Lenzini reviewed the Stafford bankruptcy case, and he slipped into Clanton and got a copy of the divorce file in the chancery clerk’s office. At the city library, he went through the archives of The Ford County Times and found three articles about Stafford’s disappearance. He was careful, dressed casually, and told no one he was with the FBI. He assumed, correctly, that any word of his presence would stir up the rumors and send the wrong signal to Mack, wherever he happened to be hiding.
Lenzini was delighted when his boss okayed a trip to New York. He could see his family, but, more important, he could rub elbows with veteran agents from the Manhattan office.
Two of them accompanied him as they entered a tall building in the financial district in downtown Manhattan. They rode an elevator to the seventy-first floor and stepped into the gilded world of Durban & Lang, at that moment the third-largest law firm in the entire world. A paralegal was waiting for them in the plush reception suite, and they followed him to a conference room with a stunning view of New York Harbor. Marty Rosenberg greeted them warmly and a secretary offered them coffee.
When they were seated, Marty took charge and was all charm. He began with “Sorry to be a pain about this, fellas, but I have my orders from my client, Littleman AG. A fine company with nothing to hide, you know. This is a simple matter involving the settlement of some rather dubious product liability cases from years back. I’ve reviewed the subpoena and all the paperwork is right here.”
He waved to a pile in the center of the table.
“We’ve made copies for you. I’m sure you have questions.”
Lenzini cleared his throat and said, “Thank you, Mr. Rosenberg. Perhaps you could hit the high points before we plow through the paperwork.”
“Certainly. We paid one hundred thousand dollars per claim, four of them, and we threw in another hundred thousand for litigation expenses. Total of half a mil. I handled it directly with Mr. Stafford and it was quite easy. He seemed eager to get the money.”
“And you wired it to him?”
“Yes, to a bank in Memphis. I sent down these settlement agreements and he got them signed, ostensibly by his four clients. Signatures are right there on the agreements, notarized and all, and he sent them back, quite promptly I might add. I reviewed them and released the money. Not a peep about anything until now.”
“And there’s a copy of the wire transfer?”
“Yes. You now have copies of everything in our files, including the initial demand letters sent from Mr. Stafford way back when. It’s all there.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rosenberg. We’ll take these and have a look.”
“My pleasure, gentlemen. Always happy to assist the FBI.”
The coffee arrived and they chatted for a few moments. Marty said, “Off the record, it looks like Mr. Stafford left town in a hurry not long after the settlements, right?”
All three agents stiffened at the question. Mr. Rosenberg was not in a position to know much about the investigation.
Lenzini cautiously said, “That appears to be the case. Did you have any reason to be suspicious?”
“None whatsoever. These settlements were mere formalities for my client, just a rather generous way of closing some old files. Littleman didn’t have to offer a dime to these plaintiffs, and Mr. Stafford certainly showed no interest in pursuing the claims.”
“Were there other complaints about the product?” Lenzini asked, biding time. It seemed a shame to leave such splendid surroundings so quickly.
Marty tapped his fingertips together and tried to recall. “Yes, seems like there were a few dozen around the country. Look, it’s a chain saw, right? A dangerous product when handled by experts. Come to think of it, we did go to trial in someplace like Indiana. Poor guy lost a hand, wanted a couple mil. The jury was sympathetic but found in favor of Littleman anyway. When you use a chain saw you assume the risk.”
It seemed odd to be sitting high above Wall Street, sipping coffee from designer china, and talking about…chain saws!
Marty glanced at his watch and was suddenly needed elsewhere. The agents took the hint, thanked him, gathered the paperwork, and were led back to the elevators.
（24）
Out of boredom, Mack found a job tending bar for cash wages, no paperwork, five bucks an hour plus tips. It was a college dive called the Varsity Bar & Grill, near Memphis State, and, typically, the students were not big tippers. Nor were they curious about who might be mixing their drinks. They were at least twenty-five years younger than Mack, couldn’t care less about where he was from or who he was, and none of them had ever been to Clanton, Mississippi.