He had spent $25 million to purchase a Senate seat, only to discover that the sole power senators wielded was the power to deliver pork to their home states, not unlike a mailman delivering Social Security checks. It was power that served only to ensure their incumbency.
But Mack McCall wanted to leave his footprints on this earth; he wanted history to know he had been here. Before the divorce, Martha had suggested he establish a private foundation, use his wealth to help the world’s poor: AIDS victims in Africa, uneducated children in Mexico, homeless people in America. But even $800 million was a drop in the bucket when it came to the world’s social problems. And besides, he had never concerned himself with the plight of poor people; it just wasn’t his thing. So he divorced Martha and married Jean, and now he would spend as much of his fortune as necessary to buy the power he so coveted, the power to dispatch the United States Army. Wipe out a few Middle Eastern dictators, and history damn sure knows you were here.
Mack was standing in the bedroom of his Highland Park mansion where his son had been murdered. His mind began playing out the last moments of Clark’s life according to the police report, moments filled with alcohol and cocaine and lust and rage and fear and a hooker-a nigger, for God’s sake! His son had screwed her and fought her and then died right there on the floor where the carpet had been cut out and removed by the FBI. He saw Clark lying dead and felt the emotions welling up inside him and he thought, as he always thought when Clark came to mind:
What a major-league fuckup his son had been.
Anyone else’s son and Mack would say the boy deserved it, living a reckless life, bringing a hooker home to Highland Park. But it was his son and that made it different: no one else in Highland Park was running for president. For the last twenty years, Mack McCall’s every act, speech, public appearance, Senate vote- every breath he took — had been judged against one overriding concern: How would it affect his presidential ambitions? So now no conscious effort was required for his mind to judge his son’s murder and all the publicity the hooker’s trial would bring against the same concern.
Mack didn’t like the conclusions his mind arrived at.
He had threatened to cut Clark out of his will on more than one occasion, an attempt to curb his son’s reckless ways by threatening his future. But now it was the son who was threatening his father’s future: the circumstances of Clark’s death and his many indiscretions posed an imminent threat to Mack’s White House dreams. And Mack McCall was not one to wait passively for a threat to become reality.
Two hours later, Mack was standing at the open double doors of the foyer, saying good-bye to those who had come to pay their respects. Dan Ford was the last to leave. Mack watched Dan walk down the long walkway to the circle drive where the valet held open the door to Dan’s waiting Mercedes-Benz. Dan Ford would cooperate: a lawyer’s loyalty could always be purchased for a reasonable fee.
“This Fenney boy,” Mack said, “he played ball at SMU, pretty damn good as I recall.”
Mack shut the front doors and turned to Delroy Lund, a big, bald, no-necked slab of beef. Delroy was not the brightest former DEA agent in the country, and he was plenty rough around the edges-subtlety wasn’t Delroy’s strong point-but he had proved himself a loyal bodyguard and capable private investigator, adept at uncovering dirty little secrets about senators who opposed Mack on various pork barrel bills and his ex-wife during their divorce proceedings.
“Find everything there is to find on Fenney, and I mean everything. I want his transcripts, bank records, debts, tax returns. I want to know his clients, his friends, his enemies, whether he’s fucking around on his wife or she’s fucking around on him.” A pointed finger at his trusted manservant. “Delroy, I want to know how much he craps each morning. Understood?”
Delroy nodded.
“And no rough stuff this time, Delroy. I just want to control him.”
Delroy shrugged and said, “You’re the boss.”
“Get me every newspaper article on the McCall murder case,” Scott said to Sue. He gestured at Bobby sitting on the sofa. “Sue, this is Bobby Herrin. He’s working with me on the case. Give her your card, Bobby, so she has your numbers.”
Bobby dug around in his pockets, pulled out a crumpled card, and handed it to Sue, who was holding out a stack of pink message slips to Scott.
“Reporters and TV producers. They want you to appear on the morning news shows, Dateline, 20/20, and-”
“Trash ’em. And call security: tell them to keep those reporters outside on the street.”
“Frank Turner’s still waiting.”
“Show him in.” To Bobby: “I always make plaintiffs’ lawyers wait.”
Scott slumped in his chair behind the mahogany desk. Last time he felt like this was after the knee injury his freshman season.
“Just when you think you got the world by the balls,” Scott said, “you find out the world’s got you by the balls.”
“Welcome to my world,” Bobby said.
Sue escorted Frank Turner into Scott’s office. Frank appeared every inch the rich plaintiffs’ lawyer, expensively dressed, his hair perfect, looking tanned and rested from another jaunt to Cancun aboard his personal Lear jet, the bastard. Frank had lucked into one major toxic tort verdict a decade ago, and he had never had to take a case to a jury again. His reputation forced every corporate defendant to settle for a substantial sum, one-third of which went into Frank’s pocket. So while Scott Fenney had a Ferrari, Frank Turner had a Lear.
Scott did not stand. “Frank, I didn’t expect you to come over personally.”
Frank grinned and said, “I always show up to collect funds.”
“Ah, the personal touch.” Scott gestured over at Bobby on the sofa. “Frank, Bobby Herrin. Bobby, Frank Turner, famous plaintiffs’ lawyer.”
They shook hands, then Frank gestured at the big blowup of Scott Fenney, number 22, on the far wall above the sofa.
“That the day you got a hundred and ninety-three yards against Texas?”
“Yep, that was the day.”
Frank’s eyes lingered on the blowup, and in Frank’s eyes Scott saw the envy of a tuba player. But Frank Turner was now a plaintiffs’ lawyer and he was here for money, so he finally turned to Scott and said, “You got the check?”
“You got the release?” Scott asked.
Frank held out a document, which Scott took and scanned to make sure the bastard hadn’t changed anything. Satisfied, he turned to the signature page and saw that sweet Nadine and sleazy Frank had both signed in triplicate. He then handed a cashier’s check to Frank Turner.
“One million dollars, Frank.”
Frank stared at the check a moment and then broke into a birthday-boy smile.
Scott said, “So is this what you do every day, Frank, walk from office to office picking up big settlement checks?”
Frank’s face took on an expression of thoughtfulness, then he smiled again. “Yeah, Scott, now that you mention it, that is pretty much what I do.”
The smile still on his face and a million-dollar check in his hand, he headed to the door, but stopped abruptly and turned back. He held the check up to Scott.
“Oh, just so you know, Scott, Nadine would’ve taken half a million.”
Frank was turning away again when Scott said, “Well, since we’re confessing, Frank, just so you know, Tom would’ve paid two million.”
Frank’s smile evaporated like a raindrop on the sidewalk outside and his shoulders slumped: the only thing that makes a plaintiffs’ lawyer lose sleep is leaving money on the table. He turned and slithered away, not thinking that he had just made $333,333.33, but that he had just lost the same amount. Which left Scott with something of a moral victory, at least.
“Asshole,” Scott said.
“Who, me?”
Sid Greenberg’s head was in the door. Scott motioned him in.
“Sid, meet Bobby Herrin.”
