“Start from when you were in his office,” Erin says to Laurie. “Tell Vaughn how you found it. Like you told me.”
Laurie inhales. “Okay. It was about a week after the accident. Balzac wanted a memo on his desk first thing in the morning, and I was working really late to finish it. He was working late, too. He had his door closed for a long time, then he opened it and came to my office and started talking to me. Nothing important, just small talk. I got the impression he’d been drinking. He does that sometimes when he works late. He has a little bar in his office.”
Vaughn’s glance at Erin asks, Where is she going with this? Erin’s look tells him to be patient.
“He started to creep me out, and maybe he could tell, because he stopped talking and went back to his office. I think all he did was pick up his jacket because he left almost right away. I kept working until I finished the memo. Then I took it to his office and laid it on his desk. I must’ve bumped his mouse, because his computer screen lit up. It opened to an image of a train. I was curious, so I clicked the mouse to play the video.”
Laurie stops here to gather herself. “It was the crash. The video showed the crash.”
Vaughn is totally confused. “I’ve seen dozens of videos of the crash. A hundred. So has everyone else who owns a television.”
“Not like this one,” Erin says. Then she leans over to her laptop, open on the coffee table. “Laurie taped the video from Balzac’s monitor using her cell phone. After she showed it to me tonight, I had her e-mail it to me, and I saved it on my computer.” Erin presses a button on the MacBook Air, and the video begins to play. It shows an aerial view of the track, the train rounding the curve in the distance, then racing down the straightaway, past and beneath the hovering camera, which turns to follow it. There it catches two figures moving quickly away from the track, followed by the train crashing into the TracVac, pulverizing the engine and sending the cars flying off the track behind it. The screen goes black.
Vaughn is stunned. “It shows the actual crash,” he says, his voice barely audible.
“Which means,” Erin says, “that whoever took the video knew the train was about to crash. And there’s only one way that’s possible.”
“They caused the crash themselves,” says Laurie.
No. It can’t be.
It takes a moment before Vaughn can speak. “Could it be the railroad’s? Like those highway traffic cams?” But even as he asks, he knows this video is different.
“Look more closely,” says Erin, playing the video again. “It’s too floaty. The camera is gaining and losing altitude. Only a few inches, but it’s definitely moving up and down. The camera’s not on any tower.”
“And it turns,” Laurie says. “It’s following the train. Remote-controlled.”
“Balzac had a drone?” Vaughn asks Laurie.
“Maybe, maybe not,” says Erin. “But Geoffrey Day sure as hell did. He had the firm buy it about a week before the accident. He showed it off to everyone, even flew it around the office.”
Vaughn looks from Erin to Laurie. “You’re telling me your bosses worked together to crash the train?”
Inconceivable. And yet.
Balzac, with the help of his future brother-in-law, turned a young girl into a double amputee to win a big verdict. And Geoffrey Day lost tens of millions in a failed class-action suit at the same time he forked over untold millions to buy Penn Law. And . . . something pecks at the back of Vaughn’s mind . . .
“The websites.”
Erin and Laurie look at each other, and Vaughn explains.
“The night of the train wreck, I was doing research on the computer and saw that a bunch of plaintiff firms had put up paid Google Ads about the crash. The ads linked directly to the law firms’ websites. And each law firm’s website had blurbs about the train crash, or train law, or the train industry. Except that Balzac’s website and Day’s website didn’t just have blurbs—they had multipage compendiums that covered all things railroad. I wondered how your firms could have generated such erudition in such a short time. Except now, it turns out, those articles weren’t written in the few hours after the accident; they were written in the days and weeks before. This whole thing was planned down to the nth degree.”
Erin’s eyes are wide. “I never even thought to look at how our website handled the train crash. I’m sure none of the other lawyers at the firm did, either. We have nothing to do with the website ourselves; Geoffrey’s PR and marketing people run it.”
“I’m so scared,” Laurie blurts. “He knows, I’m sure of it.”
“Knows what?” asks Vaughn.
