When The Devil Whistles Read online

  Unfortunately, Connor and his client had very little leverage in these negotiations. That was the downside of suing on behalf of the state. It was great to have Max Volusca thunder about orange jumpsuits and terrify defendants into doing the right thing. But if Max decided that the right thing was little more than a public shaming, there wasn’t much Connor or Devil to Pay could do to stop him.

  The mediator fully understood the dynamics of the situation and did everything in his power to keep Connor from talking Max out of the deal that was beginning to gel. First, he took Connor with him as he shuttled back and forth between Max and the Hamilton Construction team, who were in separate conference rooms at either end of a short hallway. Then he parked Connor by himself in a third conference room on the pretext that there were certain matters related to confidential investigative documents (which Connor could not legally see) that needed to be hammered out.

  Connor spent half an hour cooling his heels and admiring the spectacular view of the Golden Gate Bridge afforded by the conference room window. Late afternoon fog softened the outlines of the graceful spans of the bridge and cast halos around the headlights of the cars coming south out of the rugged Marin Headlands, which were graced by picturesque (and very expensive) towns. It was a soothing view. But Connor was in no mood to be soothed.

  Judge Washburn opened the door and poked his head in. “Connor, great news!” he said, his bright white smile contrasting with a deep golf tan. “We’ve got a deal!”

  Connor raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really? How can you have a deal without my client’s agreement?”

  The mediator’s brow furrowed in a disingenuous show of surprise and concern. “Oh, I thought that the whistleblower just gets a share of whatever the state gets. Did I misunderstand that?”

  “That’s technically how the law works,” Connor conceded, “but as a practical matter we’re always part of the negotiations. Plus there’s the issue of attorney fees.”

  “Ah, well your fees are taken care of,” interjected Judge Washburn, his smile returning. “Every penny. You’ve billed just over $200K, correct?”

  “That’s right, but fees aren’t the only issue that concerns us.”

  The mediator opened a black leather notebook. “Did you want to go over the terms of the deal now before I read them to the whole group?”

  Connor thought for a moment. “Actually, that’s okay. I don’t want to keep everyone waiting. If Max is comfortable with the settlement, I’m sure it’s in the best interests of the state.”

  Judge Washburn’s grin widened. “Great, I’m glad you see it that way. Let’s head to the big conference room. I think everybody else is already there.”

  Connor followed him down the hall and into the conference room. It held a broad walnut table surrounded by about twenty leather chairs. Most of these were empty and the lawyers had spread out some. Max looked tired, but satisfied. The Hamilton Construction team across the table was exultant. Its inside and outside counsel, Joe Johnston and Carlos Alvarez respectively, were both smiling and talking quietly, and Hiram Hamilton was beaming and making small talk with Max about the 49ers.

  Connor sat down right next to Max, who moved some of his notes to make room. Judge Washburn walked to the head of the table and the room fell silent as the negotiating teams looked toward him expectantly. “Okay, now that we’re all here, I’m going to read the settlement term sheet and then, if what I have written is acceptable to everyone, I’ll have my secretary type it up so you can all sign it before you go home.” He glanced around the table, opened his notebook and began to read.

  As Connor expected, the settlement was long on press release fodder (a wordy apology and a meaningless guilty plea to a record-keeping infraction) and short on money. Even with Connor’s attorney fees, the defendants were only paying $1.5 million—or about a quarter of Connor’s private estimate of what the case was worth. To call it a slap on the wrist would be an overstatement.

  Judge Washburn stopped reading and looked up. “So, does that accurately reflect your agreement?”

  “It does,” said Alvarez.

  Max started to nod, but Connor leaned forward and said, “That’s not the whole settlement, is it?”

  The mediator frowned at Connor, and Max turned to him in surprise. “What’s missing?”

  “Well, the fact that they’ll be barred from public contracting in the future, of course. I mean, they’re publicly admitting that they stole taxpayer money, right? They’re even pleading guilty to it. The government can’t very well turn around and do business with them after that, can it?”

  “Of course not,” replied Max nonchalantly.

  “And someone will need to notify all the cities, school districts, and so on to make sure they know who they’re dealing with before they hire these guys,” Connor continued, “So there should be some sort of notice provision in the settlement agreement and— ”

  There was a choking sound from across the table. Hiram Hamilton’s mouth was opening and shutting soundlessly and his lawyers both wore expressions of mixed shock and outrage.

  “That was not part of our deal!” said Alvarez. “We’re not agreeing to debarment!”

  “You don’t have to!” Max shot back, his face reddening. “The State of California does not do business with criminals.”

  Alvarez glared at Max. “You are acting in remarkably bad faith, Mr. Volusca! I—”

  “As long as we’re talking about bad faith—” began Max, his voice rising.

  Judge Washburn held up his hand. “Counsel!” he said in a stern tone cultivated through twenty years on the bench. He gave Connor a quick look that made him glad that retired judges can’t jail anyone for contempt.

