Bodily Harm: A Novel

KING COUNTY COURTHOUSE

SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

The following morning, still limping but no longer using a cane, Sloane again entered Judge John Rudolph’s courtroom, this time with both John Kannin and Tom Pendergrass accompanying him. Sloane would argue the matter, but he wanted to send a message to Barclay Reid and Kendall that he could and would staff the case. Kannin also had a prior relationship with Rudolph, who had presided over the criminal calendar for many years and, as Kannin put it, “appreciated my brand of practice,” which Sloane interpreted to mean fighting until, and sometimes after, the bell.

Sloane recognized Reid from photographs in the various legal periodicals. But she was more attractive in person, her hair more auburn than brown and her eyes nearly jade. She met Sloane in the courtroom head-on, like a semitrailer driving a one-lane highway. That, and a firm handshake, indicated she was not intimidated by Sloane’s record. Reid had brought a team of lawyers with her, as well as Malcolm Fitzgerald, and they set up at the table closest to the empty jury box.

The fire again burned when Sloane saw Fitzgerald, and he turned and took a moment to calm down, admonishing himself to stay on course.

“You okay?” Kannin asked.

Sloane now had a responsibility to the Gallegoses and McFarlands, who all had sacrificed much. His first obligation was to find justice for them. In the process he would obtain his own revenge, destroying Kendall Toys and ruining Malcolm Fitzgerald before putting the man in jail.

Rudolph’s staff entered first and sat in the well beneath the judge’s desk. Rudolph followed his bailiff and seemed to make a production of dropping Reid’s tome with a thud on his desk before sitting and rearranging papers. He looked up at Sloane over bifocal glasses but it was Reid who spoke first.

“Your Honor, before we get started I want to be sure that the courtroom is closed to the public and that the participants be forbidden to talk about these matters outside of these proceedings.”

Reid sought a gag order.

Rudolph looked to the back of the courtroom, where several people sat. “I’m going to have to ask you all to leave,” he said, turning to his bailiff. “Quinn, clear the courtroom.”

After the bailiff had escorted out all spectators, Rudolph turned back to Sloane’s table, wasting no time.

“Who’ll argue?” he asked.

“I will, Your Honor.” Sloane stood.

“Then tell me why I shouldn’t grant this order. The design of this toy is trademarked and proprietary, and Kendall has demonstrated a substantial risk of harm if you were to disclose that design in court papers or otherwise to the public.”

“They certainly have met that element of their burden, Your Honor, but as the court recognizes, irreparable harm is only one of four elements they are required to meet. First, they won’t succeed on the merits because we will prove that the design is defective, that the plastic components do not meet ASTM standards, and that Kendall was given notice of this potential danger before it gave these toys to these children as part of focus groups. They also cannot reasonably argue that the financial harm the company might suffer from a delay in production outweighs the potential injuries that will result to children if they put a defective toy in the marketplace. The public interest in this instance clearly does not weigh in favor of the moving party.”

“Can you show that Kendall had reason to know the toy was dangerous?”

“Your Honor, under a strict liability theory, if I show that Kendall placed a defective and dangerous product into the marketplace, it is responsible for all injuries caused by that product regardless of its knowledge or fault.”

“Then let’s answer that question. What evidence do you have that the product is dangerous? Or that these magnets did not come from some other source?”

Sloane knew Rudolph was testing him, and that he was not achieving a passing grade. But this hearing was not about winning; it was about educating the judge. “Austin McFarland’s older brother, Mathew, and Mateo Gallegos’s older brother, Ricky, were both members of Kendall focus groups for the toy Metamorphis. The toy was in their homes. The parents’ declarations establish that fact. Metamorphis is a product in which the magnets are encased in plastic. Austin McFarland and Mateo Gallegos both died from the ingestion of tiny but powerful magnets that eroded their intestines.”

