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

by Dustin Stevens

  “Perhaps half? Maybe a few less?”

  “So, twenty-five?” Reed said, circling forward once more. “Would that be a fair number to use?”

  “Yes, that sounds fair,” Manningham conceded, nodding.

  “Okay. Please, tell me, of those twenty-five, how many also had a broken femur?”

  “All three bones broken?” Manningham asked, his eyebrows raised a bit. “That would take quite an extreme amount of trauma. No more than a handful.”

  Reed turned on a heel, headed for the jury, a look of small victory on his face. “So what you’re telling me is that this particular case, Tyler Bentley’s knee, presenting with all three major bones broken and the kneecap shattered, was one of a very, very small number of cases you’ve ever seen?”

  “Yes.”

  “No more than, what, one or two percent of the cases that you’ve ever seen in your career as an orthopedic surgeon?”

  “The math adds up. Yes, I would say that.”

  Reed turned again and walked away from the stand, pausing just long enough to look up at Shane, a half smirk visible in the corner of his mouth. “So then, isn’t it possible Dr. Manningham, that the combined effects of the rare and violent injury sustained by Tyler Bentley along with your own admitted inexperience with these kinds of cases, might have been what caused the failure of Tyler Bentley’s left leg, and not a faulty product from my client, SynTronic?”

  “Objection!” Shane yelled, snapping to his feet so fast his chair toppled over behind him, the sudden noise sending a ripple through the crowd.

  “Withdraw the question, Your Honor,” Reed responded, just like Ramirez not even waiting for Shane to state the grounds of his objection. He raised his hands by his side as if conceding defeat, turning and heading for his chair while giving a sideways smile to Shane, a tiny hitch in his step for effect.

  Shane remained on his feet glaring back at his opponent, everything in him fighting to keep his vehemence from becoming visible to the room. His entire body felt as if it were trembling with fury, his fists resting atop the hardwood desk to make sure he remained still.

  “Counselor, your witness,” Judge Lynch said.

  Shane remained where he was for several long moments, glaring over at Reed, before dropping his gaze to his notes in front of him. He already knew what he wanted to ask, but needed the extra time to make sure his voice was clear and even when he spoke.

  “Dr. Manningham, you mentioned that you have performed three hundred and forty-three knee replacements over the years. Of those, have you ever operated on a single person that didn’t need it?”

  A hint of smirk moved Manningham’s head backwards, followed by a sharp twist of the head. “Never. Not only would that be unethical, no insurance company would ever sign off on it.”

  “So, the issues that Mr. Reed already outlined notwithstanding, what types of things would normally necessitate this sort of operation?”

  Manningham pursed his lips, his head moving from side to side as he thought. “Most knee replacements are for people fifty years and above, the decades of pounding on the joint causing it to break down or wear out.”

  “Meaning it would be fair to say that no knee replacement is ever performed without major damage to the joint?”

  “It wouldn’t just be fair, it would be accurate,” Manningham said.

  “And that trying to differentiate the severity of one versus another is kind of a moot point?” Shane asked, turning so he could see Manningham, the jury right before him.

  “The procedure is the same, regardless of the state of the joint when it arrives, because the entire thing is being replaced anyway.”

  “Because the entire thing is being replaced anyway,” Shane said, nodding his head and pacing away from the jury a few steps before turning and retracing his steps. “Dr. Manningham, just a couple more questions for you. Of those three hundred and forty-three, how many had to have their leg amputated three months post-operation?”

  Manningham drew himself up straighter in the chair, his face pinched, a mask of indignation. “No others. Not three months post-op, not ever.”

  “And of those three hundred and forty-three, all those people still walking around, still with the full use of both legs, how many used the KnightRunner?”

  The air grew heavier, tense, as the entire room seemed to lean forward, a collective group waiting for Manningham’s response. He was sure not to disappoint, looking at Shane for a moment before focusing on the jury.

