he’s got a lot more than that, but I figure that’s the maximum I can get from him without a fight, and I don’t want a fight. I just want it over.”
“What about your medical expenses? They’re going to be considerable.”
“I’m covered under his team medical insurance. Anything that doesn’t pay, I’ll handle out of my quarter of a million.”
“I think your demands are modest. I don’t see any problem in having them met right away.”
“That’s why I wanted you. I think the mere fact of your being my lawyer will intimidate Bake, make him move fast. You can add your fee onto the settlement.”
“All right, I’ll see what I can do. My fee is normally a third of the settlement, but I think we can achieve a net you’ll be happy with. I’ve asked Harry Estes to have your injuries photographed right away, before you improve any more. I’m going to need those photographs.”
“All right,” she said evenly.
“I need a photograph of you before … the incident, too.”
“Call my publisher, Ray Ferguson, at Buckhead Press.” She gave him the number. “He has a self-portrait I did for my new book.”
“All right. I think I have all I need.” He stood up. “Is there anything else I can do for you? Do you need anything?”
“Yes. When I get out of here, in a week or so, I’m going to need a furnished apartment for a few weeks. I’m going to need some clothes—jeans, size eight; a T-shirt; sneakers, size nine, just something to wear out of the hospital.” She fumbled in a bedside drawer and held out some keys. “My car is in the parking lot downstairs; it’s a silver Mercedes, the little convertible. I’d like you to sell it; it’s less than a year old, get what you can. My safety-deposit-box key is on the key ring, too, number 1001 at the Trust Company Bank. Clean it out; the title to the car is in there; so is Bake’s most recent financial statement. You should be able to use that to good advantage.”
“Okay, I’ll do all that.” He scribbled his home number on his business card and left it on the bedside table. “Call me, day or night, if you need anything, anything at all. My secretary’s name is Hilda; she’s a wonder; use her as your own; I’ll brief her.”
“Thanks.”
“You want me to call any friends?”
“No. No friends.”
Schaefer walked to the door and paused. “You understand, of course, that this is not a conventional way to proceed, but your position is strong, and you have me on your side. I’m immodest enough to tell you that I don’t think any other lawyer could pull this off without a lot of delays, but I think I can. If you don’t care how I do it.”
Something like a laugh came from Elizabeth Barwick, and she twitched from the pain in her ribs. “Believe me,” she said, “I don’t care how you do it.”
Al Schaefer left the hospital parking lot and turned into Collier Road, listening to the hum of the twelve-cylinder BMW engine. He loved the sound, it helped him think. He thought now. At the Northside Drive traffic light, he tapped a number into the car phone and waited. The light changed and he drove on.
“Stillson, Immerling, Hoyt, and Thomas,” a woman’s voice said. Schaefer remembered the story, perhaps apocryphal, that the names Immerling and Hoyt had been transposed on the firm’s original letterhead. That had been more than fifty years ago, and the legend still lived.
“Henry Hoyt, Junior, please,” Schaefer said.
“Mr. Hoyt’s office,” a very serious secretary’s voice said. “This is Albert Schaefer. Let me speak to Henry.”
“He may have already left for the day. May I ask what this is about?”
“Just tell him it’s urgent.”
“Who is it calling, again?”
“You heard me the first time. Put him on.”
There was a pause while, Schaefer figured, Hoyt worried about the risk of snubbing him.
Finally, “This is Henry Hoyt.”
Schaefer deliberately skipped any pleasantries. “Henry, you still represent
“What about your medical expenses? They’re going to be considerable.”
“I’m covered under his team medical insurance. Anything that doesn’t pay, I’ll handle out of my quarter of a million.”
“I think your demands are modest. I don’t see any problem in having them met right away.”
“That’s why I wanted you. I think the mere fact of your being my lawyer will intimidate Bake, make him move fast. You can add your fee onto the settlement.”
“All right, I’ll see what I can do. My fee is normally a third of the settlement, but I think we can achieve a net you’ll be happy with. I’ve asked Harry Estes to have your injuries photographed right away, before you improve any more. I’m going to need those photographs.”
“All right,” she said evenly.
“I need a photograph of you before … the incident, too.”
“Call my publisher, Ray Ferguson, at Buckhead Press.” She gave him the number. “He has a self-portrait I did for my new book.”
“All right. I think I have all I need.” He stood up. “Is there anything else I can do for you? Do you need anything?”
“Yes. When I get out of here, in a week or so, I’m going to need a furnished apartment for a few weeks. I’m going to need some clothes—jeans, size eight; a T-shirt; sneakers, size nine, just something to wear out of the hospital.” She fumbled in a bedside drawer and held out some keys. “My car is in the parking lot downstairs; it’s a silver Mercedes, the little convertible. I’d like you to sell it; it’s less than a year old, get what you can. My safety-deposit-box key is on the key ring, too, number 1001 at the Trust Company Bank. Clean it out; the title to the car is in there; so is Bake’s most recent financial statement. You should be able to use that to good advantage.”
“Okay, I’ll do all that.” He scribbled his home number on his business card and left it on the bedside table. “Call me, day or night, if you need anything, anything at all. My secretary’s name is Hilda; she’s a wonder; use her as your own; I’ll brief her.”
“Thanks.”
“You want me to call any friends?”
“No. No friends.”
Schaefer walked to the door and paused. “You understand, of course, that this is not a conventional way to proceed, but your position is strong, and you have me on your side. I’m immodest enough to tell you that I don’t think any other lawyer could pull this off without a lot of delays, but I think I can. If you don’t care how I do it.”
Something like a laugh came from Elizabeth Barwick, and she twitched from the pain in her ribs. “Believe me,” she said, “I don’t care how you do it.”
Al Schaefer left the hospital parking lot and turned into Collier Road, listening to the hum of the twelve-cylinder BMW engine. He loved the sound, it helped him think. He thought now. At the Northside Drive traffic light, he tapped a number into the car phone and waited. The light changed and he drove on.
“Stillson, Immerling, Hoyt, and Thomas,” a woman’s voice said. Schaefer remembered the story, perhaps apocryphal, that the names Immerling and Hoyt had been transposed on the firm’s original letterhead. That had been more than fifty years ago, and the legend still lived.
“Henry Hoyt, Junior, please,” Schaefer said.
“Mr. Hoyt’s office,” a very serious secretary’s voice said. “This is Albert Schaefer. Let me speak to Henry.”
“He may have already left for the day. May I ask what this is about?”
“Just tell him it’s urgent.”
“Who is it calling, again?”
“You heard me the first time. Put him on.”
There was a pause while, Schaefer figured, Hoyt worried about the risk of snubbing him.
Finally, “This is Henry Hoyt.”
Schaefer deliberately skipped any pleasantries. “Henry, you still represent
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