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“And Mom didn’t call?”
“About what, Matt?”
“No, nothing serious,” Matt said. “I just assumed that since I was out at the house with them now, and . . .”
“Well, Matt,” Brewster said, when he had finished, “the one thing I can say unequivocally is that they do both love and care about you”—he paused, then added—“as do I.”
Matt felt his throat tighten.
“Look, Matt,” his father went on, “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: You’re a grown man. Do what you believe you must. Do what makes you happy.”
Matt was quiet. He thought about his father—a tall, angular, dignified man in his early fifties—and how wise and fair he could be, and how he wanted to emulate that for as long as he could remember.
“Matt?” his father said.
“Yeah, I’m still here . . . And thanks for that.”
“What was it that you called about earlier?” Brewster Payne said, moving the conversation on.
Matt told him about what Camilla Rose Morgan had said.
“I cannot right now confirm this,” Brewster said, “but I’m almost certain she is not a client.”
What the hell? Matt thought. She lied about that? Why?
Makes me wonder how well she knew Daffy. If it was only in passing.
Not that that really matters, but it could establish a pattern.
“Do you remember speaking with her?” Matt said.
“Oh, sure. How could anyone not, with that enormous personality of hers? Not to mention her gift for getting one to contribute to her charities. She’s very good, very convincing. But just not a client.”
“How come?” Matt said.
“Any firm as conservative as ours simply would not annoy a billionaire, especially a local one. Not when it’s his or her business that we want. The firms going after those smaller lawsuits usually are ones in places like Seattle, Chicago, Dallas—”
“She has a Florida lawyer. Maybe more than one.”
“Okay, even Miami, looking to make a name for themselves. The way it works—if, in fact, she had approached the firm for representation—is we would have said, ‘Unfortunately, we have to decline taking your case.’”
“Because of what? Conflict of interest?”
“That’s exactly the reason. And I’m sure the reason she didn’t approach us was that she knew—or was told—that for decades we had represented Old Man Morgan in various cases. And none of the reputable local firms would take her case against Mason Morgan because they would rather have a billionaire’s business. Even just the crumbs, which are serious crumbs.”
“And that she wouldn’t win.”
“Yes, very likely that, too. The lawyer—lawyers, plural—taking her case will get plenty of billable hours. But if they don’t win, that’s all they get—there won’t be a big payday. And whatever they get would be nothing like what they could get from the old man’s company year after year. It would not surprise me if the old man, and now Mason, has put every heavy-hitting firm in town on retainer.”
“So,” Matt said, “when someone tries to hire them to go after Mason and/or Morgan International, the firms can say, ‘Sorry, but our conflict check has found that they are our client. Said conflict check ensures that our commitment is to the client’s best interest.’”
“Precisely.”
“She had listed as her next of kin her lawyer in Florida.”
“And not Mason or her mother? Interesting. That could mean something. Do you know who it is?”
“I should shortly.”