  “Only Tyler Bentley.”

  Shane stopped his movement, glancing at Manningham, at the jury, and at last to Tyler before turning and walking back to his chair. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  There was no sound beneath Lauren Egan’s shoes as she walked around the polished floor of the Omni’s foyer, her usual stiletto heels traded in for a basic pair of Nike running shoes. The well-shaped calves she preferred to keep on display for the world to see were hidden beneath a pair of blue jeans, a zip up pullover extended past the wrist, almost touching the cups of coffee she held in either hand. Her hair was swept back in a simple pony tail, accentuating the lines that were beginning to form around her eyes.

  She could still pass for twenty-five, but her actual age was starting to peek out from around the next corner.

  After a night of less than three hours sleep, Lauren was back on the clock, despite it being a Saturday. She walked through the lobby without a word to anyone and stepped inside the executive conference center, most of the chairs in the space already full, nobody saying anything.

  Everybody in the room was dressed as she was, a vast step down from their usual courtroom attire. The Twins had traded in their Brooks Brothers gear for polo’s of the same color scheme, their shirttails tucked in tight, a hint of Axe body spray rolling off them. The two paralegals were both in hooded sweatshirts, looking like they’d either been up all night scouring case law or each other’s bodies, most likely both.

  Across from them sat Dr. Pinkering and Sarconi, each trying to pull off the dressed down look, each looking very uncomfortable doing it. The two of them appeared to be aging in dog years, each passing day bringing more folds around the mouth, more bags under the eyes.

  Sarconi watched Lauren as she entered, his face perking up as he smelled coffee, pushing himself a little higher in his chair as she walked past him and placed them on the end of the table. He stared at the cups sitting alone for a moment before looking back up at her, a scowl on his face as she returned to her chair.

  “Piss on the rest of us, huh?”

  “She doesn’t work for the rest of you,” Reed said as he swept into the room, Ramirez on his heels. Dressed in jeans and a dress shirt he walked to the front of the room and picked up his coffee, taking a long pull from the cup, smacking his lips for effect. “Damn, that’s good. Thank you, Lauren.”

  Beside him, Ramirez walked to the front and took up his as well, lifting it in thanks to the corner. Lauren nodded to both of them, shutting the door behind her.

  Reed took another hit from the coffee before lowering it to the table and lacing his fingers across his stomach, assuming his standard pose while looking around the room. After a moment he sighed and raised his eyebrows, twisting his head to one side.

  “Well then, that was an eventful first week, wasn’t it?”

  The left side of the room plus Lauren had worked with Reed long enough to know that was not the opening they wanted to hear. They were aware that the case was not going their way, but this was something else entirely. This was their boss, their fearless leader, showing his hand and letting them know how dire their position was. All five squirmed a bit in their chair, knowing this was not the start to the weekend they were hoping for.

  In the years she’d worked for him, Lauren had seen it twice before, both cases of accidental death where the blame was squarely on SynTronic. Her eyes slid shut and her head lowered a bit, knowing that only a few realistic options we
re on the table, none of them good.

  “Eventful?” Sarconi asked, one nostril raised in a faux snarl. He said just the one word, but the open accusation on his face filled in the rest for him.

  Reed shifted his attention over to Sarconi, his head leading his entire body in a change of direction to face the right side of the room. His face changed from tired to hard in a matter of seconds, the transformation plain to see for everybody in the room.

  “Is eventful not a good enough word for you? How about calling it a losing battle? A lost cause? Or, I know, how about a shit show, because that’s what you handed us when you stuck your cockamamie contraption in that kid’s leg!”

  Sarconi’s face flushed red, his chin digging deeper into the folds of skin around his neck. “You think this is our fault? You stood up here a week ago and said yourself this was the kid’s fault for misuse, it was the surgeon’s fault for putting the damn thing in wrong.”

