Buying Time (7 page)

“So is this a payoff?” Waverly asked.

“That’s exactly what it is and the guys we’re about to meet know nothing about it. So keep it to yourself. Are you in?”

Yet again, Waverly found himself faced with the option of doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. He had bills to pay and a wife to support. The decision was a no brainer. “I’m in.”

Seconds later, two men, both casually dressed, approached from the rear. Vincent stood and introduced them. “This is Tom Bellamy, the CEO of Live Now,” he said, pointing to the taller man. “And this is his business partner and Vice President of the company, Jonathan Cartwright.”

Cartwright was toned and tanned and looked affluent even in khakis and a golf shirt. Bellamy, older and not nearly as fit, had bushy black hair and a thick paunch around his midsection. He wore a bland, beige leisure suit.

They moved to a comfy seating area on the nearby patio.

“I hope Vincent’s done a good job of selling you on our business,” Cartwright said, after a waiter delivered two more beers.

“He has indeed,” Waverly replied.

Cartwright picked up his beer. “We just lost our only L.A. broker. He made so much money that he retired to Jamaica. We’d like to replace him right away. You’d be covering all of the metro L.A. area. It’s great that you’ve got office space you can use.”

Waverly swallowed hard. He would worry about his impending office eviction later. “Where else does Live Now operate?”

“Through our parent company, The Tustin Group, we’re in three other states right now, New York, Nevada and Florida. If things go well here, we’ll be expanding to Texas by the end of the year.”

“How do you decide where to set up your operation?”

“We’re starting to focus more on the elderly, so we’re looking at states with the largest elderly populations. New York, Florida, California and Texas are all in the top ten. Many people don’t adequately prepare for retirement and others, frankly, didn’t expect to live as long as they have. So in their seventies or eight-ies, they decide to sell their insurance policies because they need the cash. Those are called life settlements.”

Waverly was astounded. “You do this for people who aren’t dying, too?”

“Absolutely.  The investors may have to wait a little longer to cash in, but it’s still a great investment. More and more people are choosing to retire in the Las Vegas area, so we’re expecting the elderly population there to have a big growth spurt. But don’t worry about that side of the business. We want you to concentrate on the terminally ill for now.”

During the next twenty minutes, Cartwright confirmed everything Vincent had told him about the business, but Waverly still had more questions. “How do you prevent somebody from taking a payout and disappearing? You might never know they died.”

“They’re required to send us a postcard with their signature by the fifth of every month,” Cartwright explained. “In almost twenty years, only one person tried to skip. It took just six days for our investigator to track him down.”

“What happens if the policy lapses?” Waverly asked.

Cartwright smiled. “You must be a damn good lawyer because you’re asking all the right questions. It’s the investor’s obligation to continue paying the premiums. For that reason, they aren’t too happy when a policyholder lives longer than we estimated.”

“How do you even know the person is really dying?”

“We have a team of doctors who review their medical records,” Cartwright said. “We’re looking for people with a life expectancy of six months to a year max. It’s really amazing, but most of the time, our doctors’ estimates are right on the money.”

This was actually sounding too good to be true. “Are most of your investors individuals?”

Bellamy finally entered the conversation. “About fifty percent, and they’re mainly doctors. Physicians are used to dealing with death and don’t have any ethical concerns with this type of investment. The remaining investors are small companies, even some insurance companies. They’re all looking for a safe investment with a solid rate of return.” Bellamy took a sip of his drink and grinned. “Nothing is guaranteed but death, taxes and a big ‘ole return on your viatical investment.”

They all laughed.

“Can I get started before I get my license?” Waverly needed money yesterday.

Vincent slapped him on the back. “See what I told you. This guy’s a real go-getter.”

Cartwright nodded approvingly. “I like your enthusiasm. “You can start making presentations now, but you’ll need to have your license before you can actually ink a deal.”

“Sounds like you’re sold,” Bellamy said.

Waverly took a big swig of his beer. “Bought
and
sold.”

