“Don’t work at night. Too dangerous, too hard to see. But no. I haven’t noticed any other divers in the area for a long while.”
“Thanks. Just wondering.”
After Mike put on his flippers and tanks and jumped in, Terry picked up his coffee cup with both hands, hesitated a long time, and finally said, “Eric, I know it’s spooky right now but, getting back to Uncle Cho, looks like I’ve got a personal problem. Going to have to call in some chips.”
“You certainly have ’em coming. You’ve pulled me out of countless fires.”
Terry frowned. “I thought on Friday Uncle Cho’s case was a relatively minor deal. To calm him down, I sort of promised—No, I did promise, without talking to you, we would charge ahead with his case. Now I see that the whole damn insurance industry may line up against it. I swear, had I known, I never would have encouraged him. But it seemed the only way, at the time, to make him happy.”
“Terry, Terry, Terry…I would never have encouraged him. The case could drag on for years and, not that I care, but it could make us the target of revenge by the insurance industry in every case we have against insured defendants. The real question though is how your uncle would pay us for all the litigation costs and attorneys’ fees. It’s crazy.”
“Well, you see, I kinda promised we would switch from an hourly fee to a contingency fee.”
“You did what? You know we don’t get paid in a contingency case, unless money damages are recovered, a verdict, settlement, something. Your Uncle Cho will only get a court order—words on paper—deciding the issues. If no money is recovered, the fee is zero.”
Terry squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he glanced up and said, “We’ve done cases pro bono before. For special clients. And, after my parents were killed, Uncle Cho raised me. Not only that, but he certainly can pay some fees and costs.”
“Terry, no doubt, Uncle Cho is special. And it might be the right thing to do—but taking on the insurance industry in a ‘no fee’ case could be a quick trip to bankruptcy. Look, I’ll ditch this quiet day on the boat—my head feels fine anyway—and let’s try a meeting with your uncle. Maybe, together, we can put our arms around this somehow.”
Terry’s face brightened. “Eric, you the man.”
“Kapow, no promises. But let’s give Mike room to do his job and go to the apartment. You can call Uncle Cho. I can get changed. Then hopefully we’ll go see him. Orange County, right?”
“Anaheim. Behind the orange curtain.”
“Curtain?”
“On the other side, in OC, where everyone lives structured lives in structured communities. Like a real-world Disneyland.”
Ridge smiled. “I could use some structure about now—maybe even a little Magic Kingdom.”
“Be careful what you wish for, buddy.”
“I hear you on that.”
As Terry and Ridge stepped onto the dock, Terry whipped out his phone and started making calls, almost walking into the sharp edge of an anchor before Ridge pulled him back. “Kapow, heads up, man. Docks are dangerous. And don’t I know it. Make your calls at the apartment and we can avoid more paramedics.”
Shaking his head, Terry shut down and holstered his phone. After closing the dock gate, they crossed the parking lot and Ridge saw Terry’s car. Not the Prius, which he used for stakeouts and blending-in assignments, but his black ZR-51 Vette. A real machine.
“Since we’re headed to Anaheim to see your Uncle, you drive. OK?”
Terry grinned. “Least I can do.”
“Damn right.” said Ridge, thinking, OC. New cases. Wondering what’s really behind that orange curtain.
CHAPTER 9
When they got to the apartment, Ridge decided to shower and change while Terry, with Mister on his lap, fired up his laptop and started making calls. Twenty minutes later, Ridge returned in a black sports coat, pale yellow shirt, and black trousers.
Terry closed his laptop. “Arrangements made, Batman. Ready?”
The next issue was getting into the Vette. It was perfect for Terry’s 5-foot 9-inch 160-pound athletic frame. But Ridge always felt like he needed to be surgically implanted. Never one to give up, Ridge sucked in a breath, squeezed into the leather passenger seat, tucked his knees, and struggled with the seatbelt. Once strapped in, the ride was a dream—until the freeway. Ridge had been a fighter pilot. He could take Gs. Sure. But Terry had a lead foot and breathtaking steer that defied gravity.
Shooting down the freeway like a starship, Terry explained his prior phone calls. “Uncle Cho wants to meet at that same Vietnamese restaurant in Anaheim. I told him about your stitches and shades—so no surprises. I made reservations. 1:00 p.m.”
“Sounds good. But can we make it by 1?”
Terry smiled. “Watch.”
Clear sailing at first. But as they approached Orange County on the 91 freeway, it all went to hell, bumper-to-bumper. Frustrated and annoyed, Terry jumped off at first opportunity and used surface streets. When they finally entered the restaurant, at 1 p.m. exactly, Terry’s Uncle Cho was waiting, all 5-foot 3-inches of him. He weighed no more than 140 pounds but looked as tenacious and hard to cross as a bull in heat. Uncle Cho sported gray hair and a gray mustache to match and wore a dark thin-lapelled suit, narrow black tie, and white shirt. Like someone off a TV series, he had his medical bag and a black bowler hat on the chair next to him.
After introductions, Terry’s uncle came right to the point, “You need to look hard into this case.”
“Well, it’ll be expensive,” said Ridge.
“Contingency” replied Terry’s uncle, looking down at the menu.
“But, Uncle, it could be very risky,” said Terry.
“Contingency,” said Cho, without looking up from the menu.
“But Dr. Pao, we might end up having to take on the whole insurance industry,” Ridge said, hoping to reason with him.
“Contingency,” said Uncle Cho, now staring over his eyeglasses at Ridge.
