The Steel Kiss

Whitmore said to Archer and Rhyme, “In filing for bankruptcy Midwest is protected by an automatic stay. That means we can’t sue unless we go to court and have the stay lifted.” Back to the screen and Holbrook. “I’m hoping for some courtesy information here.”

Holbrook shrugged. “I’m not going to throw up walls if I don’t have to. What do you need to know?”

“Who’s your insurer?”

“Sorry. Don’t have one. We’re self-insured.”

Whitmore’s face might have registered dismay at this. Rhyme couldn’t tell.

The in-house counsel continued, “And I have to tell you, there’s nothing left, asset-wise. We’ve got probably a million in receivables and forty million in hard assets. Zero cash. Zero stock. Versus nine hundred million debt, most of it secured. Even if you get the bankruptcy stay lifted and the judge agrees you can file the suit and you win—which, I’m sure you know, the receiver’ll fight tooth and nail—you’ll walk away with a judgment that won’t even cover your photocopy costs, sir. And that’d be two or three years from now.”

Whitmore asked, “Who would have maintained the escalator?”

“I’m afraid to say—for your sake—we did. Our parts and service division. No outside maintenance company for you to bring an action against.”

“Was the mall involved at all with the unit?”

“No. Other than superficial cleaning. And as to the contractors who installed the units, I can tell you our safety team inspected every unit carefully and signed off on them. It all falls on our shoulders…  Look, sir, I truly am sorry for your client. But there’s nothing here for you. We’re gone. I’ve worked for Midwest Conveyance my whole life. I was one of the founders. I rode the company down to the end. I’m broke.”

But you and your loved ones are alive, Rhyme thought. He asked, “Why do you think the door opened?”

The lawyer shrugged. “Take ten thousand car axles. Why do they work fine, except one, which cracks at eighty miles an hour? Why are twenty tons of lettuce perfectly harmless but a few heads from the same field are contaminated with E. coli? In our escalator? Who knows? Something mechanical about the latch, most likely. Maybe the bracket on the access panel was mounted with a screw made in China of substandard steel. Maybe the retracting pin missed tolerance but wasn’t rejected by the quality-control computer because of a software hiccup. Could be a thousand things. Fact is, the world’s not perfect. You know, sometimes I’m amazed that things we buy and put in our homes and stake our lives on work as well as they do.” A pallid smile. “Now our outside counsel’s arrived. I have to meet with them. It’s no consolation, sir, but there are a lot of people here who will have many a sleepless night about Greg Frommer.”

The screen went dark.

Archer snapped, “Was that bullshit?”

“No. It’s an accurate statement of the law.”

“There’s nothing we can do?”

The lawyer, completely unemotional, was jotting notes in his microscopic writing, all block letters, Rhyme noted. “I’ll check the filings and court documents but he’s not going to lie to us about confirmable information at hand. Under bankruptcy law a judge will sometimes lift a stay if there’s an outside insurance company—one that could pay a liability claim like ours. Being self-insured, though, no stay. The company’s immune. Judgment-proof.”

“He said we could try other defendants,” Archer said.

Rhyme pointed out, “Though he wasn’t very damn encouraging about that.”

Whitmore said, “I’ll keep looking but”—a nod at the blank screen—“Mr. Holbrook had every incentive to try to blame someone else, for his company’s reputation, if nothing else. He didn’t see a likely cause of action, and I don’t either. This is a classic product liability situation, and we’re helpless to pursue it. I’ll go see Mrs. Frommer and give her the news in person.” The lawyer rose. Fixed both buttons on his suit jacket. “Mr. Rhyme, please submit a bill for your hours. I’ll pay that myself. I thank you all for your time and effort. It was almost a fruitful experience.”

* * *

Sachs, here’s the thing. I’m out of the business. Well, the criminal business.

After dropping her mother back at the town house, following her doctor’s appointment, Sachs had driven to Manhattan and was alone in their war room at One PP, her task to make sense of the evidence in the Unsub 40 case and to prod the new officer at the Crime Scene Unit (an older woman technician who was not as good as Mel Cooper) to complete the analysis she needed: the examination of the White Castle napkins that might contain their perp’s friction ridges and additional DNA, and to identify the sawdust and varnish from the earlier scenes.

Well, that was her ostensible mission.

In fact, she was staring out the window, recalling Rhyme’s words to her of a month ago.

I’m out of the business…