The Litigators

CHAPTER 3


The phone rang again, and Rochelle decided to answer it. “The law firm of Finley & Figg,” she said professionally. Wally did not look up from his newspaper. She listened for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry, but we do not handle real estate transactions.”

When Rochelle assumed her position eight years earlier, the firm did in fact handle real estate transactions. However, she soon realized this type of work paid little and relied heavily upon the secretary with almost no effort from the lawyers. A quick study, she decided she disliked real estate. Because she controlled the phone, she screened all calls, and the real estate section of Finley & Figg dried up. Oscar was outraged and threatened to fire her but backed down when she mentioned, again, that she might sue them for legal malpractice. Wally brokered a truce, but for weeks things were more tense than usual.

Other specialties had been cast aside under her diligent screening. Criminal work was history; Rochelle didn’t like it, because she didn’t like the clients. DUIs were okay because there were so many of them, they paid well, and they required almost no involvement on her part. Bankruptcy bit the dust for the same reason that real estate had—paltry fees and too much work for the secretary. Over the years Rochelle had managed to streamline the firm’s practice, and this was still causing problems. Oscar’s theory, one that had kept him broke for over thirty years, was the firm should take everything that walked in the door, cast a wide net, then pick through the debris in the hope of finding a good injury case. Wally disagreed. He wanted the big kill. Though he was forced by the overhead to perform all sorts of mundane legal tasks, he was always dreaming of ways to strike gold.

“Nice work,” he said when she hung up. “I never liked real estate.”

She ignored this and returned to her newspaper. AC began a low growl. When they looked at him, he was standing on his small bed, nose tilted upward, tail straight and pointing, eyes narrow with concentration. His growl grew louder, then, on cue, the distant sound of an ambulance entered their solemn morning. Sirens never failed to excite Wally, and for a second or two he froze as he skillfully analyzed it. Police, fire, or ambulance? That was always the first issue, and Wally could distinguish the three in a heartbeat. Sirens from fire trucks and police cars meant nothing and were quickly ignored, but a siren from an ambulance always quickened his pulse.

“Ambulance,” he said, then placed his newspaper on the table, stood, and casually walked to the front door. Rochelle also stood and walked to a window where she opened the blinds for a quick look. AC was still growling, and when Wally opened the door and stepped onto the front porch, the dog followed. Across the street, Vince Gholston exited his own little boutique and cast a hopeful look at the intersection of Beech and Thirty-eighth. When he saw Wally, he flipped him the bird, and Wally quickly returned the greeting.

The ambulance came screaming down Beech, weaving and lurching its way through heavy traffic, honking angrily, causing more havoc and danger than whatever awaited it. Wally watched it until it was out of sight, then went inside.

The newspaper reading continued with no further interruptions—no sirens, no phone calls from prospective clients or bill collectors. At 9:00 a.m., the door opened, and the senior partner entered. As usual, Oscar wore a long dark overcoat and carried a bulky black leather briefcase, as if he’d been laboring away throughout the night. He also carried his umbrella, as always, regardless of the weather or forecast. Oscar toiled far away from the big leagues, but he could at least look the part of a distinguished lawyer. Dark coats, dark suits, white shirts, and silk ties. His wife did the shopping and insisted that he look the part. Wally, on the other hand, wore whatever he could pull from the pile.

“Morning,” Oscar said gruffly at Ms. Gibson’s desk.

“Good morning,” she replied.

“Anything in the newspaper?” Oscar was not interested in scores or floods or market reports or the latest from the Middle East.

“A forklift operator got crushed in a plant out in Palos Heights,” Ms. Gibson responded promptly. It was part of their morning ritual. If she did not find an accident of some variety to brighten his morning, then his sour mood would only get worse.

“I like it,” he said. “Is he dead?”

“Not yet.”

“Even better. Lots of pain and suffering. Make a note. I’ll check it out later.”

Ms. Gibson nodded as if the poor man were practically signed up as a new client. Of course, he was not. Nor would he be. Finley & Figg rarely got to the accident scene first. Chances were the forklift operator’s wife was already being hounded by more aggressive lawyers, some of whom were known to offer cash and other goodies to get the family on board.

Buoyed by this good news, Oscar walked over to the table and said, “Good morning.”

“Morning, Oscar,” Wally said.

“Any of our clients make the obituaries?”

“I haven’t got that far yet.”

“You should start with the obituaries.”

“Thank you, Oscar. Any more tips on how to read a newspaper?”

Oscar was already walking away. Over his shoulder he asked Ms. Gibson, “What’s on my calendar for today?”

