Inhaltsangabe
A high-powered attorney brings a wealthy presidential candidate and inventor to court over a defective recreational airplane the latter once designed, in a thriller named a People Page-Turner of the Week. Reprint.
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Aus dem Klappentext
Lang, high-powered litigator, has the case of a lifetime: a lawsuit against celebrated tycoon and presidential contender Russell Lindstrom. Lindstrom once designed a recreational airplane meant to be the jet set's toy of the century. The only problem is that the plane, the Stormtree, has a fatal tendency to go into a flatspin--a deadspin. In the wrong hands, the Stormtree is guaranteed to crash and burn.
Christopher Lang is just cocky enough to think that in the courtroom he can nail a man like Lindstrom. But Lindstrom has connections in all the right places. The trail linking him to the Stormtree has been erased. And Lang has no idea that he himself is a pawn in a larger battle, a fight with implications for national security. His case crumbling around him, Lang must put his career--his life--on the line to defeat a man with his eye on the highest office in the land.
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Tired and frustrated, Lang tossed his deposition notes back onto the small round Formica table in his tiny hotel room. Having finished with Lindstrom too late to drive back to Houston in time to catch the last plane for Los Angeles, he grabbed a room at the local Holiday Inn. Now, with the remnants of a greasy hamburger and french fries scattered across the table, he replayed the day's testimony over in his mind, absently squeegeeing the condensation from his Coke can with his thumb. On the television, a hockey game played on, without sound. The red LED display on the small nightstand clock read 8:49.
Although Lang was still thoroughly stymied in his efforts to make a case against Lindstrom, there was a ray of hope in the fact that, if Molly O'Keefe was to be believed, Lindstrom was a liar. His credibility could be attacked at trial. Encouraging, yes, but as Amy would no doubt point out, it fell well short of evidence.
He picked up the remote control and scanned through the channels. Milo Rich was hammering on one of the candidates for governor of California. Alex Trebek was trying hard to enliven a game of Jeopardy! where the defending champion was drubbing his adversaries by more than $10,000. Mama's Family seemed to be on no less than three stations. At least there was no Russell Lindstrom on the tube tonight, thought Lang.
Nonetheless, at the top of the hour, the network news update noted that the primary season would begin next week in New Hampshire, where "wealthy industrialist and political neophyte" Lindstrom was expected to finish well behind the front-runners, despite a strong showing last week in the Iowa caucuses.
There was a sharp knock at his door. Lang had no idea who it might be. The possibility of Laura Carey briefly crossed his mind as he moved toward the door. To his chagrin, he caught a reflection of himself in the mirror, noting his faded jeans and torn Tierra Rejada Middle School T-shirt. He opened the door. In the hallway stood two huge men, one white, the other black, wearing dark blue suits. Despite the hour, they wore dark wraparound sunglasses. "Mr. Lang?" said the black man.
"Yes?"
"Agents Robertson and Callero of the United States Secret Service. May we come in?"
"Why?"
"Mr. Lindstrom would like to visit you here and we need to secure the area. Standard procedure."
"Mr. Lindstrom?" Lang repeated. He tried to look down the hall to see who else might be there, but couldn't see past the two men.
"That's right, sir."
"Do you guys have some sort of I.D.?"
They produced shields that looked authentic enough to Lang. It was obvious to him that each carried a gun in a shoulder holster. Since he had nothing of value in the room, he decided there would be no harm in letting them in, since if they wanted to kill him or rob him, they would have little trouble overpowering him anyway. You learn to look at things this way, he thought, when you live in L.A. He stepped back from the door.
Quickly and efficiently they completed a thorough survey of the small room and the adjacent bathroom and exchanged a look that must have meant it was safe. One of them went back out into the hallway and motioned to someone else. Four more men emerged from the dim light of the hallway and entered the room. In the middle was Lindstrom, dressed in a different dark gray suit from the one he had worn to the deposition. There was barely enough room to move with all of them in the tiny space. Lang was feeling decidedly claustrophobic. And he had no idea what was going on.
"Excuse me? What's this all about?" he asked, looking toward Lindstrom through his entourage.
"Hi, Chris," he said with the casual air one would expect from a co-worker at the coffee machine. "Kind of cramped in here, isn't it?" He laughed a hearty, commanding laugh. To the other men, he said, "Please wait for me outside, gentlemen."
A wave of "Yes, sirs," swept the room, and what looked like the offensive line of the Pittsburgh Steelers in Brooks Brothers suits retreated into the hallway. The door closed behind them, leaving only Lang and Lindstrom.
"Nice place you have here, Chris," Lindstrom said with a thin smile. "Mind if I sit down?" Without waiting for an answer he sat gingerly on the edge of the couch.
"I don't mind if you sit down, Mr. Lindstrom. But I can't talk to you. A lawyer can't talk to the opposing party outside the presence of that party's lawyer without the consent of the absent lawyer. It's an ethical requirement."
"Gentry? I don't think I need Gentry's consent to talk to you. But if it makes you feel better, then I will represent to you that he has given permission."
"That's not the point, Mr.--"
"Let's cut the crap, Chris. You put me through hell today, son. Wrung the sweat out of me in that chair."
"But--"
"One of the worst damned days of my life. You're tenacious, you're bright. A dangerous adversary."
The flattery was a smoke screen for something, Lang knew, but he wasn't sure what. For now, all he knew was that he was definitely off-balance.
"You're wrong, of course, about me and that airplane. That's the God's truth, too. I had nothing to do with it. But I have to admit that you act like a man who doesn't believe that. Worse, you seem like that rare man whose intellect and tenacity equip him to make others believe the way he does, in spite of the evidence."
"Look, Mr. Lindstrom, I appreciate--"
"The point is, Chris, you're everything your sterling reputation would suggest. Maybe better, based on my afternoon in hell with you."
Lang was growing angry. He was obviously the object of a strong-arm attempt to dislodge him from the trail he was sure was genuine and he didn't like it at all. "Mr. Lindstrom," he said, raising his voice and sharpening his tone to avoid being cut off again. "We cannot discuss this case without Mr. Hickman. It's inappropriate and counterproductive. You have your version of the facts and I know what the evidence will show. That's why we're in court."
"Hell, Chris," Lindstrom said, holding up his hand and smiling. "This isn't about the lawsuit. I know we disagree. And I have total confidence in my knowledge of the facts. After all, I was there. Remember? I don't think you know anyone else who was."
Lang successfully fought the urge to blurt out Molly O'Keefe's name. He said nothing, but caught a strange, threatening look in Lindstrom's eye for the briefest moment. Then Lindstrom continued. "This is about you. And duty. And service to your...
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