“But can you prove the magnets came from the toy, as opposed to some other product? Don’t misunderstand my question.” He looked to Reid and her associates, who until that point had been sitting fat and happy. “I think the evidence I’ve read here would certainly be enough to go to a jury, if this matter were to get that far. But the standard before me this morning is different. I need to balance the equities here. Can you prove that element?”

“Without a sample of the toy or its component parts, I can’t, Your Honor. But I intend to obtain one through discovery.”

Reid stood. “As Your Honor has correctly pointed out, the issue here is irreparable harm. Kendall is prepared to release this product for the holidays. Preventing Kendall from doing so, based on speculation and innuendo, would result in the loss of millions of dollars, not to mention dozens of lawsuits by retailers. It would cripple the company.”

“I think he has more than speculation and innuendo, Ms. Reid, quite a bit more.”

If the shot hit its mark, Reid did not show it. She continued without a pause. “First, Your Honor, Mr. Sloane represents a single family. He may claim to represent the Gallegoses, but his pleadings do not reflect that he does. Their declaration must be stricken as irrelevant. So we are really talking about evidence of a single child, and up until a few days ago, I don’t need to remind this court that Mr. Sloane was convinced, and convinced a jury, that medical malpractice was responsible for that child’s death. Moreover, even if Mr. Sloane could prove that a Kendall product was responsible for that child’s death, which Kendall vehemently denies, the plaintiff’s remedy is monetary damages. As callous as this may sound, no irreparable harm will befall the McFarlands. The harm has already occurred.”

Reid was correct, of course, and she had stated Kendall’s case eloquently, as Sloane expected, which was why Rudolph’s next question surprised Sloane.

“If we are talking about the potential safety of children, what harm would it be to Kendall if I were to order it to submit a prototype for independent testing?”

Reid remained poised, apparently having anticipated this question. “Your Honor, there is no hard evidence to require such a drastic measure, and anything that caused a delay in the production of this toy would result in millions of dollars in losses. Kendall has timed the release of this product very carefully with the holiday season. It has contractual obligations with its retailers, and anything that might delay or impede production would cause it to breach those contractual obligations. I have provided you with a declaration from an industry analyst attesting to the fact that nearly seventy-two percent of toys are purchased immediately before the Christmas holiday. In light of this substantial harm, and the lack of any solid evidence that the product is defective, the drastic remedy of delaying production to test the toy is not warranted.”

Sloane said, “If the company has no worries, as it professes, there would be no reason for it to shut down manufacturing or be in any jeopardy of breaching its contracts with its retailers while a prototype is inspected.”

“But there is no need or legal obligation that Kendall do so,” Reid shot back. “We have submitted within our packet of materials evidence that the product meets all applicable ASTM standards and, I will add, voluntary compliance with all federal regulations. The product was also tested and approved by the Product Safety Agency. There is no need for the product to be retested and, I must emphasize, there is no regulation that requires Kendall, or any other manufacturer, for that matter, to have their product independently inspected. Mr. Sloane is asking something of Kendall that no manufacturer is required to undertake.”

“No other manufacturer produced a toy that killed my clients’ child,” Sloane shot back.

“Enough,” Rudolph said, putting a quick end to the bickering. “Both of you will direct your comments to the bench. Do not test my patience. I’ll fine you both.” He sat back, contemplating his options.

Sloane was about to speak when Kannin touched his arm to indicate he’d said enough.

“Here’s what we are going to do,” Rudolph said. “I’m going to grant the motion for a temporary restraining order preventing plaintiffs from disclosing any information pertaining to the design of this product, and I am going to set this matter for further hearing on whether a permanent injunction should issue. At that time I will consider again plaintiffs’ request for an independent inspection of the toy. At the moment I don’t have enough information before me to order that be done. Mr. Sloane, how much time will you need to conduct your discovery on that limited issue?”

“Two weeks,” Sloane said. “We’d like to depose certain individuals and would request that defendant agree to produce its witnesses on shortened notice.”

“We have no objection,” Reid said, “so long as plaintiffs agree to the same.”

“I will put it in the order that the two sides are to cooperate. If you don’t, you’ll feel it in your wallets.”

