Thriller Box Set One: The Subway-The Debt-Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

“She still can’t even talk to me. Like you said, I didn’t want it to become the enormous elephant in the room.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Shane checked his watch for the fourth time, confirming that he’d been seated in the waiting room for over an hour. He sighed and shifted his focus downward, back to the rolled up copy of Sports Illustrated bunched in his hands. He read a quick preseason report from Peter King about the Patriots, glanced over the Faces in the Crowd section, even made it halfway through the cover article about blood doping in cycling before giving up and tossing the magazine onto the table beside him.

  Another check of the watch revealed it to be ten past nine. The goal had been to be the first one in the door when the Office of Attorney Affairs for the Ohio Supreme Court opened at eight, to get his pro hac vice forms signed and authorized, and be back in the law library by nine. The first half of that plan had come to fruition, Shane arriving so early he even beat the receptionist into the office.

  The second half of it was still a work in progress.

  Beside him a middle-aged woman sat with her eyes closed, head reclined back against the wall behind her. A cloth satchel overflowing with notebooks and knitting utensils rested at her feet.

  Otherwise, the reception area was empty.

  What was taking so long Shane couldn’t quite figure out, a fact that continued to gnaw at him as time slipped away. By now SynTronic had been notified of the filing. He had to get back and get as far ahead of them as he could while he still had the advantage.

  At half past nine, an older man with a short sleeve dress shirt that gapped at the neck and an argyle tie stepped out from around the reception desk. He paused just in front of the counter and stared down at the clipboard in his hand, trying to make out the words in front of him.

  “Shane...”

  “Laszlo,” Shane said, standing and walking forward.

  “Laszlo,” the man repeated, looking up to assess Shane. He started at his feet and lifted his gaze, taking in the pressed blue suit with white shirt and yellow tie. When he reached the top he nodded, as if satisfied that Shane had passed some sort of preliminary eyeball test. “Right this way, please.”

  The old man turned and shuffled back the way he had come, Shane slowing to keep from running up on him from behind. Together they traversed a narrow hallway, made a right, and went down a second short corridor. Around them most of the offices stood empty with their lights off, the place almost silent.

  Whether that was from everybody being out of the office this morning, or from the offices being vacant, Shane wasn’t sure. Given that the morning was fast getting away from him, he didn’t much care to ask.

  The old man hooked a right into the rear office in the hallway, his slow meander at last finding its way back behind his desk. He motioned for Shane to have a seat across from him before setting the clipboard down and lowering himself into his chair.

  Shane waited for him to sit before doing the same, his bottom coming to rest on a hard wooden straight back. He cast a quick glance around the room, taking in the faded Winslow Homer lithographs with gold plated frames and the potted cactus in the corner. A brass nameplate announcing the man to be George Carmichael sat on the desk, no doubt an attempt at a forced retirement gift that the man had misunderstood.

  The faint smell of Old Spice and body odor hung in the air, though Shane still held out hope that he would make his escape before either one clung to him.

  “So, Mr. Laszlo, what brings you in today?” George began, his fingers laced on the desk in front of him.

  “Well, sir, as you can see from my paperwork there, I’m here to file to practice pro hac vice.”

  George stared at him for several long moments, past the point of waiting to see if Shane had more to say, long enough that Shane began to wonder if he was still breathing.

  “I see, and for what reason are you filing?” George asked, each word drawn out.

  “I have been retained as counsel in a civil trial,” Shane replied. “The plaintiff is a student at Ohio Tech, and the arising incident took place here in Columbus, giving Ohio controlling jurisdiction.”

  “Mhmm,” George responded, the sound more of a grunt than an acknowledgement of Shane’s answer. “And the defendant?”

  “A corporation headquartered in New Jersey, but doing business in Ohio.”

  Another heavy nod from George. “And are you licensed to practice law in any state?”

  “Massachusetts, admitted last year, in good standing.”