“The usual. Divorces and drunks.”

“Divorces and drunks,” Oscar mumbled to himself as he stepped into his office. “What I need is a good car wreck.” He hung his overcoat on the back of the door, placed his umbrella in a rack by his desk, and began unpacking his briefcase. Wally was soon standing nearby, holding the newspaper. “Does the name Chester Marino ring a bell?” he asked. “Obit. Age fifty-seven, wife, kids, grandkids, no cause given.”

Oscar scratched his close-cropped gray hair and said, “Maybe. Could’ve been a last will and testament.”

“They got him down at Van Easel & Sons. Visitation tonight, service tomorrow. I’ll snoop around and see what’s up. If he’s one of ours, you wanna send flowers?”

“Not until you know the size of his estate.”

“Good point.” Wally was still holding his newspaper. “This Taser thing is out of control, you know. Cops in Joliet are accused of Tasering a seventy-year-old man who went to Walmart to buy Sudafed for his sick grandchild. The pharmacist figured the old man was using the stuff for a meth lab, so the pharmacist, being a good citizen, called the cops. Turns out the cops all got themselves brand-new Tasers, so five of these clowns stop the old man in the parking lot and Taser his ass. Critical condition.”

“So we’re back doing Taser law, are we, Wally?”

“Damn right we are. These are good cases, Oscar. We gotta get a few.”

Oscar sat down and sighed heavily. “So this week it’s Taser guns. Last week it was diaper rashes—big plans to sue the makers of Pampers because a few thousand babies have diaper rashes. Last month it was Chinese drywall.”

“They’ve paid four billion bucks already in the drywall class action.”

“Yes, but we haven’t seen any of it.”

“That’s my point, Oscar. We have got to get serious about these mass tort cases. This is where the money is. Millions in fees paid by companies that make billions in profits.”

The door was open, and Rochelle was listening to every word, though this particular conversation was getting a bit stale.

Wally was talking louder. “We get us a few of these cases, then hook up with the mass tort specialists, give them a piece of the cake, then ride their coattails until they settle, and we walk away with a truckload. It’s easy money, Oscar.”

“Diaper rashes?”

“Okay, that didn’t work. But this Taser thing is a gold mine.”

“Another gold mine, Wally?”

“Yep, I’ll prove it.”

“You do that.”

The drunk at the end of the bar had rallied somewhat. His head was up, his eyes were partially open, and Abner was serving him coffee and chatting away, all in an effort to convince the man it was time to leave. A teenager with a broom was sweeping the floor and arranging tables and chairs. The little pub was showing signs of life.

With his brain coated with vodka, David stared at himself in the mirror and tried in vain to put things into perspective. One moment he was filled with excitement and proud of his bold escape from the death march at Rogan Rothberg. The next moment he was fearful for his wife, his family, his future. The booze gave him courage, though, and he decided to keep drinking.

His phone vibrated again. It was Lana at the office. “Hello,” he said quietly.

“David, where are you?”

“Just finishing breakfast, you know.”

“David, you don’t sound so good. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

A pause, then, “Are you drinking?”

“Of course not. It’s only nine thirty.”

“Okay, whatever. Look, Roy Barton just left here, and he’s in a rage. I’ve never heard such language. All kinds of threats.”

“Tell Roy to kiss my ass.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You heard me. Tell Roy to kiss my ass.”

“You’re losing it, David. It’s true. You’re cracking up. I’m not surprised. I saw this coming. I knew it.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re drunk and you’re cracking up.”

“Okay, I may be drunk but—”

“I think I hear Roy Barton again. What should I tell him?”

“To kiss my ass.”

“Why don’t you tell him, David? You have a phone. Give Mr. Barton a call.” With that, she hung up.

Abner was easing over, curious to get the scoop on this latest phone call. He was rubbing the wooden counter again, for the third or fourth time since David had planted himself at the bar.

“The office,” David said, and Abner frowned as if this were bad news for everyone. “The aforementioned Roy Barton is looking for me, throwing things. Wish I could be a fly on the wall. Hope he has a stroke.”

Abner moved closer. “Say, I never caught your name.”

“David Zinc.”

“A pleasure. Look, David, the cook just got here. You want something to eat? Maybe something loaded with grease? French fries, onion rings, a big thick burger?”

“I want a double order of onion rings and a large bottle of ketchup.”

