LULA HAD GATHERED AND ORGANIZED David’s high school records, his college transcripts, and the names and addresses of former teachers who could be character witnesses. She had obtained a copy of the civil suit filed against David. It alleged copyright infringement, antitrust violations, unfair competition, and violation of the racketeering statutes. The named plaintiffs were a laundry list of the top technology companies in the country. I recognized many of the lawyers on the pleading—top-flight corporate litigators from DC, the Silicon Valley, and NY. Lead counsel was the prestigious Romatowski Law Firm. My small office of one lawyer and two paralegals would face an army of the nation’s best attorneys.
Neither Royce nor Lula said a word while I skimmed the seventy-five-page complaint. At issue was software that David had developed, but for the life of me I couldn’t tell what the software did or why the plaintiffs found it so offensive. As for the criminal indictment, either there wasn’t one, or it was under seal.
“These appear to be significant charges—sort of David versus Goliath stuff. Why hasn’t there been any press coverage?”
“We have no idea,” Royce responded. “They filed the civil complaint in the late afternoon, and the FBI arrested David at his girlfriend’s house that night. Scared the poor girl to death. David barely had time to tell her to call his grandfather and reassure her that everything would be all right.”
It sounded as if someone had coordinated the civil suit and the arrest, but usually the Feds use this sort of tactic to maximize publicity, not prevent it.
“How did you get a copy of the civil suit?” I asked. The pleading indicated it had been filed under seal.
“Lula has her ways.” Royce answered with a shrug. I looked at Lula, who flashed an innocent grin.
I raised my wine glass to her and said, “Thank you—too bad you can’t work on the case full time. Looks like we may need all the help we can get.”
“Lula will be ready to help if you need her.” Royce responded a bit stiffly.
“I thought one of our purposes was to distance the family from David as much as possible,” I commented.
“You’re right, but there are things we can do, people who can help. Lula is one.”
“I’ll keep your offer in mind. Besides putting together his background information, what else have you done for David?”
“Nothing more than we would do for any family member behind bars. For instance, no one will harm him while he’s incarcerated.”
“Well, sometimes that kind of message becomes a challenge in prison,” I pointed out. “The last thing I want is for David to be attacked.”
A few years ago, a client had died in jail before she had even been charged. The guards tried to convince me it was suicide, but I knew it wasn’t. I remain dubious that anyone can commit suicide with a bed sheet in a jail cell. No matter how miserable the circumstance or how depressed the prisoner, almost no one turns to hanging, nor do they know how to do it. Using a worn and tattered bed sheet as a rope isn’t as easy as it sounds, and the staff doesn’t teach the procedure during prison orientation. The number of people who die in jail for any reason is a national disgrace: prison suicide should never occur, and in reality, seldom does. From credible reports I’ve read, and from my own experience, alleged suicides usually entail some measure of assistance from either a guard or fellow prisoner who has been adequately reimbursed for his efforts.
Royce interrupted my thoughts. “I’m telling you—David will be okay. Mr. Thibodeaux will make it clear. No one will so much as touch him.”
His attitude had become slightly belligerent, so I let it go.
“What about his business partners? Do they know? Has anyone spoken with them? Any further communication with the girlfriend?” I asked.
“David and his partners split up about a year ago—they returned to California. Lula has their contact information. I bet the girlfriend has told them about David’s arrest. She knows how to reach me if she needs anything. I’ll let her know you’ll call. That reminds me: you should go through me when you want to talk to Mrs. Ruple. She’s staying at the Willard.”
“Why?’ I asked.
“Mrs. Ruple has some, well—emotional issues and is prone to self-medicate, if you get my drift.” He reached for his own glass, looking slightly uncomfortable. “There are certain times of day when she’s not at her best. I won’t interfere, but I think I can help, maybe run interference.”
“Okay, thanks. Good to know,” I said, wondering if the woman had issues other than the obvious implication. Royce gave a little sigh and continued.
“Look, Jack, David appears to be in deep shit, and we don’t have any idea what he’s done. Mr. Thibodeaux knows the situation is difficult. We’ll do whatever we can to help you help David.”
He paused for another swig of bourbon, then continued, switching to a lighter tone. “So—like most lawyers, you probably want to know how you get paid. Right?”
He smiled broadly at the insult, but I had already decided not to take a fee—it would be a favor for a favor. My daughter’s safety was more than worth it.
“The New Orleans families have done an excellent job of protecting my daughter…” I began.
Royce raised his hand to protest. “Sorry, but no. Your daughter’s protection is an accommodation for which you paid the agreed sum. It would raise all kinds of flags if you represented David for free or at a reduced rate. Mr. Thibodeaux insists on paying your normal rates. A deposit will be wired into your firm’s trust account tomorrow as a retainer. Send me a monthly statement; it will be paid promptly.”