A
ngela speed walked into the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel. She spotted Cornell seated at the bar. She could tell before she reached him that he was fuming.

“Sorry, I’m late,” she said, panting. “We were discussing this case and—”

“I don’t understand why you can never be on time, Angela,” Cornell scolded. “You were supposed to be here twenty-six minutes ago. This is unacceptable. And I specifically asked you to wear the red St. John suit that I bought you. Why aren’t you wearing it?”

Because I didn’t feel like dressing like my mother.

“It’s in the cleaners,” she lied. “What’s wrong with the suit I have on?”

Cornell looked her up and down. “I guess it’s fine.” He drained his glass and hopped off the barstool. “Can you believe the Court of Appeal reversed my summary judgment decision in the Banker case today? Just wait until one of those arrogant assholes from Latham & Watkins comes into my courtroom again. I’ll show them who’s in charge.”

Angela put a hand on Cornell’s arm. “What are you saying? You’re going to retaliate against the whole firm because you got reversed?” He still hadn’t gotten over being rejected by the firm for a summer associate position more than twenty years ago.

“C’mon, you know I was just mouthing off.” His lips angled into a diabolical smile. “I’d never do anything like that. That would be unethical.”

Cornell took off down a hotel corridor wider than most city streets. Angela had to practically jog to catch up with him.

“Tell me again,” she said, “what’s going on tonight?”

“Bar Association fundraiser. Paul Streeter, who’s on the Federal Judicial Nomination Advisory Committee, is supposed to be here tonight. This’ll be a good opportunity for me to meet him.”

After ten years as a superior court judge, Cornell now aspired to a seat on the more prestigious federal court bench. He was already lobbying his political contacts in hopes of being considered for the next district court appointment. Meeting Streeter, he assumed, could only help.

They picked up their dinner tickets at the registration table and entered a ballroom filled with business types. Cornell scanned the room. “I think I see him over there.” He grabbed her hand and they began winding their way through the crowd.

Cornell stopped just short of a small circle of men who seemed to be in the midst of a serious debate. “That’s Streeter right there,” Cornell whispered, indicating a lanky, bearded guy with salt and pepper hair.

Angela hoped Cornell wouldn’t be bold enough to interrupt. She was about to caution him not to, when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

Angela looked back and found Rick McCarthy standing behind her.

“Saw your closing in the Pell case last month. Nice job.” McCarthy was a well-connected assistant U.S. attorney who still enjoyed trying cases after nearly thirty years on the job.

“Thanks,” Angela beamed. She linked her arm through Cornell’s. “This is my fiancé, Judge Cornell Waters. He’s on the superior court bench downtown.”

They shook hands, then Cornell rudely turned his attention back to the group of dark suited-men surrounding Streeter.

“You ever think about the bench, Angela?” McCarthy asked.

Cornell abruptly spun around.

“No way,” Angela laughed. “I don’t think I’m judge material.”

“I disagree. We need sharp young lawyers like you on the bench. And needless to say, the federal courts could certainly use some diversity. Let me introduce you to a friend of mine.” McCarthy tapped Paul Streeter on the shoulder. “Hey, Paul, I have a future judicial candidate I’d like you to meet.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Angela could see Cornell’s jaws expand into a pout. McCarthy spent the next few minutes bombarding Angela with accolades. She wished he would stop talking so she could introduce Cornell.

Streeter removed a card from his inside breast pocket. “Can’t beat a recommendation like that,” he said with a warm smile. “Let’s stay in touch.”

“I’d like to introduce my fiancé,” Angela began, “Judge Cornell Waters. He’s—”

The lights began to flicker, signaling that everyone should proceed to their tables. Streeter acknowledged Cornell with a curt nod, then walked off.

Angela glanced down at her ticket to check their table number. When she looked up, Cornell had walked off.

When she finally caught up with him, he was already seated. “What are you doing here?” he snickered. “I figured there’d be a seat for you at Streeter’s table.”

