“Excellent, David. That simplifies matters enormously. Do not make a copy. That is critical. The people I represent want those materials, but only if they have the sole copy. Otherwise, no deal. On that basis, they have asked me to negotiate the transaction with you. I can assure you that they are willing to pay you a handsome sum for those materials.”
Guttner paused.
Hirsch said nothing.
“A very handsome sum, David. Seven figures is not out of the realm of possibility. Such a sum could be quite advantageous for someone in your position, especially with your not insubstantial financial obligations. I should think that the years since your release from incarceration have not been prosperous ones for you.”
“The documents aren't for sale, Marvin.”
Guttner smiled. “Ah, well. I suppose I am not surprised to hear you say that. Puzzled perhaps, but not surprised. Indeed, I warned them that pecuniary incentives might have little appeal to you. I explained to them that you appear to have developed a most unusual obsession with matters surrounding the life and the death of one Judith Shifrin. So they suggested to me, in the words of Don Corleone, that I make you an offer you can't refuse.”
Guttner leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin as he studied Hirsch.
“Well, David, I believe I can make you such an offer. I propose to trade that packet of materials in your safe-deposit box for the reputation and the career and perhaps even the freedom of your dear friend and mentor.”
“I'm not following you.”
“I am saddened to report my discovery of some distressing evidence of professional malfeasance on the part of Seymour Rosenbloom.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you familiar with the term chaser?”
“Somewhat.”
“Then you know that chasers occupy a shady and unseemly niche in the personal injury practice. They literally chase the ambulances. They cruise the highways with police radios on, listening for accident reports, often arriving at the scene before the ambulance does. Other chasers lurk in the shadows of the hospital emergency rooms with handfuls of attorney-client agreements. Plaintiff's lawyers pay them a commission for every victim they get to sign one of those agreements. The practice is, of course, illegal, immoral, and in direct contravention of the rules of professional responsibility. Indeed, mere payment of a fee to a chaser is grounds for disbarment. Moreover, a pattern and practice of using chasers can result in criminal charges.”
“What does this have to do with Seymour?”
“Everything, David. It grieves me to inform you that your mentor has at least two chasers on his payroll.”
“He doesn't do personal injury work.”
“Exactly. And that means that cruising the highways or trawling the emergency rooms is hardly an efficacious strategy for finding prospective bankruptcy clients. He chose another tack.”
Hirsch watched as Guttner opened the flap on the manila envelope and slid out a three-page document.
“This is a photocopy of an affidavit by one of the managers of the credit union serving the local members of the auto workers union who toil away at the Ford and Chrysler assembly plants in town.”
He slid the document across the table. “Most disconcerting.”
Hirsch read through the affidavit of one Eugene Pruett, who identified himself as one of the loan managers of the credit union. Pruett stated that over the past eight years he'd referred close to two hundred auto workers experiencing financial problems to Seymour Rosenbloom. He further stated that he did so under an arrangement whereby Rosenbloom agreed to pay him one hundred dollars for every referral that resulted in the filing of a Chapter Seven or Chapter Thirteen proceeding.
Hirsch read through it again.
He looked up at Guttner. “How'd you get this?”
“How is not relevant here, David. The who and the where and the what are far more significant.”
“Cash payments?”
“That is the gentlemen's testimony.”
“Thus no record of the transactions.” Hirsch gestured toward the affidavit and shook his head. “He could be making this up.”
“I suppose one could raise that question if Mr. Pruett were the only participant asserting such charges. Here, however, I have a second affidavit. This one is from the credit manager at one of the riverboat casinos. He attests to a similar financial arrangement with Mr. Rosenbloom. One hundred dollars per case appears to be his going rate. Would you care to see a copy of his affidavit?”
“No.”
“Just in case you are still in doubt, David, we have obtained some additional corroborating evidence from Mr. Pruett. He was unusually accommodating. Apparently, he formed the belief that he was dealing with law enforcement agents. Accordingly, he agreed to wear a wire for his last monthly meeting with Mr. Rosenbloom. We have the entire transaction on videotape.”
