got Howie Reichs with me.”
Howie Reichs was Superior’s top safety executive.
“Hello, Howard,” I said, knowing he hated being called Howard. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Augustus,” he said, imagining no doubt that I didn’t like being called Augustus. I actually didn’t mind. “I hate to disappoint you, but you’ll have to find another company to crucify this Sunday. “
How did he know it was Sunday? Only Haskell knew that.
“We’re going to be making an announcement shortly, and I wanted you to be the first to hear.”
I let my head drop into a hand. I knew what he was going to say.
Thirty minutes later, the company issued a two-paragraph statement: Superior had settled the Willing matter. The terms were not disclosed. The statement quoted Laird Haskell as saying the settlement “served the best interests of the Willing family while addressing the complex safety dilemmas posed by this admittedly complicated matter.”
My story never ran. The world did not find out about the design defects in the antilock brakes. But over the course of the next year, Haskell represented seven additional clients who sued Superior over the brakes. Each time, the cases were settled quickly and the terms were not disclosed. A story in the American Lawyer , quoting anonymous sources—Haskell, I guessed—estimated that the firm of Haskell, Sherman & Toddy had collected more than $20 million in contingency fees on the brakes cases. People kept dying, Haskell kept collecting, and my scribblings on those legal pads went unseen.
I called Haskell every day for months. Each day, Joyce would kindly tell me she’d give him my message; she may well have, but I never heard from him. I kept track of his firm’s cases, though. One morning I cornered him in a men’s room at the federal courthouse on Lafayette. He had just started to pee when I walked in and stood next to him at the adjacent urinal.
He turned and smiled at me, not the least bit surprised. “Hello, Gus,” he said. “We’re a little old for a sword fight, don’t you think?”
“I know what you did.”
“Really?” He peered into the urinal. “Then what are you doing here?”
I had come prepared. “You hear of the Miller family in Austin?”
“Austin, Texas?” He turned and faced me, shook himself off, zipped up. “No. Should I?”
“They don’t exist anymore,” I said. “They rolled their minivan when the brakes failed. Husband, wife, three little kids. All dead.”
Haskell stepped to a sink. He squeezed pink soap onto his hands,washed them in cold water, splashed water on his face. He snapped a paper towel from the dispenser and dried his hands, then patted his cheeks and forehead dry, watching himself in the mirror as he did.
“Did you hear me?” I said.
“I heard you.” He reached into his suit jacket and produced a slim leather case from which he plucked a business card. He handed it to me. “If someone is in need of legal advice in this matter, they really should call me.”
He started to leave. I stepped in front of him.
“Are you serious? You almost got me fired.”
Our eyes met. I was younger and stronger and angry enough to beat his face in with the soap dispenser. But his eyes told me I was no more important to him than the guy who’d be swabbing the toilets that night.
“So that’s what’s important here? Your job security?” he said. “Maybe you should go back to your newspaper and write a story. Meantime, I have to be back in court. Excuse me.”
“I haven’t checked my voice mail yet today,” Haskell said. “Have you?”
We were sitting at a round mahogany table in his office on the third floor of his home. Haskell had his hand on a multi-line phone in the middle of the table.
“Uh, no,” I said. “Why, did you call me?”
“Ha,” he said. “I meant, ‘Have you checked my voice mail?’ ”
It was a joke. I had lost my job at the Detroit Times two years before because I had learned some
Howie Reichs was Superior’s top safety executive.
“Hello, Howard,” I said, knowing he hated being called Howard. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Augustus,” he said, imagining no doubt that I didn’t like being called Augustus. I actually didn’t mind. “I hate to disappoint you, but you’ll have to find another company to crucify this Sunday. “
How did he know it was Sunday? Only Haskell knew that.
“We’re going to be making an announcement shortly, and I wanted you to be the first to hear.”
I let my head drop into a hand. I knew what he was going to say.
Thirty minutes later, the company issued a two-paragraph statement: Superior had settled the Willing matter. The terms were not disclosed. The statement quoted Laird Haskell as saying the settlement “served the best interests of the Willing family while addressing the complex safety dilemmas posed by this admittedly complicated matter.”
My story never ran. The world did not find out about the design defects in the antilock brakes. But over the course of the next year, Haskell represented seven additional clients who sued Superior over the brakes. Each time, the cases were settled quickly and the terms were not disclosed. A story in the American Lawyer , quoting anonymous sources—Haskell, I guessed—estimated that the firm of Haskell, Sherman & Toddy had collected more than $20 million in contingency fees on the brakes cases. People kept dying, Haskell kept collecting, and my scribblings on those legal pads went unseen.
I called Haskell every day for months. Each day, Joyce would kindly tell me she’d give him my message; she may well have, but I never heard from him. I kept track of his firm’s cases, though. One morning I cornered him in a men’s room at the federal courthouse on Lafayette. He had just started to pee when I walked in and stood next to him at the adjacent urinal.
He turned and smiled at me, not the least bit surprised. “Hello, Gus,” he said. “We’re a little old for a sword fight, don’t you think?”
“I know what you did.”
“Really?” He peered into the urinal. “Then what are you doing here?”
I had come prepared. “You hear of the Miller family in Austin?”
“Austin, Texas?” He turned and faced me, shook himself off, zipped up. “No. Should I?”
“They don’t exist anymore,” I said. “They rolled their minivan when the brakes failed. Husband, wife, three little kids. All dead.”
Haskell stepped to a sink. He squeezed pink soap onto his hands,washed them in cold water, splashed water on his face. He snapped a paper towel from the dispenser and dried his hands, then patted his cheeks and forehead dry, watching himself in the mirror as he did.
“Did you hear me?” I said.
“I heard you.” He reached into his suit jacket and produced a slim leather case from which he plucked a business card. He handed it to me. “If someone is in need of legal advice in this matter, they really should call me.”
He started to leave. I stepped in front of him.
“Are you serious? You almost got me fired.”
Our eyes met. I was younger and stronger and angry enough to beat his face in with the soap dispenser. But his eyes told me I was no more important to him than the guy who’d be swabbing the toilets that night.
“So that’s what’s important here? Your job security?” he said. “Maybe you should go back to your newspaper and write a story. Meantime, I have to be back in court. Excuse me.”
“I haven’t checked my voice mail yet today,” Haskell said. “Have you?”
We were sitting at a round mahogany table in his office on the third floor of his home. Haskell had his hand on a multi-line phone in the middle of the table.
“Uh, no,” I said. “Why, did you call me?”
“Ha,” he said. “I meant, ‘Have you checked my voice mail?’ ”
It was a joke. I had lost my job at the Detroit Times two years before because I had learned some
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