I sat upright the moment I read the story. A paralysed man was crossing a road in his electric wheelchair in the late afternoon. No one saw the impact, only two people saw the car drive away. Neither got a good description. A grey or blue Ford Falcon. All that was left at the scene were some tyre marks, the hot urgent smell of rubber, a crumpled wheelchair, its occupant already dead.
The newspaper article was a damn sight more compelling than my files. A bunch of routine matters a clerk could handle. Bored, I rebelliously commenced my working day by flicking through the Herald, where I saw the story. The car had driven straight through a pedestrian crossing and lethally swiped its victim before speeding off around the corner. Police were ‘calling for witnesses to come forward’. It was the name of the paralysed man that had jolted me. Simon Broun.
Simon Broun was a graphic artist. In his early thirties, he owned his own business. One Saturday night about three years ago, he and his girlfriend went to a party at a house to celebrate its purchase. He’d had a few wines, but he wasn’t drunk. Not unless you call a blood alcohol reading of 0.058 drunk, which I certainly don’t. A little happy maybe, and enjoying the district views from the upstairs terrace. Then he leant back on the balcony. He was not a big man, but the railing snapped at the corner like a twig. He fell less than three metres, but that’s more than enough if you land on your neck. He was lucky to be alive. He was also a C4 quadriplegic, so ‘lucky’ was a relative word. He sued the owners of the house. And they were insured by South Pacific.
It was about eighteen months since I first met with Simon Broun’s solicitor. He briefed me with some witness statements, some medical reports, and instructed me to draft a Statement of Claim. I remember him telling me the defendants had their public liability insurance with South Pacific. I was then asked to prepare an advice on the prospects of success. I thought they were excellent. Not long after that I was struck off, and the brief to advise and appear for Simon Broun left my chambers, and I left shortly after, both marked never to return.
I hadn’t thought about the case since, but it was the kind you remember because of the catastrophic injuries. The defendants – more accurately South Pacific – were a dead duck on liability. The only question was how much. Given Broun’s injuries even that wasn’t in much doubt. There was no medical issue. He would need twenty-four-hour nursing and domestic care for life. He may have had some reduced life expectancy like some people with spinal injuries, but he was doing better than many. The coin required to settle this case was somewhere between eight and twelve million. All that needed to be found was the figure between those two where everyone would say ‘yes’.
I did a computer search to check who was handling the claim so I could ask if they’d seen the article. To examine pleadings, advices, expert reports and medical reports, you either had to look at the hard copy file or have an access code I didn’t have for an electronic file, but the general records stored on the system disclosed what kind of claim a matter was, who was handling it, and what panel solicitors the matter had been referred to, if it had. It also contained a record of the reserve – the estimate of what South Pacific might have to pay out on the claim. For Simon Broun the reserve was only $10,000, and no estimate had been given for likely damages. This was a case that should have been reserved at a million at least, if not more. Ten K would barely cover Broun’s first couple of days in intensive care.
The reserve wasn’t the only odd thing. The matter had progressed a long way in the court system, but still seemed to be in-house – at least, there was no indication it had been referred to SP’s lawyers. All the pleadings were on, and many expert reports had been served even more than a year ago when I had the brief. Usually a file like this would be out the door and with the panel lawyers by now. Still, whoever signed off on the reserve was clairvoyant. With Simon Broun now dead most of his claim, particularly the big-ticket items – future medical care, future nursing care, future domestic care, future economic loss – perished with him at the accident scene. An eight to twelve million claim could no doubt be settled now with his estate for a few hundred grand.
The other thing I noticed was that the file didn’t seem to have a home. Next to the claims number the initials of the claims officer handling it should have appeared. Simon Broun’s case was ownerless. As National Head of Claims, De Luca must have known about the claim, and I wondered whether he had read the story. I could see the back of his head through the glass wall of his office, black hair glistening with gel, so I decided to wander in and check if he knew about the company’s windfall.
‘You seen this?’ I asked, holding up page nine of the paper.
‘What?’ De Luca looked in no mood to be disturbed.
‘This,’ I said, pointing to the headline.
‘What about it?’ he asked, without interest.
‘Don’t you have a claim from someone called Simon Broun? Have you seen this?’
‘How do you know about his claim?’
‘Previous life,’ I said. ‘I drafted his Statement of Claim.’
De Luca looked surprised. ‘Shouldn’t you have told us that?’