Rudolph made some handwritten notations, signed the document on his desk, and handed it down to his clerk in the well, who handed it to Reid.

“I’ll see you all back here in two weeks,” Rudolph said.

CAMELBACK MOUNTAIN

PHOENIX, ARIZONA

MAXINE BOLELLI PUSHED on, her tanned legs pumping like pistons up the mountain, her back and stomach glistening. The robin’s-egg blue bandana wrapped around her head dripped sweat, turning it navy blue. She wore a matching sports bra and shorts. Bolelli loved to prove people wrong. So anyone who assumed from her plumpish figure that she was out of shape was in for a rude awakening. She liked nothing better than to walk onto a racquetball court looking like the big girl who didn’t know which end of the racquet to hold and proceed to kick the crap out of some unsuspecting foe.

“So we have a name, Metamorphis,” she said, her breathing only slightly labored despite an increase in the incline. “I like it.”

“Kendall must be really concerned to have filed for a TRO,” said Galaxy’s president, Brandon Craft, his breathing strained as he spoke.

Craft was just a shade taller than Bolelli but a good twenty pounds overweight and clearly struggling. Bolelli had no sympathy for him. Lazy, Craft was not a hiker, or a walker for that matter. Had there been a moving sidewalk from the parking lot to the front of the building he would have taken it. It disgusted Bolelli. Still, Craft was doing better than Elizabeth Meyers. Galaxy’s chief financial officer lagged three yards behind them, and the last time Bolelli checked, Meyers looked like an overripe tomato about to explode. The rest of Galaxy’s executive team trudged along, some with heads bowed, as if on a death march, either struggling to keep up, or smart enough to realize they shouldn’t pass their bosses.

A few years back a board member suggested that Galaxy hold “team-building retreats” to promote morale and foster an attitude of sharing and cooperation among the various departments. Other board members, thinking it a splendid idea, quickly approved the suggestion. What a crock of bullshit. Bolelli knew there would be no sharing among departments because everyone was too busy kissing her ass in search of the next promotion. What the board members really wanted was a boondoggle at the shareholders’ expense. The word retreat conjured images of expensive hotels in exotic locales with golf courses, five-star restaurants, spas, and everyone sitting around the pool sipping mai tais and piña coladas while some team leader spewed psychobabble bullshit and asked everyone, “How do you feel about that?”

Ka-ching!

Lest anyone think Bolelli wasn’t sympathetic to their wants and needs, she came up with her own morale-building retreats. She asked her administrative assistant to pick various spots around the Phoenix area for exercise. In the hotter months she moved the “retreats” indoors for racquetball tournaments and squash. Since today the weather was a balmy 102 degrees, she had taken everyone to Camelback Mountain. The hike was known to be arduous and had a reputation of leaving inexperienced hikers in positions where they had to be rescued. Still, no one had bowed out. No one dared.

“They don’t want any information about the design becoming public,” she said. “Can we get the pleadings?”

“Already have,” Craft gasped. He used a water bottle to spray his face. “The pleadings are online. Nothing of use, though. The complaint is vague.”

“What about the TRO papers?”

“They’ve been sealed by the court at Kendall’s request.”

“What about the theory that the toy could be dangerous?”

“Again, vague. No specifics.”

“Give me the details,” Bolelli said.

Craft took several deep breaths. “It indicates the children had siblings in a Kendall focus group. Kendall denies any liability. They say it’s a publicity stunt to force a settlement.”

“Can we get the names of the other children in the groups, talk to their parents?”

“Santoro doesn’t have it. He says Fitzgerald must have it under lock and key. The parents of the children named in the lawsuit declined to talk to us.”

“Keep an eye on it.” Bolelli dug in for the final incline before the summit.

“What about the stock?” Craft asked.

“What about it? Fitzgerald is no dummy. He wouldn’t be wasting his time filing a TRO unless he knew he was sitting on something huge, something that has never been done before. This just confirms everything we’ve already learned. Buy it.”