  For the first time, George glanced down at the sheet in front of him. He lowered his face just inches away from it to read, the liver spots atop his head peeking out through thin hair. “Will this be the only case you intend to try here in Ohio?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who is your sponsoring attorney for this request?”

  Shane paused a moment, a flush of heat rising to his face. He felt a thin sheen of sweat hit his forehead, but kept his voice even. “Alexandra Laszlo.”

  Shane held his breath and waited for some form of response, but there was none. Instead George kept his head lowered down over the forms, staring at them. A few more moments passed before he raised his head to gaze back at Shane.

  The two sat locked in a stare before George pushed himself to his feet and extended a withered hand across his desk. “Welcome back to Ohio, Mr. Laszlo. Best of luck in your case.”

  The action took Shane by surprise, for a moment his only response to look from the hand to George and back again. At last the words registered in his mind and he stood, returning the handshake. “That’s it? We’re good here?”

  For the first time all morning, George smiled. “That’s it. You can pick up your authorization form from the receptionist on the way out.”

  “Thank you,” Shane said, pumping the old man’s hand harder than necessary.

  “Do you need me to show you the way out?”

  “No, I think I’ve got it,” Shane said, releasing the shake and snatching his briefcase up from the ground beside his chair. He exited the room without waiting for further response and almost sprinted as he headed for the front desk.

  The same receptionist he’d walked in with an hour and a half before was waiting for him as he got back to the waiting room, a disdainful look on her face and an authorization form in her hand. Shane thanked her for the form and apologized again for being so early before exiting the building and going straight for the parking lot in hopes of making it back to the library before ten.

  Halfway there his cell-phone chirped to life, the theme song from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly erupting from his hip. Shane pulled it out without breaking stride and stared down at the display, an unknown number from an Ohio area code staring back at him. Still moving fast, he accepted the call and pressed it to his ear.

  “Shane Laszlo.”

  “Hey, Shane, Heath Wilson here.”

  It took a moment for Shane to place the name as he slid in behind the wheel of his Honda. “Hey Heath, what’s going on?”

  “Are you busy right now?”

  Shane glanced down at the clock on the dash before checking his rearview mirror and easing out into morning traffic. “Kind of, what’s going on?”

  “I sent a couple of emails last night to some of my old professors in the engineering department, asked if any of them have ever done anything with medical devices before.”

  A wince came to Shane’s face as he listened, hoping his newfound help wasn’t already doing more harm than good. Still, this wasn’t the time for a lecture on confidentiality. That would come later, in person.

  “Yeah, and?”

  “One of them got back to me and said he’d worked on implants before getting into teaching. Said he’s available this morning if I’d like to stop by and talk to him.”

  Shane’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Nice, for sure do that. Do you want me to come with you?”

  “Would you mind? I’m afraid I still don’t know the case well eno
ugh to ask everything I should.”

  Shane glanced at the clock once more, but dismissed the thought. This was important, maybe even an insightful break. There was nothing the library presented that could be more helpful than that.

  “I’ll meet you at the library in twenty minutes.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The pages fed out from the fax machine, the decrepit old device whining in protest every step of the way. One by one they emerged into the catch tray, the ink a little too thick, the clarity fuzzy at best.

  Beside it stood Lauren Egan, her arms folded across her silk blouse, the toe of her Manolo Bhlanik heels tapping out a steady cadence against the floor. At the completion of each page she checked to see if the transmission was done before dropping the entire stack back into the tray and resuming her stance.

  After the better part of ten minutes the machine came to a halt, emitting one last wail that Lauren swore sounded like the dying gasps of a hyena. She pulled the plug from the wall behind the machine to stop it mid-sound and snatched the pages free, turning on a heel and stomping away. Over her shoulder she commanded an intern to do something with that machine, whether it be put it away or throw it in a dumpster, she couldn’t care less.

