Face Value Read online

  “What craziness?” I asked with a smile as I walked into the kitchen.

  Benny rolled his eyes. “The evils of mahjong.”

  I joined them at the kitchen table, where Benny had already consumed almost an entire platter of my mother’s kamishbroidt, a crunchy Yiddish cousin of the Italian biscotti.

  My mother held up a teacup and saucer. “Some tea, doll baby?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  She poured me a cup of tea.

  I took a bite of a kamishbroidt. “Mmmm. Delicious.”

  It had been four years since Jonathan—my husband, Sam’s father—died in a plane crash. My mother, God bless her, quit her job and moved in to help me raise Sam and my two stepdaughters, Leah and Sarah. Eventually, my mother sold her condo and moved into our coach house in back. Leah is now a junior at Brandeis University, and Sarah is a freshman at Wisconsin. Although the two girls call me Rachel, all three of my kids call my mother Baba, which is Yiddish for grandmother. Their Baba is hard-headed and opinionated and sets high standards for her grandchildren. Don’t ask the girls how many times their red-headed Bobba made them rewrite their college application essays. Though she can exasperate me like no other human on the face of the earth, we all adore her. Even me.

  She plays bridge on Monday nights, mahjong on Tuesday, poker on Thursdays, and works out three days a week at the J, where she has her own fan club of suitors among the retirees who exercise there. The feisty Widow Gold the Elder has already turned down close to a dozen marriage proposals.

  “So?” my mother said to me. “What’s the next step?”

  “We wait,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “To see whether her law firm approves the video tribute.”

  “When will you know?”

  I shrugged and looked at Benny. “A couple days?”

  He nodded.

  I smiled. “Meanwhile, tomorrow I dive back into the fish tank.”

  “The Barracuda?” Benny said.

  “Yep.”

  “What?” my mother said. “You’re suing a fish?”

  “Worse,” I said. “I’m suing a doctor. His lawyer’s the fish.”

  “Actually,” Benny said, “his lawyer’s a schmuck.”

  “His name is Barry Kudar,” I said. “His nickname is Barracuda.”

  “So what’s tomorrow?” Benny asked.

  “A deposition.”

  “Who?”

  “The doctor.”

  “I thought you took his deposition already.”

  “I did. This is the follow-up.”

  “On what?”

  “His financial records.”

  Benny smiled. “Ah, yes. The punitive damage claim.”

  I nodded.

  “What doctor is this?” my mother asked.

  “Jeffrey Mason,” I said. “Heart surgeon and sexual harasser.”

  “Rachel represents the nurse he groped.”

  “Sofia Garcia,” I said.

  “Groped?” my mother said.

  “Groped, propositioned, and harassed.”

  “This doctor. Not a Jew, I hope.”

  I smiled. “Not a Jew, Mom.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “I assume the doc is loaded,” Benny said.

  “My lips are sealed,” I said. “The one thing the Barracuda got from the judge was a protective order to keep the doctor’s finances confidential.”

  “Sexual harassment,” my mother said. “In the operating room?”

  “And elsewhere,” I said.

  “That’s terrible. What does the hospital say?”

  “They settled,” Benny said. “Rachel sued them, too. Your daughter’s one tough broad. The hospital paid up and got out.”

  “Well, you make sure that fish behaves tomorrow.”

  “I’ll try, Mom.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I assumed it would happen early in the deposition, and it did. Just ten minutes in, right after my seventh question.

  “Objection,” Barry Kudar said. “I instruct my client not to answer.”

  I turned to the witness. “Are you going to follow your attorney’s instructions, Doctor Mason?”

  He gave me a smug look. “I most certainly am, counsel.”

  I pulled the telephone close enough to make sure it was on camera and then turned to the court reporter. “Let that record reflect that I am dialing the direct line of St. Louis Circuit Judge Henry Winfield.”

  I hit the speaker button and started dialing.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Kudar demanded.

  I paused and turned to him. “Exactly what the judge told me to do at the last court hearing, counsel. I called his chambers this morning to make sure he would be available if you instructed your client not to answer one of my questions.”

  I finished dialing the number.

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “Be sure to tell that to the judge, Mr. Kudar. I am only doing what His Honor requested.”

  Dr. Mason looked from his lawyer to the telephone, which was now ringing, and back to his lawyer. For the first time that morning, he appeared to be unsure.

  The judge’s clerk answered the phone. “Judge Winfield’s chambers.”

  “Good morning, Cecilia. This is Rachel Gold. I am taking the deposition of Doctor Mason. An issue has come up that the judge needs to resolve.”

  “Just a moment, Miss Gold.”

  Kudar stared at the phone, his eyes blinking. The vein in his temple was pulsing.

  “Counsel?” the judge said.

  “Good morning, Your Honor. This is Rachel Gold. I am calling because Mr. Kudar has just instructed his client not to answer one of my questions.”

