David Ellis - The Wrong Man

McCabe opened his hands. “Is there a question?”

“The question is why,” I said.

“You couldn’t possibly expect me to tell you why my client chose to settle a lawsuit.”

“If the case settled for thirty cents on the dollar, no. Or fifty cents. Or even eighty cents. But a hundred and thirty cents? Plus attorneys’ fees? Global Harvest gave LabelTek everything they asked for and much more.”

McCabe drilled a stare directly through me. He was the lead counsel on the case. At best, I was telling him he got his ass kicked. But we both knew I was suggesting something else-that he laid down, that his opponent was sniffing a little too close to something sensitive, and they paid a king’s ransom to make them go away.

“Since you seem to know so much about that case,” he said, “and because it’s a matter of public record, I don’t mind reminding you that LabelTek only estimated damages at three million dollars. In fact, it turned out that their information showed that number to be much higher.”

“C’mon, Counsel. Neither of us is stupid.”

McCabe chose to channel his anger into a forced smile. I do that sometimes, too. “Is there anything else, Mr. Kolarich?”

“Did you like Kathy Rubinkowski?”

“Of course I did. Everyone did. We were devastated by the news.”

“Then I would think you’d want to bring her killer to justice.”

“Of course I do. But I’m not going to abrogate the attorney-client privilege so you can go on a wild-goose chase.”

I nodded and thought for a moment. McCabe began to push himself out of his chair.

“You know anything about Summerset Farms?” I asked.

He settled back in his chair and looked out the window. “Summerset…”

“The company that was served with the subpoena just before you settled the lawsuit, Bruce. It was also the subject of a separate subpoena issued the same day to the state agriculture department. You haven’t heard of Summerset?”

“I… don’t recall anything about… about a Summerset Farms.”

“That’s odd,” I replied. “Because you’re their lawyer.”

It’s hard to keep a poker face when you’re busted that badly. McCabe wasn’t very good at it. He could have played it off any number of ways. He could have said yes, of course he was Summerset’s lawyer, he meant only that he couldn’t remember the subpoena.

Bradley John had made that connection yesterday. Summerset Farms was incorporated in this state, and every corporation has to designate someone as its agent for service of process and other matters. They named Bruce McCabe. That was strange, actually. Normally, you’d name one of the corporate officers or some employee. Summerset had named its outside counsel. It was another question I would try to answer, starting today.

“This meeting is over, Counsel.” McCabe got to his feet.

“Good enough,” I said. “I understand your position. You don’t hold the privilege. So I’ll have to go to the person who does.”

He blinked twice. “What’s that?”

“I’ll have to subpoena Randall Manning. The big guy at Global Harvest. The one who signed the settlement agreement.”

McCabe paused. “Just because he signed the settlement agreement doesn’t mean he has knowledge of the settlement.”

“Then he can tell me that. After I subpoena him.”

“I’ll quash that subpoena.”

“You mean you’ll try to quash it. You’ll fail. You ever met Judge Nash?”

McCabe grew tense. He was considering his options. I was learning more and more as I went along here. “I could speak to him about a limited waiver,” he suggested. “Maybe he’ll let me discuss this in more detail.”

I made a show of weighing that option. “Nah, my curiosity is piqued. I’m going with the subpoena.” I got to my feet. “Thanks for your time. I’ll copy you on the correspondence.”

“Wait,” he said.

I stopped at the door.

“What if I were to arrange something? You and Mr. Manning and I could have an informal discussion. There’s no need for a subpoena.”

“That’s the spirit, Bruce.” I tapped the door. “First thing next week, or I issue that subpoena.”

Randall Manning stood in the office of his lawyer, Bruce McCabe. Being one of the name partners at Dembrow, Lane, and McCabe meant a corner office with enough room for a conference table as well, with impressive views to the west suburbs and south of the industrial flats.

But the shades were drawn out of an abundance of caution, notwithstanding that they were thirty-two stories aboveground. Stanley Keane was smoothing out the map on the conference table. Bruce McCabe was waiting to present his information.

Manning watched each of them. His eyes wandered to Bruce’s impressive walnut desk. Like Manning himself, Bruce McCabe lined his desk with photographs of his family, in particular his oldest son, James.

Invariably, Manning’s attention turned to his only son, Quinn. Manning had always known that his son was smarter than he. He remembered the summers when Quinn would intern at the company that he was destined to take over one day, the fresh perspective he brought even as a high school kid, the insightful comments. It had been Quinn’s idea, not so long ago, to expand aggressively overseas. He’d done an entire workup without solicitation, projections and figures and strategies. “It says Global Harvest on the door, right, Dad?” he’d said. “And what does ‘International’ mean to you?”

And Randall Manning had made the biggest mistake of his life. He’d agreed to let Quinn explore the opportunities.

“Okay, here we go,” said Stanley Keane.

Bruce McCabe had a yellow highlighter, which he poised over the map of the city’s commercial district and near-north side. He drew on the map as he spoke. “The procession starts at noon on South Walter Drive next to the Hartz Building,” he said. “It will move north up Walter and wind around with the river. It will cross the Lerner Street Bridge. And once over the river, it’s only three blocks to the federal building.”

Manning nodded. That’s where the procession would end, at the north end of the federal building, known derisively as the “brown building” for its drab color and unexceptional architecture. It was home to the federal courts, the U. S. attorney’s office, and more than thirty agencies of the federal government. It was in the federal plaza that, immediately following the march, a brief outdoor commemoration would take place.

“Last year,” said Stanley Keane, “it took thirty-eight minutes to reach the federal plaza for the commemoration.”

“And the commemoration lasted how long?”

“Thirty-six minutes.”

“So one P.M. would be a safe target time.” Manning looked at Stanley.

“Yes, sir. That’s the plan.”

Manning nodded. “What about security?”

“Security.” Stanley Keane groaned. “You know how it is these days, Randy. They keep that stuff pretty close to the vest. All we can say is what happened last year.”

“Refresh me,” said Manning, though he didn’t require a refresher. He knew every aspect of the security from last year’s event. He just wanted to gauge Stanley Keane’s preparation.

Stanley used a pencil and marked up the map. “It was primarily a perimeter formation,” he said. “City police on foot, about six for every city block, lining the curb on each side. Vehicle blocks on each end, but only sporadically blocking the cross streets. Mostly the east-west streets were simply barricaded with traffic horses. It’s kind of a scaled-down version of what they’d do in a full-blown parade. I mean, it’s the middle of winter and all. Most people don’t care all that much about Pearl Harbor Day.”