Cumming purses his lips in a look of disapproval before he turns his attention to me. “Mr. Valenti?”
Following Penelope’s lead, I don a neutral expression. “Yes?”
“So, you plan to make this difficult,” he mutters with a rueful shake of his head while he slides a chair out and settles into it. “So be it.”
What the hell is he up to? He clearly intended to put us on the defensive and is annoyed that we didn’t take the bait.
Cumming sighs theatrically and looks to the young lawyer seated to his right. “Lay it out for them, Mr. Daniels.” Cumming then pushes his chair back, crosses an ankle over his knee, and feigns a Jonathan Walton-worthy look of disinterest. Interesting that the two of them share the same dismissive pose. I mentally dub it “The Asshole Move.”
I resist the urge to mimic Cumming and settle for a display of mild interest by resting my arms on the table, then loosely clasp my hands together with fingers interlaced and settle my gaze on young Mr. Daniels. The guy is a cookie-cutter vanilla baby lawyer so common to big firms. I doubt I’d be able to tell him apart from his junior colleagues in a lineup five minutes after we walk out of here.
“We assume you’ve been following the progress of the NTSB investigation?” Daniels asks us.
I reach for a confused look. “Are you referring to Sandy Irving’s stories in the Sun-Times?”
“In part,” he replies.
“What else is there?” Penelope asks.
“We’ve heard from other sources.”
“Heard what from whom?” she presses.
The look of contempt Daniels turns on my partner suggests that these two have a history. “We’re not about to share information with you, Penny,” he replies with a smirk. “Do your own research. If you can afford to.”
So, there is a history here. Penelope hates to be called Penny, a fact Daniels seems to be well aware of. He’s trying to push her buttons. The slow smile that curls her lips while she pours herself some water signals that she’s got this.
“My, my, Matty,” she says to Daniels in a syrupy voice I would never in a million years have expected to hear coming out of her mouth, “you really need to get over your schoolboy infatuation with me. Does that little snub still smart after all this time, poor boy?”
Daniels reddens while he glares at Penelope. She smiles back sweetly before she sips her water, but there’s ice in her eyes.
I tap my finger on the table to get everyone’s attention, then lock eyes with Daniels and riff off Penelope’s schoolboy taunt. “Perhaps we can dispense with the infantile posturing so you can say whatever you’ve dragged us down here to tell us?”
Daniels’s poisonous glower lingers on Penelope for a second longer before he shifts his attention to me. “The point we wish to impress upon you is that culpability for the accident on September eighth is settling squarely on your clients.”
I make a minuscule wave-off motion when I sense Penelope gearing up to argue the point. We’re not here to squabble about blame. I want these guys to lay their cards on the table without telegraphing any sense of where our heads are. Penelope shoots me a sideways glance and settles back, signaling that it’s my show for the moment.
“Go on,” I tell Daniels while idly spinning my water glass with my fingertips.
“We all know that the left-wing strut on the Cessna failed,” he states is if it’s an acknowledged fact, then expands upon his point when we don’t respond. “The FBI has determined that the hundred-hour inspection due in August was not completed by your client.”
That’s news to me. Scary news. I do my best to tamp down my burgeoning fear while I continue to wait him out, interested to hear what other news Daniels has for us.
“There’s no evidence of fuel contamination,” he adds.
“No surviving evidence,” I note.
Cumming’s eyes rise to mine. He shoots a satisfied little smirk my way.
“You’re suggesting that the fix is in?” I ask Daniels.
He turns a smarmy smile on me and replies with a curt nod.
“I see,” I murmur. Penelope is tensing at my side, anxious to shoot back. I don’t think it’s time to do so. Not just yet. “You’ve asked us here to tell us how this should play out?”
Cumming drops his foot to the floor, pulls his chair in, and squares his shoulders. “That’s right.”
“And?” Penelope asks.
Cumming tents his hands and rests his chin on the tips of his thumbs. I sense that he’s about to tell us precisely why we’re here, so I settle back and nonchalantly roll a pen between my fingers. It would be poor form to appear as if we’re eager to hear his offer.
“Senator Milton realizes that no amount of money can bring back his loved ones,” Cumming begins with the air of a college professor addressing a particularly dim-witted class. He pauses to foreshadow the gravity of his next words, then solemnly announces, “We’re proposing a settlement of ten million dollars.”
Ten million? The original lawsuit was for twice that. What’s going on?
Penelope goes straight to the heart of the matter. “How do you propose to apportion that settlement?”
Cumming shifts his gaze to her. “Five million from Windy City Sky Tours, two point five million each from AAA Avgas and R & B Ramp Services.”
Hmmm. Billy and Rick carry exactly that much liability insurance. Coincidence? Probably not, but the point is moot if R & B’s insurer gets away with dropping its policy retroactively. How should we play this?
“So?” Cumming asks while we contemplate the offer.
I hold up a hand and mutter, “Thinking.” A look at Penelope confirms that she’s doing the same, arms crossed while she stares up at the ceiling. The big question to me is why they’re proposing a settlement at fifty cents on the dollar. What’s changed? The rich shits at Windy City will hardly miss five million, ditto for AAA Avgas’s two and a half mil or, to put it properly, two