  “Is that true, Mr. Kudar?”

  “Uh, yes, Your Honor, I, uh—“

  “Save it for later, counselor. Ms. Gold, can you have the court reporter read me the question?”

  I turned to the court reporter.

  “Your Honor,” I said, “our court reporter is Ms. Virginia Hansen. Proceed, Ms. Hansen.”

  She cleared her throat. “Question: Your financial statement shows that most of your savings, close to six-point-five million dollars, are invested in an entity known as Structured Resolutions. Can you describe that entity? Response: Objection. I instruct the witness not to answer.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Mr. Kudar,” the judge said, “you instructed your client not to answer that question?”

  “Correct, Your Honor.”

  “On what possible grounds, sir?”

  “We have given Miss Gold my client’s financial statement. Enough is enough. If she wants to know more about a particular investment, she should do her own investigation.”

  Another long pause.

  “To be clear, Mr. Kudar. You do not contend that the question seeks information protected by the attorney-client privilege, correct?”

  Kudar’s turn to pause.

  “That’s true, Your Honor.”

  “And you do not contend that your client’s answer would violate some confidentiality agreement with the investment entity, correct?”

  “We do not, Your Honor.”

  “Your objection is ridiculous, Mr. Kudar, and your instruction is improper. Your objection is overruled, as is your instruction. From this point forward, Mr. Kudar, let the record reflect that every telephone call to me during this deposition that results in my overruling an objection of yours will cost you and your client five hundred dollars each. Is that understood, Mr. Kudar?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “That’ll be all. Ms. Gold, I do hope this is the last I hear from you today.”

  “I hope so as well, Your Honor.”

  The line went dead
.

  I turned to the court reporter. “Please read the witness my last question.”

  She did.

  Dr. Mason shrugged. “Describe the entity? I believe it’s a corporation.”

  “Do you own stock in it?”

  “No. It sells a type of annuity. An annuity mutual fund, actually. That’s what I own.”

  “So you own close to six-point-five million dollars in a fund of annuities issued by Structured Resolutions.”

  He leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and gave me a sneer. “I prefer to think of it as six-point-five million dollars of last laughs.”

  “Explain, please.”

  “As a plaintiff’s lawyer, Miss Gold, you are no doubt familiar with the concept of a structured settlement.”

  I was. Most attorneys are. But this was too good to let pass, especially since this was a video deposition. I could only imagine the jury’s reaction to the doctor’s arrogant tone and condescending appearance, both of which would be fully captured by the camera. This was exactly the Dr. Jeffrey Mason I wanted the jurors to see. This was the Dr. Jeffrey Mason who slid his hand down the back of my client’s hospital scrub pants and into her panties as they left the operating room, who told my client that giving head was the best way to get ahead on his team, who, apparently flaunting his knowledge of Mexican slang, made several nasty suggestions about her concha. The same Dr. Jeffrey Mason who dismissed these and other examples of sexual harassment as harmless examples of his team-building camaraderie.

  “Just to be clear, Doctor,” I said, “what is your understanding of a structured settlement?”

  “That’s where a plaintiff and his ambulance-chasing lawyer settle a case for a lump sum that gets paid out over time. Let’s say they agree to settle their case for two million, but the defendant will pay that out over twenty years at one-hundred thousand a year. That’s a structured settlement: a big number, but paid out over time. Usually, it gets paid out through an annuity.”

  “Does Structured Resolutions issue those annuities?”

  Dr. Mason chuckled. “Oh, no. Much better.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lots of those plaintiffs are like the dumb lottery winners—the ones who discover that their ‘million dollar jackpot’ is actually twenty annual payments of $50,000. They’d rather have a lump sum now than have it dribbled out over all those years. Same with these plaintiffs. They’re not that savvy, and their lawyers are plenty greedy, so they’re willing to sell those structured settlements at a deep discount to get the money now. Guess what? There’s a profitable after-market out there for the purchase of these settlements by investors looking to acquire a guaranteed future stream of income at a good price. That’s where Structured Resolutions comes in. They buy these personal injury and medical malpractice annuities and make them available to investors like me.”

  “You described your investment as six-point-five million dollars of last laughs. Explain that, Doctor.”

  “Simple math. That six-point-five million is going to be worth almost double that over the next twenty years. I’m the one, and not those plaintiffs and their slimeball lawyers, who will get all the benefit of those settlements.”

  He grinned at the camera and chuckled. “That’s what I call the last laugh.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Rachel Gold?”

  I looked up from my lunch.

  “Len Olsen.”

  He gave me a warm smile as he reached out his hand. I set down my fork and we shook hands.

  “Glad to finally meet you,” I said.

  “The pleasure is mine, Rachel.” He gestured toward the empty seat next to mine. “May I join you?”

  “Sure.”

