The Zero

“I must be,” Remy said.

The space suit nodded. “Stupid question. Sorry.” He winked. “We found some papers in the bag, near the USUM.”

“USUM?” Remy asked.

“Unidentified suspicious materials,” said the other space suit. “There was some cryptic writing in the papers; we think it might be a manifesto of some kind, so they said we had to call you guys in.”

“Manifesto,” the other agent agreed.

Remy stepped between the agents and toward the backpack.

“Hey! What are you doing? Shouldn’t you wait for… someone?” one of the space suits called after him.

Remy said, “I am someone.”

As he got closer, he could see the white powder piled on the ground next to the backpack. He bent down, dipped his finger in the powder, and put it on his tongue.

“Jesus! What are you doing?” the space suit asked.

“Creamer,” Remy said, surprised at the disappointment in his own voice. He could hear sirens on the street above. “French vanilla.” He hoisted the backpack and dumped it out on the platform. He poked through the remains: a spiral binder, a bagel in cellophane, a circular birth control pill dispenser, a pack of cigarettes, some matches, and a report on a book: In the Labyrinth. Remy read the report. She didn’t like the book very much. She said it was too diffuse, too hard to follow. He opened the binder. The girl’s name, Ailea Mendez, was in the upper right-hand corner, along with a phone number. He carefully put Ailea Mendez’s manifesto back in the backpack, then straightened and walked over to-

THE MAN was a lawyer, a good one, if Remy had to guess. He wore a dark suit and tassled loafers, and there was something in the way he leaned his big-assed slacks across the conference table – like a kid showing off a new car to buddies – using a pointer to gesture at the PowerPoint presentation on the wall, a blue screen with red letters that promised to lay out the basic facts of “Applying for Federal Victims Compensation.”

April was sitting in the chair next to Remy, holding his hand and practically crushing his knuckles in her sweaty fist. She was wearing a white lace sweater buttoned once over a plain shirt and Remy imagined that perhaps that one button was the only thing keeping her from coming apart. She breathed in fits and starts.

The PowerPoint screen: 1. Survivor/victim agrees to drop any claim against airline, city, federal government, etc…

“And you’re sure about this part-” the lawyer began.

“Yes,” April said quickly. “I think so.”

“Good,” said the lawyer, “because that’s the first step. It’s probably going to be close to ninety-eight percent of victims by the end. So… you’re in good company.” The lawyer smiled with his big picket teeth and clicked to the next screen: 2. Pain and Mental Anguish: a quantifying formula.

A noise escaped April that was like something between a grunt and a sigh, as if the air had been knocked out of her. She tried to pretend she was clearing her throat. Remy took her hand.

“Everyone starts with a base of two-fifty,” said the lawyer. He stuck his jaw out and rubbed the right side of his neck, which was covered with a purplish shaving rash the size of a tangerine. “For pain and mental anguish. That’s what the guidelines have determined each life is worth, essentially, at a base level of grieving. Now if we get to the appeal process, we could always plead some special circumstance, but in your case, given the recent estrangement between you and the decedent, we’re probably better off taking the two hundred fifty thousand and not opening up that can of worms.” He stroked the rash on his neck tenderly.

“There is one issue we need to discuss,” the lawyer said. “And it’s going to be difficult, but it’s necessary. And understand: I have to ask. Is there any chance… someone else… might step forward to make a claim?”

“Oh.” April’s hand began shaking a little. “Do Derek’s parents want the money? Because I wanted to-”

“No. No. Not his parents. That’s not what I mean. They could challenge, of course, but since Derek left no will, this falls under the state’s intestacy laws, which reward the entire estate to the spouse, and therefore the entire settlement is yours.”

“Even though we weren’t together?”

“Estrangement is not the same as divorce. You could have gotten back together.”

“We wouldn’t have,” April said quickly.

“I understand your feelings, but if I may… you don’t know that. Mr. Kraft’s mother and stepfather certainly don’t know that. And the hearing examiner and special master can only follow the Compensation Fund rules, which clearly stipulate that the spouse is entitled to full compensation for pain and suffering. Now, the parents can appeal some aspects of pecuniary loss, especially if the decedent was supporting them or contributing to their income. But no, when I asked if someone else might make a claim what I was talking about was a… woman, a girlfriend…”

“Oh.” April looked down at her shoes. “There was someone,” she said quietly. She glanced up at Remy, and then looked back down.

“A woman,” the lawyer said, not a question.

“Yes.”

The lawyer turned his body a bit and stopped stroking his rash. Remy thought he seemed… titillated. “Do you think she’ll make a claim?”

“No,” April said.

“I understand this is difficult, but I need you to tell me about their relationship just in case some children miraculously appear, or some document in which he agreed to-”

April seemed to be straining with every word. “There were no children. And she won’t make a claim.”

The lawyer glanced at Remy. “Nevertheless, I should have the information-”

“She worked in his office,” April said. “She died, too.”

“Oh,” said the lawyer, and Remy could tell that the lawyer was somewhat pleased to have this wrinkle out of the way. “Office romance. Sure. Oldest story.” Then he remembered his client. “I’m sorry.”

“But I do want Derek’s parents to have some of the money,” April said, trying to change the subject.

The lawyer looked back at April disapprovingly through his bifocals. “I wouldn’t advise that.” Then he looked at Remy, as if hoping he might talk some sense into her. “If you give them money, it doesn’t preclude them from taking action to get more… and in fact, it sends a message that you believe they are deserving.”

“They are deserving.”

The lawyer was becoming frustrated. “It is my responsibility to tell you… that you are entitled… to his entire estate. All of it. What you do beyond that, well…” Then, as an afterthought, “But you should know that even if you give his family some money, my fee comes out of the full settlement, and not simply the portion you choose to keep, so you should-”

He clicked to the next screen. “Remember that.” The screen read: 3. Factoring in Dependents. He swung his head back to the wall.

“Now. Dependents. You would also be entitled to one hundred fifty thousand for each dependent… but you and your husband had no children, is that correct?”

“Yes,” April said meekly. “That’s correct.”

“But at one time you were pla

“No. We weren’t.”

“I just mean, at one point, there was certainly talk of children,” he said, as if dropping a hint. “Young couple… that kind of thing.”

“No. I told you. We were separated.”

“Right. I understand. We’ve established that. But surely at some point you talked about having children.”

“No. It never came up.”

He turned his body again, wearily, as if it were a strain to look away from his PowerPoint presentation, and his hand went quickly back to the rash on his neck. “Look. Mrs. Kraft. I don’t mean to tell you what to say, but what couple doesn’t at least talk about having children? See? These are the kinds of details that can influence the examiner and the special master and have an impact on compensation-”