California Fire and Life

by Don Winslow

  And just like the entry question, he doesn’t care if Jack answers yes or no. It doesn’t matter, because either way Jack looks bad.

  “Yes, I do,” Jack says.

  Except he doesn’t look so bad.

  Casey knows it. He can tell without seeing the monitor with its spikes. He can see it just by looking at the jury.

  They don’t know what to think. They haven’t made up their minds.

  Casey knows he’s fought to a stalemate.

  Which just won’t do.

  So he has to play a card he really doesn’t want to play.

  90

  Letty’s at home when the phone rings.

  She picks it up; it’s a teenager’s voice.

  “I want to talk with you,” he says.

  Slight Asian accent.

  It’s Tony Ky, the wiseass from the chop shop.

  “What about?” Letty asks.

  She’s knows what it’s about, but she has to play the game.

  There’s a hesitation, then the kid whispers, “Tranh and Do.”

  So, Letty thinks, I guess Uncle Nguyen is feeling the heat.

  “Come into the station,” she says, just to set a bargaining position.

  The kid almost laughs. “No, someplace …”

  “Isolated?” Letty asks, with this edge in her voice that’s like Go to class.

  “Yeah, isolated.”

  “You have a ride?”

  “Yeah, I have a ride.”

  She tells him about a turnoff on the Ortega. A picnic spot and hiking trail into the Cleveland National Forest. Park your ride under the trees, walk up the trail a ways.

  “Be there at seven,” she says.

  “In the morning?”

  “Yeah, learn how to get up,” she says.

  She hangs up, brushes her teeth, brushes her hair, does all the cream-and-lotion jazz and gets into bed with a book and an intent to turn the light out soon.

  Hard to get to sleep.

  A lot on her mind.

  Pam.

  Pam’s murder.

  Natalie and Michael.

  And son of a bitch Jack Wade.

  Twelve years, Letty thinks. You’d think that you could take what happened twelve years ago and put it away.

  But you can’t.

  91

  “Have you ever lied under oath?”

  Casey plays the card. Takes a drink of water, and the next words out of his mouth are, “Mr. Smith, have you ever lied under oath?”

  It’s the old husband joke. It doesn’t matter whether Jack answers yes or no. Either way he’s screwed.

  Casey didn’t want to do it. He’d hoped that Jack would have just laid down on direct exam and let his case fade away. Should have gone down for the count but came out swinging instead, so now Casey has to go for the knockout punch and he hates doing it.

  Especially when he sees Jack flush.

  Jack can feel himself turning red. My goddamn shame, he thinks, blazing red under my skin.

  The jurors see it. They lean forward to get a better look.

  Jack can feel their eyes.

  Burning into him.

  Peters jumps to her feet.

  “Objection, Your Honor! Relevance?”

  “Goes to the witness’s credibility, Your Honor.”

  “Prejudicial, Your Honor,” Peters says. “More heat than light.”

  Mallon looks at the lawyers, then down at Jack.

  “Overruled,” he said. “You may proceed.”

  Casey asks again, “Mr. Smith, have you ever lied under oath?”

  Get it over with, Jack thinks.

  Take the hit.

  “Yes,” he says.

  And leaves it at that.

  He and Casey look at each other for a minute. Casey giving him this look like If you had only stayed on the mat, but …

  “That was in connection with an arson trial, wasn’t it?” Casey asks.

  “That’s right.”

  Casey asks, “You lied about how you obtained a confession, didn’t you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You swore under oath,” Casey says, “that you hadn’t coerced the confession when you had, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “In fact, you beat a confession out of a suspect, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then told the court that you hadn’t.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that was a lie.”

  “That was a lie.”

  “You told other lies, didn’t you?” Casey asks. Thinking, Sorry, Jack, but believe it or not, I’m trying to save your ass. And your job. “You told other lies, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You lied about evidence, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said that you found evidence at the fire scene, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you hadn’t found it at the scene, had you?”

  “No.”

  “How did the evidence get to that fire scene?” Casey asks.

  Jack says, “I planted it there.”

  Jurors shake their heads.

  Hands pressing down on the joysticks.

  Casey starts to kick the ball downhill. Short questions, rapid fire, all while he looks at the jury, his back to the witness.

  “You planted it there,” Casey says.

  “That’s correct.”

  “You went out and got a gasoline can.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you forced the suspect to place his fingerprints on the can.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you took the can to the scene.”

  “Yes.”

  “And photographed it there.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then swore that you had found it there during your initial inspection, isn’t that right?”

  “That’s what happened.”

  Casey says, “You planted phony evidence because you thought the suspect was guilty, you were ‘damn sure,’ but you needed physical evidence to confirm that the fire was of incendiary origin, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  Keeping up the pace, he turns to face Jack.

  “Now, you testified earlier that you took debris samples from my client’s home,” Casey says, “and that these samples tested positive for accelerants, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “The fire inspector, Deputy Bentley, found clean samples, isn’t that right?” Casey asks.

  “That’s what he says.”

  “He was at the scene first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Before you.”