  Max and Alvarez subsided, though both continued to glare at each other like feuding fourth graders.

  Connor relaxed and suppressed a smile. That had been a gamble. Despite Max’s comments, the government often did business with companies that had previously been caught overbilling. Max didn’t like that and had grumbled to Connor about it from time to time. Connor had therefore bet that his friend would rather walk away from the settlement than admit that a dirty company could be allowed to land state contracts in the future.

  “All right,” said the mediator. “It looks like I was a little premature in thinking we had a deal. I’d like both sides to go back to their conference rooms while we sort out this little hiccup.”

  Connor hung back as the room cleared. Once he and Judge Washburn were alone, he said, “Sorry about that.”

  The mediator looked at him darkly. “No, you’re not.”

  “Actually, I am. I want a negotiated settlement too, but I don’t think either of us want one that’s based on a misunderstanding.”

  Judge Washburn scowled at Connor for several seconds, then shook his gray head and broke into a rueful grin. “I think both of us understand the situation perfectly.”

  7

  ALLIE NIBBLED HER WAY THROUGH ANOTHER HANDFUL OF WHITE CHEDdar popcorn and washed it down with a sip of Diet Coke. The bowl held only crumbs and a few duds, so she opened another bag (her second) and poured it in. A nearly empty package of Keebler Deluxe Grahams sat on the table between the popcorn and a nearly empty 2-liter Diet Coke bottle.

  She ate when she was nervous, and she was always nervous when Connor was trying to negotiate a settlement of one of Devil to Pay’s lawsuits. She understood why she couldn’t be at the negotiating table with him, but that didn’t make it any easier to sit in her apartment and wait for a phone call.

  The waiting was particularly hard this time. She needed the money more than she usually did—the last settlement had been a little smaller than she expected and she had been living a little larger than maybe she should have.

  Plus, Connor had called late in the afternoon to tell her that he was stuck in a conference room by himself. The mediator had been trying to freeze him out of the negotiations and wanted to settle the case for peanuts. He said he’d call her back if
they ever got to the point of negotiating a whistleblower share.

  That had been three hours ago, and she had been putting away about 1,000 calories an hour since then. She wondered how long it would take to eat herself to death like a goldfish. Not a bad way to go, actually.

  The opening notes of “Sympathy for the Devil” played from her phone and she grabbed it from the table. She bit her lip and looked at Connor’s picture on the phone’s screen. “I hope you’ve got good news for me, bud.” She clicked the answer icon and held the phone to her ear. “So?”

  He laughed. “It’s good to talk to you too, Allie. How’s life treating you?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Life isn’t bad.” He sighed and she could hear him stretch. “In fact, life is pretty good right now.”

  “How good?”

  “Oh, all right. Ten million dollars good, plus attorney fees. Max is offering twenty percent to Devil to Pay as a qui tam share. We could try to negotiate with him for a bigger cut, but—”

  “Woooooo-hooooo!”

  “Hey, Max,” she heard him call, “I think she’s okay with twenty.”

  She did some quick calculations in her head. Connor got a twenty-percent contingent fee in addition to his hourly rate and then there were taxes to pay. Still, she should net about a million, which was almost double what she had hoped for— enough to pay all her bills, keep living the good life for a couple of months, send a couple hundred thousand back to her mom, and still have some left over to invest. “So, how did you do it?”

  “Remember how I told you the mediator was trying to put together a mostly noncash deal? Well, that blew up when the Hamilton team realized that Max would try to debar them from public contracting. So everybody went back and started over and this time the mediator didn’t try to keep Max and me apart. We talked it over and decided that Hamilton didn’t need to be debarred so long as they paid a substantial price for their misconduct and had an independent auditor go through their bills on any future government contracts.”

  “Very nice! I knew my lawyer could beat up anyone else’s lawyer.”

  Connor laughed. “There’s an old saying at the bar: ‘good facts make great lawyers,’ and you always give me great facts to work with. So, are you up for a victory dinner tonight?”

  She bit her lip. These dinners always made her stomach do somersaults even when she hadn’t just filled it with junk food. The thought of an evening alone with Connor at a five-star restaurant filled her with all sorts of conflicting feelings that she wasn’t ready to deal with. “Um, sure. Eight o’clock at the usual place?”

  He laughed again. “Perfect. By the way, now that this case is wrapping up, we should start thinking about the next one. Do you have anything in the pipeline?”

  “Nothing yet, but I just lined up a new job through my temp agency. I’m starting on Monday. Two-month assignment, so I should have plenty of time to look around.”

  “I’ll have my paralegal do some background research on them. Who is it?”

