Stuart Woods: Palindrome

"Are Kimble and Brown ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell Mr. Hoyt I'll be right with him," Schaefer replied. He hung up the phone, took it off the table, unplugged it from the wall, and placed it inside a credenza drawer. He left the conference room and walked down the hall toward the reception room, working to breathe slowly. Schaefer's offices were on the top floor of Atlanta's new IBM Tower, in a suite designed by Henry Jova, a top local architect. When he had signed the lease there had been betting in the Atlanta Lawyers Club that he wouldn't be able to pay the rent.

Two men-one white, one black-wearing polyester suits, were leaning against the wall near the reception room. "You know what to do," Schaefer said.

Both men nodded. Schaefer led the two into the reception room. Henry Hoyt and Bake Ramsey stood up. Schaefer noted with distaste Hoyt's elderly Brooks Brothers suit. Only old money could get away with that sort of seediness, he thought. He noted Baker Ramsey with even more distaste. Six feet three, two hundred and forty pounds, fifty of it put on before the past season, when Ramsey's new weight and increased speed had made him the team's unchallenged star. His blond hair was cut in a trendy version of a Marine Corps white sidewall haircut; his neck was wider than his head; his biceps bulged against the sleeves of his custom-made suit. Schaefer took Henry Hoyt's hand, simultaneously turning to his other two visitors. "Gentlemen, please take a seat. I'll be ready for you in just a few minutes."

He turned to Hoyt. "Henry, how are you?" Hoyt's attention was fixed on Schaefer, but Bake Ramsey was watching the other two men. A look of unease flashed across his face. Just to complete the picture, the white man, Kimble, unbuttoned his jacket, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and ran them around the waistband, hiking up his trousers and revealing a gold detective's badge clipped to his belt. He returned Ramsey's glance with a cold stare.

"I'm all right, Al," Hoyt replied. "This is Baker Ramsey." Schaefer merely nodded at Ramsey, ignoring his outstretched hand. "Please come with me," he said to Hoyt. He led them to the conference room, indicated the two chairs, then sat opposite them.

"First of all, Al," Hoyt began, "I want you to understand that Mr. Ramsey and I are here merely as a courtesy and in a spirit of conciliation, not because of any implied threat you might have made in our conversation last night. Mr. Ramsey has explained to me the events of a few days ago, and, while he may have behaved somewhat rashly and is willing to defray any expense of Mrs. Ramsey's resulting from the incident, neither he nor I is of the opinion that any substantial settlement is involved here. I just want you to understand that clearly at the outset of this meeting."

Schaefer smiled slightly, then began as if Hoyt had not spoken. He opened the file folder in front of him and retrieved two documents, passing copies of both to Hoyt and a single copy to Ramsey. "Henry," he began, "before you are two agreements, one for the signature of Ramsey, one for your signature on behalf of the Atlanta Bobcats. If I may summarize briefly: in his document, Ramsey agrees to an immediate, uncontested divorce from his wife, Elizabeth Barwick; he agrees not to see, write, telephone, or otherwise contact her at any time in the future; he agrees to make his residence available for Ms. Barwick to remove anything she wishes from the premises; and, finally, he agrees to pay immediately to Ms. Barwick the sum of five hundred thousand dollars in cash. In return, Ms. Barwick agrees to waive any criminal charges against Ramsey resulting from the events of earlier this week, and to forgo any further financial demands upon him."

Schaefer turned to Hoyt. "In your document, Henry, the team agrees to pay Ms. Barwick five hundred thousand dollars, to guarantee that she will have the full benefit of the team's group health insurance policy, and that any of her medical or psychiatric bills not covered by the policy will be paid by the team. The team further agrees to reinstate the order for ten thousand of Ms. Barwick's new book of photographs, which was canceled by the team's public affairs office this morning. In return, Ms. Barwick absolves the team of any liability and agrees not to speak to the press about the events of earlier this week."

Hoyt looked up from the documents. "Al, I can tell you right now that neither Mr. Ramsey nor the team has any intention of agreeing to such an arrangement. Mrs. Ramsey can accept Mr. Ramsey's offer of expenses, or she can sue. That is our position."

Schaefer reached under the rim of the conference table and pressed a button, then picked up the brown envelope in front of him, opened it, and slid a photograph across the table. "Henry, have you ever met Ms. Barwick?"

"I haven't had the pleasure," Hoyt replied, picking up the photograph. "Ah, yes," he said, glancing at it, "she's quite pretty, isn't she"

"She was quite beatiful at the beginning of the week," Schaefer said, sliding half a dozen other photographs across the table and spreading them before Hoyt. "This is how she looked yesterday. And, I should mention, these photographs were taken after Ms. Barwick had received emergency treatment and had partially recovered."

Hoyt picked up one of the photographs, which were in vivid color. The color drained from his face, and his mouth fell open.

The door to the conference room opened and a woman stepped in. "Excuse me, Mr. Schaefer, but Mr. Hoyt's office is on the phone for him. They said it was urgent."

Hoyt dropped the photograph as if it were hot and turned to the woman, obviously grateful for the interruption. "Thank you, ma'am," he said. "I'll be right there." He rose from the table. "Excuse me, gentlemen. Bake, I don't want you to talk to him while I'm gone." He left the room. Schaefer turned his attention to Bake Ramsey, who had been silent until now.

Ramsey's eyes, deep set in his muscled face, widened slightly as he stared with hatred at Schaefer. "You little Jew bastard," he said through thin lips. "You think I'm going to sign that thing?" He half-rose. "I'm going to wring your skinny little neck." Schaefer quickly opened the drawer and placed the Colt Cobra on the table. The light gleamed dully on its blued surface.

"Sit down, you muscle-bound piece of shit, or I'll make a big hole in your face," he said. Ramsey froze, then sank back into the chair, staring hotly at Schaefer. "You're going to sign that document before you leave this room, you overgrown turd," Schaefer said pleasantly. "You know who those guys out in my reception room are, don't you? They've got a warrant, and at a word from me, they're going to come in here and arrest you for attempted murder, rape, and aggravated sodomy. Then they're going to cuff your hands behind your back and take you downstairs, where there are a number of photographers and a television crew waiting, and stuff you into a squad car. They're going to take you down to Decatur Street and put you in a cell, and you're not going to get bailed out, I can promise you that. You're going to miss the exhibition game in New York this weekend, you're going to miss the season opener, and you're going to miss the goddamned Super Bowl, if the team gets that far, and the next twenty-five Super Bowls after that, do you hear me? You're going to sign that agreement, or I'm going to burn you down, boy." Schaefer held the athlete's gaze. Ramsey looked down at the table. Schaefer put the pistol back in the drawer and closed it.

Hoyt reentered the room and sat down. "Some mix-up or other," he said. "I got cut off. Now listen, Al, we might be willing to come to some sort of reasonable arrangement, but of course, I'll have to consult with the team's owner and-"

He was interrupted by the opening of the door. "Excuse me, Mr. Schaefer," the woman said. "Mr. Furman Bisher, of the Atlanta Journal is on the phone, and he insists on speaking to you right away. There's also someone from the Associated Press on the phone, and he is very anxious to speak to you, as well."