“Our cash reserves are taking a hit.”

“Sometimes you have to pay to play,” she said, “and I intend to play.”

At the summit, Bolelli stood king of the mountain. She sucked the warm desert air through her nostrils, feeling it burn, then wasted no time before beginning her march down the hill even before the others had reached the top.

“We’re moving, people,” she barked.

ONE UNION SQUARE BUILDING

SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

FOLLOWING THE HEARING, Sloane returned to his office and debriefed the McFarlands and Gallegoses in a conference room. Despite their demographic and socioeconomic differences, the two families had been bonded by one shared horrific experience. He sent the McFarlands home and the Gallegoses to a room at the Athletic Club so they would not have to travel back and forth to Mossylog each night. Manny’s cousin would watch their children. Then Sloane returned to his office to see what fires burned.

Carolyn greeted him with a grim expression and handed him a document. “We were just served,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

The motion on behalf of Bill and Terri Larsen and Frank Carter sought a temporary restraining order from San Francisco Superior Court prohibiting Sloane from coming within a hundred yards of the Larsens, Frank Carter, or Jake. Attached to the pleading was a declaration from Bill Larsen providing vivid details of Sloane’s “assault” on Frank Carter. Bill Larsen also said Sloane had been menacing toward him and his wife in the meeting, and that he believed Sloane was mentally unbalanced and unfit in his present condition to care for Jake. Conspicuously missing was a declaration from Frank Carter, which Sloane found to be of particular interest. The motion sought a date for a hearing to determine custody of Jake.

Sloane had no intention of physically confronting the Larsens, or Frank, and, practically, he couldn’t get to Jake either. What he did care about was the custody hearing.

“The hearing is in San Francisco Superior Court tomorrow,” Carolyn said. “The judge’s clerk said the custody hearing has not yet been set.”

“Where’s Tom?”

“In his office.”

Pendergrass sat at his desk. Sloane handed him the papers.

“I saw them earlier,” Pendergrass said. “How do you want to handle it?”

“File a pleading stating I have no objection to implementation of the temporary restraining order, but that I will contest custody and wish to be present and put on evidence. Ask to appear at the TRO hearing tomorrow telephonically. Make it clear, Tom. I want the court to know that I will contest custody, and I want Tina’s parents to know that I have no intention of giving up Jake.”

“I understand,” Pendergrass said.

As soon as Sloane stepped into the hallway Carolyn barked at him again. “David, Barclay Reid is on the phone.”

constitution gardens washington, d.c.

CHARLES JENKINS WALKED the dirt and gravel path beneath the canopy of oak, maple, and dogwood trees parallel to the Reflecting Pool that stretched from the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial. The leaves showed early signs of fall, faint hints of what would become the glorious reds, oranges, and yellows. A few had fallen, scattered by government employees passing him in business attire and tourists strolling the paths. Three men and a woman jogged past, their running shoes crunching the gravel beneath their feet in pounding unison.

Jenkins paused at the Lincoln Memorial before following a path to the bronze sculpture of three young men dressed in jungle attire and carrying weapons. Their faces were unknown to him, and yet so familiar; they could have been any of the men with whom he had served. The artist had been racially sensitive, but their varied ethnicities—white, black, and Hispanic—were of no matter. Nam was color-blind. So were the Vietcong bullets.

Jenkins continued down the path to the vertex of the black wall and the first name carved in stone. The dead were inscribed not in alphabetical but in chronological order, by date of their deaths. As the wall rose from the ground like a huge tombstone, he soon was running his fingers along thousands and thousands of the etched letters. The immensity and length of the granite, and the sheer number of names it held, overwhelmed him. Jenkins had never even seen pictures of the memorial in a magazine or newspaper. He’d avoided reading anything about Nam. He now realized that in so doing, he had abandoned these men, these brothers, while for thirty years he hid on Camano Island not to live, but to die. He’d been wrong. He’d been so wrong. What would each of the men and their families give to have been in his shoes, to have left the jungle alive, to be standing here at this moment, staring at someone else’s name? He thought of the years he had served, and the names of the men, and he was tempted to look for them but knew that finding them now, thirty years removed, would only bring him back to a place he did not want to go.

“Unbelievable, isn’t it?” Curley Wade stood to Jenkins’s immediate right but facing the wall. Jenkins had not heard or seen him approach. “No matter how many times I come here it never gets any easier.” Wade faced Jenkins. “But I come. I walk this way every chance I get—so I don’t forget. I’ve heard that the graveyard in Normandy is like this, the magnitude of the sacrifice almost too immense to comprehend. I get a kick out of those people who say we live free. They need to come here and see this.”

Jenkins followed Wade to the end of the wall and eventually down a path with black metal park benches. The early evening sky revealed the faint hint of a half moon, and the temperature had cooled, though it remained humid. They sat opposite the women’s memorial, and as Wade opened a satchel, Jenkins watched a gray squirrel claw its way down a tree trunk, seeming to defy the laws of gravity. A breeze scattered leaves on the ground and rustled the branches. Overhead he heard the engines of a plane and behind them the rush of traffic on Constitution Avenue.

Wade removed a plain white envelope, handing it to him. “It isn’t much.”

Jenkins opened the flap and pulled out a grainy photograph of a man in a long black coat and slacks. The photograph had been taken with a telephoto lens, but the features of the man’s face were clear enough that Jenkins could confirm it to be the same man in the photograph he had provided Wade. Judging from the other men and women in the photograph, and knowing that the average male was just over five nine and the average female just under five four, Jenkins estimated the man to be several inches over six feet.

The next photo was a blowup of the first. The man wore his hair combed back off his forehead in a ponytail.

“Arab?” Jenkins asked.

“American.” Wade nodded to the envelope. Jenkins pulled out the remaining photograph. It depicted a group of men dressed in desert cammies holding automatic weapons. Perspiration had caused their face paint to smudge, a black and beige mask that made the whites of their eyes bulge at the camera.

Wade pointed to the third man from the right. “Anthony Stenopolis.”

Jenkins had a name.

He studied the photograph more closely, his interest no longer the face but the uniform. He saw no patches on the fatigues: no American flags, no insignias. He saw no dog tags or even chains wrapped around the men’s necks. In Vietnam there had been missions where men like Major Davidson showed up and Jenkins’s squad was instructed to remove everything that could in any way associate them with the United States. That meant no cigarettes, no chewing gum, no dog tags, no flags, no insignias of any kind. Nothing. These excursions usually took them into Cambodia, though no one ever said so, and no records of the missions existed. When Jenkins later joined the Agency he learned that the missions were referred to as “counterinsurgency.” In Nam, the men had called them something else: suicide runs.

“Very early after nine-eleven, U.S. intelligence agencies launched a series of operations that enabled them to locate and target key individuals in groups such as al-Qaeda in Iraq, the Sunni insurgency, and renegade Shia militias, or so-called special groups,” Wade said. “The operations relied upon some of the most highly classified information in the U.S. government.”

“What’s his background?”

“Parents immigrated from Greece. He enlisted in the army and was identified as a candidate for further training. Apparently he showed a propensity for learning foreign languages—Spanish, Portuguese, German, French—and was assigned to the Defense Language Institute. He later served during Desert Storm. Honorably discharged and went to work for a private security contractor in the Middle East, Afghanistan, and Northern Africa.”

“And we brought him back after nine-eleven.”

Wade nodded. “He also speaks Farsi and several other Arab dialects.”

Jenkins knew that this skill would have made Stenopolis a valuable asset. “Then what?”

Wade shrugged. “Based on what you’ve told me, he apparently went out on his own.”

Jenkins reconsidered the blowup of the man’s face. “If he’s independent, there has to be a way for people to get in contact with him.”

“This is where it gets tricky.”

Jenkins waited.

“There’s a name on a card in the file, someone who might know how to contact him but who won’t be eager to talk to you about it.”

Jenkins did not recognize the name on the card, but he knew why the man would be reluctant to discuss any association with someone like Stenopolis. “I appreciate it, Curley,” he said. Then he asked the question that had been on his mind since he saw the photo of Stenopolis in uniform.

“How long did he work for the Agency?”

It was the only way Anthony Stenopolis could have been brought back into the fold so quickly after 9/11, given that the Agency had sent officers to Afghanistan just eight days after the planes crashed into the Twin Towers and had boots on the ground within fifteen. It was also the only way Wade could have obtained the information on Stenopolis so fast. He either had been, or remained, on the Agency’s radar.

Wade did not immediately answer the question. Measuring his response, he said, “If he’s done what you say, somewhere along the way he suffered a break. It could have been something during the war or something after, but he’s gone down a very dark path.”

Jenkins slipped the photos back into the envelope. “That path is about to come to an end, Curley.”

THE SORRENTO HOTEL

SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

SLOANE ENTERED THE Sorrento Hotel from Madison Street still pondering his strategy. He pushed through a draped entrance that separated the hotel lobby from the Fireside Room and saw Barclay Reid sitting in a leather wing chair near a green tiled fireplace. Built in 1908, the hotel had been renovated but retained the original decor and furnishings. Shaped like an octagon, the Fireside Room was as ornate as a set from Titanic, with beaded lampshades, tasseled and overstuffed leather and cloth upholstery, potted palms, and dark mahogany walls. Crown molding gleamed beneath recessed ceiling lights, one of which lit Barclay as she stepped around the leather ottoman.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” Her handshake remained firm, but her tone was much more conciliatory than it had been in the courtroom earlier that day.

“Not a problem,” Sloane said. “I’ve always wanted to see this place.”

“Let me first express my condolences. I’m very sorry for your loss. I haven’t had the chance to tell you that.”

“Thank you,” Sloane said, believing her genuine. He sat in one of the wing chairs across the ottoman. The flames from the fire flickered shadows, and a piano player filled the room with soft jazz.

“What did you think of the hearing today?” Reid asked.

“About what I expected. You?”

“I wasn’t thrilled that he’s still considering the independent testing, but I agree, about what I expected.”

A waiter in tuxedo attire, absent the jacket, approached. Reid already had a martini set on the table by her chair. “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

“Scotch, rocks,” Sloane said.

“A Scotch man.” Reid smiled. “Also what I would have expected.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“You’re in the news a lot.”

“So are you, but I wouldn’t have guessed martini.”

“What would you have guessed?”

“Cosmopolitan.”

She made a face. “Too sweet. Truth is, I’d rather have a beer, but it didn’t seem an appropriate choice given the decor.” She picked up her glass. “I think when push comes to shove, Judge Rudolph will deny your request for independent testing. There’s no legal basis for him to order it.”

“My experience is Judge Rudolph doesn’t get too hung up on the law,” Sloane said.

“We’ll take a writ.” Reid pulled an olive off a stick with her teeth. She referred to an immediate appeal to an appellate court to get a decision on a particular legal issue before the final resolution of the case.

“You could do that,” Sloane said. “But tell me, why would Kendall? As I’ve said, if the product is safe and not susceptible to defects, why not just get the independent testing performed and be done with it?”

“Because it sets a bad precedent, and the law does not allow for it.”

“How is making sure a product is safe a bad precedent? What about a moral reason? This is the same company that professes to put the safety of children first and foremost.”

“And they have, for over one hundred years. But they don’t want the government or the courts ordering them to do what the current law and regulations do not require.”

“So tell them to do it voluntarily. Be a trailblazer. They can use the positive publicity.”

The waiter set Sloane’s drink on a coaster on the table beside him. Sloane took a sip, keeping the glass in his hand and letting the Scotch stimulate his taste buds before swallowing.

“You also have no evidence that Kendall was aware of the alleged defect.”

“I beg to differ,” Sloane said, hoping to provoke some response.

“And what would that be?”

“Kyle Horgan.”

“Malcolm mentioned something about that. He’ll state under oath that he never saw any letter and does not know the man,” Reid said.

“Then we’ll let a jury decide who’s telling the truth.”

Reid tucked her hair behind one ear, looking girlish. “Who is this guy anyway?”

“He designed Metamorphis.”

She smiled. “Metamorphis was designed in-house at Kendall.”

“Then someone stole Horgan’s design.”

“You can prove that?”

“I’m working on it.”

“We’ll want to depose Horgan.”

“That’s one of the things I’m working on. He’s disappeared. I don’t know where he is.” Sloane saw no reason to hide that ball. Reid would learn of it soon enough.

Reid contemplated that piece of information for a moment, undoubtedly wondering if Sloane truly didn’t know where Horgan was, or if he was just keeping the information from her.

“We’ll find him,” she said, confirming his deduction.

“If you do, let me know, would you?” Sloane took another sip. “I don’t need to show knowledge if the product is defective and injured two children.”

“One child,” she countered. “We intend to file a motion to enforce the settlement agreement with the Gallegoses. Given that they were represented by counsel, Rudolph will have to enforce its terms.”

“You’ve met Dayron, have you?”

“Not in person, no.”

“I have. You might want to meet him before you conclude the Gallegoses were represented by anybody.”

“The law doesn’t look into how competent the attorney is.”

“Actually it does, and it does require that the attorney be licensed. Dayron’s in a bit of trouble with the bar, Barclay, and it isn’t the first time. He had his license suspended two years ago. My clients don’t read English, he never told them about the magnets, he threatened them with deportation, and he kept two-thirds of the settlement.” Sloane shrugged. “So, one child with magnets in his intestines might be an accident, but two is a problem for your client. It will be very difficult for a court to dismiss, or the media for that matter. But let’s forget all that for a moment. How is it going to look if six months from now Metamorphis is recalled because another child has died? How’s it going to look when the public learns that Kendall had knowledge of even the possibility of a defect but chose to go to market anyway? Is that the image your client wants portrayed to the media? Is that the image your client wants for a company that has proudly made safe toys for children for more than a hundred years?”

“My client is confident there will be no recall.”

“I hope for the children of the families who buy the toy that he’s right.”

Reid sipped her martini. “But you do raise a good point.”

“I did?” Sloane said. “It didn’t sound like it. Which one?”

“Kendall has built a reputation in the community over the past hundred years and doesn’t want to see that reputation dragged through the media.”

A settlement. Sloane had suspected it to be the purpose for the meeting. He didn’t think Reid had called to get better acquainted. “I’m all ears.”

“I’ve been authorized to offer each of your clients a million dollars.”

That number surprised him, by a wide margin. He was glad he had not been sipping his drink because he might have choked. In an instant Reid had pulled the rug out from beneath Sloane’s feet. A settlement would keep him from getting to Fitzgerald.

“But they both have to agree,” she said.

“You can’t link the two together.”

“I can and I am. If one declines, the offer is off the table and Katie bar the door. Kendall is not admitting liability. It’s protecting its reputation. Both families must agree to full confidentiality of the settlement, and abide by the temporary restraining order. You agree to return any documents in your possession that make any mention of Metamorphis.”

“And will Kendall agree to have the toy independently tested?” Sloane asked.

Reid spoke over the rim of her martini glass. “That,” she said, “is a deal breaker.”

HE ADMIRED THE ebb and flow of muscles in the full-length mirrored walls. Attired in spandex pants and tennis shoes, Anthony Stenopolis followed a droplet of sweat over the ridges of his stomach as he pulled himself up and placed his chin over the bar. Around his waist he had strapped a leather belt, and hanging from it, a forty-five-pound weight. His personal best at this weight was twenty-eight pull-ups. He was halfway to that goal and felt no fatigue.

The fitness club frowned on patrons displaying flesh, but it was open twenty-four hours, and nearing midnight, Stenopolis had the weight room almost to himself. Besides, the woman doing a set of lunges on the opposite side of the floor didn’t seem to mind, sneaking peeks at him in the mirror and giving him a flirtatious smile. He ignored her, maintaining his focus despite the annoying heavy beat of music thumping the room.