“That I was in his office. That I saw the video. After I watched it, I tried to rewind it back to the exact spot where I found it. But I’m not sure I did. What’s worse is that I left my memo on his desk. He would have known that next morning that I had been in his office. And he’d know as soon as he touched his laptop that the video was right there, waiting to pop up.”
“You’re being paranoid,” Erin says.
“No, I’m not. He’s been acting weird toward me ever since. Being real nice, and solicitous. I wasn’t even on the crash team when I saw the video. But two days later, he brought me on board. He said it was the firm’s most prestigious litigation, and he wanted me to be a part of it.”
No one talks for a long while. Then, Laurie asks, “What are we going to do?”
Vaughn looks at Laurie, then at Erin. “We’re going to bring them down.”
24
FRIDAY, JULY 25
It’s 9:00 a.m., and Geoffrey Day sits behind his desk, around which are gathered the heads of Day and Lockwood’s website, PR, and marketing departments. Spread on the desk are draft advertisements, press releases, and mock Web pages. Each features the image of some form of rising or risen sun. Some pieces include sketches of trains or cars or planes or stethoscopes or pills, encompassing the various instrumentalities through which individual and corporate villains inflict harm on the innocent. The name of the campaign—arrived at with the aid of online surveys, interviews, and focus groups—is “A New Day.”
“The triumph of justice—” begins Irvin Sloan, the head of PR.
“Over corporate greed,” interjects Cindy Schlemming, who runs the website.
Reading Day’s mood, John Shein, the overall head of marketing, remains silent.
Day turns first to Sloan and then to Schlemming, the look on his face sending a clear message: You must be kidding me.
They go back to the drawing board, and after thirty minutes that pass like thirty hours, Day summarily dismisses the Three Marketeers (his nickname). He rises and walks to the one nonwindowed wall of his office. It’s adorned with photographs. Day and Clinton. Day and Bush I. Day and Bush II. Day and Obama. Day and several sitting justices of the United States Supreme Court. Day and Sting. There are also a dozen framed awards from various humanitarian associations. Geoffrey Day scans it all and sighs. Then he walks to the windows behind his desk, looks out at the vast landscape forty floors below, and considers the path that led him here.
For as long as he could remember, he’d strived to be the best. And in America, to be the “best,” as best he could figure it, meant to be the most successful. He started by being the most successful student. He had perfect grades and graduated as valedictorian in both high school and college. At Penn Law, he was editor-in-chief of the Law Review and graduated summa cum laude. None of that was especially difficult for him; according to standardized testing, his IQ was off the charts.
Success in the actual practice of law was only a little more challenging, requiring, in addition to intelligence, a modicum of political acumen. Once he hired on with Arthur Hogarth’s firm—the most successful P.I. firm in the city—it hadn’t taken him long to realize that the quickest way to advance was to eliminate his competition and marry into A-Hog’s family. He accomplished the former by exposing Benjamin Balzac for the bad actor he was. The latter he achieved by winning the heart of H
ogarth’s niece, Bethany—a sweet if unimaginative girl. Shortly thereafter, Hogarth made him partner and assigned him the biggest cases in the firm. A few years later, he took his book of business and formed his own firm.
He quickly won several huge verdicts and used the money to build out marquis office space, poach top associates from major P.I. firms, and draft a stable of politicians. In the years that followed, through careful maneuvering and the nurturing of select relationships, he won the top office in the city trial lawyers’ association, then the state association, then the national association. At the same time, he was recognized as one of the top-ten trial attorneys in the country. The “Super Lawyer of Super Lawyers,” he’d been called.
Finally, he’d won his crowning achievement: persuading Penn president Amy Gutmann to let him buy Penn Law. He still couldn’t believe how much she’d charged him. A hundred million dollars.
“But, Geoffrey, it’s Penn,” she repeated over and over. “I’m sure you could get Villanova for a steal.”
Smug little bureaucrat.
But the end result, he knows, is worth it: the Commonwealth’s only Ivy League law school is now his personal billboard, making him, undeniably, the most successful attorney in the state.