I laughed. ‘C’mon, Ang. A few things have happened to me since I took that brief. Like losing it when I lost my practising certificate. I forgot. I’ve had cases against every insurer in town.’
He didn’t look satisfied, seemed to be about to say something, then stopped. ‘So,’ he said after a pause, ‘what’s in the paper?’
‘He was killed. Hit and run.’
‘No kidding.’ De Luca’s tone was now big deal. This is what you interrupted me for?
‘You’re not interested?’
‘Of course I am. I heard last night. Tragic.’
‘You owe the prick driving the car a drink, whoever he is. If he hadn’t had a skinful before he did it. He’s saved us a lot of money.’
De Luca gave an almost imperceptible shrug of a shoulder. ‘You’re assuming he was going to win.’
‘The balcony railing snapped like a toothpick,’ I said. ‘Your insureds may as well have pushed him off it themselves.’
‘Wasn’t he pissed? Maybe he should have checked what he was leaning on.’
There had been a change in climate in injury cases since I first went to the Bar. Personal responsibility was the mantra from the benches of parliament to those of the courts. To the outrage of us ambulance chasers, our clients were being forced to prove negligence. This vast right-wing conspiracy had made its sudden and cruel appearance after years and years of successful mere assertions. My case theory, your honour? Well, my client slipped over – that’s negligence! I have the authorities here somewhere. They bruised an eyelash and couldn’t sit down for minutes. They’ll never work again. The case is worth millions. Climate change or not, we were still on planet earth. ‘It was the balcony railing,’ I said to De Luca. ‘You’re entitled to assume you can touch one without falling and breaking your neck. He was going to win.’
De Luca shrugged again, more demonstrably this time, signalling that the conversation was over. ‘Just one of those things, I guess,’ he said. ‘Maybe it has saved us some money.’
‘Try ten mil for starters.’
‘Not necessarily,’ De Luca said matter-of-factly, turning back to his computer. ‘These cripples die all the time. Young. You know, suicide, urine infections.’
‘Urinary.’
‘Yeah. Their kidneys pack up.’
‘The bug that hit this guy had automatic transmission.’
‘Yeah, well . . .’ De Luca said, shaking his head, turning away from me. ‘Who wants to live like that, anyway?’
I studied De Luca to see whether he was joking. I had the back of his head to work on. It made no difference. Vapid defies meaning, hidden or otherwise. ‘There is still some quality of life, Angelo. Hope, too. You know – rehabilitation, stem cell research, that kind of thing.’
‘Stem cells?’ he said, turning around to face me again. ‘I don’t believe in that.’
I shook my head and walked away. I forgot altogether to ask who was handling the file or why it hadn’t been referred out to the external lawyers. Stem cells. I wondered what might happen if some of De Luca’s were used for research. They might end up being construed, I thought, as something of a disappointment, as one of nature’s many unfulfilled prophecies.
De Luca’s attitude disturbed me. The calm indifference. What was I looking for? I suppose the territory best described as an elegant balance between recognising the further tragedy of the situation and the fact that it meant South Pacific was possibly ten million bucks up. How terrible, you ripper, that kind of thing.
On the way back to my kennel I stopped off at Clare’s office. ‘Do you know anything about a quad claim being handled here?’ I asked her. ‘It was an accident at a house-warming. A balcony railing gave way.’
She looked blank. ‘Do you have a name?’
‘Simon Broun,’ I said. I showed her the paper.
‘How awful,’ she said after a few moments’ reading. ‘You know, I’m not sure, but I think Greg may have had this file. Before . . .’ I nodded. Clare shook her head and read the balance of the story quickly. ‘God, what kind of luck,’ she said softly. She folded the paper up and gave it back to me. ‘Something like this happened last year, I think,’ she added.
‘In a quad case?’
‘No, no,’ she said, ‘but something vaguely similar. I’m just trying to remember.’
I was curious. ‘Would a coffee help your memory?’ I said quickly. ‘Do you have time?’
She smiled. ‘The mediocre always find time for coffee.’
‘She’s very taken with you,’ Clare said after we sat down, looking over at Mrs Zanetta, who had once again accredited me with being a gorgeous thing.
‘You should see her when I wear my other tie,’ I said. ‘The espresso machine froths on its own and we end up hanging from the light fittings.’
‘I can only imagine,’ she said, pulling something out of her bag. ‘Here, look at these. Just developed.’
