Train grunted. “Sounds like a scam.”
“Sometimes,” Sydney admitted. “On the other hand, they do serve an important purpose by keeping companies in line. If it wasn’t for the fear of class-action lawsuits, many companies wouldn’t think twice about ripping people off for small sums of money because they would know that no one would ever spend the time to sue them. The system can be abused, though.”
“Do we have any way of finding out who the lawsuit was against or what was alleged specifically? There could be something in there about Venable or his father,” Train posited.
Sydney thought for a moment. “There might be, particularly if the suit was filed in federal court. Most of the dockets are searchable online, and there should be a record of it. Willie said the settlement came around ten years ago, so the lawsuit was probably filed sometime in the mid-nineties. Most of the federal courts were keeping case files electronically by then.”
“What if it was filed in state court?” Cassian asked.
“Then we’ll probably have more trouble finding it. I would guess that if they filed it in a state jurisdiction it would have been in Virginia because it involved a Virginia state medical facility—jurisdiction and venue probably would have been improper in any other state. I’m guessing that Virginia’s court files aren’t kept electronically, so searching for it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Okay,” said Train, “so we start with the federal courts and hope we get lucky. How do we run the search?”
“We don’t,” Sydney replied. “I do. That is, unless you have free access to the PACER system that searches federal dockets, and you know how to use it. It shouldn’t take me more than a couple of hours.”
Jack was hesitant. “I don’t want you putting yourself at risk any more than you already have.”
“Fine,” she said. “So I’m guessing you have someone else in mind who can run this search today?” The detectives looked at each other, their expressions making clear that they didn’t. “Well then, I guess we’re back to plan A, aren’t we?”
“I don’t think you understand, Sydney—” Jack began, but she cut him off.
“No, I don’t think you understand, Jack. My sister’s been dead for a week, and I haven’t been able to do a damned thing about it. Look at the scratches on my face. I’m not letting go of this until it’s over, got it?”
Jack looked at her, and she didn’t avert her eyes. “Got it,” he said.
Train was still rubbing his head, but it was clear that he too understood. “Here’s what I propose, then,” he said. “You go see what you can dig up on the lawsuit. While you’re doing that, Jack and I will pay Senator Venable a little visit—ask some questions and see how he reacts.”
“I don’t think Sydney should be left alone. Someone tried to kill her,” Jack pointed out.
“It’s okay,” Sydney assured him. “I’m not out on a highway in Virginia anymore, and I find it hard to believe that anyone’s going to attack me at the law school. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Jack, I’m sure.”
S
YDNEY USED A COMPUTER
in a corner of McDonough Hall at the law school to do her research. She could have used one of the terminals up in Professor Fuller’s office, also located in the build
ing, but she didn’t want to answer the many inevitable questions about what she was doing or how she was coping with her sister’s death. Things were just a little too unsettled for her to talk coherently to people at the moment. She’d have to stop up in the office if she found anything worth printing out—her password linked all her printouts to the printer in the professor’s suite—but she figured she’d deal with that if the need arose.
McDonough Hall, one of the newer buildings at the law school, with its rose-colored stone façade broken by clean, tall reflective glass, provided a sharp contrast with the surrounding area. Located down near Union Station, miles away from the rarefied environs of the main Georgetown University Campus, the law school was tucked just off the interstate and next to one of the city’s most dangerous homeless shelters. Upon matriculation, students were warned not to wander the area alone at night, and muggings and attacks were not unheard of near the campus.
Although classes had ended and exams were over, the building, which housed large lecture halls on the first floor and offices on the upper levels, was nearly as busy as it would have been during the full swing of the school year. Recent graduates were packed into the building studying furiously for the bar exam, which was given each July. In various corners, study groups of soon-to-be-lawyers huddled cross-legged on the floor or around round, low-set tables, debating arcane issues of the law of trusts and estates, torts, and securities. Sydney could taste the tension in the air as her peers worked to the point of breaking to ensure their futures. A month ago, finishing law school and passing the bar exam had been the major focus of Sydney’s life, too. Now the notion of studying anything as mundane as the rules of civil procedure seemed pointless to her.
She deposited herself in a cubbied terminal on the second floor, putting her oversized bag under the table and turning on the computer. The outdated machine hummed and whirred and struggled to life as she sat impatiently in front of the screen. Finally the prompt asked her to put in her student identification number, which she did, and after another extended delay she was connected to the law school’s network.
From there, she navigated her way around to the federal courts’ PACER system, which allowed users access to court documents online. She typed in another password, one that she’d been given to do research as Professor Fuller’s assistant, and in moments she was on the system.
The actual search would take some time, she knew. There was no way to search all the courts in the system at once; rather, she would have to go court by court, searching the records of each separately before moving on to the next. Given that there were over one hundred federal districts in the United States federal court system, it might take her hours to find anything.
She decided to start with the districts in and around Virginia, where the Institute was located, as the most likely jurisdictions where a suit would have been filed. She identified one of the districts, entered the site for it, and started putting in search terms. Then, as the computer bucked and churned, she sat back and waited.
z
Cassian and Train sat in the reception room in the office suite of Senator Abe Venable, the senior senator from Virginia. An attractive twenty-something woman in a smart dark blue business suit sat at a receptionist’s table guarding the door to the inner offices. They’d called ahead, and while they’d origi
nally been told that the senator’s schedule was full, they’d indicated that the visit involved an investigation into the Institute, and had received a callback a few minutes later indicating that Venable had freed up five or ten minutes to talk to them. They’d been waiting for more than a half hour in the reception area.
