Gray Mountain: A Novel(82)

“You want something?” she asked, ready to kick and scratch and yell if necessary.

“No, just out for a stroll, same as you.” White male, age forty, heavy beard, six feet two, bushy hair boiling out from under an unmarked cap, and a thick barn coat with both hands stuffed into large pockets.

“Bullshit, you’re following me. Say something quick before I start screaming.”

“You’re in way over your head, Ms. Kofer,” he said. Slight mountain twang, definitely a local. But he knew her name!

“You know my name. What’s yours?”

“Pick one. Call me Fred if you like.”

“Oh, I like Bozo better. Fred sucks. Let’s go with Bozo.”

“Whatever. I’m so glad you think this is funny.”

“What’s on your mind, Bozo?”

Unfazed, unflinching, he said, “You’re running with the wrong crowd, and you’re playing a game in which you don’t know the rules. You need to keep your cute little ass over in the legal clinic, where you can take care of the poor folks and stay out of trouble. Better yet, for you and for everyone else, pack your shit and go back to New York.”

“Are you threatening me, Bozo?” Damned right he was. The threat was being delivered in a dramatic and unmistakable fashion.

“Take it any way you like, Ms. Kofer.”

“So, I wonder who you work for. Krull Mining, Lonerock Coal, Strayhorn Coal, Eastpoint Mining—there are just so many thugs to choose from. And let’s not forget those crooks in nice suits over at Casper Slate. Who signs your paycheck, Bozo?”

“They pay me in cash,” he said as he took a step closer. She threw up both hands and said, “One more step, Bozo, and I’ll scream so loud half of Brady will come running.” A group of teenagers made a loud approach from behind him, and Bozo lost interest quickly. Almost under his breath he said, “We’ll be watching.”

“So will I,” she retorted, but had no idea what she meant. She exhaled mightily and realized how dry her mouth was. Her heart pounded and she needed to sit down. Bozo disappeared as the teenagers passed without a word or a glance. Samantha began a rapid zigzag back to her apartment.

One block from it, another man materialized from the darkness and stopped her on the sidewalk. “We need to talk,” Jeff said.

“This must be my night,” she said, as they began walking away from her apartment. She replayed the encounter with Bozo, and kept her eyes moving for more signs of him. There was nothing, though, from the shadows. Jeff listened and nodded as if he knew Bozo personally.

He said, “Here’s what’s going down. The FBI paid a visit here today, but they also raided the offices of the other three law firms that signed on to sue Krull Mining in the Hammer Valley case. These guys are friends of Donovan’s—they were all at his funeral last week. Two firms in Charleston, one in Louisville. Lawyers who specialize in toxic torts and pool their resources and manpower to fight the bad guys. Well, they got raided today, which means, among other things, that the FBI, and we assume Krull Mining too, now know the truth, and the truth is that Donovan did not turn over the stolen documents to the other lawyers. Not yet. That was not the plan. Donovan was very careful with the documents and he did not want to incriminate the other lawyers, so he simply described what’s in the documents. The strategy among the lawyers was to file suit, drag Krull Mining into court, goad the company and its lawyers into telling a bunch of lies under oath, then produce the documents for the judge and jury to enjoy. In the general opinions of the lawyers, the documents are worth at least half a billion dollars in punitive damages. In all likelihood they will also lead to criminal investigations, indictments, and so on.”

“So the FBI will be back shortly, this time looking for you.”

“I think so, yes. They believe Donovan had the documents, now they know the other lawyers do not, so where are they?”

“Where are they?”

“Close by.”

“And you have them?”

“Yes.”

They walked a block in silence. Jeff called out to an old man sitting under a blanket on a porch. A few steps later, she asked, “How did he get the documents?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“I’m not sure. But knowledge is not a crime, is it?”

“You’re the lawyer.”

They turned a corner onto a darker street. Jeff coughed, cleared his throat, and began, “At first, Donovan hired a hacker, this Israeli guy who travels the world selling his talents for nice sums of money. Krull had digitized some of its internal stuff, and the hacker got inside without too much of a hassle. He found some pretty interesting material about the Peck Mountain mine site and slurry pond, enough to get Donovan excited. It was obvious, though, that Krull had kept a lot of records out of its digital storage system. The hacker went as far as he could, then bailed out, covered his tracks, and disappeared. Fifteen thousand bucks for a week’s work. Not bad, I guess. Risky, though, because he got caught on another job three months ago and is now sitting in jail in Vancouver. Anyway, Donovan made the decision to scope out Krull’s headquarters near Harlan, Kentucky. It’s a small town and it’s kinda strange having such a big operation based in such a rural area, but that’s not unusual in the coalfields. Donovan visited a few times, always changing disguises; he loved the cloak-and-dagger stuff and thought he was a real genius at espionage. And he was very good. He picked a holiday weekend, Memorial Day of last year, and went in on a Friday afternoon, dressed like a phone repairman. He rented a white, unmarked cargo van and parked it with some other cars in a lot. He even put fake license plates on the van. Once inside, he vanished into an attic and waited until closing time. There were armed security guards and surveillance cameras outside, but not much inside. I was watching from nearby, so was Vic, both of us armed and ready with an emergency plan in case something went wrong. For three days, Donovan was on the inside and we were on the outside, hiding in the woods, watching, waiting, fighting off ticks and mosquitoes. It was miserable. We were using high-frequency radios to keep in touch and to keep each other awake. Donovan found the kitchen, ate all the food, and slept on a sofa in the lobby. Vic and I were sleeping in our trucks. Donovan also found the records, a treasure trove of incriminating documents that detailed Krull’s cover-up of the Peck Mountain site and all its problems. He copied thousands of documents and put the originals back in the files as if nothing happened. On that Monday, Memorial Day, a cleaning crew showed up, and they almost caught him. I saw them first, called Donovan, and he barely made it back into the attic before the janitors entered the building. He stayed there for three hours, smothering in the heat.”