  Jack says, “He was there when I arrived.”

  “The alleged ‘dirty’ samples only showed up after you got there, isn’t that right?” Casey asks.

  “I took the samples from the house.”

  “And the holes in the floor,” Casey says. “The fire inspector didn’t see those, did he?”

  “He didn’t do a dig-out.”

  “There’s no mention of them in his report, is there?”

  “No.”

  “They only appear after you show up, isn’t that true?” Casey asks.

  “They ‘show up’ after I did the dig-out,” Jack says.

  “It would have been pretty easy to punch out those holes yourself, wouldn’t it?”

  “I didn’t do that.”

  “Pretty easy to pour a little accelerant into the joists and light a match.”

  “That’s ridiculous, counselor.”

  “Pretty easy to bring your own contaminated samples to the scene and photograph them there.”

  “That didn’t happen.”

  “You swear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just like you swore before, right?” Casey says.

  “Objection!”

  “Sustained.”

  “Same oath, wasn’t it, Mr. Smith?”

  “Knock it off, Mr. Casey,” Mallon says.

  C
asey nods and takes a drink of water. Makes a little show of getting his righteous indignation under control.

  Then he ups the ante. To show the corporate mucks behind the mirror that they can’t just dump Jack and walk away from this thing, he ties a tail onto management.

  “You were convicted of perjury, isn’t that right?” he asks.

  “I pled guilty to several counts of perjury.”

  “And you were thrown out of the Sheriff’s Department,” Casey says, “for perjuring yourself, beating up a suspect and planting phony evidence, isn’t that right, Mr. Smith?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And shortly after that,” Casey says, “California Fire and Life hired you, right?”

  Casey looks right into the mirror to make sure the boys in the back get the point.

  They do. They’re looking at a monitor that’s Negative 10 all the way.

  “Yes,” Jack says.

  “Did they know about your record?”

  “The man who hired me was aware of my record.”

  “In fact,” Casey says, “he sat through the trial in which you perjured yourself, right?”

  “I believe so.”

  “He knew you were a liar,” Casey says.

  “Yes.”

  “A brutal cop.”

  “Yes.”

  “That you would plant phony evidence to nail an alleged arsonist.”

  “He was at the trial.”

  “And he hired you anyway.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he hired you specifically to handle large fire losses for California Fire and Life, isn’t that right?”

  “That was one of his reasons.”

  “Does this gentleman still work for California Fire and Life?” Casey asks, looking to the jury.

  Several of whom are shaking their heads.

  “He does.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “He’s the head of Claims.”

  Jury goes nuts. Pushing the hammer down on those joysticks, shaking their heads; one guy says out loud, “Unreal.”

  “And he’s your boss now, right?” Casey asks. “Yes.”

  “Did he supervise your investigation of my client’s claim?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you in any way been punished for what you did in this investigation?” Casey asks.

  “No.”

  “Suspended?”

  “No.”

  “Criticized?”

  “No.”

  Casey looks back into the mirror as he asks, “So this is the way California Fire and Life wants you to handle its claim, right? Strike that question. No further questions. Thank you.”

  “You may step down, Mr. Smith.”

  Casey says, “I’m sorry, one further question. Mr. Smith, if you had to handle my client’s claim all over again, would you do anything differently?”

  It’s the standard cross-exam wrap-up question. Another trap where you don’t care what the guy answers. If he answers that he wouldn’t do anything differently, you get to tell the jury that this arrogant bozo would do the same bad things again if he had the chance. If he says that he would do something different, you get to tell the jury that by the witness’s own account, he screwed up.

  Jack knows it’s over. Can see it in the jurors’ eyes. They’re looking at him like he’s a criminal. They’re shocked and pissed off and they’re going to award poor tragedy-stricken Mr. White at least $25 million.

  And he knows what’s going on in the back room. The corporate boys are pissing all over themselves, hopping up and down on one foot they’re so eager to lay the Green Poultice on this gaping wound and give Nicky Vale $50 million.

  So he says, “Yes, I would. Do something different.”

  “What would you do?”

  Jack turns to the jury, to make eye contact.

  “I’d kill the son of a bitch.”

  Then he gets up and walks out.

  92

  Casey comes into the observation room, grabs himself a plate of lasagna and says, “For my next trick …”

  Like he’s made Wade disappear, he’s made their case disappear, now he’s going to make $50 million of the company’s money disappear, and they’d fire the smart-ass wise guy right now, except that he is the smartest lawyer in So-Cal and they need him so that the board doesn’t make them disappear.

  The veeps look at him like Fuck you, Casey, but Casey doesn’t care. Let ’em be pissed. What are they going to do, fire him? They have that collective We’re the big-dick guys from corporate, cowboy, so watch yourself if you want to stay on the ranch look in their collective eye, so Casey gives them his favorite John Wayne line, from the old Stagecoach movie.

