Authors: Robert Dugoni
The woman led Sloane into a conference room where Malcolm Fitzgerald stood near the windows. Sloane felt his entire body tense. The knuckles of his hand atop his cane turned white. When Fitzgerald extended his hand it was all Sloane could do not
to drop his cane and grab the man around the throat. But that day of reckoning would come soon enough.
They migrated to chairs at a long table: the polished top of which reflected overhead recessed lights. Windows afforded a view of the south end of Lake Washington, shaped like a horseshoe with Mercer Island in the center and spotted by tiny sails and the wakes of speedboats.
The pleasantries did not last long.
“You indicated you wished to discuss a Kendall toy in production,” Fitzgerald said, not naming the toy.
“Is it in production?” Sloane asked.
Fitzgerald slid a piece of paper across the table along with a pen. “If that is the case, I will need you to execute an agreement that anything discussed today is confidential.”
Sloane left the document and the pen on the table and maintained eye contact with Fitzgerald. “Given that I already know about Metamorphis, that it is in production, and that it has been the subject of at least two focus groups, I don’t think it’s very confidential.”
Fitzgerald too kept a poker face. “Nevertheless, we won’t have this meeting without a signed agreement.”
Fitzgerald was posing as the alpha dog, pissing on trees; Sloane wasn’t about to cede him the campground. “Then I guess we’ll both read about it in the newspapers.”
“And you should know that we will treat the dissemination of any proprietary information very seriously.”
“You might, but I don’t think a court will,” Sloane said. “So let’s stop with the threats and try to make this a productive meeting. I’m willing to agree that nothing you say in this room today is an admission of liability in any case I may file against Kendall.”
Though Fitzgerald expressed no outward concern at the mention of a lawsuit, Sloane knew that the mere possibility of
litigation, especially on the eve of what all signs indicated would be the biggest toy launch in Kendall history, was making him uncomfortable. Fitzgerald folded his hands on the table but looked like a man fighting the urge to scratch an itch.
“Do I have your word?” Fitzgerald asked.
“I just gave it.”
Fitzgerald sat back. “Then I’m here to listen.”
Beneath the table Sloane’s hand continued to squeeze the cane handle. Fitzgerald was as arrogant as his picture depicted. “I know Kendall recently used focus groups to test a toy called Metamorphis.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Pay attention. It will become apparent. I also know that Kyle Horgan, the designer of that toy, advised your company that he was concerned about the integrity of the plastic being manufactured in China, that it did not meet ASTM standards, that it was cheap, and that it had the potential to crack. He was concerned that if that occurred, it could release powerful magnets inside the plastic.”
Fitzgerald did not react.
“Two families from Kendall focus groups, the Gallegos and McFarlands, had young boys in their homes. Both suffered high fevers, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and dehydration. Both died after slipping into comas. The medical examiner found six magnets inside Mateo Gallegos that perforated his intestines and allowed toxic bacteria to poison his body and ultimately caused his death.”
Fitzgerald continued to play poker. “And you can prove these magnets came from some Kendall toy.”
“I’ll do one better, Mr. Fitzgerald. I’ll prove they came from
a specific
Kendall toy, Metamorphis.”
Fitzgerald unfolded his hands. “Your evidence, if it were accurate, would be circumstantial, at best.”
“I’m not sure a jury would see it that way. I’ve been known to convince juries of many things.”
“Would the McFarlands be the parents of the young boy on whose behalf you recently prosecuted a medical malpractice action against the boy’s pediatrician?”
It was a good blow. Sloane struggled to deflect it. “They would.”
“So we can conclude you weren’t convinced by this circumstantial evidence.”
“I obtained the evidence after the trial.”
“And what evidence would that be?”
“A letter written by the toy’s designer advising Kendall of the problems with the plastic.”
Fitzgerald’s eyebrows arched. “Do you have a copy of this letter?”
“Not with me.”
“But you’d be willing to provide it?”
Sloane shrugged. “It would certainly be subject to a document request in litigation.”
“Anything else?” Fitzgerald asked.