Cornell could be such a baby,
Angela thought. She pulled out the chair next to him and was about to sit down, but changed her mind. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

Angela walked out of the ballroom and into the restroom, where she touched up her lipstick and fluffed her hair. She tried to ignore her nagging doubts. Did she really want to be a mother bad enough to endure a life sentence with Cornell?
Maybe.

A feeling of dread consumed her as she trudged back toward the ballroom. Halfway there, she pulled her BlackBerry from her purse and fired off a short text to Cornell:
Not feeling well. Going home.

As she headed for the valet stand, the tension she’d felt only seconds ago had magically disappeared.

E
rickson had not expected his first visit to the White House to affect him this way. As he sat waiting in a reception area outside the Oval Office, he was practically giddy.

Hold it together, buddy. It’s show time.

He looked up to see the President’s executive assistant, a petite, stylishly dressed woman with a practiced smile, approaching from a long hallway. She stopped just in front of him, appropriately respectful of his personal space. “Mr. Erickson, the President will see you now.”

Gripping both sides of the chair, he easily hoisted himself upward.

Erickson felt a sense of power like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Being chairman of a preeminent law firm was one thing, but he was about to meet the freakin’ President.

He followed the President’s assistant, easily matching her steady stride. She slowed, opened a tall door, then stepped aside so that he could enter.

President Richard Bancroft and his Chief of Staff, Mark Wrigley, both stood up.

“Good to see you, Lawrence.” The President greeted him with a strong, two-handed grip.

“Good to meet
you
, Mr. President,” Erickson replied.

He shook Wrigley’s hand next and tried to get a handle on his excitement.

The majesty of the room overwhelmed him. It suddenly hit him that the place was called the Oval Office because it actually was. He glanced down at the Presidential seal on the rug in front of President Bancroft’s desk.

“Let’s have a seat over here.” Bancroft pointed to a seating area in the middle of the room. “First things, first. How’s your wife?”

Erickson lowered his eyes in what he hoped was an appropriate display of distress. “As well as can be expected. But she’s a trooper.”

The President responded with a look of grave concern.

Erickson seriously doubted that Bancroft had any genuine interest in the state of his wife’s health. At dinner the night before, one of Wrigley’s assistants, relaxed from too much vodka, let it slip that his wife’s illness might help him edge out the other candidates. At least two of the President’s advisors felt the press might cut Erickson some slack since he was about to become a widower.

As the President made small talk, Erickson struggled to stay focused. Here he was, Lawrence Adolphus Erickson, son of a steelworker, grandson of a corn farmer, sitting in the Oval Office. He wished his whack job of a father, who constantly told him he’d never be worth a damn, could see him shooting the breeze with the President of the United States.
This
would’ve killed him. Not sclerosis of the liver.

“Mark would like a few minutes alone with you,” the President said. He stood and exited through a side door that Erickson hadn’t noticed until now.

“You ready to roll?” Wrigley asked, as soon as the President was gone.

“All set,” Erickson said.

“It’s extremely important that the media doesn’t get wind of our slate of candidates,” Wrigley said. “So other than Becker, you should not share this with anyone. You can tell your wife, but only if you can guarantee confidentiality. A leak could threaten your candidacy.”

Erickson had no intention of sharing his great news with Claire. “That won’t be a problem.”

Wrigley leaned back, crossed his legs, and extended his arm along the back of the couch. “As you know, we have a pretty thorough vetting process, but things can still slip through the cracks. You easily cleared the first round of vetting. Some other good candidates didn’t. Now we go a whole lot deeper.”

Erickson was dying to know who else was on the list, but such an inquiry would be out of line.

Wrigley fixed Erickson with a steely gaze. “There’s a question I need to ask, and you’re probably going to hear it a few more times before this is all said and done. Is there anything we don’t know about you, your family or your background that might cause embarrassment for the President?”

Erickson chuckled as if the question was absurd. “Absolutely not.” The lie rolled so effortlessly off his lips that he almost believed it himself.

Wrigley held Erickson’s gaze for a few more beats, as if giving him time to retract his answer. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” Wrigley rubbed his hands together, then bounced off the couch. “Then let’s get to it.”