  “Jesus Christ, you believed that?” Reed asked, surprise across his face as he shook his head from side to side. He maintained the pose for several seconds before taking up his coffee and pulling away, turning his back on the room. “Willie, help this idiot see the big picture here, will you?”

  Ramirez stepped forward, shaking his head, a look of disgust in place to match the one Reed wore. “Perhaps you weren’t listening last week when we went through all this. What we said was we were going to try and toss some of the blame on the doc and we were going to try to throw a little at the kid. Problem is, no opportunity presented itself on either front. The only two times we’ve managed to get any jabs in we’ve had to withdraw the questions, making ourselves look like dicks just to try and make a point.”

  “But you’re the attorney, it’s your job to create those opportunities,” Dr. Pinkering said, leaning in on the backside, trying to aid his colleague.

  “And you’re a doctor,” Ramirez countered, “it’s your job not to maim your patients, yet here we are.”

  “Don’t blame us because the Laszlo kid is kicking your ass in there,” Sarconi replied, emphasizing the word kid to mock the term they had used just days before.

  The comment spun Reed back around to the table, his face twisted with rage, the coffee cup in his hand threatening to explode from the pressure on it. “The Laszlo kid is kicking our ass in there?”

  He kept his gaze locked, resting his coffee on the table and leaning forward across it, pushing forward until his face was just a foot away from Sarconi’s.

  “No, what the Laszlo kid is doing is following the paint-by-numbers case you two idiots handed to him. What he’s doing in there, a damn trained monkey could do.”

  “So what does that make you?” Sarconi asked, leaning in so just six inches separated them.

  Reed held the pose for several seconds before smirking, twisting his head at the neck to face the end of the table. “Ute, get him out of here.”

  The look of resolve faded from Sarconi’s face, sheer terror flooding in. He swung his gaze to the back of the room where Ute stood, a sick smile on his face, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his pants.

  “No, this was just a misunderstanding,” Sarconi said, pressing himself low in the seat, leaning back as far as he could. “There’s no need for any of this.”

  “Take his friend with him,” Reed said. “They don’t need to be here.”

  “With pleasure,” Ute said, fixing a wild-eyed stare on the pair, almost salivating at the sight of them both cowering from him.

  “They might have to take the stand next week, so no broken bones, no facial markings,” Reed said. “Otherwise, I don’t care.”

  The Twins stared down at their tablets as the scene unfolded, both pretending they weren’t witnessing what was going on. At the end of the table, the paralegals both looked on in horror before averting their gaze as well, careful not to see anything they could be asked about later.

  In the corner Lauren sat upright and stiff, her eyes closed, forcing bits of air in through her nose, otherwise not moving.

  Reed watched as Ute went across the table in a flash, not around, but over it, standing between Pinkering and Sarconi before either one even knew what happened. He grabbed each of them by an ear, yanking them to their feet, gasps of pain sliding out.

  “Come on, boys,” he said in a breathy tone, looking back and forth between them. “If either one of you makes a sound, I promise I’ll mail these ears back to your families in an envelope.”

  Reed glanced to Ramirez, both of them watching as Pinkering and Sarconi were escorted out, the grip on their ears so tight their heads were twisted towards the ground in an attempt to ease the pressure. Once they were gone, the entire room sat in silence for almost a full minute, nobody making eye contact.

  “So what’s the plan?” Grey Polo asked, his voice low, his gaze on the pad between his hands.

  “The plan,” Ramirez answered, “is to call Laszlo and set up a meeting, ask to discuss another settlement.”

  “How high are we prepared to go?” Blue Polo asked.

  “No higher than usual,” Reed said. “But we intend to exert a little extra pressure this time around.”

  “Do we have the leverage for that?” Blue Polo said.

  Reed paused a moment, flicking his gaze to the door and the enormous presence in denim that just left them. “We will.”

  More uncomfortable silence fell over the room, the paralegals continuing to squirm, the Twins not moving at all.

  “What if he still doesn’t take it?” Grey Polo asked.