“I don’t think I need more, but if you’d like me to depose you and your officers and directors I can arrange for that.”
“I’ve been deposed, Mr. Sloane,” Fitzgerald said with a shrug intended to convey that he was not concerned. “I’ll tell you now what I would tell you under oath and save us both the time. I have no idea what you are talking about. Metamorphis was designed in-house here at Kendall. There was no independent toy designer, and I’m unfamiliar with any memorandum or letter such as the one you’re describing.”
Now it was Sloane’s turn to shrug. “A court can sort that out as well, I guess,” he said, inferring from Fitzgerald’s explanation what he had suspected: Fitzgerald had likely stolen Horgan’s design, which was why it became imperative that the man retrieve Horgan’s file and prevent anyone from using it to prove Horgan had designed the toy.
“I’m sure it can. And we will prove that the toy in question has been product tested and meets all applicable government and industry regulations. Kendall has been in the toy business for more than a hundred years—”
“—I took the tour downstairs after I crossed the moat,” Sloane said.
Fitzgerald gave Sloane a patronizing smile. “Then you know that Kendall has not stayed in business for more than a hundred years by putting dangerous products into the marketplace or ignoring legitimate concerns regarding one of our toys. Kendall complies with all federal regulations, and the toy of which you speak has received approval from the Product Safety Agency.”
“But not from the man who designed it.”
“The man who designed it works in Kendall’s product development department.”
“Then he stole the design.”
“Can you prove that?” Fitzgerald asked.
“As I said, ask around. I’ve been known to prove a lot of things. Can you afford the bad publicity when I do?”
“Kendall’s reputation is impeccable. The safety of children has always been Kendall’s primary concern, which is why Kendall has never had a toy recalled, and why no toy has ever left the Kendall warehouse, and none ever will, that has not been tested and found to be completely safe for children.”
“Yet you settled the Gallegos matter for fifty thousand dollars.”
In their game of chicken, Fitzgerald blinked first. “That is a confidential settlement,” he said, before catching himself and taking a moment to recover. The muscles of his jaw undulated and his nostrils flared.
“Nevertheless . . .” Sloane returned the patronizing smile.
Regaining his composure, Fitzgerald said, “The situation to which you refer was tragic. Despite the lack of evidence of
liability, we made the decision that it was prudent to avoid the publicity that, as you have said, so often accompanies litigation. The settlement was against our attorney’s advice, I might add.”
Sloane wasn’t buying that Kendall settled out of concern for bad publicity. He couldn’t imagine Dayron Moore putting fear in anyone, let alone Kendall’s attorney, Barclay Reid. It was clear that Reid had intimidated Moore so badly he wouldn’t even file a complaint.
Fitzgerald sat back. “What is it you want, Mr. Sloane?”
“I want a prototype independently tested before Metamorphis is placed in the market. I would agree to keep any results of those tests confidential pursuant to ER 408 and would agree not to divulge the information to the media.” He referenced the evidence code section that made any discussions of information obtained while engaged in settlement talks inadmissible in court. Without a plaintiff, that wouldn’t be an issue. Sloane could not even file a complaint, let alone get to a trial, and without a complaint he couldn’t initiate discovery to try to get one of the robots in production. But Fitzgerald did not know that. Perception. Sloane was bluffing and hoping Fitzgerald wouldn’t call him on it.
Fitzgerald shook his head. “You’re asking us to do your work for you.”
“Not if I can’t use the information, and not if the results of those tests, as you proclaimed earlier, will show that the product is completely safe.”
“I’ve been sued enough to know that whatever the test results, you’ll find some expert to spin it so that it warrants litigation against Kendall. As you said, Mr. Sloane, your reputation precedes you. As a compromise, I’d be willing to provide the results of the test by the PSA.”
“And I’d be happy to receive those results, but not as a substitute for having one of the robots currently in production
independently tested. The other option is I file the complaint and obtain one through discovery.”
Fitzgerald sat forward. “Mr. Sloane, do you think I would commit this company’s resources to design, market, and advertise a product if I had a concern it would be deemed unsafe and subject to a recall, not to mention the damage that would do to Kendall’s reputation? Would that make sense from a business standpoint?”