  Blonde hair streaming behind her, Lauren stomped towards the end of the hall, her heels beating out a steady pace beneath her. What was just a moment before a busy hallway fell empty as she strode through, a few wayward glances peeking out from offices as she went.

  Her destination was the single door at the end of the hall, the one standing open that entered into an office spanning the entire width of the building. Without so much as once glancing down at the document in her hand Lauren strode through the door, pausing just long enough to offer a faint knock with the back of her hand as she went.

  The sound of her heels clicking against tile fell away, the points on her three inch pumps digging into soft carpeting. The change of surface did nothing to slow her pace as she spotted who she was looking for and moved for them, swinging the door shut in her wake.

  On the right side of the office, facing out into the room, was an enormous oak desk. It was situated congruent to the corners of the room, floor to wall windows framing either side of it. Behind the desk sat Connor Reed, Senior Counsel for SynTronic Corporation. Across from him was William Ramirez, longtime partner and the only person Reed ever allowed to sit second chair in the courtroom.

  A bemused expression was splashed across Reed’s face as Lauren entered, his head reclined against his high-backed chair. It was still well before noon, though a tumbler of Johnnie Walker Blue already sat on the desk in front of him.

  The Breakfast of Champions, as those around the office called it.

  “I was just telling Willie that the Dragon Lady must be on the move. It got very quiet around here all of a sudden.”

  Lauren ignored the comment and slapped the pages down on the desk. The pile splayed out in an arc as they landed, the top sheet flipping over from the force of the landing. “Have you seen this yet?”

  Reed arched an eyebrow and looked at Lauren before lowering his gaze to the stack. He shifted his attention up to Ramirez sitting across from him and shook his head twice before raising his head from the chair.

  “Sometimes I think we forget who works for whom around here.”

  Lauren again crossed her arms in front of her, swallowing hard. “Sorry sir, but I have a feeling you’re about to be just as angry as I am. Besides, you know dealing with that guy creeps me out.”

  Reed’s hand stopped halfway to the pages and his focus again found its way to Lauren. “So this came from him?”

  “Do you know anybody else that still uses a freaking fax machine?” Lauren said, motioning towards the stack in front of him.

  Reed ignored the question, straightening the pages back into a pile and sliding them over in front of himself. Across the desk, Ramirez leaned in, though refrained from reaching for them.

  Silence settled over the office for a full five minutes as Reed flipped through. Twice he offered grunts at what he read, once he reached out to ignore an incoming call on his cell-phone. Otherwise he made no visible indication of anything until he was done, at which point he lifted the tumbler and drained it in one gulp.

  “That bad, huh?” Ramirez asked, the question rhetorical. He’d been with Reed long enough to know the only time he ever disrespected good whiskey was after receiving unsettling news.

  Reed shoved the pages towards Ramirez and rose from behind his desk. He walked to the mini bar along the wall and grabbed two more tumblers, along with the almost full decanter. While Ramirez read, he put a glass in front of him and Lauren both, pouring them each a healthy shot before doing the same in his own glass.

  By the time he’d returned to his seat, Ramirez had finished and was staring back at him.

  “Good call, Dragon Lady,” Ramirez said with a sigh, breaking his own workplace rule and lifting the tumbler in front of him. He raised it to each of them in salute before downing it in one gulp.

  Reed reached out and pulled the document back over in front of him. He stared down at the title page, the words United States District Court – Southern District of Ohio printed across the top. Below that in bold faced block letters, Tyler Bentley, Plaintiff, vs. SynTronic Corporation, Defendant.

  “When did this come in?”

  The question seemed to snap Lauren awake, her face blank as she stared down at nothing. “He called about a half hour ago. Said he’d gotten his hands on something we needed to see.”

  “Hmm,” Reed said, his gaze still fixed on the pages in front of him. He flicked his attention over to Ramirez. “Something tells me we don’t want to know how he managed that.”

  “I asked,” Lauren inserted. “All he said was don’t ask questions I don’t want to know the answer to.”

