Werfel. It was endorsed in the name ‘Alan Werfel.’ ”
“I don’t think I understand,” said Walker. “I had understood that we’d paid the money to the wrong man—an impostor?”
“It seems we did,” said Winters. “But the question that remains to be settled is, was this the fault of the company, or does Mr. Werfel also, through negligence, share in the fault? That is, we are responsible for recognizing false pieces of identification. If the identification presented is genuine identification, and the genuine owner has taken no steps to report its loss or theft, is McClaren Life and Casualty the one at fault? The only one? If not, is the company liable for a second payment of the full amount, or should some middle ground be reached?”
“So we’re here to discuss his claim,” said Walker. He tried to hide his fascination.
Winters looked at him evenly. “If Mr. Werfel was the victim of a theft of identity, then McClaren’s certainly has to deplore that. But if, for instance, the impostor had executed a bank instrument in Mr. Werfel’s name, and appropriated his bank account, who would take the loss? The financial institution? Of course not. Mr. Werfel would. The principle has been tested in California courts. If the impostor had used Mr. Werfel’s identification to secure a loan, who would be responsible? Mr. Werfel.”
Walker looked at Stillman, who was still immobile. His hands had not stirred from their position clasped across his belly. He did not blink, look at Walker, or show any sign that he had heard. Walker didn’t take his eyes off Stillman as he said, “Are you saying the company won’t pay the death benefit twice?”
Winters responded, “Certainly not the entire amount? Not twelve million dollars.”
Walker saw a slight twitch at the corners of Stillman’s lips. It could easily have been a tiny disturbance in the course of his dream.
Werfel could remain silent no longer. He spoke in a tight, quiet voice. “You can’t say that you paid money to me when I never saw it, never touched it, never knew about it. I didn’t think I had to bring my lawyers with me today, but—”
Walker surprised himself. He held up his hand quickly to forestall the threat. “Wait, Mr. Werfel.” He glared at Stillman, but Stillman looked as though he could be dead. “Mr. Winters, can I talk with you for a minute?”
“All right,” said Winters resentfully. He stood up and said curtly to the wall across from him, “Excuse us.”
Winters was twice Walker’s age, a head taller, and so broad that he seemed to fill the narrow hallway outside the conference room. He glowered down at Walker and waited.
Walker said, “I don’t think this compromise thing is working. I don’t think he’s going to let us hold back what his father paid for.”
Winters leaned forward a little, his face knowing and superior. “I can tell you that San Francisco is not going to let us pay out twelve million dollars on a clerical error.”
Walker could barely keep his eyes on the face. It was almost a snarl, the face of a cornered criminal—angry and full of hatred, but frightened, too. Walker felt sorry for him. He had probably been selling insurance from this office since before Walker was born, and he was afraid of being fired. Walker guessed from his first glance at Werfel that he was the sort of rich that would have made working a ludicrous activity. His suit was a breathtakingly expensive example of the latest cut, but he wore it with a kind of carelessness, as though if he passed a rugby match on his way to his car, he might join it without giving his clothes a thought. Walker said, “This isn’t your fault.”
Winters looked only slightly less hostile: now he was suspicious.
Walker tried to soothe him. “The arguments you were making were right. Your office had a guy come in who must have looked like Werfel and had Werfel’s identification. Your assistant manager had him sign the releases and quitclaims before she paid him. She followed the company’s procedures. The position you’re taking is correct: everything was done right. But the place for that conversation is inside the company, not with the beneficiary.”
Winters shook his head as though to clear it of Walker’s nonsense. “It’s twelve million. Suppose it was you. Suppose you could get a smaller amount—say five million, or six—today. Or, you could go to court for years, waiting and paying legal fees, and maybe never get a dime. Would you take the offer?”
“Yes,” said Walker. “I would. But the reason I would is that I don’t have five million, and never expect to. If I were Alan Werfel, I think I would sue for it.”
Winter smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Let him.”
Walker tried again. “The company will get its money back when this fake Werfel is caught. Maybe all of it, maybe just a big part of it. The company has a really good record of recovery in simple fraud cases. Seventy-six point eight percent last year.” He wished he had not said that. He was sounding like an analyst; high-level executives probably didn’t have statistics spilling from their memories into their conversations.
“That could be the compromise,” said Winters triumphantly. “McClaren’s will pay Werfel some portion—say, four million—and if we recover the first twelve million, Werfel will get his other eight.”
“We keep his eight million because he lost his driver’s license?” asked Walker. “It’s not fair.”
Winters leaned close to Walker and his voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “We’ve got to get something.”
“What?”
“You and me. Here and now. It’s our chance to cut this loss. If we don’t, we’ll lose our jobs.”
Walker thought for a moment. “Did somebody tell you that?”
“They don’t have to.”
As Walker stared at the face filled with despair, he considered. He said, with a confidence that he didn’t feel, “I’ll take the blame. We’ll say I made the decision. You’ll be in the clear, and I’ll take my chances. Okay?”
Winters was angry and desperate, his eyes bulging. “No. It’s not okay. Twelve million is too much blame for one person to take. The excess spills over on everyone. We have to get some of it back.”
“By holding back eight million from the legitimate beneficiary?”
“By negotiating!”
“It’s not right, and it won’t even work.”
“We’ll see,” said Winters. He stepped toward the conference room and reached for the door handle, while Walker took a deep breath.
“No,” he said sharply. “We won’t.”
Winters turned toward him. “What did you say?”
“Excuse me,” said Walker. He opened the conference room door. “Mr. Stillman?”
Stillman’s eyes rose from the spot on his belly that he seemed to be looking at. He silently pointed at his chest: Me? Then he stood and joined them in the hallway.
Walker kept his eyes on Winters. “Mr. Stillman, can you get Mr. McClaren on the phone for me, please?”
Winters’s face began to turn pale, but he let his features show no sign of surprise.
Stillman said, “Sure. I’ll get him.” He took his cell phone out of his coat pocket, turned it on, and listened for a dial tone, then punched in the numbers. His face showed no emotion. He kept the phone at his ear. “Hello. This is Stillman. Yes. Could you get Mr. McClaren for me, please?”
Winters made a grab for the telephone, but Stillman seemed to know it was coming. He half-turned his body quickly so that Winters’s involuntary lunge was stopped when it hit Stillman’s shoulder. Winters’s breath came out in a huff, and he stood gasping, clutching the space under his ribs.
Stillman’s voice was even and affable. “Wait, I think you’d better cancel that. I’m on a cell phone, and I seem to be getting interference. Tell him I may call later.” He switched off the telephone and turned to face Winters.
Winters’s own action had shocked him. His eyes were on Walker, but they seemed to be looking inward.
Walker said quietly, “Can you get somebody here to cut him a check?”
“All right,” said Winters.
“I’ll wait here.” He watched Winters walking toward the rear office, then noticed that Stillman had already moved off to the front of the building, where the support staff was working.
When Winters returned, Walker opened the conference room door. Walker sat down beside Daphne Pool and waited for Winters to speak. Werfel was up, staring out the window with his hands in his pockets, but Walker could see from the way the beautiful suit hung that the hands must be clenched fists.
Winters said, “Mr. Werfel, we apologize for the delay, and we thank you for your patience while we worked our way through the bureaucratic difficulties. We’ve received permission to let you have your full payment