It was all going smoothly until the Relazac blunder and his deal with the devil. But he’d get out from under that rock soon enough, thanks to the train crash. Yet, despite his confidence in his ultimate victory, he still carries with him the same vague sense of unease that troubled him throughout his largely friendless childhood. The feeling that there is something not quite right with him.
Meanwhile, at the Balzac Firm, its own leader isn’t in such a good mood himself. It had taken only a few hours for his contact at the Pennsylvania DMV to run the license plate of the man who’d spoken with Royce Badgett inside Badgett’s neighborhood bar. The driver’s name is Thomas McFarland. He works as an investigator at his brother’s law firm, McFarland and Klein. The firm representing Amtrak engineer Edward Coburn.
As soon as he found out, Balzac phoned Badgett and told him to have McFarland followed, and to tail Vaughn Coburn himself. For Tommy’s tail, Balzac suggested that Badgett employ “the usual suspects,” meaning Coraline Demming, a local girl Badgett used to do in high school. Badgett has paid her a few times to do odd jobs on Balzac’s cases.
Now on the phone with Badgett, Balzac is learning the results of his and Coraline’s efforts.
“Coraline says the investigator mostly goes between the law firm and a little house he lives in near Chestnut Hill. He served some subpoenas, visited some people who are probably witnesses in other cases, went to a couple of bars—including a cop bar—and bent his elbow with guys he seemed to know. He usually eats alone or with his brother.”
Balzac is about to yawn when Badgett says, “Now for the interesting stuff. McFarland’s tailed me a couple of times since the bar. He also tried to strike up some conversations about me with my neighbors, but he got nothing. And he has a couple of friends who work for Amtrak that he visited.”
“Who are these friends?”
“One’s a car repairman. Another works with the Bridges and Buildings Department. I checked them out, and they have no connection to our guys.”
Badgett pauses for a moment, and Balzac thinks he hears the man grunt. “Are you okay?”
“Just a little heartburn,” Badgett says unconvincingly.
“So, tell me about the lawyer.”
“Nothing earth-shattering. On the day of the arraignment, he went to county lockup and met with his cousin. Then he went back to his office and worked until late. From there, he drove to his uncle’s boxing gym—that would be Frank Coburn, the engineer’s father. The old man left, but the lawyer remained in the gym until late, like one in the morning. Then he drove to the same building in Center City where he’s been spending the night since I started tailing him. This time, after he went in, I waited a few minutes, then had the security guard let me in, too. I introduced the guard to my friend, Ben Franklin—actually, three Ben Franklins—and found out that Coburn is hot and heavy with another lawyer who lives in the building. Her name is Erin Doyle, and . . .”
As Badgett talks on, Balzac pulls up Martindale.com on his computer and types in Erin’s name. He does a double take when he sees who she works for.
“Fuck me,” he says.
“Say what, boss?”
“That bitch works for Geoffrey Day.”
“Oh.” Badgett grunts again. “That’s not good.”
“Not even a little.” Balzac takes some time to think, and Badgett doesn’t interrupt. “It may be time to start tying up some loose ends. Speaking of which, how is our nervous friend?”
Balzac is referring to track foreman Reggie Frye. Jack Bunting told Balzac that Frye had been a jittery mess during his interview with the NTSB go-team. So Balzac had Bunting drive Frye to a cabin in the Poconos to hide out until things blew over. Frye was happy to escape the scrutiny, at first. But, according to Bunting, Frye was getting cabin fever and demanding a better arrangement, along with the money he’d been promised. Bunting had been pushing for weeks to have Reggie disappear on a more permanent basis. Balzac realizes now that Bunting was right.
“Still nervous,” answers Badgett.
“That makes me nervous.”
“Message received.”
Balzac hangs up, smiling. Feeling much lighter than he had a few minutes earlier, he leans forward and opens the large humidor sitting on his desk. He pulls out a Stradivarius Churchill. Then he ignites his S.T. Dupont Black Lacquered Ligne 2 lighter and carefully toasts the cigar, keeping the flame one inch below the foot while holding the Churchill at a forty-five-degree angle and rotating it. Once the foot begins to smoke, he places the cigar in his mouth and begins taking short puffs until the tip glows.