The couch on which they’d been directed to wait was low and soft, and Train felt uncomfortable with his knees poking up into his chest, so he got up and walked over to examine some of the pictures at the far end of the room. The receptionist watched him suspiciously as she went about her business.
The pictures hardly surprised Train. They showed the senator posing with statesmen and celebrities of every variety—an ego wall to be envious of, to be sure.
“The privileges of power,” a deep bass voice sounded from over Train’s shoulder.
Train turned and saw Venable standing in the doorway to his inner offices. His face was narrow, with a long, protruding nose and overhanging brow, but his frame carried the heft of age and rich food that seems to come so easily to those who spend any significant time in the endless governmental reception that is D.C. life. It occurred to Train that he looked very much like a caricature of how liberals envisioned conservative politicians. “Pardon me?” Train said, not having registered the senator’s comment.
“Meeting with other powerful people,” Venable said, pointing to the pictures. “I may not make nearly as much money as those who chose to work for investment houses or go into business for themselves, but it helps to remind people that power still has its privileges, and those privileges include having the ear of other powerful people.”
“Effective,” Train commented.
Venable tilted his head. “Detectives, come with me.” He beckoned them through the doorway, and Train and Cassian followed him. They walked down a hallway, past several small offices, until they came to a set of large double doors that led into a huge, ornately decorated office of dark wood and leather. The surroundings seemed suited to their inhabitant; overbearing and clearly designed to intimidate any visitor. To the left, a large window looked out onto the Mall, running down from the Capitol out toward the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial. As one of the most senior members of the Senate, Venable clearly had his pick of offices, and he’d chosen well.
Venable walked around behind his desk and sat down, inviting Train and Cassian to take a seat in the two chairs that faced it. “Now, gentlemen,” he drawled in a smooth country accent, “what can I do for you today?”
“First,” Train began, following standard Washington protocol, “we’d like to thank you for agreeing to see us today. We understand how busy you are, and we appreciate your time.”
Venable waved Train off. “Please, Detective, you can skip the standard ritual of blowing sunshine up my ass. I got a message from you people indicating that you were investigating my father’s work at the Institute.” He looked carefully back and forth between the two detectives. “That’s a message that’s calculated to bring a response.”
Train drew his eyebrows up noncommittally, and Venable’s gaze settled on him like a heavy burden. He held the stare, returning its intensity without aggression as they sat in silence for a long moment, neither one of them backing down. Finally Venable spoke again. “Well, congratulations, gentlemen, y’all have my attention. Now I think it’s only reasonable for me to ask you what the fuck y’all are doing here in my office.”
T
HE SEARCH TOOK
Sydney less time than she’d anticipated. Within two hours she had located the electronic files on a case captioned
William L. Murphy et al. v. Virginia Medical Association et al.
She started looking through them, but quickly realized it was useless to navigate through every
thing on the computer—the files were just too large. It would be far more efficient to download the documents to the printer down the hall in Professor Fuller’s office, so that she could flip through the materials at a reasonable pace. She was only supposed to use her school password and printer for official law school business, but she decided to break the rules this one time. Besides, anyone seeing the legal printouts would simply assume that she was conducting research for some article Professor Fuller was writing, so there was little risk.
Once the files had been downloaded, she saved the link on her computer and left her shoulder bag in the computer cubby so that no one would commandeer the terminal. This would save her time if there was a problem with the printer upstairs and she had to download the materials again.
She headed down the hallway and around the corner to retrieve her documents from the printer, keeping her head down the entire way, acutely aware that the scratches on her face, while less pronounced, hadn’t fully faded. She’d tried to cover them with a scarf so they might escape the attention of a casual observer, but she was still eager to avoid anyone she knew at the school who might stop her to ask how she was doing.
How was she doing?
The thought was ludicrous enough to draw a bitter, ironic laugh. How could she ever explain to anyone what had been happening to her life in the past week? There was no point to trying, and so she resolved to duck anyone who might try to engage her in conversation.
It was quiet up in the suite of offices Professor Fuller shared with two other professors and their assistants. Sydney wasn’t surprised. With classes over, the professors’ lair was most often deserted. Only on occasion would one of them venture in to get some work done on an article or a case.
She went quickly to the printer, and was dismayed to see that there was no stack of documents waiting for her where they should have been. She examined the machine and saw the blinking yellow light indicating that it was out of paper, and she grumbled to herself as she found a fresh ream and loaded it into the paper port.
It started printing at once, and Sydney pulled the first few sheets off the top of the printer to examine them. The first page contained the entire caption of the case, including the names of all of the defendants—there were more than twenty in all, comprised of various individuals, government agencies, and companies. She scanned them quickly to see if Venable’s name was among them, but it was not.
After the case caption, there was a docket sheet listing all of the pleadings and motions and briefs that had been filed. While the documents were long, there were relatively few of them. There was the complaint and summons filed by the plaintiffs, and a motion to dismiss the lawsuit that had been filed in reply. These were followed by a series of complicated motions dealing with the appropriateness of treating all of the alleged plaintiffs as a class, and then there was a notice of voluntary dismissal based on a settlement reached between the parties. Any specific mention of Venable’s father would most likely be found in the substantive pleadings, but Sydney had no interest in staying in the office to review them.
She checked the docket sheet against the documents that had printed out to make sure she had everything. Once she was sure, she looked around for an empty folder she could use to keep the papers together. Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder.