The Fall-Down Artist (17 page)

“Mr. Dorsey,” Everette said, addressing Dorsey across the width of the table, “my junior associate, Mr. Perlac, tells me your friends commonly refer to you as Dorsey. Will that be sufficient for this afternoon's purposes?”

“Dorsey's fine.” Dorsey nodded anxiously to the five men already present. Surprised by his nervousness, he kept his trembling hands below the table, with no intention of lifting his coffee cup when it came. For a guy who was slapped around by a Neanderthal two days ago, he told himself, you're really taking the heat from these guys, even before they get started. You've been grilled by the best, P.I. Stockman among them. Take the old man's advice this one
time. Answer slowly, be assured. Johnny Reardon is at the podium. A-one-and-a-two-and-a-three.

The secretary returned and served coffee from a silver tray in Lenox cups. Once finished, she took a seat by the far wall near Bernie, producing a pencil and steno pad as if from the air. Dorsey's coffee sat steaming, undisturbed.

“Ms. Chapman is my private secretary,” Everette explained. He pushed a well-barbered tuft of gray hair into place at his temple. “If no one objects, she will keep the minutes. Copies will be furnished to each of you. No objections? Good, let's proceed.”

Everette continued in his quiet tone, pointing to each of the men as he introduced them. “Let the minutes show that in attendance are myself; Raymond Corso of the Fidelity Casualty local office; John Munt, vice president of claims at the home office in Syracuse; Charles Cleardon of Calumet Corporation, the parent company; and Carroll Dorsey. Informally representing the District Attorney's office is William Meara.”

Each man opened the manila folder that sat on the table in front of him, flipping through the contents. Also provided for each were pencils and a yellow legal pad.

“Before we discuss the investigation and the events of the last few days,” Everette said, “I for one would like a little background from Mr. Corso—I mean Ray, sorry. You've entrusted a great many cases to Mr.—I mean Dorsey. Tell us how this came about.”

Ray Corso was of average height but with a heavy stomach that strained his shirt buttons. He wore a full beard flecked with gray that offset his retreating hairline. Considering a response, he chewed at the stem of an unlit pipe. Slow-boat pipe-smoking asshole, Dorsey thought. How appropriate.

“Mr. Dorsey is highly qualified.” Corso used the professional tone Dorsey had heard him adopt so often to hide his incompetence. “Well respected in his field and experienced. Just the man for the project we initiated last spring.
These recent developments were never expected, but I stand on my choice of investigators.”

“I'm missing something,” John Munt said. “A special project?”

Dorsey summed up Munt as the long and lean athletic type, the kind who runs ten-kilometer races every other summer weekend. His receding hair gave him, unlike Corso, the look of healthy middle age. Dorsey decided he would look more natural in shorts with a number pinned to his T-shirt.

“Normally,” Munt said, “special projects and the funds for them require a proposal to my office. Yesterday while preparing for this meeting I had my secretary pull all the correspondence between you and me for the last twelve months. It was routine: expense reports, claims reserving, a couple of pay increase recommendations. Nothing about a major project.”

Corso ground his teeth into the pipestem. “That's true, that
is
the normal procedure. But you'll remember I instituted a rather severe austerity program over the last several years. We cut costs, paring down our staffing with no loss in efficiency. To be honest, my recent budget proposals were a little fat, to squirrel away some rainy-day money. Originally, anyway. I was able to finance this project strictly from within my office budget, so no proposal was needed. I was not requesting any additional funding.”

“I'm aware of your expense savings,” Munt said, smiling sheepishly. Dorsey sensed that Munt had been outmaneuvered, and his nerves began to ease. “As I recall,” Munt said, “I wrote you a commendation letter.”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“A special project, that was the term you used?”

Charles Cleardon smiled a gentle apology for interrupting. With short straw-colored hair, he was Munt's physical match but wore a better suit. Dorsey priced it at three-fifty, rock bottom, on the back of a truck, double at retail. And throw in another two hundred for the alligator shoes. To
Dorsey, his soft voice had the sound of old, comfortable money.

