Rutherford II paused for a moment, then tried a fresh tack. “Are you aware of the highest amount ever paid to a whistleblower? How unreasonable this is?” he asked.
“One hundred million. Believe me, I’ve studied the act in great detail. Two billion, or we’ll finish this discussion in court.” She waved the contract like a loaded gun.
There was a long pause as Harper and Rutherford unhappily put two and two together. Jack had not just become Mia’s client; the pair had been in this together from the start. It explained so much, from Mia’s earlier discovery of the report detailing the polymer’s fatal flaw to what was happening here now. She had had many months to think this through, and she had used that edge to sucker them into this deal.
Oh, what they would give if only they could go back ten minutes in time, a do-over.
Suddenly Jack leaned up against Mia and whispered in her ear. She said, “Excuse us a minute,” then they both got up and carried the private conversation to the far corner of the room. All eyes remained on their faces. Mia whispered something at Jack, a hiss more than a whisper. Jack leaned closer and whispered more fervently, and they went back and forth awhile. Their discussion, while quiet, was obviously an intense argument. Eventually, Mia produced a sulky nod, then backed away from Jack. They returned to the table and fell into their chairs.
Mia looked upset for a few seconds, and it required a considerable effort to collect herself. “Oddly enough, Jack agrees two billion is a shocking sum. Too shocking.”
“Thank God somebody’s being reasonable.”
She gave Jack a dirty look, then faced Rutherford II again. “He’ll settle for one billion. Our final offer. A pitiful five percent of what the Capitol Group would’ve stolen were it not for Jack.”
“That’s still ridiculous.”
“Then I’ll see you in court for the full two billion.”
Now it was their turn to whisper. Harper and Rutherford II got up and moved to a different corner, where they murmured back and forth at a furious pace. What are our chances if we refuse to back down and go to court, Harper asked Rutherford, the lawyer. An uncertain shrug-a contract’s a contract, he whispered unhappily. He and Harper both would have to admit incredible stupidity, they’d have to argue that they had no idea what they were signing, a humiliating and feeble assertion coming from the mouths of an experienced lawyer and a senior law enforcement official. Then pray for a cheapskate judge and a long-shot verdict.
Two billion was so far over the top, it could happen.
And what if we concede to one billion, she asked, and they began chewing over that option. Well, at least half that cost would be recouped in the penalties they would impose on CG. They would also sue to claw back the $5.5 billion already paid into CG’s coffers. Clawbacks typically got back only a modest fraction of the total spent, but if these tapes were half as compelling as Mia and Jack claimed, they stood an excellent chance of getting far more; three-quarters wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. A one billion investment that offered a return of possibly four, or even five billion dollars. Considered in that light, it wasn’t a bad deal; in fact, it was a great deal. And when the secretary of defense heard that taped conversation of Bellweather and Walters talking about him, Harper noted, he’d want to hammer them into bankruptcy, or as close as they could get.
For one billion, they’d buy the tapes, they’d buy Jack, they’d buy control of this thing, and they’d get back billions.
Harper didn’t mention the billions in embarrassment they would save. She didn’t need to.
Rutherford II returned to the table. He took off his glasses and spent a moment wiping the lenses on his necktie. “All right,” he finally groaned. “One billion. But you won’t see a penny until we have the tapes and see for ourselves that they’re everything you’ve promised.”
Mia smiled at him.
Jack thanked them.
Graves leaned back in his chair and tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a loud laugh. They were certainly an amazing couple. Mia had warned him only an hour before that he would be shocked by the size of the reward. How much? he had asked.
One billion, she’d predicted.
31
For two weeks, the Capitol Group was the talk of the town and the sole and abiding concern in newsworld. The cable talk shows could squawk about little else. Talk radio went on a rabid tear. Every day, more arrests were made, adding more oxygen to the bonfire that threatened to become an endless flame. Three congressmen and two senators were charged, fifteen staffers also, and nobody believed it would end there. A mood of heavy despair hung over the Capitol building like a thick mist. Four more congressmen and two senators announced they were stepping down at the end of their terms, sparking wide suspicions that they had cut deals to avoid indictments.
The film clips of rich senior executives doing the perp walk replayed endlessly. It was the Feds’ favorite stunt and they indulged it every chance they got.
Bellweather in particular was a big hit, especially on YouTube, where the stream of filthy curses pouring out his mouth weren’t in any way censored.
Mitch Walters wasn’t nearly as popular, logging a comparatively puny seven million hits. Mitch, the tough-guy wannabe, was shaking and blubbering as he tried to hide his face by draping a trench coat over his head.
Mia, on behalf of her client, did as few interviews as possible. She appeared thoroughly uninterested and came off dry and boring. The newspeople were attracted to her beauty, but it was obvious that TV time didn’t float her boat, like so many in the legal profession. Her answers were brisk and not overly educational, and the news bureaus quickly lost interest.
Jack stayed in seclusion. Mia offered the thin excuse that her client needed to remain out of the limelight for legal reasons. There would be many trials, and Jack needed to avoid any risk of tainting the evidence, she insisted.
The defendants had already hired the most flamboyant legal guns in the country. The big D.C. law firms loved Jack, and adored Mia. Gift horses like them came along once a decade. Business promised to be great for the foreseeable future.
At the end of week three, a major city in California got torched by a raging wildfire. The damage and horrendous tales of suddenly homeless families displaced Capitolgate, as the scandal had inevitably been named by the imagination-deprived press.
Occasional stories continued to crop up-Martie O’Neal’s attempted prison escape and subsequent recapture in a restroom in Richmond, for instance-but the public became bored and the press moved on.
After a three-week orgy, the press grew tired of Capitolgate, too.
They would rest for a while, until the slew of trials began with the promise of more sensationalism.
Mitch Walters was seated at a table at the Cosmos Club, across from Phil Jackson, now his lawyer.
Jackson was one of the lucky few to avoid an indictment, a strong tribute, he was sure, to his own legal ferocity. When the first arrests occurred, he held a rambunctious press conference where he snarled into the cameras and threatened a record-breaking lawsuit if any attempt was made to arrest or indict him. Yes, he was a director of the company, but he also served as legal counsel. Any involvement he had in the polymer fiasco was merely a by-product of that. All his conversations and associations occurred under that blanket, and were fully protected under the broad, immutable rubric of attorney-client privilege.
Two days later he was hired by Walters to be his legal counsel. He tried to refuse, but Walters offered him a magical incentive-get him off, or Walters would sing and offer enough damning material to ensnare Jackson and ensure him a rope on the gallows beside him. Throwing in some of his own money, Jackson posted bail to get Walters sprung.