  A small snort slid from Reed. “I don’t doubt that.”

  Ramirez leaned back in his armchair and crossed his legs in front of him. He readjusted his tie across an ever growing paunch and fixed his gaze on Reed. “Initial reaction?”

  Reed’s eyebrows shot up a fraction of an inch and his right hand rose from the armrest of his chair. Using his thumb as a counter, he started at the tip of his index finger and worked his way across.

  “To begin with, the complaint itself doesn’t concern me in the slightest. Lord knows we’ve seen more of these faulty product claims than we know what to do with. Negligence, fraud, failure to obtain informed consent. Pretty standard stuff.”

  Lauren fidgeted a bit as she listened, taking up her tumbler from the table and sinking into the chair beside Ramirez.

  “Second,” Reed said, not even registering her movement as his thumb slid to his middle finger, “it was filed in District Court. That means we’re either dealing with someone wanting a big chunk of change or someone insistent on taking this in front of a jury.”

  “Most likely both,” Ramirez proffered.

  “Most likely,” Reed echoed. “Third, the timing of this issue. I’ve never heard of Tyler Bentley, but based on what is written here, he was a football star. Planning this thing so it hits the court in the summertime, when people are thinking about football but before it starts and becomes a distraction, is pretty smart. Will make it easier to gain a sympathetic jury.”

  “And a mountain load of media exposure,” Ramirez added.

  Reed nodded in agreement, his thumb moving on to his pinkie. “Fourth, the amount prayed for is blank. Tells me they either haven’t done their homework yet, or they’re swinging for the fences.”

  Ramirez raised a finger and pointed it across at Reed. “The writing seems solid, but not overdone. We’re either dealing with a teetotaler or someone straight out of law school.”

  “I got that impression too,” Reed said, nodding his head. “Which means he’ll be hung up on issues like principals and doing the right thing.”

  Ramirez winced, the words sounding horrible in his ear. “Drives the price up in a hurr
y.”

  “Mhmm,” Reed said, nodding his head. Silence again fell over the room as he stared down at the complaint before shifting his gaze to Lauren. She hadn’t said a single word since handing it over, retreating so far back into herself she was almost catatonic. Her slight frame seemed to be shrinking before them as she hugged herself tight, her gaze never rising to meet his.

  “Lauren, why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Go for a run or something, we’ll manage here just fine.”

  The words jerked Lauren’s face up to his, her eyes wide. After several long moments she nodded and stood, her legs trembling beneath her.

  “But first, please for the love of all things Holy do not leave that whiskey sitting there,” Reed said. “After it’s been poured, it needs to be drunk.”

  Lauren looked uneasy, staring from him to the glass. She took two steps forward and downed it, spun on her heel and left without a word.

  Reed and Ramirez both watched from where they sat, neither saying a thing until she was gone, the door closed behind her.

  Ramirez remained turned in his chair for several moments after she was gone, staring at the door. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “She needed a drink,” Reed said, “whether she realized it or not.”

  Shifting back in his chair, Ramirez gave a slight twist of his head. “That’s for damn sure. Poor girl needs the whole bottle. I meant, have you ever seen her go from Dragon Lady to scared kitten that fast?”

  The question lingered with Reed for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. “No, but I can’t say that I’d be much happier getting a call from that guy either.”

  “True, but again, with the transformation...”

  “My guess? Whatever he said pissed her off at first, the more she thought about it though, the more it scared her.”

  A puff of breath slid out over Ramirez’s teeth. “Damn, that is one sick bastard.”

  Reed didn’t bother agreeing with the obvious, opting to swivel in his chair to stare out the window instead. Below him the Passaic River flowed by, brown and dirty, a perpetual stench rising from the pollutant cocktail that fed into it every day. A mile upstream the Newark Bay expanded out towards the Atlantic, a handful of commercial trawlers visible in the midday sun.