John Grisham - The Litigators

Unburdened by ethical considerations, Koane quickly became a rising star in the game of pork. He could find it, smell it, dig it out, and deliver it to clients willing to pay his constantly rising fees. He was one of the first lobbyists to understand the intricacies of earmarks, those addictive little dishes of lard so craved by members of Congress and paid for by unwitting factory workers back home. Koane first got noticed in his new trade when he collected a $100,000 fee from a well-known public university in need of a new basketball arena. Uncle Sam pitched in $10 million for the project, an appropriation found in the fine print of a three-thousand-page bill passed at midnight. When a rival school heard about it, a brouhaha ensued. But it was too late.

The controversy put Koane on the map, and other clients came running. One was a real estate developer in Virginia who envisioned the damming of a river, thus creating a lake, thus allowing lakefront lots to be sold at hefty prices. Koane charged the developer $500,000 and instructed him to drop another $100,000 into the PAC of the congressman who represented the district where the dam was not needed. Once everyone was paid and on board, Koane went to work on the federal budget and found some spare change—$8 million — in a defense appropriation to the Army Corps of Engineers. The dam was built. The developer made a bundle. Everyone was happy but the environmentalists, conservationists, and the communities downstream.

This was business as usual in Washington and would have gone unnoticed but for a persistent reporter from Roanoke. Embarrassment and black eyes all around — the congressman, the developer, Koane — but in the lobbying trade there is no shame, and all publicity is good. Koane’s business soared. After five years in the game, he opened his own shop — The Koane Group, Specialists in Governmental Affairs. After ten years, he was a multimillionaire. After twenty, he was annually ranked as one of the three most powerful lobbyists in Washington. (Does any other democracy rank its lobbyists?)

Varrick paid The Koane Group a flat retainer of $1 million per year, and much more when actual work was done. For that kind of money, Mr. Layton Koane would come running when his client said so.

As witnesses to the bloodbath, Reuben Massey decided to use his most trusted lawyers — Nicholas Walker and Judy Beck. The three were in place when Koane arrived, alone, as per Massey’s instructions. Koane now owned a jet, had a chauffeur, and liked to travel with an entourage, but not today.

Things got off to a cordial start as they exchanged pleasantries and nibbled on croissants. Koane had gained even more weight, and his tailored suit was pulling at the seams. It was shiny gray, with a sheen similar to that usually seen on suits worn by television evangelists. His well-starched white shirt was bulging around the waist. His fleshy triple neck was straining under his collar. As always, he wore an orange tie and orange pocket square. Regardless of his wealth, he had never learned how to dress.

Massey loathed Layton Koane and viewed him as a rube, a dope, a hack, a huckster who was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. But then, Massey loathed almost everything about Washington: the federal government and its stifling regulations; the horde of staffers who wrote them; the politicians who approved them; the bureaucrats who enforced them. To survive in such a dysfunctional place, he figured, one had to be as greasy as Layton Koane.

“We’re getting hammered in Washington,” Massey said, stating the obvious.

“Not just Washington,” Koane replied with his twang. “I own forty thousand shares of your stock, remember?”

True, Varrick Labs had once paid The Koane Group with stock options.

Massey picked up some notes and peered over his reading glasses. “Last year we paid your company over $3 million.”

“Three million two,” Koane said.

“And we contributed the maximum amount to either the reelection campaign or the PAC of eighty-eight out of a hundred members of the U.S. Senate, including, of course, the late great Maxwell, may he rest in peace. We maxed out to over three hundred members of the House. In both houses, we maxed out to both parties’ central slush funds, whatever the hell they’re called. We maxed out to no fewer than forty PACs, all supposedly doing God’s work down there. In addition, two dozen of our senior executives did their own version of maxing out, all under your guidance. And now, thanks to the wisdom of the Supreme Court, we are able to funnel into the electoral system vast sums of cash that cannot be detected. Over $5 million last year alone. If you tally all this up, and you include all payments of all types, reported and unreported, above the table and below, Varrick Laboratories and its executives forked over almost $40 million last year to keep our great democracy on the right track.”

Massey dropped the papers and glared at Koane. “Forty million to buy one thing, Layton, the one and only product you have to sell. Influence.”

Koane was nodding slowly.

“So please tell us, Layton, with all this influence that we’ve purchased over the years, how in hell does the FDA pull Krayoxx off the market?”

“The FDA is the FDA,” Koane replied. “It’s a world of its own, immune from political pressure, or so we’re led to believe.”

“Political pressure? Everything was fine until a politician died. It looks to me like his buddies in the Senate pressured the hell out of the FDA.”

“Of course they did.”

“Then where were you? Don’t you have former FDA commissioners on your payroll?”

“We have one, but the important word is ‘former.’ He no longer gets a vote.”

“So, it appears to me as if you got outpoliticked.”

“Perhaps for now, Reuben. We’ve lost the first battle, but we can still win the war. Maxwell’s gone and he’s being forgotten by the minute. That’s what happens in Washington — they forget about you real fast. They’re already campaigning in Idaho to replace him. Give it some time and his death will be forgotten.”

“Time? We’re losing $18 million a day in sales because of the FDA. Since you arrived here this morning and parked your car, we’ve lost $400,000 in sales. Don’t talk to me about time, Layton.”

Nicholas Walker and Judy Beck were, of course, taking notes. Or at least scribbling something on their yellow legal pads. Neither looked up, but both were enjoying this little workout.

“Are you blaming me, Reuben?” Koane asked, almost desperately.

“Yes. Absolutely. I don’t understand how that rotten place works down there, so I hire and pay you a bloody fortune to guide my company through the minefield. So, yes, Layton, when something goes wrong, I blame you. A perfectly safe drug has been yanked off the market for no valid reason. Explain that to me, can you?”

“I can’t explain it, but it’s not fair to blame me. We’ve been on top of this matter since the first lawsuits were filed. We had solid contacts up and down the line, and the FDA showed little interest in pulling the drug, regardless of how loud the trial lawyers were screaming. We were safe. And then Maxwell collapsed in fine fashion, on video. That changed everything.”

There was a pause as all four reached for their coffee cups.

Koane never failed to bring along some gossip, some inside knowledge that was passed along in whispers, and he couldn’t wait to share it. “A source tells me the Maxwell family does not want to file a lawsuit. A very good source.”

“Who?” Massey demanded.

“Another member of the club, another senator who’s very close to Maxwell and his family. He called me yesterday. We had a drink. Sherry Maxwell does not want a lawsuit, but her lawyer does. He’s pretty shrewd, realizes he’s got Varrick in his crosshairs. If the lawsuit is filed, it’s another round of bad news for the company, more pressure on the FDA to keep the drug off the market. But if the lawsuit goes away, then Maxwell will soon be forgotten. One headache down, more to follow.”