Again Sloane pushed down the anger boiling inside. Both men knew they were already beyond that point; Fitzgerald had demonstrated, very clearly, that he would do anything for the prospects of Kendall making hundreds of millions, if not billions, of dollars, including sending a killer to retrieve Horgan’s file. Besides, Sloane also knew from the newspaper articles that, given Kendall’s precarious financial situation, if Metamorphis failed, the company would likely no longer need to protect its reputation. But Sloane bit back those potential comments because it was not the bluff he was playing. Instead, he said, “Would it make sense from a business standpoint to protect the design and development of a toy only to have that information become public just months before its release? I don’t know a lot about the toy business, but I can’t imagine that would be a good thing.”
That pushed a button, as Sloane had intended it would. “Let me caution you, Mr. Sloane, that the release of any information pertaining to the design or development of Metamorphis is proprietary. To the extent you possess any such information it would have to have been illegally obtained.”
“I agree,” Sloane said, baiting him further, “by Kendall.”
Fitzgerald’s jaw clenched. “Consider this a demand that any such information be returned immediately, or the company will take legal action. You’re not the only one with a winning record, Mr. Sloane. We’ve won on this issue in the past, and we will win again. Look that up.”
Sloane pushed back his chair. He’d bluffed. The next play belonged to Kendall, and only time would reveal whether Fitzgerald would actually call him on it.
“I guess that’s why they run the races,” he said, “to see which horse actually wins.”
GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
JENKINS’S ESCORT LEAD him through the glass doors beneath the concrete overhang into the drab marble foyer with the circular emblem of the CIA embedded in the floor. The entrance to the Old Headquarters Building, apparently so named because there was now a New Headquarters Building, hadn’t changed, though there were more gold stars on the north wall, one for each CIA officer killed in the line of duty. Jenkins counted eighty-nine. As in the past, not all of the officers’ names were revealed, since doing so might still jeopardize the lives of others. Inscribed on the south wall above the bronze bust of Major General William J. Donovan, the first director of the Office of Strategic Services, predecessor to the CIA, was a passage from scripture, John 8:32.
AND YE SHALL KNOW THE TRUTH,
AND THE TRUTH SHALL MAKE YOU FREE.
Curley Wade’s assistant scanned Jenkins’s visitor’s badge through a computer and Jenkins was allowed entry through turnstiles like those found at a subway station. He walked down a hall bustling with people. Halfway down the hall his escort pushed open a glass door to the courtyard patio between the old and new buildings. No longer having security clearance, Jenkins could not
meet Wade in his office, but the man was not difficult to find. He was one of only two black men in the courtyard, Jenkins being the other, the sun shining atop Wade’s bald head. “Curley” was a nickname that had apparently been passed down multiple generations, regardless of the amount of hair atop that particular generation’s head.
Wade stood from a red metal picnic table and removed his sunglasses, considering Jenkins with an uncertain stare. “Charles fucking Jenkins. I wouldn’t believe it was actually you until I saw you in the flesh.”
Jenkins smiled, shaking the man’s hand. “Yeah, I guess it’s been a while.”
“‘Been a while’? I thought you were dead. After Mexico City you dropped off the face of the earth.”
Jenkins had first met Wade during his orientation to the Agency, studying its organization, and its history. It was likely that the Agency had paired the two men together, given they were both African American and racism and intolerance remained prevalent. After ten weeks Jenkins was sent to a remote training center in the West Virginia hills, where for six months he learned, in essence, how to become a “spook.” The culmination was a six-week probationary period running twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, in which he was to showcase what he had learned. When it concluded, a “murder board” gave Jenkins high marks. From there most of the case officers were sent for additional paramilitary training, but because Jenkins had received that training in the Special Forces, the Agency sent him to Mexico City.
“I needed to get away and deal with some of my demons.”
“Well, you haven’t changed much. Still built like a friggin’ tank.”
Jenkins patted his stomach. “I got a little bit more fuel in the tank I’m afraid.”