embarked, let alone succeeded, on a negotiating process which, at one point, had him taking calls from 163 different attorneys.
Under what Martin is always careful to refer to, even sometimes in the office, as 'The Bromwich Plan' the defendants, meaning for the most part their insurance companies, put together a fund of $288.3 million. In return the plaintiffs, led by Neucriss, agreed that the damages in all the cases together could not exceed that sum. Over the last five years, every individual case has been either tried before a Special Master, or more often settled, with Captain Bert heading the TN litigation team and supervising administration of the settlement fund which G amp; G has held in an interest-bearing escrow.
Recently, as the last of the damage trials have been resolved, we've had an unforeseen development: there's going to be millions left over which, accordingly, will remain the property of little
When I was finally allowed to see Neucriss about 4:30, he had a tuna steak on a plate before him. Just out of court, he was enjoying a light supper, preparing for an evening's toil. He had a full kitchen and a chef in the office. The immediate air was savored with ginger, but there was still the frantic feel of trial. Peter's $100 foulard was dragged down; the sleeves were rolled on his white-on-white silk shirt; he stood as he ate, rumbling out every free-associated thought as a command. Four or five associates came charging in and out with questions about exhibits that they would need tomorrow. It was a bad-baby case, worth in Peter's hands at least $10 million. The mother was going on in the morning.
Meanwhile, I sat there in the mendicant pose in which Peter prefers to see everyone around him. I was hoping to get a quick answer and go. I had brought over drafts of the payout documents on 397, and had casually mentioned Litiplex, using the routine Wash said had been employed with others — correspondence we couldn't place, maybe Peter had an idea?
'Litiplex.' Peter touched his forehead. He stared, unseeing, toward the middle distance. 'I did talk to somebody about that.'
'You did? Was it Bert?'
'He's been out of town, I haven't been able to ask him.'
'Right. Visiting his family on Mars.' Neucriss rolled his eyes. 'No. Who?' He drummed his fingers, he yelled for one of the secretaries, then stopped her with an explosive clap of his hands. 'I know who asked me about Litiplex. Jesus Christ, what a squirrelly bunch you are. Don't you guys even talk to each other? Gold. Gold brought it up. Is he out of town too, or just out to lunch?'
My heart went flat, I wasn't even sure why, except I knew something was wrong. There were plaintiffs' guys Martin could talk to with confidence, whereas even hello on the street with Peter required full body armor for Martin and an Alka-Seltzer afterwards.
'Martin?' I asked.
'No, good as. Yeah, Gold called three or four weeks ago. Doing the same soft-shoe as you, talking to me about something else, then trying to slide this Litiplex name in so I wouldn't notice. What the hell are you guys up to now?'
Nothing, I said. Lying to Peter is not even a venial sin: speaking to a Frenchman in French. Wash had said Martin phoned a couple of plaintiffs' lawyers with discreet inquiries about Litiplex, but it had never crossed my mind they might include Neucriss. In the meantime, I tried to smooth over the concerns all this Q and A about Litiplex seemed to have raised. Just getting ready for distribution, trying to cover all details, who more likely to know all than Peter?
With Neucriss, flattery is always the best way. Perhaps because it is the social world's realm of ultimate restraint, the law seems to attract more of these types, the utterly self-impressed who regard the bar as the pathway to a frontier where will and ego can go virtually unbounded. The sole partner in a seventeen lawyer firm, Neucriss is the only lawyer I know who earns more every year than a good left-handed pitcher makes in the National League. Between $4 and $6 million are the printed estimates, and this year, with some $30 million worth of settlements in the 397 litigation about to pay out, his income will, as he puts it in his own unctuous way, 'reach the eight figures'.
This success has not been achieved by adherence to scruple. Peter's political contributions are vast — he hits every limit and gives in the name of his sixteen associates, his wife, and his children. Even so, he leaves nothing to chance. His witnesses are skillfully tutored; documents disappear; and in the bad old days, perhaps not entirely gone, when cash on the barrelhead bought judicial favor, Neucriss was figured to do this as well. Worst of all, his very prominence is a sort of revolting advertisement of the fallibility of the jury system. Ten minutes with this guy and you know the story: ego run wild, some form of character disorder. But somehow, from juries, Peter's schmaltzy performance, his self-congratulatory baritone and silvery mane, have drawn nothing but rave reviews for forty years. He goes on, with all of us knowing that no matter what his triumphs, his wealth, the national accolades, all the purchased adoration, the only motive force in nature surer than gravity is Peter's desire for more.
He continued talking about Martin, always a raw nerve with him.
'Oh yeah. What was Gold's line? Something like yours. A letter to be forwarded. I asked him, 'What game is this? Post Office? I thought that was adolescent foreplay.'' Neucriss roared at himself, his mouth still full. Being profane, he kept Martin on edge.
'But what about it, Peter? Litiplex? What is it?'
'Listen to this. How the hell do I know? For crying out loud. Call information. Ask them about Litiplex. Jesus Christ,' he went on, 'how do you stand stuff like this, Malloy? One hundred forty lawyers running around bumping into each other. Two senior partners sorting the mail. And now you'll bill Jake Eiger five hundred bucks for looking at an envelope and tell him it's the plaintiffs' lawyers who make legal expenses so high.'
Jake and Neucriss were sort of on speaking terms, since Jake's dad was one of those pols to whom Neucriss had barnacled himself decades ago. Peter, in the meantime, was off and running, going on about big law firms, the Gog and Magog of his universe. In his own oleaginous way, he was even attempting to appeal for my support. He knew where I stood at G amp; G — the entire legal world, local and national, was mapped in his head. Hanging on there by my fingernails, I might be brought to side with him against my partners. Instead, I fended him off lamely with wit.
'If I didn't know better, Peter, I'd think you were offering me a job.' As soon as I said it, I heard that the tone was all wrong. Neucriss's quick eyes registered something, the possibility of corruption, which around here is always in the air, like carbon dioxide. He held on just a second before rejecting that thought.
'Not you, Malloy. You're an old plowhorse.' That's all he said. Dead or dying went unspecified, but either way, my bones in his view would soon be tromped upon, ground down by some other dray treading my row. He went back to work and I went on my way, fighting him off, trying not to be diminished by his estimate, but of course feeling absolutely flattened. I wasn't even worth buying off.
I was on the street, my overcoat open for the short walk to the Needle, buffeted by the thick pedestrian traffic on all sides, workers departing in the sullen dwindling light of winter. Overhead, the sky was dimming to the color of a burnt pot. The morning snow was now nothing but a dampness on the walks, freezing over amid the little hummocks of salt that rimed the concrete and would stain my shoes.
In the interval, I tried to figure what was doing. I wouldn't say I believed Peter. It was safer to bet on the Easter Bunny. But I couldn't figure why he had anything to hide. I was feeling surly, in a formerly familiar cop-mood in which everyone was a suspect. Bert. Maybe Glyndora. Even, possibly, God's emissary on earth, Martin Gold. The vague unpredictability of Martin's behavior bothered me especially: the way he'd been with Jake; the fact that Martin had called Neucriss, which he ordinarily did only when somebody was paying premium rates. I stopped on a corner where a little boy in a hooded sweatshirt was hawking papers, while a sudden wind snapped my muffler in
