“Your dad isn’t such an asshole.”
“Funny,” Casey said. “My real old man was a stitch.”
Jake noted a heft of truth in the way she said it and didn’t say anything for a few moments.
Mirbeau Spa was a French château with small white lights strung along the rooflines. They found two low leather chairs in
the bar by the fireplace and ordered drinks. Other people, mostly couples, talked softly, leaning across small tables into
the wavering candlelight of small glass globes. The bartender stood behind an old-world bar, thick and dark and polished,
in a black tie and vest. A waitress took their orders, speaking to them in the quiet voice usually reserved for libraries.
“I would have been so surprised if Ralph really was following us,” Casey said, her own voice low as she sipped her glass of
cabernet. “He’s supposed to be at my disposal, not my chaperone.”
“Is his name really Ralph or did you make that up?” Jake snorted and shook his head. “He looks more like a Thor. And Graham
looks more like a Biff. Like a guy who eats Grape-Nuts and shits in the woods.”
“You don’t like Graham,” Casey said.
“Someone high up got sold on the idea of us doing a profile and that’s what I’m doing,” Jake said. “I’m just kidding around.
I don’t know the man well enough to like him or dislike him. Trust is something else. No, I don’t trust him; that doesn’t
mean we can’t talk about a story. I know I’m gorgeous but I got brains, too, lady.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “I have to admit Graham does make me wonder. It’s a pretty good clip from Texas, and New York doesn’t exactly
have a shortage of solid defense attorneys. Plenty who are a lot better than me.”
Jake studied her and swallowed a mouthful of his microbrew. “From what I know about Robert Graham, he doesn’t take a leak
unless there’s a good reason.”
“Maybe we’re both jaded,” Casey said. “He’s giving money away, not just to the Freedom Project; he’s giving money to my clinic,
and this is something I can do for him.”
“He’s a clever man,” Jake said, “and you can do more than you think.”
“Like?”
“Sitting here with me,” Jake said. “I can’t help wondering what’s behind it all. Yes, he gives money, but he gets a lot of
bang for his buck: publicity, hobnobbing with important and credible people. He needs that.”
“Sure.”
“Ego is the obvious answer,” Jake said. “That’s the way with most of these people—people willing to spend big bucks to get
a PR agency to sell a profile to some TV show—but I think it’s something else with Graham.”
“Everyone has an ego,” Casey said.
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
Jake leaned into the table. “I think he’s involved with some questionable people.”
“You’re a little suspect,” Casey said, “but here I sit.”
Jake flashed a plastic smile and said, “This thing isn’t my story. Did you know he went bankrupt ten years ago?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Lost it all. Almost, anyway,” Jake said. “He took a pretty sizable family fortune and got into some big commercial real estate
projects—hotels, casinos, office buildings—but that wasn’t enough. He leveraged the real estate and went wild in the tech
market. At one point, his net worth was estimated at over three billion dollars.
“Then it crashed, and he lost all of it. Everything. The banks got left holding the property. Then, miraculously, he finds
some offshore partners who stake him. He buys back everything from the banks for fifty cents on the dollar. He never made
the tech mistake again and since then he’s had the Midas touch. He buys military-industrial companies before the Iraq war,
then gets into oil and gas just before the energy squeeze. He buys shut-down factory equipment for pennies on the dollar,
ships it overseas where he can pay people a dollar a day to work, and starts making a mint selling
“Funny,” Casey said. “My real old man was a stitch.”
Jake noted a heft of truth in the way she said it and didn’t say anything for a few moments.
Mirbeau Spa was a French château with small white lights strung along the rooflines. They found two low leather chairs in
the bar by the fireplace and ordered drinks. Other people, mostly couples, talked softly, leaning across small tables into
the wavering candlelight of small glass globes. The bartender stood behind an old-world bar, thick and dark and polished,
in a black tie and vest. A waitress took their orders, speaking to them in the quiet voice usually reserved for libraries.
“I would have been so surprised if Ralph really was following us,” Casey said, her own voice low as she sipped her glass of
cabernet. “He’s supposed to be at my disposal, not my chaperone.”
“Is his name really Ralph or did you make that up?” Jake snorted and shook his head. “He looks more like a Thor. And Graham
looks more like a Biff. Like a guy who eats Grape-Nuts and shits in the woods.”
“You don’t like Graham,” Casey said.
“Someone high up got sold on the idea of us doing a profile and that’s what I’m doing,” Jake said. “I’m just kidding around.
I don’t know the man well enough to like him or dislike him. Trust is something else. No, I don’t trust him; that doesn’t
mean we can’t talk about a story. I know I’m gorgeous but I got brains, too, lady.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “I have to admit Graham does make me wonder. It’s a pretty good clip from Texas, and New York doesn’t exactly
have a shortage of solid defense attorneys. Plenty who are a lot better than me.”
Jake studied her and swallowed a mouthful of his microbrew. “From what I know about Robert Graham, he doesn’t take a leak
unless there’s a good reason.”
“Maybe we’re both jaded,” Casey said. “He’s giving money away, not just to the Freedom Project; he’s giving money to my clinic,
and this is something I can do for him.”
“He’s a clever man,” Jake said, “and you can do more than you think.”
“Like?”
“Sitting here with me,” Jake said. “I can’t help wondering what’s behind it all. Yes, he gives money, but he gets a lot of
bang for his buck: publicity, hobnobbing with important and credible people. He needs that.”
“Sure.”
“Ego is the obvious answer,” Jake said. “That’s the way with most of these people—people willing to spend big bucks to get
a PR agency to sell a profile to some TV show—but I think it’s something else with Graham.”
“Everyone has an ego,” Casey said.
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
Jake leaned into the table. “I think he’s involved with some questionable people.”
“You’re a little suspect,” Casey said, “but here I sit.”
Jake flashed a plastic smile and said, “This thing isn’t my story. Did you know he went bankrupt ten years ago?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Lost it all. Almost, anyway,” Jake said. “He took a pretty sizable family fortune and got into some big commercial real estate
projects—hotels, casinos, office buildings—but that wasn’t enough. He leveraged the real estate and went wild in the tech
market. At one point, his net worth was estimated at over three billion dollars.
“Then it crashed, and he lost all of it. Everything. The banks got left holding the property. Then, miraculously, he finds
some offshore partners who stake him. He buys back everything from the banks for fifty cents on the dollar. He never made
the tech mistake again and since then he’s had the Midas touch. He buys military-industrial companies before the Iraq war,
then gets into oil and gas just before the energy squeeze. He buys shut-down factory equipment for pennies on the dollar,
ships it overseas where he can pay people a dollar a day to work, and starts making a mint selling
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