Smiling from the inside, because he realized that Stein had already lost the upper hand of negotiation, but with a stern look of disappointment on his face, Brent said, "Joe, like you said, I've talked with my client. This is not going to cut it. You've got to go back to the bank because I know she's going to reject it. But I've got an obligation to communicate it to her, so I will."

"A million? Forget it!" said April, defiantly.

"I knew you would say that," said Brent.

"These are my parents, Brent, I can't put a price on them. Three hundred million would not be enough."

"You can't ever get them back either."

"I know," April sobbed. "This whole case has been a disaster, and I feel like those bastards are winning and just laughing at us."

"April, you came to the court for justice. Unfortunately, you're not going to find it here. I feel very strongly that we're likely to lose on the RICO count. You're basically asking the jury to convict Prudent Bank of not only bank fraud, but murder."

"Bernstein killed her."

"That may be true, but that doesn't mean the bank is responsible. If he did it, as opposed to doing them a favor, he probably created even more of a mess for them."

"I just don't see how I can reduce my parents' lives to dollars and cents."

"You can't. Nobody who sues because they lost a child, or a wife or husband, or anyone close to them can ever be compensated for that loss with money. But it's the only way the law has to force the guilty party to make amends."

"What about the death penalty, or life in prison?"

"April, you know this is not a criminal case. But, after Bernstein took the Fifth, I wouldn't be surprised if a criminal prosecution is around the corner."

"I could use the money to establish a fund in their name to help victims of bank fraud."

"That's an idea."

"Now I just need to get your bottom line. What's the least amount of money, plus my fees, plus the house, that will settle this case? I won't tell them that; I just need that number to negotiate."

April thought long and hard. "I wouldn't settle for less than $3 million," she finally said.

Now April had lost her advantage in the negotiation, because Brent had her number. It would not bring George Marsh or Rick Penn back, but it would keep Brent and April from joining them, and it would be a victory as well as an end to the case which had taken so much away from both of them.

"I'll see what I can do," he said.

56.

A stern and impatient looking Virginia Masters took the bench, outside the jury's presence.

"In the matter of Marsh v. Prudent Bank, we are outside the presence of the jury. What is happening gentlemen, do we have a settlement or not?"

"We're working on it, Your Honor," said Stein.

"Well, that's not good enough, Mr. Stein. You have half an hour more. I suggest you call your client and do your best to settle this case if that's what you want to do because in half an hour, I expect to see the jury in the box and the next witness in that chair."

"Yes, Your Honor."

"You've gotta do better than $1 million, Joe," said Brent, in the corridor outside the courtroom.

"Look, Brent, just give me your client's number. I'll take it to mine and see if we can get this done."

"I don't have a number."

"You don't know what your client will take?"

"I know what she won't take."

"Look kid, don't bullshit me. I'm a bigger bullshitter than you, and I can smell it a mile away."

"My client's not hearing anything that would compel her not to go forward. We've already put on our case."

"Which sucks."

"Your opinion. If you think the jury shares that opinion, fair enough. But I don't think either one of us has a crystal ball."

"Alright. We've got less than 20 minutes now. Let me make a phone call."

"Do what you have to do."

It took Stein no more than five minutes to come back, which told Brent that he already had his bottom line; the maximum amount that he had authority to settle for. Brent knew the minimum his client would go for. Now it was just a matter of who cracked first.

"1.5 and not a penny more."

"Sorry, that won't do it."

"For Christ's sake man, what does she want?"

"Justice."

"You know what I mean."

"Joe, if I take that figure to my client, we're done. She won't take it, period. So if it's your bottom line, let's get on with the trial." Brent turned to walk away again.

"Don't walk away from me. I know that's a bullshit move."

Brent turned, smiling. "Let's go Joe, our time's almost up."

"Two million."

"Four."

"Are you crazy?"

"Four million, Joe, that's our bottom line."

"Let me make a phone call."

Stein came back faster than the last time. "Three and not a penny more." Hearing the magic words, Brent said, "We have a deal." Stein looked relieved.

57.

Judge Masters thanked the jury for their service, and excused them, and took the settlement on the record. April, relieved that she had some kind of closure, thanked Brent, and left the courtroom. That left Brent alone with Stein.

