Our mayor is a three-term guy with the imposing name of L. Woodrow Sullivan III. To the public and the voters, he’s simply Woody, a smiling, backslapping, friendly sort who’ll promise anything for a vote. In private, though, he’s an abrasive, sour prick who drinks too much and is fed up with his job. He can’t walk away, though, because he has no place to go. He’s up for reelection next year and it appears as though he has no friends. Right now his approval rating is around 15 percent, low enough to force any proud politician to quit in disgrace, but Woody’s fought back before. He’d rather do anything than suffer through the meeting we’re about to have.
The third man in the room is the city attorney, Moss Korgan, a classmate of mine in law school. We despised each other back then and things have not improved. He edited the law review and was headed for a gilded career in a fancy corporate law firm, one that imploded and left him scrambling for lesser work.
Woody and Moss. Sounds like an ad for hunting gear.
We meet in the mayor’s office, a splendid room on the top floor of City Hall, with tall windows and views in three directions. A secretary pours coffee from an old silver pot as we take our places around a small conference table in one corner. We struggle through the obligatory chitchat and make ourselves smile and act relaxed.
Through discovery in the civil trial, I have let it be known that I intend to subpoena both of these guys to the witness stand. This fact hangs over the table like a dark cloud and makes professional politeness almost impossible.
Woody brusquely says, “We’re here to talk about a settlement, right?”
“Yes,” I say, and remove some papers from my briefcase. “I have a proposal, one that is rather lengthy. My client, Doug Renfro, prefers to settle all claims and get on with his life, what’s left of it.”
“I’m listening,” Woody says rudely.
“Thank you. First, the eight city cops who murdered Kitty Renfro must be fired. They have been on administrative leave since the murder, and—”
“Do you have to use the word ‘murder’?” Woody interrupts.
“They haven’t been convicted of anything,” Moss adds.
“We’re not in a courtroom, okay, and if I want to use the word ‘murder,’ then I’ll use it. Frankly, there is no other word in the English language adequate enough to describe what your SWAT boys did. It was murder. It’s embarrassing that these thugs have not been terminated and that they’re still getting their full salaries. They have to go. That’s number one. Number two, the chief has to go with them. He’s an incompetent jerk who should not have been hired in the first place. He oversees a corrupt department. He’s an idiot, and if you don’t believe me, then ask your voters. According to the last poll, at least 80 percent of the people in this city want him fired.”
They nod gravely but cannot make eye contact. Everything I’ve said has been said on the front page of the
The reasons are simple and complicated. If the eight warrior cops and their chief are terminated before the civil trial, they would likely become hostile witnesses against the City. It’s best if they remain united in their defense against the Renfro lawsuit.
I continue, “Once the lawsuit is settled you can finally terminate them, right?”
Moss says, “Need I remind you that our liability is capped at $1 million?”
“No, you need not. I’m very aware of that. We’ll take the million as a settlement, and you immediately fire the eight cops and the chief.”
“Deal!” Woody practically yells across the table as he slaps it with a palm. “Deal! What else do you want?”
Even though the City is on the hook for a measly million bucks, these guys are terrified of another trial. During the first one, I exposed in dramatic detail the gross malfeasance of our police department, and the
“Oh, I want a lot more, Mayor,” I say. Both look at me with blank faces. Slowly, fear begins to form in their eyes. “I’m sure you remember the story of my little boy getting kidnapped last Saturday. Pretty frightening stuff but a good ending and all that happy horseshit. What you don’t know is that he was kidnapped by members of your police department.”
Woody’s tough-guy facade melts as his face droops and turns pale. Moss, a former Marine, is proud of his perfect posture, but right now he can’t keep his shoulders from sagging. He exhales as the mayor sticks a fingernail between his teeth. Their eyes meet briefly; identical looks of terror.