Guttner reached into the envelope and removed a videocassette. He lifted the remote control device off the table, swiveled toward the wall behind him, and pressed a button on the remote. A panel in the wall slid up to reveal a television and a videocassette player. Guttner pushed another button and the television came on. All snow and static. He reached over and slid the videocassette into the player. He gazed back at Hirsch as the machine whirred and clicked.
“Let's have a look, shall we?”
The screen flickered several times before settling on an image of the front of the credit union. In the lower right corner was a digital readout of the time and date. Approximately four weeks ago. A middle-aged man came through the front door of the credit union. He had on a winter coat and was carrying a briefcase. He glanced toward the camera once as he moved across the street to the parking lot. The camera panned with him, revealing in the process that the cameraman was seated in the front passenger seat of a car.
“That is Mr. Eugene Pruett,” Guttner said.
Pruett emerged from the parking lot driving a Buick with a dented front fender. Guttner pointed the remote at the screen and pressed a button. The video jumped into fast-forward mode.
“The drive takes ten minutes,” Guttner explained.
Hirsch watched the screen as Pruett's car careened from lane to lane on the highway and then jerked and lurched from stoplight to stoplight on the city streets. Guttner slowed the tape to normal speed as Pruett turned into the parking lot at a Home Depot. The Buick drove down to the far lane, moving away from the camera as the tail car held back. Pruett pulled the Buick into one of the empty spots along the aisle. The microphone on his body transmitted the noise of the engine cutting off followed by the sound of the car door opening and closing as Pruett got out. He placed the briefcase on the ground beside him and leaned against the car, waiting, his right hand shading his eyes from the sunlight.
A few minutes passed, and then he reached down for his briefcase and straightened up. A familiar black Cadillac was coming down the lane toward him. The car stopped alongside Pruett, who opened the passenger door.
“Howdy, Gene.” Rosenbloom's voice. “How's it hanging?”
Pruett got in and closed the door. The Cadillac started down the aisle, as did the trail car with the cameraman.
“I'm doing just fine, Seymour.” Pruett spoke with a nasal drawl. “How about you?”
“Other than having a terminal disease and having to wear adult diapers so I don't piss in my pants, I couldn't be better.”
Gene gave a short laugh. “You sure haven't lost your sense of humor.”
“Yeah, I'm hoping to land a gig at the hospice someday. Maybe they'll need a sit-down comedian. Don't know about my audience, but I'll sure be rolling in the aisles.”
They were silent as Rosenbloom waited at the parking lot exit for a break in the traffic, his left blinker on. The surveillance car was directly behind the Cadillac now. You could see the backs of Rosenbloom's and Pruett's heads through the rear window.
After Rosenbloom pulled out of the parking lot, he said, “You in t
he mood for some frozen custard? I'm buying.”
“Sounds good to me.”
They drove several blocks, turned into the parking lot of a Dairy Queen, and pulled into the line of cars in the drive-thru lane. The tail car pulled into the line directly behind them.
There was silence for a few minutes as the Cadillac inched up one space, then another. The camera zoomed in close. The backs of the men's heads filled the screen.
“You had a good month, Gene.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“We were able to help out seven of your folks. Five Chapter Thirteens, two Chapter Sevens. We'll get them all back on their feet before too long. You earned yourself a nice fee.”
They'd reached the order board. Rosenbloom rolled down the window, leaned toward the speaker box, and ordered them both a medium cone—a plain one for him, a chocolate dipped for Pruett. The female voice from the speaker box announced the total and told him to drive forward to the second window.
As the Cadillac moved forward, the trail car swerved out of line in a U-turn and pulled all the way around to the front of the Dairy Queen, the camera veering for a blurry shot of the cameraman's feet. From the microphone on Pruett's body came the sounds of the transaction at the drive-thru window.