She handed me a packet with a bundle of photos. Three photogenic and energetic-looking kids, sometimes with a smiling but exhausted parent or two. I made all the right noises, and particularly approved the rough-and-tumble cubist-inspired snap taken in the backyard. A tangle of kids, parents and an overexcited dog.
‘I assume there was carnage seconds after this was taken.’
‘Mayhem.’
‘They seem a happy crew.’
‘It depends on the time of day. Being their Team Leader is much tougher than anything I’ve encountered at work.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I said, handing the photos back, glancing just once more at the final photo, of Clare’s husband. Something rippled through me. I had no desire to give it a name at first. Sometimes, when you’re down, it’s hard not to feel these things. They jab at you, spar with you, you pretend you don’t feel them, but yeah, okay, I admit it. A ripple of envy and an aftershock of malice. This guy had a lot of things I didn’t have. From the obvious, to that smile that looked real. An unfeigned smile. What the hell was that?
If I’d been shown this photo a couple of years ago, it would have registered as much interest with me as a snowstorm in the Arctic. When your own life turns bitter, though, when you’re snowed on, blown about – well, it’s funny what can upset you. Someone else’s happy family snaps can do it. If you are caught off guard, if you are not prepared, if they have just sprung them out of a handbag and thrown their life in front of you like some careless happy person – they can make you catch your breath. ‘Tell me about this other case,’ I said.
‘Let me think,’ she said, holding her coffee cup in both hands and staring in front of her. ‘What happened to the claimants I remember clearly. It was a boating accident. I saw it on the TV news. It happened not far from Cronulla. The problem is, it wasn’t my file.’
‘What sort of claim?’
‘Fire damage. That’s right,’ Clare said, green eyes widening as she remembered. ‘Fire damage and business interruption. I think the plaintiffs – they were husband and wife – owned some kind of furniture design and manufacture business. Outdoor furniture, really expensive stuff. They were doing well with overseas sales. Their factory burned down – I think we’d agreed it wasn’t suspicious – and for some reason it was going to take ages to rebuild and get them started again.’
‘How much was the claim?’
‘I can’t remember. I don’t think it had all been quantified. I’m sure it was in the millions, though.’
‘And what happened to these people?’
‘They owned a boat. There was some kind of mishap. They thought it must’ve been a freak wave, and the claimants drowned. I’m actually not sure they ever found the bodies.’
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘Not quite the same, though, is it? As Broun, I mean. I presume someone – the executor – still maintained the claim?’
‘Yes,’ Clare said, ‘but I think the case settled for a fraction of what the business interruption claim was potentially worth. The husband was the main designer, and I don’t think they had children.’
‘When was this?’
‘July, August, last year,’ she said. She smiled quizzically at me over her cup. ‘Why are you so interested?’
‘No reason,’ I said. ‘I’m always interested in happy occurrences for South Pacific that save us money.’
‘I wouldn’t describe these things as happy occurrences, Chris,’ she said.
‘No, sorry,’ I said, ‘that sounds callous. Forgive me. I’ve been working for an insurance company for too long. Who was the claims handler?’
‘I think it was Gary Parsons, but he retired not long after the accident,’ she said. ‘I think Angelo settled it with the executors.’
‘Does Angelo handle many claims on his own?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘He may have picked up some of Greg’s caseload. Most of it was distributed amongst the rest of us, though, until you turned up.’
‘That Broun file is reserved at 10K.’
Clare looked surprised. ‘That seems low for a quad case.’
It did. ‘Maybe they reserved when I was his counsel. Reduced the estimate of damages accordingly.’
She smiled. ‘That’s the rumour I heard,’ she said standing up. ‘And we’d better get back. They’ll be starting rumours about us soon.’
I could do with a rumour or two about me, I thought as we left Mrs Z to her shouts of ‘Ciao, Bella, Ciao, my beautiful man.’ If I didn’t have the real thing, a rumour would be something. Not much, not tangible, not true, not even remotely, but beyond six months, you can get desperate.
I could also have done without Clare being married, if I’m honest. But I was stuck with her and her wedding ring and her three good-looking kids. Stuck with her good-looking husband with the unfeigned smile. The son of a bitch didn’t even look like he thought he was lucky. He looked like it’s all normal. It is not normal. Normal is mid to late thirties, single, broke, humiliated, and working for an insurance company in injury claims. In ascending order of pain. The guy in the photo is a freak.