  “Hold on a sec.” She dug in her purse and found the notes from her last conversation with Trudi. “Okay, here we go: Blue Sea Technology. They do a lot of maritime salvage and engineering work for both Defense and the State of California. Big-ticket stuff like that turbine project under the Golden Gate Bridge. They’re checking my fingerprints and criminal record right now. By the way, my agency says their books are a mess, which is why they’re bringing in me and a couple other CPA temps.”

  Connor whistled. “My, my, my. Classified government contracts, lots of money, and messy books. Sounds like an excellent prospect. Happy hunting.”

  “Thanks. I’ve got a good feeling about this one.”

  8

  ABOUT AS GOOD AS WE’RE GOING TO GET,” CONNOR TOLD HIS REFLECtion. He’d managed to make his wavy brown hair look casual rather than unruly—a feat that usually only his stylist could accomplish. The collarless white Dior shirt looked as good with the black V-neck sweater as the sales clerk had promised, and they both went well with his favorite light gray slacks. He could use a little more chin and a little less nose, but there wasn’t much he could do about that.

  He checked his watch: only an hour until his reservation at Wente. Time to get going. He took a deep breath and headed for the door.

  There were higher rated restaurants a lot closer to his San Francisco apartment, but Wente was where he went to celebrate. It was a special place—the rolling vineyard hills that surrounded it, the concerts on the lawn on summer nights, the memories of dozens of family dinners there over the years. And they had a superb reserve cabernet to go with their excellent filet mignon. He doubted that Wente was Allie’s type of place, but so what? He wasn’t going to let that spoil his dinner.

  His powerful Bentley convertible purred through the clogged streets of San Francisco. They gave way to urban high way at the Bay Bridge, and that in turn gave way to grass-covered hills, populated only by cattle and the occasional deer. Then the hill country opened into a wide valley that held the aptly-named Pleasanton, where Connor had grown up. Ten minutes later he was in the Livermore wine country. And in the heart of the wine country lay the cluster of brightly lit buildings that made up the Wente winery and restaurant.

  Connor put the Bentley in park, tossed the keys to the valet, and walked up to the hostess. “Evening, Christine.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Norman.” She smiled brightly and glanced at her reservation book. “Table for one tonight?”

  “Yes. There’s a concert starting in about fifteen minutes, isn’t there?”

  She nodded. “A Grammy-winning jazz trio. Your table has an excellent view.” She picked up a menu and wine list and led him back.

  “Good, but don’t put me so close that I can’t carry on a quiet conversation.”

  Christine stopped and turned. “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted a table for one.”

  He smiled. “I do.”

  “Umm, okay.”

  She seated him and he ordered a glass of champagne. Once he was alone, he put on his Bluetooth headset and took out his cell phone. He started to dial but stopped. No, wait for the champagne.

  A moment later, a waiter appeared with a tall flute of sparkling wine, took Connor’s order, and left. Connor discovered that his palms were damp and he wiped them on his pants. Then he picked up his phone and dialed.

  Allie picked up on the first ring. “Hi, Connor. Thanks for dinner. I love this place!” He loved the silvery energy in her voice. It was the perfect complement to the champagne in his hand and the evening deepening around him.

  “Where are you? Tell me about it.”

  “I’m at Gary Danko. I’m sitting by the window and watching the fog coming in through the Golden Gate. I just ordered their tasting menu. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  “You’ll love it. I’m sitting on the patio at Wente. It’s an old school restaurant out where I grew up. It’s surrounded by hills covered by grapevines. The sun has already set and they’re starting to light the gas heaters, but the hilltops are still bright gold and green.” He wanted to add like your eyes, but stopped himself. They were friends and colleagues—and that was all. Anything more would cause him serious problems at work. Doyle & Brown had a draconian policy against personal involvement with clients. Even these dinners pushed the envelope.

  “Sounds beautiful. What are you having?”

  “Filet mignon with the house reserve cab. Oh, and I’ve got a glass of champagne in front of me now. Do you have yours?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Excellent, I’d like to propose a toast.” He lifted his glass. “To making the devil pay.”

  “To making the devil pay.”

  He took a sip and savored the crisp, not quite sweet taste. “Ahh. There’s nothing quite like taking down a bad guy, is there?”

  “It’s not a bad way to make a living.”

  “Oh, it’s a lot more than that, don’t you think? For every dollar we get paid, three or four
dollars of stolen taxpayer money go back into state coffers. Plus, the companies that stole it get to have Max wash their dirty laundry—while they’re still wearing it.”

  She laughed. “I’d love to see that sometime. Too bad I can never sit in on any of those meetings.”

  “It is too bad. Just like it’s too bad that we can never have these victory dinners together.” He wondered whether he was trying to convince himself or her. He deepened his voice and imitated the narrator of the old Batman reruns he’d seen as a child. “But we must protect your secret identity at all costs.”

  “That’s me: mild-mannered accounting temp in the eyes of the world. But I’m really Qui Tam Girl, fighter against fraud and injustice!”