“You gentlemen will have to indulge me,” Cleardon said. “I'm something of a fish out of water in these matters and I will require some guidance, especially with legal and insurance jargon. Ray, tell me about your project, and keep in mind that I am a novice.”

“Well, Charles, we had a problem.” Corso tapped the pipe bowl against his palm. “We were right where we wanted to be in terms of office expenses and staff, but in December of last year we noticed a disturbing trend in our reserving. It was going through the ceiling.”

“Reserving?” Cleardon asked.

Dorsey listened as Corso explained that reserving was the art of estimating the expense that would be incurred by each ongoing claim in the upcoming year. His anxiety waned as the pace of the meeting hit a comfortable stride and he watched William Meara, the DA's man, studiously taking notes, oblivious to Ms. Chapman's shorthand. Heavily muscled through the chest, Meara sat with hunched shoulders as he worked at his yellow pad. His hair was dark, curly, and unmanaged, and his suit was bargain basement. Dorsey pegged him for a typical dark-Irish grunt lawyer.

“But what was the problem?” Cleardon asked.

Before Corso could reply, Munt interrupted. “If there was a serious problem, one that could result in a mess like this, home office should have been consulted.”

“Yes, in hindsight you are correct.” Corso spoke tactfully, accepting the rebuke and allowing Munt to save face. “But the problem we saw did not suggest any murky conspiracies, such as Dorsey seems to think we now have.” Dorsey could feel Corso establishing distance between them. “We were faced with an extraordinary number of claims with very high expense potentials. Mostly auto and workers' compensation. Young and unskilled people, their youth the cause of the high liabilities. Extensive lost wages,
that sort of thing. Investigations and settlements seemed the only way to control claim costs.”

“So you hired Dorsey,” Everette said. His index finger ran along the coffee cup's rim.

“On a case-by-case basis,” Corso said. “Beginning in April, I believe.”

“Along with reports,” Munt said, “I had the bills pulled on these assignments. They're high, much higher than average. Overnight stays and stiff hourly rates, with no half rates on travel time.” Munt turned to Dorsey. “Are these your customary rates?”

“No, John,” Dorsey said. “These are about fifteen dollars more per hour.”

“So?” Munt now spoke to Corso.

“I offered this rate as an incentive,” Corso said. We had some potentially serious trouble brewing with these claims, and I felt there was a need for more than the standard results. And it seems that Dorsey may have delivered, if what he has is correct.”

Cover your ass, Dorsey said; make some space. His anxiety had passed and he was eager for the center ring. He wondered why it had not been forced on him already.

“Well,” Munt said, “I'm not entirely sure what Dorsey is trying to prove. From what I can see we have a loose and circumstantial case that says a few claimants who know each other keep showing up at the same place. With this priest they worship.”

Everette cleared his throat. “John's words are right on point. Circumstantial is correct. There is conjecture and opinion but little in the way of fact. Very intriguing; anything is possible. Dorsey, we need to know what you think is going on.”

Johnny Reardon had his baton in hand and threw the downbeat. Dorsey moved with the baton, struggling with the urge to blurt out his thoughts. “Actually, I don't know. But I'm sure that
something
is going on. And it looks like something big. People are out of work, and the social classes are at war in the western half of the state, the haves
and the have-nots. Maybe that's why I was attacked the other day, just another skirmish in the conflict. The priest and Jack Stockman would like to have the world think so, but there's more to it than that. This thing, this ripoff, is organized: the first element of a conspiracy.”

“A little proof, please.” Munt's eyes flashed angrily before they settled on his note pad. So he's pissed, Dorsey thought. Who can blame him? He's got you and your mess on his hands along with having to keep an eye on Corso. And now he has to sit here with Cleardon, the top dog.

“Yesterday I was followed. Not by anybody great, but good enough to catch me after I switched cars on them. Thought I had it beat, but they were right with me. Took out my windshield to make their point.”

“Anything else?” Meara asked his question without looking up from his notes.