  I was attending a lunchtime Continuing Legal Education program at the bar association offices. About forty attendees were spread around eight tables facing the podium, where the presenter—a trial attorney from Armstrong Teasdale—was getting his PowerPoint and other materials ready. I was seated at one of the rear tables, having arrived late. There were three of us at the table—and now, with Len Olsen, four.

  As he took his seat a male server arrived carrying a plate with the event’s lunch: a turkey sandwich on whole wheat, French fries, and coleslaw.

  “Something to drink, sir?”

  “Ice tea would be just fine. Thank you, son.”

  Olsen turned to me. “Rachel, I am so delighted to see you here. I wanted you to know how touched I was by that proposal of yours. A tribute to the late Ms. Bashir. It’s a lovely idea.” He placed his hand over his heart. “Truly.”

  I was experiencing that Len Olsen magic—that good ol’ boy charm and soft drawl and heartfelt gaze that juries had been finding irresistible for decades. He was a handsome man in his early sixties with blues eyes that seemed to peer into your soul, but not in an intrusive way. I’d heard the same about Bill Clinton from a friend of mine who’d spent an evening with the former President. She told me he could charm your pants off. Literally. Same with Len Olsen, who’d been linked to a series of gorgeous women, most of them half his age.

  Olsen had been profiled enough in local and national publications, including a recent piece in the Wall Street Journal, that his background was familiar, at least to the lawyers of St. Louis. He’d grown up on a farm in southeast Missouri, attended college on a football scholarship, enlisted in the Army after graduation, and spent three years in Vietnam, where he’d become a member of the elite Army Rangers. He’d earned a law degree at night while working days as an insurance adjuster in St. Louis. He began his career in the public defender’s office representing indigent criminal defendants. Over his years in private practice, he’d become a preeminent trial lawyer specializing in complex litigation. Since my return to St. Louis ten years ago, he’d won multi-million-dollar verdicts for farmers, factory workers, and others against some of the largest corporations in America.

  “Have you spoken with Dick Neeler today?” he asked.

  “I had a phone message from him this morning,” I said, “but I haven’t called him back yet.”

  “He’s calling with good news, Rachel.” He placed his hand on my forearm and gave me a gentle squeeze. “The firm has approved your proposal.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “It surely is.” He took his hand away and smiled. “We’ll have some work to do to get ready, of course, but we’re eager to get started. We’re committed to this, Rachel. Of course, we’ll need to coordinate with you and her family and Wash U. I am sure Dick will be eager to talk to you about all of that. But for now, I just want say thank you, Rachel.”

  He paused and nodded slowly. “This is the right thing to do.”

  I smiled. “Her father will be so happy to hear this.”

  There was a deep thwock and a static hiss as the sound system turned on, and then a voice over the speakers, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to our CLE today on expert witness depositions.”

  Ten minutes into the program, and before he had finished his sandwich, Olsen got a call on his cell phone. He took the phone out of his suit jacket, frowned at the number, and then answered with a whispered hello. He stood and quickly moved out of the room to continue the conversation.

  He didn’t return.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “How did you find out?” Neeler asked over the phone.

  “Len Olsen.”

  “He called?”

  “No. I ran into him at a CLE over lunch. He told me you had good news.”

  I was back in my office.

  “He’s sure right about that, Rachel. We got it approved. And frankly, Len Olsen played a big role.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not everyone on the committee was thrilled with the idea.”

  “Tell me.”

  He paused. “This is hush-hu
sh.”

  “My lips are sealed, Dick.”

  “There are five partners on the committee.”

  “Okay.”

  I reached across my desk and pulled over Tommy Flynn’s list of lawyers who’d gone over the crosswalk after nine the night Sari died:

  Name

  Time of Entry into Walkway

  Susan O’Malley (8)

  9:23 pm

  Rob Brenner (7)

  9:29 pm

  Donald Warner (6)

  9:35 pm

  Brian Teever (6)

  9:52 pm

  “Mr. Olsen chairs the meetings, so he only votes if there’s a tie.”

  “Who else is on the committee?”

  “Mr. Warner, of course. Then there’s Brian Teever, Mark Reynolds, and Dorothy Read. Mark and Dorothy really liked the idea.”

  “But the other two didn’t?”

  “Especially Mr. Warner. He thought it was ghoulish.”

  “Ghoulish?”

  “That’s the word he used. He said that suicide was a sin and that it brought disgrace to her and to the law firm.”

  “Jeez.”

  “Actually, he did mention Jesus—but that’s the way Mr. Warner is. He said the firm should move on. He said her death was a sad event but that we shouldn’t blow it out of proportion. He said he thought the focus on her death could hurt the firm in the long run.”

  “And Teever?”

  “Pretty much the same. He said we should let sleeping dogs lie and dead associates stay buried.”

  “He actually said that?”

  “Yeah. He can be blunt. He said it was important for the people in our firm to move on, to get on with their lives and their careers.”

  “Wow.”