct with due regard to social conventions and public morals and decency, or commit any act which brings Spokesperson into public disrepute, scandal, contempt or ridicule or which shocks, insults or offends a substantial portion or group of the community or reflects unfavorably on Spokesperson or Manufacturer, then Manufacturer may, in addition to and without prejudice to any other remedy of any kind or nature set forth herein, terminate this Agreement at any time after the occurrence of any such event.
I thank Jerry Connell and shake his hand, folding the thin paper and tucking it carefully into an inner pocket of my blue briefcase.
TWENTY-ONE
WHEN I ARRIVE at the office the following day I find Duane Carter sitting in my seat playing with my surfer troll doll, the one wearing a Walkman with fuchsia hair standing up straight.
“Stop fondling my troll.”
Duane grins.
“Get out of my chair.”
“That’s no way to address your supervisor.”
I drop the blue canvas briefcase onto the desk for emphasis. Unfortunately the force of the concussion causes my sunglasses to slip off my nose but I make a great save and continue to glower at Duane.
“You’re not my supervisor, now move.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. Catch this.”
He pushes the Calendar section of today’s
I have to stand there while Duane quotes from the article about how Jayne first became sensitized to victims of corrupt doctors who overprescribe narcotics in her therapy group at the Betty Ford Center. How as a result of the publicity surrounding the lawsuit, the investigation of Dr. Eberhardt has escalated to include the California Medical Licensing Board, which has suspended his license to practice medicine. Although the FBI continues to neither confirm nor deny its own investigation, it is bringing a supervisor who specializes in health care industry fraud out from headquarters in Washington, D.C., to review the situation.
“You’re off the case, gal.”
“Don’t believe what you read in the papers,” I reply coolly.
“Some of his colleagues at the hospital say your buddy Eberhardt was subject to bouts of depression.”
“Under all that stress, who wouldn’t be?”
“They say he’s a superachiever, always pushing for perfection, the type who can’t handle failure. Goes back to his Harvard Med School days. How does the media find out stuff we don’t?”
He enjoys my discomfort.
Looking down, I catch a paragraph stating that Dr. Eberhardt “remains sequestered in his north of Montana home” and is not available for comment on the advice of legal counsel. I can picture him and Claire quivering behind that huge door.
Duane stands up and hands me the paper. “It was a good shot. You’ve had a couple of good shots lately, but like I tried to explain before, you’ve still got some work to accomplish before you move on.”
“And how did
He takes his time answering and when he’s ready he moves the black forelock aside, patting it down on the top of his head with pale fingertips like he’s sticking it there with glue.
“I made a deal with the Devil.” The look in his dark eyes is enigmatic. “When I was a teenager I wanted to get out of Travis County and have success at an early age, and one day I told that to the Devil, and here I am.”
“Really? And what did you trade with the Devil for your success?”
“That’s between him and me,” Duane answers without smiling and leaves.
I sit there for some time, awed by the realization that he was 100 percent serious.
When I switch on my computer the little box next to Mail is blinking, so I call it up and there are the results of the criminal checks I was running on everyone I could find who works, advises, profits, eats, sleeps, or plays within a hundred-mile radius of Jayne Mason. Everyone is clean enough, except for the limousine driver, Tom Pauley, who got into a little trouble with stolen goods when he was a state cop and had to leave the force.
I remove the morals clause from the zippered compartment of the blue briefcase, grab a printout of the report on Pauley, and run down to the SAC’s office.
• • •
Galloway gets up from behind the desk and comes toward me, gesturing apologetically with a cigar. “Sorry you had to read about it in the paper.”
“So it’s true? I’m off the case?”
“The Director saw Jayne Mason crying her eyes out on
I am silent.
“I’m putting in for your transfer to C-1. Congratulations.”
He waits for my reaction. When there is none he bends his knees, so he can hunch over and squint at me in the eyes.
“Am I crazy or were you all over me to get that transfer?”
“Right now a transfer is beside the point.”
I show him the fax and explain that because of this morals clause, scandalous conduct — like being a dope addict — could have jeopardized a multimillion-dollar contract. I tell him my belief that Mason was lying all along about Randall Eberhardt’s culpability.