  Another glance passed between Reed and Ramirez, Reed’s eyebrows raised in a questioning look, as if the thought had never occurred to them.

  “Then we put those two idiots on the stand and see what happens.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The overheard security light to the garage kicked on at nine o’clock, the timer set to the time of day and not the amount of light left outside. The first time Ute noticed this a sadistic smile spread across his face as he sat tucked away behind the wheel in the dark, casing one of a half dozen different places. He had no idea if he would need the information he’d just obtained, even less how he might use it if the moment arose, but the simple thought brought a smile to his face anyway.

  By his estimation, the sun went down for good somewhere just shy of eight-thirty, leaving him a full twenty minutes to operate in near darkness. The closest house on the cul-de-sac was a hundred yards away, close enough to hear a scream, but nowhere near close enough to hear the muffled sound of a bat or fist slamming into flesh. So long as he kept his victim from crying out, he could be in and out long before anybody noticed.

  The first time he uncovered the secret of the security light was two weeks before, parked in the same exact spot he now sat. Everything about the last month was nothing more than one long, unending bore, a blur of sitting in the car watching things happen, taking notes, compiling habits and tendencies, schedules and circumstances.

  For as much as everybody feared his physical imposition and the sheer pleasure he derived from imparting it, they overlooked his dedication to the craft. The hours spent in cramped spaces, the lengths gone to to ensure a message was received, the research that went into every move he made. In total it should have been enough to make even the most seasoned academic envious, but if anybody knew they would overlook it as the deranged obsessions of a madman.

  Ute had long since let it go, prescribing to a Machiavellian maxim of eschewing any form of public acceptance for its total and widespread fear of him. It was an ideal he had taken up years before, and it had served him well in the time since.

  Tonight, in a rare moment since arriving in Columbus, there was no underlying current of angst running through Ute, no feeling of disrespect, no wondering when his talents might be appreciated. Instead he felt a calm that bordered on the serene, a deep-rooted feeling that came with operating well within one’s comfort zone and emanated into every action.

  The feeling had started that m
orning, when the sanctimonious prick Reed at last recognized him for what he was — a game changer, a force to be reckoned with. Instead of trying to argue with the two worthless bastards from the hospital, he turned them over to Ute, letting him do what he did best.

  The most rewarding part of the encounter was that Ute didn’t even realize Reed knew he was there, his presence folded into the far corner, his entire being coiled against the wall like a snake ready to attack. The moment Reed gave him the green light he was up and across the table, on the two men in a matter of seconds, carrying them away as if they weighed nothing at all.

  It was a glorious morning, from the time he marched them out of the room to the moment he took them up the back stairwell and into the guest room he had booked in SynTronic’s name for just such an occasion. Despite having him outnumbered two to one, neither one tried to escape, neither one making so much as a sound in protest.

  Not when he drug them into the rented room just beyond the scope of security cameras, not when he put the doc in a chair and battered his ribs with a bar of soap wrapped in a pillowcase. He was careful not to break any bones, but made sure the bastard remembered him with every breath he took for the next three days.

  After he was done with the skinny ginger, he went to work on the fat man, employing some old school tactics he’d picked up in places he couldn’t name if he wanted to. He tied the Italian’s hands to the chair and tilted him backwards, the chair leaning against the edge of the bed, his knee in the man’s chest to weight him down. With one hand he held a wet towel over the man’s face, with the other he poured a pitcher of water onto it, watching as his prey reacted the same way everybody does to water boarding. Deep gurgling sounds rolled out of his throat, followed by thrashing, his hands straining against the ropes, his feet flailing at air.

  Ute could have stopped after only a single round, but went back for seconds anyway, scratching an itch that had started when he first called Sarconi months before. By the time he was done both men were in the fetal position on the floor, whimpering with their eyes closed. Neither one even saw him leave, their backs to the door, their bodies pleading for it to be over.