"Are you going to talk to the jury?" he asked. After a trial is over, the admonition of not talking about the case is lifted and lawyers always have a chance to talk to the jury if they want.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to know," said Brent. "What I do want to know is how close I got to your bottom line."

"It was $5 million. Never bullshit a bullshitter, son."

Brent felt instantly deflated. Up until then, he thought he had made the best deal he could make for his client.

"Don't be disappointed. You fought a good fight," said Stein, slapping Brent on the shoulder. Brent shook Stein's hand.

"See you around, Joe."

"Better hope you don't," said Stein, laughing, as he packed up his briefcase.

58.

Kevin Suskind trudged to the mess hall with his group to have his first taste of jail food. He needed to get out; needed to get high more than anything else. The meeting with his lawyer had gone well. He had the best legal defense that money could buy. And once his bail was posted, he would be out of this shit hole. The food was crappy, but he was famished, so he ate well.

As Suskind shuffled back to his cell block, he stopped to watch two inmates going at it.

"What the fuck you lookin' at?" said the fat one.

"You, lard ass!" said the skinny one.

Suskind laughed. What a couple of idiots.

"Keep moving," said the Deputy, about the time that the two unlikely warriors went at it, brawling. The Deputy's attention was called to the fight, and radioed it in, as two other deputies descended on the fighters to break them up.

Suskind felt a pain under his chin as a warm slush of blood covered his jump suit from the red fountain flowing from his carotid artery. He covered the wound with his hand, but it was no use. The heart pumps blood at five liters per minute. Suskind fell to his knees as the crowd around him disbursed and two deputies came to his aid, but it was too late.

59.

William Conlan got behind the wheel of his BMW Z4 and floored it. The one thing he loved most in life was speed. Whether it was flying down the road at 90 miles per hour or doing the same flying in his head, fast was the only way to go.

The long drive to San Francisco on Highway One was treacherous, but that's what made it so much fun. Many people traveled this road for the beautiful coastline. Conlan did it for the thrills. Every twisting turn was a new rush of adrenaline; especially when you tweaked it with his drug of choice crystal methamphetamine; the poor man's cocaine. His buddy Kevin Suskind had an expensive cocaine habit. Crystal meth gave Conlan the same bump, and saved him money for fast cars and fast women.

Conlan jumped over the solid double yellow line, passing every car at will. Every curve was an exhilarating rush. The fog hovered over the hills of the coast, peppered with pines. Conlan passed a bunch on motorcycles like they were standing still; provoking a memory of the bar fight at the Cold Spring Tavern.

The fog burned away to a powder blue sky as Conlan pushed the Z4 to its limits, but felt himself losing control going into the hairpin curve. He pushed the brakes gently to correct the shift, but the lifeless brake pedal just hit the floor. Panicked, Conlan hit the brake pedal again, then tried to gear down, but the momentum propelled the Z4 through the metal guard rail and over the cliff. That flight was the last fulfillment of Conlan's need for speed.

Mike the cleaner munched on an In-N-Out Double Double in his car. His cell phone rang, a business call.

"Good. One more to go. Let me know." Mike clicked off the cell phone and kept munching on the burger.

60.

When he went to bed that night, Steven Bernstein was worried. He was worried about being arrested. But he was more worried about the literally bloody mess he had made for his employer, and that, as a result, he may not have a job the next day. He was so worried about it, in fact, he took a Halcion so he could sleep. Bernstein had stayed up late, writing a letter of regret to his employer, apologizing for having put the company through so much grief. He worked on the note until he became drowsy. No matter, he thought. I'll finish it in the morning. Finally, the Halcion took effect and he was able to drift off.

Bernstein had a nightmare that night. He dreamed he saw a ghost at the foot of his bed. It was one of those terrifying dreams; the kind where your body surges with adrenaline, urging you to act, but, because you are asleep, you cannot move. He tried to scream, but the voice would not come. He tried to jump out of the bed and run as the ghost approached, but was immobilized; unable to move any of his muscles. The ghost came closer to his side, then disappeared. Thank God it was only a dream, he thought.