Balzac removes the cigar. He knows that his secretary, Edna, will have a shit fit when she smells the smoke. Who cares? It’s not like I’m planning to nail her. Again. Speaking of which, Balzac’s thoughts drift to Laurie Mitzner. He’s at the awkward stage of the seduction process. The point at which he shows increasing interest in the woman. They never know how to take it at first, and things become uncomfortable for a while. After a point, though, the woman begins to grasp that he views her as special. More intelligent than her peers. More interesting. More worthy of his precious time. Once she becomes comfortable with his attention, he stops cold. The woman becomes confused, then a little angry. When that happens, he again showers her with attention, takes the time to explain that his sudden aloofness had nothing to do with her, but with some pressing problem he’s facing. He’ll repeat this hot-and-cold dance a few times, speeding up the cycle, until the woman becomes so fearful of losing his mercurial favor that she throws herself at him.
It’s a simple process. Crude, actually. But he knows it will work with Laurie, just as it worked with the other two women on his Amtrak crash team. And the two before them, and the five before them, and the ten before them.
Benjamin Balzac takes a deep drag off the Churchill. Then he leans his head back and blows out a thick column of smoke. On the other side of his door, Edna coughs theatrically.
Hearing her, Balzac laughs.
Ten blocks away, at 1515 Market Street, four people sit in a conference room. Laughter is the last thing they have on their minds. Mick and Tommy McFarland and Susan Klein sit with their mouths agape, staring at Vaughn Coburn. He’s just shown them Laurie Mitzner’s videotape and explained his theory that Geoffrey Day and Benjamin Balzac caused the crash. Without revealing Erin’s name, he’s told them what she said about Day’s drones. He’s also shown them printouts of the detailed railroad-law sections from the Balzac and Day and Lockwood websites.
“And then, there are the complaints,” Vaughn says. “Balzac and Day were the first to the courthouse, and all the complaints filed after theirs are almost verbatim copies. The important thing is that Balzac’s and Day’s complaints refer to my cousin’s deadly operati
on of a motor vehicle and his history of alcohol abuse and crime. But if you compare dates, you realize that none of that information came out in the press until later.”
Mick, Susan, and Tommy look at one another.
“Day and Balzac knew about Eddy all along. I think they chose him as the engineer they wanted to set up.”
“His past makes him the perfect patsy,” says Tommy.
Susan leans forward. She starts to speak, then stops herself, then begins again. “This is . . . unthinkable.”
“Yes, it is,” Vaughn agrees. “Until you start thinking about it. Then it all adds up.”
Next, he shares what he knows about Balzac’s amputation case and Day’s financial troubles. Mick asks about his sources, and Susan wants to know who gave him the video taken in Balzac’s office. “A-Hog tipped me off to the amputation case and Day’s financial troubles from the failed class-action cases.”
“And the information about the drones—the source of the video?” Susan presses.
Vaughn takes a deep breath. “I’m dating an associate who works for Day. Her friend, who works for Balzac, recorded the video on her iPhone as it played on Balzac’s computer.”
“Jesus Christ,” Mick says. “You have lawyers passing you confidential information, betraying their bosses, their law firms?”
It’s Vaughn’s turn to stare. “We’re talking about two monsters who crashed a train. Mass murderers. Who the hell cares about them, or their firms?”
Mick seems momentarily taken aback by the venom in Vaughn’s voice. Then he nods. “What do you want to do with all this?”
“We have to take this right to the FBI,” Susan declares before Vaughn can answer.
“No!” Vaughn practically shouts the word. “Day and Balzac are too politically connected. They’d be tipped off in an hour. And any evidence that might be out there that could inculpate them and clear my cousin would disappear.”
“He’s right,” says Tommy. “And one of my guys on the railroad says he has something for me. I’m going to meet him this afternoon. Who knows what’s out there?”
An Engineered Injustice Page 17