The trail car followed them back to the Home Depot. The Cadillac stopped alongside Pruett's car. The trail car waited at least a hundred yards back. Even with the zoom lens, it was difficult to see what was happening inside the Cadillac.
“Here you go,” Rosenbloom said.
“It's all in the envelope?”
“Count it if you'd like.”
“No need to. I trust you.”
“Keep sending those folks, Gene. We're here to help.”
The sound of the car door opening.
“See you later, Seymour.”
Pruett watched the Cadillac drive off. Then he unlocked his car door and got in.
“I am opening the envelope now,” he said, his mouth closer to the microphone, his voice suddenly amplified. The sound of paper tearing.
“There is money inside. Looks like all fifty-dollar bills. Yep. Let's see what's here. Fifty, one hundred, one hundred fifty, two hundred, two hundred fifty—”
He counted aloud until he reached seven hundred dollars. A rustling noise, and then he started the car engine. The tape ended as he pulled out of the space.
Guttner used the remote to eject the tape and turn off the television. He removed the videocassette from the machine, turned back to the table, and slid the cassette into the large envelope.
He gazed at Hirsch as he closed the envelope and pressed down the clasps.
“Bad stuff, David.”
“You call a hundred-dollar referral fee for a Chapter Thirteen case bad stuff?” Hirsch shook his head. “Come on, Marvin. You spend far more than that every time you take one of your clients to dinner and a ball game. I read about your law firm's golf weekend for clients last fall at that resort near Tucson. What does that cost come out per case? Five grand?”
“The cost for that does not matter one iota. You are comparing apples to oranges, David, and you know it. That golf outing was a legitimate business expense, and, moreover, a perfectly proper one under the rules of professional responsibility that we all live by. The rules are the rules. I don't make them, and neither do you, but we both know that those rules prohibit your colleague's kickbacks to his chasers. If those transactions become public, he could lose his law license. He could even go to jail. Maybe the chaser fees aren't a big enough deal to interest the U.S. attorney, but think of Mel Browning.”
Browning was the county prosecutor.
Guttner said, “That ambitious twit would jump on this case like a rat in heat.”
Guttner was right, Hirsch thought. Maybe not about the criminal exposure, but certainly about the jeopardy to Seymour's law license. An all-expense-paid $5,000 golf outing with the in-house corporate counsel responsible for referring his company's legal business to your firm was proper. A hundred-dollar referral fee for a bankruptcy case was improper. The lawyer with the golf outing got lots of lucrative new legal business for his extravagant investment. The other lawyer got disbarred for his modest one. As Guttner said, the rules were the rules.
“So,” Hirsch said, “you called me here to propose a trade?”
Guttner gave him thoughtful nod. “I am prepared to agree to such a proposal.”
“The only copy of my material is in the safe-deposit box.” Hirsch gestured toward the envelope. “How do I know you won't keep an extra copy of these?”
“I suppose you will have no choice but to trust me.”
Hirsch laughed. “Not in this lifetime, Marvin. You'll have to give me an affidavit at the time we make the trade. Your affidavit has to describe exactly what you're giving me, state that you've kept no copies, and further state that you're giving the stuff to me in exchange for the materials I'm giving you.”
Guttner pursed his lips and mulled it over. “Only if you do the same concerning your materials.”
Hirsch pretended to weigh the request.
“Well, okay,” he said, feigning reluctance.
“How soon can we do this?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Guttner said. “You can come over here.”
“Oh, no. Never. I'll figure out a public place for us. Some place where I can feel safe. I'll call you with the meeting place.”
“Oh, come now, David. No cloak-and-dagger routines. We hardly need to go to those extremes.”
“Yes we do.” Hirsch held up his cast. “Someone's already tried to kill me for those documents, Marvin. For my own safety, I have to assume that you hired that thug. So from this point on, I only go to extremes.”
CHAPTER 47
He called Russ Jefferson when he got back to his office.
“Is our meeting still on?” Jefferson asked.
