The Summons (18 page)

“I guess it’s possible.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Determine if someone is following me. If so, who is it, and who’s paying for it.”

“The first two might be easy. The third might be impossible.”

“Let’s give it a try.”

Crawford opened a thin file. “I charge a hundred bucks an hour,” he said, his eyes staring right through Ray’s, looking for indecision. “Plus expenses. And a retainer of two thousand.”

“I prefer to deal in cash,” Ray said, staring right back. “If that’s acceptable.”

The first hint of a smile. “In my business, cash is always preferred.”

Crawford filled in some blanks in a contract.

“Would they tap my phones, stuff like that?” Ray asked.

“We’ll search everything. Get another cell phone, digital, and don’t register it in your name. Most of our correspondence will be by cell phone.”

“What a surprise,” Ray mumbled, taking the contract, scanning it, then signing.

Crawford put it back in the file and returned to his notepad. “For the first week, we’ll coordinate your movements. Everything will be planned. Go about
your normal routine, just give us notice so we can have people in place.”

I’ll have a traffic jam behind me, Ray thought. “It’s a pretty dull life,” Ray said. “I jog, I go to work, sometimes I go fly an airplane, I go home, alone, no family.”

“Other places?”

“Sometimes I do lunch, dinner, not a breakfast guy though.”

“You’re putting me to sleep,” Crawford said and almost smiled. “Women?”

“I wish. Maybe a prospect or two, nothing serious. If you find one, give her my name.”

“These bad guys in Mississippi, they’re looking for something. What is it?”

“It’s an old family with lots of stuff handed down. Jewelry, rare books, crystal, and silver.” It sounded natural and this time Crawford bought it.

“Now we’re getting somewhere. And you have possession of the family heirloom?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s here?”

“Tucked away in Chaney’s Self-Storage, on Berkshire Road.”

“What’s it worth?”

“Not nearly as much as my relatives think.”

“Gimme a ballpark.”

“Half a million, on the high side.”

“And you have a legitimate claim to it?”

“Let’s say the answer is yes. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to give you the family history, which could take the next eight hours and give us both a migraine.”

“Fair enough.”

Crawford finished a lengthy paragraph and was ready to wrap things up. “When can you get a new cell phone?”

“I’ll go now.”

“Great. And when can we check your apartment?”

“Anytime.”

Three hours later, Crawford and a sidekick he called Booty finished what was known as a sweep. Ray’s phones were clear, no taps or bugs. The air vents hid no secret cameras. In the cramped attic they found no receivers or monitors hidden behind boxes.

“You’re clean,” Crawford said as he left.

He didn’t feel very clean as he sat on his balcony. You open up your life to complete strangers, albeit some selected and paid by you, and you feel compromised.

The phone was ringing.

______

Forrest sounded sober—strong voice, clear words. As soon as he said “Hello, Bro,” Ray listened to see what kind of shape he was in. It was instinctive now, after years of phone calls at all hours, from all places, many of which he, Forrest, never remembered. He said he was fine, which meant he was sober and clean, no booze or drugs, but he did not say for how long. Ray was not about to ask.

Before either could mention the Judge or his estate or the house or Harry Rex, Forrest blurted out, “I got a new racket.”

“Tell me about it,” Ray said, settling into his recliner. The voice on the other end was full of excitement. Ray had plenty of time to listen.

“Ever heard of Benalatofix?”

“No.”

“Me neither. The nickname is Skinny Ben. Ring a bell?”

“No, sorry.”

“It’s a diet pill put out by a company called Luray Products, out of California, a big private outfit that no one’s ever heard of. For the last five years doctors have been prescribing Skinny Bens like crazy because the drug works. It’s not for the woman who needs to drop twenty pounds, but it does wonders for the really obese, talking linebackers, defensive ends. You there?”

“I’m listening.”

“Trouble is, after a year or two these poor women develop leaky heart valves. Tens of thousands of them have been treated, and Luray is getting sued like crazy in California and Florida. Food and Drug stepped in eight months ago, and last month Luray yanked Skinny Bens off the market.”

“Where, exactly, do you come in, Forrest?”

“I am now a medical screener.”

“And what does a medical screener do?”