When he had completed a set of thirty-four he dropped to the rubber mat and quickly counted out fifty push-ups, rolling a small medicine ball back and forth between his hands to add difficulty. His forty-five-minute workout focused on core muscles, balance, and stamina. He smirked at the muscle heads who threw three hundred pounds on a bar and bench-pressed it once to their chest, then flexed in the mirror, as if it were an incredible act of strength. Most couldn’t run up a flight of stairs without becoming winded.

He used fitness clubs in the various cities he frequented, buying one-day guest passes. He kept no permanent memberships because he kept no permanent address, both of which could be traced. Since he also discarded most of his clothing after each job, his wardrobe came from a suitcase, replenished in the cities where he worked around the world. It further eliminated any trail of identification.

After his push-ups he found an isolated corner and went through each of his martial arts movements, concentrating on exact precision. When done, he would conclude his workout with five three-minute rounds of kickboxing on the heavy bag. It was more than he had intended to do, but he remained disturbed after a client called to express displeasure with his recent performance. It seemed that the attorney, David Sloane, remained a nuisance, and the client opined that Stenopolis should have killed Sloane when he had the chance. Stenopolis hated it when clients sought more than they had bargained for, or questioned his integrity. He politely reminded his client that his assignment had been to retrieve Kyle Horgan’s file, and that he had accomplished that task. If the client had wanted Sloane dead, Stenopolis would have put a bullet in his skull and ensured it. In fact, had the kid not called 911 that’s exactly what he would have done. Stenopolis was not in the habit of leaving anyone alive who could identify him, and he had assumed, wrongly, that Sloane’s wounds were also fatal. Once he’d heard the sirens his priority became retrieving Horgan’s file. Stenopolis had never failed to complete an assignment. Still, he was more than willing to accommodate his client—for a further fee, a sum they agreed upon after minimal bartering.

During his workout Stenopolis focused his attention on how best to accomplish the task of killing David Sloane, which would now be more difficult, since Sloane would be guarded and could visually identify him. Sloane was also obviously bright and would likely be more attentive to anything out of the norm. What Stenopolis found most intriguing, however, was the information he had obtained about the police investigation into the death of Sloane’s wife. The police had not directed any inquiry to Kendall Toys, which surely would have been the case if Sloane had advised them about Kyle Horgan’s file. The lack of inquiry could only mean that Sloane was holding back information, and the only reason Stenopolis could fathom that Sloane would do so was Sloane did not want the police talking to Kendall. Sloane apparently thought he could exact revenge for his wife’s death. Stenopolis smiled at his reflection in the mirror. Sloane had convinced himself that he was a physical and intellectual match. It was a typical marine mentality and Stenopolis had encountered it many times during and after his military service. Their arrogance—unwilling even to refer to themselves as a “former marine”—was usually their downfall. Most still saw themselves as the lean, muscular recruits brainwashed out of boot camp to believe they could run through brick walls and that bullets would bounce off their chests. In reality civilian life made them soft. They lost their edge. Sloane was about to find that out firsthand.

The veins of Stenopolis’s biceps bulged with the flow of blood pumping through his body. The thought of Sloane fueled him until his arms trembled from the exertion and he could barely lift them above his shoulders. Sitting and wiping the sweat dripping down his chest with a towel, he heard the cell phone in his gym bag ring, barely audible over the coarse music pumping through the overhead speakers. Cell phones were also prohibited in the club. Stenopolis answered.

“Someone pulled your file.”

Stenopolis did not have to ask the caller his name, or the meaning of his statement. He recognized the voice, though he had not heard it in some years.

“Do we know who?”

“Former operative. Has a desk job now. Curley Wade.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

Stenopolis disconnected the call, grabbed his gym bag, and walked toward the locker room and showers. Mr. Sloane had been granted a temporary reprieve.