“Definitely. We'll have plenty to talk about. But we have to assume that someone is following me. I don't think it's wise to meet in your office, especially after my meeting with Guttner. They still believe the only copy is the one in my safe-deposit box. They're going to question that belief if they see me walking into your office.”
Jefferson mulled it over. “Do you have a credible reason to be in this building?”
“I'm in there all the time on bankruptcy matters. I was thinking maybe you could arrange for us to meet in one of the bankruptcy judge's chambers.”
“I'll call down there and see whose office we can use. I'll get back to you in a few minutes.”
Hirsch hung up.
“So?”
He turned. Rosenbloom was in his doorway.
Hirsch nodded. “Hi.”
Rosenbloom had only the vaguest idea of what he had been up to the past week. That was by design. As the hazards of the investigation had increased, so had his determination to keep Rosenbloom out of the loop. And not just Rosenbloom. He'd done the same with Dulcie and his daughter. He hoped that the less they knew the less their risk.
Rosenbloom rolled into his office. “So what did Jabba want?”
Rosenbloom knew that he'd gone to meet with Guttner. Hirsch had told him he was. He'd also told him that Guttner had called the meeting and that he didn't know why Guttner wanted to meet. All true.
But the rest of what Rosenbloom knew, or thought he knew, was vague. He knew that Hirsch had found some important documents having to do with the Peterson Tire litigation. He also knew that the discovery of those documents had placed Hirsch in danger. But those were obvious deductions from Hirsch's terse call from his cell phone on the cab ride to the hospital. He didn't know what the documents were, or where Hirsch had found them, or why Hirsch had been concerned enough to put them in his safe-deposit box. To Rosenbloom's increasing exasperation, Hirsch had refused to answer each of those questions.
He also knew that Hirsch had broken his arm and banged up his head—as did anyone who saw Hirsch's cast and bandages. He wasn't buying Hirsch's sto
ry that he'd slipped as he got out of his car in the rainstorm, but he'd been unable to wheedle anything else out of him.
And now, Hirsch thought as he looked at his pal seated in the wheelchair, he certainly didn't need to know about the affidavits and the videotape and the other things he'd learned during his meeting with Guttner.
Hirsch said, “Guttner thinks I'm still working on the case. I told him I wasn't. He doesn't believe me. He said that if he finds out I'm lying, he'll file a claim under that provision in the settlement agreement. The one that requires me to pay back part of the settlement amount.”
Rosenbloom frowned. “What makes him think you're still on the case?”
“He wouldn't say.”
“Something else is going on. Something he's not telling you.”
“Maybe.”
“You think that bastard is having you followed?”
Hirsch shrugged. “Anything's possible.”
“This is some serious shit, Samson. You got to let me back in this case. You can't keep fighting this battle alone. I can help.”
“I know you can. Let's talk later. I have to go over to the courthouse.”
“Now? For what?”
“I have a meeting with the U.S. trustee. He wants to talk about the IRS claims in a couple of our Chapter Sevens. I'll probably head home after that. We can talk tomorrow.”
“Okay. But we have to talk tomorrow. We're a team, Samson. You and me. Don't forget that. You're not in this alone. I can help.”
CHAPTER 48
Hirsch and the grizzly bear studied one another. Hirsch was leaning on the wood railing overlooking the bear pit. The grizzly was seated facing Hirsch, its back resting against the rock formation above the pool of water. Its companion paced back and forth along the back wall, head swaying side to side, never looking up.
The bear shifted its gaze as Guttner arrived at Hirsch's side.
“Interesting choice of venue, David.”
Hirsch glanced over at Guttner, his eyes moving down to the briefcase in the fat man's left hand. Guttner had on a dark brown suit, white shirt, tie, and polished wingtips. He could have been standing before a judge in a court instead of a grizzly in a pit. Hirsch had a briefcase as well, but he was dressed more for the location in khaki slacks and a navy turtleneck.
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