“Thanks for asking. Today, for example, I was in a hotel suite in Dyersburg, Tennessee, helping these hefty darlings on to a treadmill. The doctor, paid by the lawyers who pay me, checks their heart capacity, and if they’re not up to snuff, guess what?”

“You have a new client.”

“Absolutely. Signed up forty today.”

“What’s the average case worth?”

“About ten thousand bucks. The lawyers I’m now working with have eight hundred cases. That’s eight million bucks, the lawyers get half, the women get screwed again. Welcome to the world of mass torts.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“A base salary, a bonus for new clients, and a piece of the back end. There could be a half a million cases out there, so we’re scrambling to round them up.”

“That’s five billion dollars in claims.”

“Luray’s got eight in cash. Every plaintiff’s lawyer in the country is talking about Skinny Bens.”

“Aren’t there some ethical problems?”

“There are no ethics anymore, Bro. You’re in la-la land. Ethics are only for people like you to teach to students who’ll never use them. I hate to be the one to break it to you.”

“I’ve heard it before.”

“Anyway, I’m mining for gold. Just thought you’d want to know.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Is anybody up there doing Skinny Bens?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Keep your eyes open. These lawyers are teaming up with other lawyers around the country. That’s how mass tort stuff works, as I’m learning. The more cases you have in a class, the bigger the settlement.”

“I’ll put out the word.”

“See you, Bro.”

“Be careful, Forrest.”

______

The next call came shortly after 2:30 A.M., and like every call at such an hour the phone seemed to ring forever, both during sleep and afterward. Ray finally managed to grab it and switch on a light.

“Ray, this is Harry Rex, sorry to call.”

“What is it?” he said, knowing too well that it was not good.

“Forrest. I’ve spent the last hour talking to him and some nurse at Baptist Hospital in Memphis. They’ve got him there, I think with a broken nose.”

“Back up, Harry Rex.”

“He went to a bar, got drunk, got in a fight, the usual. Looks like he picked on the wrong guy, now he’s getting his face stitched up. They want to keep him overnight. I had to talk to the staff there and guarantee payment. I also asked them not to give him painkillers and drugs. They have no idea who they’ve got there.”

“I’m sorry you’re in the middle of this, Harry Rex.”

“I’ve been here before, and I don’t mind. But he’s crazy, Ray. He started again about the estate and how he’s getting screwed out of his rightful share, all that crap. I know he’s drunk and all, but he just won’t leave it alone.”

“I talked to him five hours ago. He was fine.”

“Well, he must’ve been headed for the bar. They
finally had to sedate him to reset his nose, otherwise it would’ve been impossible. I’m just worried about all the drugs and stuff. What a mess.”

“I’m sorry, Harry Rex,” Ray said again because he could think of nothing else to say. There was a pause as Ray tried to collect his thoughts. “He was fine, just a few hours ago, clean, sober, seemed so anyway.”

“Did he call you?” Harry Rex asked.

“Yeah, he was excited about a new job.”

“That Skinny Ben crap?”

“Yeah, is it a real job?”

“I think so. There are a bunch of lawyers down here chasing those cases. Quantity’s crucial. They hire guys like Forrest to go out and round ’em up.”

“They ought to be disbarred.”

“Half of us should. I think you need to come home. The sooner we can open the estate the sooner we can get Forrest calmed down. I hate these accusations.”

“Do you have a court date?”

“We can do it Wednesday of next week. I think you ought to stay for a few days.”

“I was planning on it. Book it, I’ll be there.”

“I’ll notify Forrest in a day or so, try to catch him sober.”

“Sorry, Harry Rex.”

Not surprisingly, Ray couldn’t sleep. He was reading a biography when his new cell phone rang. Had to be a wrong number. “Hello,” he said suspiciously.

“Why are you awake?” asked the deep voice of Corey Crawford.

“Because my phone keeps ringing. Where are you?”

“We’re watching. You okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s almost four in the morning. You guys ever sleep?”

“We nap a lot. I’d keep the lights out if I were you.”

“Thank you. Anybody else watching my lights?”

“Not yet.”

“That’s good.”

“Just checking in.”

