Michael Palmer - Natural Causes

"Roger, please. I need your help," he said. "I'm nervous as hell talking to you like this, but I'm in financial trouble-pretty deep financial trouble."

"I thought you were a big baseball star."

"Never that big, believe me. A few years ago, I got talked into this can't-miss real estate deal and, well, it missed. You know how it is. Right now I'm staying afloat, but just barely. So like I said, I really need your help."

"Sorry. No can do. No retainer. But I will keep you in mind as cases come in."

Matt could see the suspicion in the man's eyes. He was not going to be at all easy to trip up.

"You know," Matt said, "there's this question I've been asking myself over and over. 'Why did Roger Phelps hire me for this case in the first place?' Especially when I was being opposed by Jeremy Mallon, the Michael Jordan of malpractice litigation. 'Why?' Finally, when the answer just wouldn't come, but the question just wouldn't go away, I started doing some checking. Did you know that Jeremy Mallon goes to trial more than any other malpractice lawyer in Boston? It's like the man doesn't know the meaning of the word 'settle.' "

"But he's settling here," Phelps said.

"You know what else I learned?" Matt went on as if the statement hadn't been made. He was hoping that if he kept talking fast enough, and with enough authority, Phelps would fail to consider that he might be winging it. "I learned that not one of the lawyers opposing Mallon in those trials had much more experience in malpractice cases than I did. Lambs to the lion-every one of us. Now do you see what I mean about being as bad as you want me to be? Roger, I don't need a cut of the jury awards or anything like that. I'm not greedy. A retainer will do just fine. Some guarantee that this business will continue rolling my way."

"Daniels, I don't take kindly to this sort of innuendo. Besides, what you're saying is utter nonsense. Like I said before, Mallon is settling in this very case."

"That's because he's going to lose," Matt responded with icy calm. "He knows it, and you know it. Roger, get it through your head. I'm not out to crucify you. I want to work with you. I need to work with you."

Phelps eyed him for a time, clearly weighing all the variables, and then said, "Go to hell."

Damn you, Matt thought. He was getting closer by the moment to Plan B. He stood, slipped on his glove, and began gently flipping the scuffed ball into its pocket.

"The proof is out there, Roger," he said. "Any board of bar overseers with half a brain will be able to add one and one together and come up with you." He began snapping the ball with more force. "How much of a cut of the jury awards does Mallon kick back to you? Fifteen percent?"

"Daniels, you're crazy."

"Twenty? Twenty-five? Mallon knew about the dentist, Rog-my one other malpractice case. I mentioned it to a couple of the people at the hospital, but they hate Mallon with a passion. There's no way they would have told him. It was you, Rog. Mallon needed another patsy to win a big jury settlement against, and you fed him me."

Matt turned his back on the claims adjuster. He was totally improvising now, but it really didn't matter.

"You have no damn proof of that. Not a bit of-"

Matt whirled and, without so much as a flicker of hesitation, gunned the ball at Phelps's head. There was no time at all for the man to react. The pitch tore past him, perhaps two inches from his ear, and shattered the protective glass on a huge print of the Boston skyline at night. The ball was already bouncing back toward Matt by the time Phelps threw himself onto the carpet.

"Jesus!" he screamed. "You really are crazy!"

"But fortunately, I am also very accurate."

Matt scooped up the rolling hardball with his bare hand and whipped it sidearm at the chair Phelps had just vacated. The cherrywood back of the chair exploded like balsa.

"Now tell me, Roger. What does Mallon pay you?"

Phelps tried to get to his feet, but Matt easily pushed him back onto the floor. He picked up the ball once again and backed across the office. The claims adjuster was cowering against the desk.

"I'm very accurate with this, Rog," he said. "Only one point nine walks per nine innings pitched. But I promise you, I'm going to keep at it until I miss-or I run out of furniture. You've tried to make me just another one of the patsies. But unfortunately for you, it didn't work this time. Now I want in. I want to be part of this little scam you and Mallon are running."

"Go to hell!" Phelps shouted again.

"Okay. I think I'm going to do this one off a full windup. We relief pitchers never get to use full windups very much. I need the practice. And I don't need that paperweight right there by your head."

"You're crazy!"

"Here we go… It's a tie game, fans. Bottom of the ninth. The bases are loaded, there are two outs. Here's Daniels's windup…"

"Wait. Don't!"

"Stay right there, Rog," Matt said, freezing his arms with the glove and ball at shoulder height. "Just talk."

"Okay, okay. You're right. Mallon and I have an agreement. He lets me know when he gets a good case, and I assign a… um…"

"Go ahead. Say it, Rog. A loser."

"An inexperienced attorney to oppose him."

"And then you refuse to settle and insist on going for a jury award. Oh, you are beautiful, Rog. Just beautiful. Has Mallon ever lost one of those cases?"

"Never."

"Until now. How much do you get?"

"That's none of your business. Now let me up."

"The tension's so thick, baseball fans, you can cut it with a knife," Matt said, adopting his announcer's voice again. "A walk means a run… A hit batsman means a run… The runners are leading off… Daniels is going into the windup-"

"A third of Mallon's forty percent," Phelps said quickly.

Matt lowered his glove. "That can add up."

Phelps scrambled to his feet, carefully brushing slivers of wood and glass from his suit.

"Listen," he said, still hyperventilating, "you want in, you'll have in. Just give me a few days to work out the details."

Matt slipped his hand from his glove. "Do I have your word on that?"

"Yeah, yeah. You have my word. You are really crazy, do you know that?"

"I want to hear from you within the week, Rog."

"Just be cool about this."

"I will. I will."

Phelps backed toward the door.

"I mean it," he said. "Just be cool."

"Roger, why don't you think about starting me off with a little portion of this settlement? You're offering two hundred K. Chances are Mallon will represent the other two families and get the same settlement. How about I get half of your third of Mallon's forty percent? That would be… let's see… forty thousand. Not bad math for a dumb jock, eh?"

"Okay, okay. After all three cases are settled. Just let me the hell out of here."

"Go ahead," Matt said simply.

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. I trust that if you say we've got a deal, we've got a deal." Matt waited until Phelps had opened the office door, then added, "Of course, I will have to charge you an additional two dollars and ninety-eight cents for your souvenir copy of the tape."

Smiling broadly, he opened his suit coat. The miniature tape recorder was strapped to his belt-right next to a rabbit's foot and a small, blue ribbon.

Dr. Dimitri Athanoulos, the president of BIO-Vir, welcomed Rosa Suarez and Ken Mulholland cordially. His office was on the fourth floor, river side of a somewhat dated building, typical of the glass and brick high-tech showpieces of the early 1980s. He was in his late fifties, Rosa estimated, handsome and urbane. His thick, wavy hair was the color of his lab coat.

"So, you are both with the Centers for Disease Control?"

"Yes," Rosa said. "I'm a field epidemiologist. Ken is a microbiologist."