Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(12)
“No,” Rick interrupted, shutting the briefcase. “Jameson knows where to find us.”
They walked down the stairs in silence. George McDuff’s law office was a two-story stand-alone building on University Drive, eight blocks from Tom and Rick’s own office off of Greensboro. As they stepped outside into the sunlight, Rick finally spoke. “You think I came off too strong in there?” His tone was defensive, and Tom glanced at him, smiling.
“Oh, no, you were very subtle.” He paused. “The Santa Claus thing might have been a bit over the top . . .”
Now it was Rick who smiled. “I guess I got a little carried away.”
They reached Rick’s car, a thirteen-year-old Saturn the color of rusted gold, and Rick slipped his briefcase in the back, and they both took off their jackets.
“You ever gonna trade in this ball and chain?” Tom joked, tapping the top of the Saturn with his palm. “I think you can probably afford an upgrade.” Though Tom and Rick were not able to collect anywhere close to the full ninety million awarded in the Willistone case—Jack Willistone was sent to prison, and he and his company had declared bankruptcy—they had received the three million in policy limits, resulting in a legal fee of one million dollars. And in the twelve months since the verdict, the firm of McMurtrie & Drake had obtained seven-figure settlements in three other cases. They were on a roll, but you sure wouldn’t be able to guess it by looking at Rick’s car.
“You sound like Dawn,” Rick said, climbing in the driver’s side of the Saturn and leaning over to manually unlock Tom’s door.
“You should listen to her sometimes,” Tom said, getting in. “She’s probably the smartest member of the firm.”
“True enough,” Rick said, putting the car in gear and backing out of the parking space. As he straightened the car to exit the lot, a figure was blocking their way, palms out to stop them.
“Should I hit him?” Rick asked, his voice giving away only the slightest hint of humor.
“Nah,” Tom said. “I think your little stunt back there may have just paid off.”
Rick left the car running, and he and Tom got out of the Saturn. The man blocking their exit walked briskly toward them, a toothy grin playing on his face.
“Gentlemen, aren’t we being a little rash? The mediation hasn’t even been going an hour.”
“Jameson, you knew our position before we ever got here,” Rick said. “You knew we wouldn’t settle for less than the limits. This was a dog and pony show for your client so a mediator could tell them to pay out. You know what’s going to happen at trial. It will be Willistone all over again.”
Jameson Tyler, managing partner of Jones & Butler, the largest law firm in the state of Alabama, crossed his arms, his smile fading away. “Big talk for a boy who didn’t have much to do with that verdict. As I recollect it, the Professor here saved your ass in Willistone while your case was dying on the vine.” Jameson took a step closer. “Must be nice riding Tom’s coattails, Rick.”
Rick’s face flushed red, and he started to step forward, but Tom moved in front of him. “That’s enough, Jameson. Rick is right. We told you beforehand that we wouldn’t budge from the limits.”
Jameson sighed in exasperation. “Tom, practicing law is as much a business as it is a profession. My clients are businesspeople. They deal in dollars and cents.”
Tom squinted at Jameson and stepped toward him, invading his space so that the other lawyer had to take a step backward. “You continually disappoint me, Jameson. Exactly when did you sell out, son? When did the billable hour become your moral compass in life?”
Jameson didn’t flinch or blink. “You’re one to talk, Professor. You’re nothing more than an ambulance chaser now, collecting settlement checks like the rest of them. Have you tried a case since Willistone?” He paused, leaning forward. “Willistone was a fluke, Tom, and we both know it. But you and your minion here have used it to scare a few insurance companies into shelling out big money to settle instead of dealing with the circus of trying a case against you in Alabama. Here’s a news flash for you, Tom. We’re all sellouts, and you’re no different than anyone else.”
Tom felt his cell phone vibrate again in his pocket, but he didn’t move to answer it. He was shaken by Jameson’s words. Like his former student, though, he didn’t flinch. His expression and demeanor remained exactly the same. “See you in court, Jameson.”
Tom turned to go, motioning for Rick to do the same. When his hand touched the door handle, Jameson’s voice stopped him.
“No, you won’t.”
Tom glanced at Rick, who was unable to suppress a smile. Then he peered back at Jameson. “Excuse me?”
“My client doesn’t want to go to the circus either. They’ll pay the limits.”
Twenty minutes later the mediation settlement agreement was signed, and Rick and Tom were back in the Saturn, heading toward the office. Rick had just called Maurice London with the good news and, after clicking the “End” button, plopped his cell phone in the drink holder.
“How was he?” Tom asked.
“Ecstatic,” Rick said. “He just kept thanking me over and over again.”
Rick smiled, but it was obvious to Tom that the boy was still perturbed by Jameson’s comments in the parking lot. His young partner seemed to carry a perpetual chip on his shoulder, never appearing to be satisfied with the success the firm achieved. It was like Jameson Tyler’s voice was always ringing in the boy’s head, telling him that he wasn’t good enough.