Ray turned off the lights in the front of his apartment and retreated to his bedroom, where he read with the aid of a small lamp. Sleep was made even more difficult with the knowledge that he was being billed a hundred dollars an hour through the night.

It’s a wise investment, he kept telling himself.

At exactly 5 A.M. he sneaked down his hallway as if someone on the ground down there might see him, and he brewed coffee in the dark. Waiting for the first cup, he called Crawford, who, not surprisingly, sounded groggy.

“I’m brewing coffee, you want some?” Ray asked.

“Not a good idea, but thanks.”

“Look, I’m flying to Atlantic City this afternoon. You got a pen?”

“Yeah, let’s have it.”

“I’m leaving from general aviation in a white Beech Bonanza, tail number eight-one-five-romeo, at three P.M., with a flight instructor named Fog Newton. We’ll stay tonight at the Canyon Casino, and return around
noon tomorrow. I’ll leave my car at the airport, locked as usual. Anything else?”

“You want us in Atlantic City?”

“No, that’s not necessary. I’ll move around a lot up there and try to watch my rear.”

CHAPTER 21

The consortium was put together by one of Dick Docker’s flying buddies. It was built around two local ophthalmologists who had clinics in West Virginia. Both had just learned to fly and needed to shuttle back and forth at a faster pace. Docker’s pal was a pension consultant who needed the Bonanza for about twelve hours a month. A fourth partner would get the deal off the ground. Each would put up $50,000 for a quarter interest, then sign a bank loan for the balance of the purchase price, which was currently at $390,000 and not likely to move lower. The note was spread over six years and would cost each partner $890 per month.

That was about eleven hours in a Cessna for Pilot Atlee.

On the plus side, there was depreciation and potential charter business when the partners were not using the plane. On the negative, there were hangar fees,
fuel, maintenance, and a list that seemed to go on too long. Unsaid by the pal of Dick Docker, and also very much on the negative side, was the possibility of getting into business with three strangers, two of whom were doctors.

But Ray had $50,000, and he could swing $890 a month, and he wanted desperately to own the airplane that he secretly considered to be his.

Bonanzas held their value, according to a rather persuasive report that was attached to the proposal. Demand had remained high in the used-aircraft market. The Beech safety record was second only to Cessna and practically as strong. Ray carried the consortium deal around with him for two days, reading it at the office, in his apartment, at the lunch counter. The other three partners were in. Just sign his name in four places, and he would own the Bonanza.

The day before he left for Mississippi, he studied the deal for the last time, said to hell with everything else, and signed the papers.

______

If the bad guys were watching him, they were doing an excellent job of covering their tracks. After six days of trying to find the surveillance, Corey Crawford was of the opinion that there was nobody back there. Ray paid him thirty-eight hundred in cash and promised to call if he got suspicious again.

Under the guise of storing more junk, he went to Chaney’s Self-Storage every day to check on the money. He hauled in boxes filled with anything he
could find around his apartment. Both 14B and 37F were slowly taking on the appearance of an old attic.

The day before he left town, he went to the front office and asked Mrs. Chaney if someone had vacated 18R. Yes, two days ago.

“I’d like to rent it,” he said.

“That makes three,” she said.

“I’m going to need the space.”

“Why don’t you just rent one of our larger units?”

“Maybe later. For now, I’ll use the three small ones.”

It really didn’t matter to her. He rented 18R in the name of Newton Aviation and paid cash for a six-month lease. When he was certain no one was watching, he moved the money out of 37F and into 18R, where new boxes were waiting. They were made of aluminum-coated vinyl and guaranteed to resist fire up to three hundred degrees Fahrenheit. They were also waterproof, and they locked. The money fit into five of them. For good measure, Ray threw some old quilts and blankets and clothes over the boxes so things would look a little more normal. He wasn’t sure whom he was trying to impress with the randomness of his little room, but he felt better when it looked disheveled.

A lot of what he was doing these days was for the benefit of someone else. A different route from his apartment to the law school. A new jogging trail. A different coffee bar. A new downtown bookstore to browse through. And always with an eye for the unusual, an eye in the rearview mirror, a quick turnaround when he walked or jogged, a peek through
shelves after he entered a shop. Someone was back there, he could feel it.