“I understand your rationale, Royce,” I said slowly. “But it’s a bit ticklish when someone else offers to pay a defendant’s legal bills. I’ll need to discuss your offer with David. He must be aware of and consent to the source of payment. For all I know, David may not want me to represent him. But if he does, he will be the client. It will be up to him whether I tell you anything about his defense or our strategy. I hope you and Tom understand this. The person who pays the bills rarely agrees to give up control.”
“Mr. Thibodeaux is not a man who gives up control easily. That said, he’s put his grandson’s future in your hands and trusts in your abilities.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if I failed to live up to such high expectations. Would I find myself at the bottom of some backwoods bayou?
Royce continued, “Before Mr. Thibodeaux invited you to New Orleans, we did our homework. Your reputation as an advocate is impeccable. Given what David is up against, Mr. Thibodeaux believes you are David’s best chance. Maybe it was luck that gave us the opportunity to protect your daughter, or maybe it was fate that brought you to us. Either way, you’ll get no interference from us. Your challenges are daunting enough already.”
“Thank you. I appreciate both your opinion and your trust,” I said, ready to get beyond the oddly formal speeches. “Now—other than making sure David remains safe and sound in the D.C. jail, what other steps have you taken?”
“When the court sets bail, we will post bond,” he answered.
“The bail amount could be substantial,” I pointed out.
“There are several bondsmen in DC who will post bail as an accommodation. Don’t worry—no one will connect David’s bond with Mr. Thibodeaux. Call me when the judge sets bail. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Sounds like you’ve thought of everything,” I commented.
“We have some experience in these matters,” he smiled.
“I must warn you: the Feds have no problem using the words ‘national security’ to get around the Constitution. My experience tells me to expect the unexpected for anything related to computer or privacy issues. You might also check for listening devices and be wary of hackers.”
“We already pay someone to take care of internet and phone security.”
“What about Mrs. Ruple?” I asked.
The confidence in his eyes wavered—his answer came a little more slowly.
“Gloria won’t take a request to check her phone or computers well. She’ll think I’m using David’s situation as an excuse to invade her privacy.”
Great. First, she self-medicates, and now she doesn’t trust Royce.
“Why don’t you let me ask Stella Rice to check her computer and phone. She is Clovis’ wife as well as an expert in computer security. I can raise the idea in the context of the litigation.”
“That might work.” Royce responded, emphasizing the word “might.”
“I take it that Mrs. Ruple can be difficult,” I said, careful to keep my tone neutral.
“To be honest, Gloria can be a handful. She loves her son, but that love has its limits. David will have three adversaries: first the Feds, second the tech companies, and finally, his mother, who has learned over time that she needs to protect herself.”
“Can’t Mr. Thibodeaux talk sense into his daughter? Explain just how bad the situation is for David?”
“At one point, Gloria and her father were very close—she would have done anything he asked. But their relationship cooled after her husband died, and now they hardly speak.”
I waited for Royce to explain, but he offered nothing more. Just as the silence became awkward, Lula stepped up with the work she had done. She produced contact information for David’s clients, college friends, business partners, and former girlfriends. She knew where David banked, what credit cards he had—almost as much information as Google or Amazon has on any American. I got the impression that although David valued his independence, his family kept a very watchful eye on Thibodeaux’s favorite grandson.
None of us had much more to say. Royce and Lula had answered my questions, but I felt sure they were holding back until I proved my worth. For my part, I was tired and ready to rehash the situation with Clovis.
The silence lifted when Lulu cleared her throat and began to gather her things. Royce asked where Clovis and I would like to have dinner.
“Well, we thought we might stand in line at Galatoire’s and get a seat at the bar,” I joked, knowing it would be impossible to get even close to this classic New Orleans restaurant given the convention. No matter who you are and how long you’ve been going to Galatoire’s, you or your stand-in waits in line outside the restaurant until your table is ready. Unless you have a relationship with a specific waiter, reservations are impossible. I’ve heard they now take reservations for the upstairs dining room, but it books up months in advance.
“Ridiculous. With all the doctors in town you’d be standing outside all night.” Royce scoffed, confirming what I already knew. “What time works for you?”
“I’m still full of lunch. How about eight o’clock?” I answered, willing to play along.
Royce laughed. “C’mon, Jack—have a little faith. Your driver, Frank Grant, will pick you up at 7:45. When you get to the restaurant tell the man at the door who you are and ask for Raymond. He’ll take good care of you. Frank will be waiting for you outside after dinner.”
“Thank you,” I said, beginning to realize he was serious.
“It will please Mr. Thibodeaux that he could extend this small favor,” answered Royce, once again in old movie tones.