  “ ‘You may need me and this Winchester, Curly,’ ” he drawls. “ ‘I saw some ranches burning last night.’ ”

  Phil Herlihy turns his wrath on Goddamn Billy, who’s sitting there sucking on a cig like there aren’t ten WE THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING signs in the room. (To which Goddamn Billy’s standard response is, “Well, now they don’t have to thank me.”) Anyway, Herlihy turns to Billy and just about screams, “How the hell could you hire that guy?! What the hell were you thinking about?!”

  “I was thinking,” Billy says, “that he’d be a damn good claims dog. And he has been.”

  “One of the best,” Casey says. “The best.”

  Herlihy pretends he doesn’t hear Casey. Any sane person who watched the cross-exam wouldn’t want to get in a debate with Casey.

  “Fire him,” Herlihy says to Billy. “Tomorrow. Tonight if you can get hold of him.”

  “I ain’t firing him,” Billy says.

  “I just told you to!”

  “I heard you.”

  The Trial Science Inc. geek walks in. The geek is like white, and his hands are shaking. The verdict forms in his hand rattle like ghosts in the attic.

  “Yes?” Casey says. He’s still smiling. Tomato sauce looks like blood on his lips.

  The TSI geek says, “Two hundred million.”

  “What?!” Herlihy yells.

  “They’d award $200 million in compensatory and punitives,” the geek says. “Actually we had to push them to give a dollar figure. What they really wanted to do was put the company’s management in jail. One of them wanted to hang you.”

  “Settle it,” Herlihy says.

  “Concur,” says Reinhardt.

  “Absolutely,” says Bourne.

  “Settle this file now,” Herlihy says. “What’s the demand?”

  “Fifty million,” Casey says. “If the real jury goes the way this one does, that’s a savings of $150 million. Not counting court costs and, of course, my exorbitant fees. And these days, juries are usually hip enough to figure the plaintiff’s attorney’s cut into their judgment …”

  “We lose,” Goddamn Billy says. “We appeal.”

  “On what grounds?” Reinhardt snaps.

  “Admissibility,” Casey says. “You argue that Wade’s background is irrelevant and prejudicial.”

  “Motions in limine?”

  “Sure,” Casey says. “I’d try to keep Jack’s background out before the trial, but I doubt I’d win. We could also instruct him to not answer any questions about his background in deposition, but that would start a discovery battle …”

  “No discovery battles,” Reinhardt says.

  Discovery battles have a way of getting out of hand. Subpoenas for documents tend to get broader and broader, and if a judge got annoyed and let Gordon go on a fishing expedition … Well, that just can’t happen.

  “This file is over,” Herlihy says. He says to Casey, “Start settlement negotiations tomorrow. See if you can work this down. But you have $50 million settlement authority.”

  “Hold on,” Billy says. “That’s not your call to make.”

  “You need executive authority for anything over a million,” VP Claims says.

  “If I want it,” Billy says. “I ain’t said I want a dime yet.”

 
“We’re going to settle this case.”

  “That is my call to make, goddamn it.”

  “Then make it,” Reinhardt says.

  “I ain’t ready to make that call,” Billy says.

  “I’ll make it,” Reinhardt says. “I have the authority to settle a lawsuit against the company.”

  “Yeah, you do,” Billy says. “But there ain’t no lawsuit yet. There’s just a threat of a suit. So it’s still in Claims, and I’m Claims.”

  “I can put an end to that,” Herlihy says.

  “Well, goddamn it, why don’t you just do that?”

  “Don’t think I won’t!”

  “Go ahead! I don’t give a fuck.”

  “You boys want to take this outside?” Casey asks. “We have some serious issues to resolve in here. Let me propose a compromise. We settle the case and Jack Wade keeps his job.”

  “Jack Wade is history,” Herlihy says.

  “Hold on,” Casey says. “If this doesn’t go to trial, there’s no reason to fire Jack.”

  “Until the next time,” Reinhardt says.

  “So take him off fires,” Casey says. “Give him slip-and-falls, dog bites, broken pipes …”

  “Or we could just shoot him,” Billy says.

  “You’re not helping me, Billy.”

  “Well, goddamn it!” Billy explodes. He gets to his feet. “All Jack Wade did was his job! Tell you something else: all he was doing when he set up that fucking Teddy Kuhl and that fucking Kazzy Azmekian was his goddamn job! They were as guilty as sin and everybody goddamn knew it! ‘Perjury’ my fucking ass! Truth was, those cocksuckers did set that fire! And so did Nicky Vale!”

  “Billy—”

  “Shut up, Tom, I’m talking,” Billy says. “I been in this business coming on thirty years, and I can tell you this: if it walks like a dog, barks like a dog, wags its tail like a dog and lifts its hind leg to pee like a dog, it’s a goddamn dog! And Jack Wade knows that—and Tom Casey, you know that—even if these fools don’t! And you can bang on your goddamn machines and your goddamn laptop computers all goddamn night and this fire is still a goddamn arson, and Nicky Vale set it, and he murdered his wife, and I ain’t paying that motherfucker one goddamn cent and I ain’t firing Jack Wade and if you boys don’t like it you can just goddamn fire me. I don’t goddamn care!”

  There’s your basic hushed silence as he heads for the door.