“There's Stockman's connection to the priest.” Dorsey figured Meara for a tough cross-examiner and chose not to play with him. He told the group of his conversation with Monsignor Gallard.

“Can't say I like this business about Stockman,” Everette said. He turned to Munt and Cleardon. “For your edification, Jack Stockman is a top-flight plaintiff's attorney. He handles a high volume of workers' compensation cases, but personal injury and product liability are well within his area of expertise. Some judgments he has obtained for his clients have been staggering. Criminal law is not his long suit, but he would be a formidable opponent. And I don't relish the idea of raking a fellow attorney over the coals. It's always bad business.”

“Perhaps the facts will eventually speak for themselves,” Cleardon said.

“But right now the facts couldn't work up a good whisper on their own,” Munt said.

“Well,” Everette said, again clearing his throat. It made Dorsey wonder if the road to success started with a phlegm-free set of vocal cords. “I think,” Everette said, “we all need to keep in mind the spirit of this meeting. We are here
to determine the course we will take. Can I assume we are all in agreement that the investigation should continue? After all, we have a great deal of smoke. Surely there must be fire to be found somewhere. John? Charles? Suggestions or ideas?”

“Certainly we must continue.” Cleardon held his cup to his lips, then returned it to its saucer without drinking. “My reason for attending this meeting must be made clear. My primary concern as a corporate officer is to protect the interests of our stockholders, our investors. Don't misunderstand, Calumet and Fidelity Casualty are rock solid. No financial problems exist and none are foreseen. But there is such a thing called the stockholders' comfort level, and that has to be maintained. I can't give them any reason to doubt the competency of the corporation's present administration. And I certainly don't want to panic over adverse publicity, which is what we now have. Every newscast and morning paper these days carries a story of a worker let go and his family dispossessed. We can't afford to be smeared as a result of the general public's sympathies. Make no doubt about it, gentlemen, we can be made to look very, very bad. I need your assurance that this will not happen.”

Dorsey was now in total control of himself. “I think I can help with that. Sam Hickcock, the local newscaster the networks are picking up, I've been avoiding him for a few days now and I can continue to do so—no problem. He'll keep on making noise, but he'll get no ammunition from me.”

“See to it,” Cleardon said.

“I think we all appreciate your concerns, Charles,” Everette said, “and I'm sure I speak for all when I say this will be foremost in our minds as we proceed. Now, Dorsey, perhaps you can give us a brief outline of your plan of action.”

“Might that not be a bit presumptuous?” Munt asked. “To me, there is still a question about Dorsey. We need to discuss whether or not he is the man for this job. Perhaps we should hire one of the larger firms; there are several
good ones with local offices here in Pittsburgh. They could place several men on the job. It would be more expensive, but the results would be quicker. Also, Dorsey is known to these people. He can't help but draw attention to himself, what with this newsman on his tail.”

“You have a point, John,” Everette said. “That's a concern. Is Dorsey too compromised to continue as our investigator?”

All eyes turned to Dorsey, but he was too much at ease to be drawn into that bear trap. The hell with three notes, he told himself. You pass on this question. Keep your mouth shut and let the silence weigh on them. You've seen it before. Important people need fast answers; silence puts them in a sweat. If you don't give them answers, they provide their own, if only because time is so precious. Let's see who cracks. And let's hope whoever it is provides something to work with.

“I have to say I feel the bigger firm would be a mistake.” It was Corso who spoke, to Dorsey the least likely source of support. “My experience with large firms has always been poor to mediocre. They can be inflexible. They have set ways and standards, which means another bureaucracy to deal with. We tell them a case has to be handled one way, and later we find out that our way doesn't jibe with their standard procedure. No doubt they'll assure us it can be done, but from experience I can tell you that nine times out of ten the word never reaches the investigator on the case. Or the billing clerk. All we'll get for our money is the standard report; uninformative and totally devoid of insight. If we had done that last spring instead of hiring Dorsey, we would never have obtained the information we must deal with today. I think Dorsey should remain on the job.”