“Attaboy.” Abner disappeared. David drained his latest Bloody Mary and went to look for the restroom. When he returned, he assumed his seat, checked the time—9:28—and waited for the onion rings. He could smell them back there somewhere sizzling in hot oil. The drunk to his far right was gulping coffee and struggling to keep his eyes open. The teenager was still sweeping floors and arranging furniture.

The phone vibrated on the counter. It was his wife. David made no move to answer it. When the vibrating was over, he waited, then checked the voice mail. Helen’s message was about what he expected: “David, your office has called twice. Where are you? What are you doing? Everyone is very worried. Are you all right? Call me as soon as possible.”

She was a doctoral student at Northwestern, and when he had kissed her good-bye that morning at 6:45, she was still under the covers. When he arrived home the night before at 10:05, they had dined on leftover lasagna in front of the television before he fell asleep on the sofa. Helen was two years older and wanted to get pregnant, something that was looking more and more unlikely given her husband’s perpetual exhaustion. In the meantime, she was pursuing a Ph.D. in art history, and doing so at a leisurely pace.

A soft beep, then a text message from her: “Where are you? Are you okay? Please.”

He preferred not to speak to her for several hours. He would be forced to admit he was cracking up, and she would insist he get professional help. Her father was a shrink and her mother was a marriage counselor, and the entire family believed that all of life’s problems and mysteries could be solved with a few hours in therapy. At the same time, though, he couldn’t stand the thought that she was frantically worrying about his safety.

He sent a text: “I’m fine. I had to leave the office for a while. I’ll be okay. Please don’t worry.”

She replied: “Where are you?”

The onion rings arrived, a huge pile of golden-brown circles covered in thick batter and grease, hot from the fryer. Abner placed them in front of David and said, “These are the best. How about a glass of water?”

“I was thinking about a pint of beer.”

“You got it.” Abner found a mug and stepped to the tap.

“My wife’s looking for me now,” David said. “You got a wife?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Sorry. She’s a great girl, wants a family and all, but we can’t seem to get things started. I worked four thousand hours last year, can you believe it? Four thousand hours. I usually punch in at seven in the morning and leave around ten at night. That’s a typical day, but it’s not unusual to work past midnight. So when I get home, I crash. I think we had sex once last month. Hard to believe. I’m thirty-one. She’s thirty-three. Both in our prime and wanting to get pregnant, and big boy here can’t stay awake.” He opened the bottle of ketchup and unloaded a third of it. Abner placed a frosty pint of lager in front of him.

“At least you’re making plenty of dough,” Abner said.

David peeled off an onion ring, dipped it in ketchup, and stuffed it in his mouth. “Oh, sure, they pay me. Why would I subject myself to such abuse if I weren’t getting paid?” David glanced around to make sure no one was listening. No one was there. He lowered his voice as he ground away on the onion ring, and said, “I’m a senior associate, five years in, my gross last year was three hundred K. That’s a lot of money, and since I don’t have time to spend it, it’s just piling up in the bank. But look at the math. I worked four thousand hours but billed only three thousand. Three thousand hours, tops in the firm. The rest of it got lost in firm activities and pro bono work. Are you with me, Abner? You look bored.”

“I’m listening. I’ve served lawyers before. I know how dull they are.”

David took a long swig of lager and smacked his lips. “I appreciate your bluntness.”

“Just doing my job.”

“The firm bills my time at five hundred bucks an hour. Times three thousand. That’s one point five mill for dear old Rogan Rothberg, and they pay me a measly three hundred K. Multiply that by five hundred associates all doing pretty much the same thing, and you understand why law schools are packed with bright young students who think they want to join a big law firm and make it to partner and get rich. Are you bored, Abner?”

“Fascinating.”

“You want an onion ring?”

“No thanks.”

David stuffed another large one into his parched mouth, then washed it down with half a pint. There was a loud thud at the end of the bar. The drunk down there succumbed once again. His head was on the counter.

“Who’s the guy?” David asked.

“His name’s Eddie. His brother owns half of the place, so he runs a tab that never gets paid. I’m sick of the guy.” Abner eased away and spoke to Eddie, who didn’t respond. Abner removed the coffee cup and wiped the counter around Eddie, then slowly made his way back to David.

“So you’re walking away from three hundred grand,” Abner said. “What’s the plan?”

David laughed, much too loud. “A plan? Haven’t got that far. Two hours ago I reported for work as always; now I’m cracking up.” Another swig. “My plan, Abner, is to sit here for a long time and try to analyze my crack-up. Will you help me?”

“It’s my job.”

“I’ll pay my tab.”

“Sounds like a deal.”

“Another pint, please.”