The Litigators

CHAPTER 4


After an hour or so of reading the newspaper, eating her yogurt, and enjoying her coffee, Rochelle Gibson reluctantly went to work. Her first task was to check the client register for one Chester Marino, now resting quietly in a modestly priced bronze casket at Van Easel & Sons Funeral Home. Oscar was right. The firm had prepared a last will and testament for Mr. Marino six years earlier. She found the thin file in the storage room next to the kitchen and took it to Wally, who was hard at work amid the debris on his desk.

The office of Wallis T. Figg, Attorney and Counselor-at-Law, had been a bedroom in the original scheme of things, but over the years, as walls and doors were reconfigured, the square footage had been expanded somewhat. It certainly gave no hint of once being a bedroom, but then it didn’t much resemble an office either. It began at the door with walls no more than twelve feet apart, then doglegged to the right, to a larger space where Wally worked behind a 1950s-style faux-modern desk he’d snapped up at a fire sale. The desk was covered with stacks of manila files and used legal pads and hundreds of phone message slips, and to anyone who didn’t know better, including prospective clients, the desk gave the impression that the man behind it was extremely busy, maybe even important.

As always, Ms. Gibson walked slowly toward the desk, careful not to upset the piles of thick law books and old files stacked along the route. She handed him the file and said, “We did a will for Mr. Marino.”

“Thanks. Any assets?”

“I didn’t look,” she said, already backtracking. She left without another word.

Wally opened the file. Six years earlier, Mr. Marino was working as an auditor for the State of Illinois, earning $70,000 a year, living with his second wife and her two teenagers, and enjoying a quiet life in the suburbs. He had just paid off the mortgage on their home, which was their only significant asset. They had joint bank accounts, retirement funds, and few debts. The only interesting wrinkle was a collection of three hundred baseball cards that Mr. Marino valued at $90,000. On page 4 of the file, there was a Xerox copy of a 1916 card of Shoeless Joe Jackson in a White Sox uniform, and under it Oscar had written: $75,000. Oscar cared nothing for sports, and he had never mentioned this little oddity to Wally. Mr. Marino signed a simple will he could have prepared himself for free, but instead paid Finley & Figg $250 for the honors. As Wally read the will, he realized its only real purpose, since all other assets were jointly owned, was to make sure his two stepchildren didn’t get their hands on his baseball card collection. Mr. Marino left it to his son, Lyle. On page 5, Oscar had scribbled: “Wife doesn’t know about cards.”

Wally estimated the value of the estate at somewhere in the $500,000 range, and under the probate scheme currently in place the lawyer handling Mr. Marino’s final affairs would earn about $5,000. Unless there was a fight over the baseball cards, and Wally certainly hoped there would be, the probate would be painfully routine and take about eighteen months. But if the heirs fought, then Wally could drag it out for three years and triple his fee. He did not like probate work, but it was far better than divorce and child custody. Probate paid the bills, and occasionally it led to additional fees.

The fact that Finley & Figg prepared the will meant nothing when it was time to probate it. Any lawyer could do so, and Wally knew from his vast experience in the murky world of client solicitation that there were scores of hungry lawyers poring over obituaries and calculating fees. It was worth his time to check on Chester and lay claim to the legal work necessary in tidying up his affairs. It was certainly worth a drive-by at Van Easel & Sons, one of many funeral homes on his circuit.

Three months remained on the suspension of Wally’s driver’s license for drunken driving, but he drove nonetheless. He was careful, though, keeping to the streets near his home and office where he knew the cops. When he went to court downtown, he took the bus or the train.

Van Easel & Sons was a few blocks outside his comfort zone, but he decided to roll the dice. If he got caught, he could probably talk his way out of trouble. If the police didn’t budge, then he knew the judges. He used the backstreets as much as possible and stayed away from the traffic.

Mr. Van Easel and his three sons had been dead for many years, and as their funeral parlor passed from one owner to another, the business had declined, as had the “loving and thoughtful service” that was still advertised. Wally parked in the rear, in an empty lot, and walked through the front door as if he were there to pay his respects. It was almost 10:00 a.m., on a Wednesday morning, and for a few seconds he saw no one else. He paused in the lobby and looked at the visiting schedule. Chester was two doors down on the right, in the second of three visiting rooms. To the left was a small chapel. A man with pasty skin, brown teeth, and a black suit approached and said, “Good morning. May I help you?”

“Good morning, Mr. Grayber,” Wally said.

“Oh, it’s you again.”

“Always a pleasure.” Though Wally had once shaken hands with Mr. Grayber, he made no effort to do so again. He wasn’t sure, but he suspected him to be one of the morticians. He had always remembered the soft, chilly touch of his palm. And Mr. Grayber kept his palms to himself as well. Each man disliked the other’s profession.

“Mr. Marino was a client,” Wally said gravely.

“His visitation is not until this evening,” Grayber said.

“Yes, I see that. But I’m leaving town this afternoon.”

“Very well.” He sort of waved in the direction of the viewing rooms.

“I don’t suppose any other lawyers have stopped by,” Wally said.

Grayber snorted and rolled his eyes. “Who knows? I can’t keep up with you people. We had a service last week for an illegal Mexican, got himself pinned under a bulldozer, used the chapel there,” he said, nodding at the chapel door. “We had more lawyers here than family members. Poor guy’s never been so loved.”

“How nice,” Wally said. He had attended the service last week. Finley & Figg did not get the case. “Thanks,” he said and walked away. He passed the first viewing room—closed casket, no mourners. He stepped into the second, a dimly lit room, twenty feet by twenty, with a casket along one wall and cheap chairs lining the others. Chester was sealed up, which pleased Wally. He put his hand on the casket as if fighting back tears. Just he and Chester, sharing one last moment together.

The routine here was to hang around for a few minutes and hope a family member or friend showed up. If not, then Wally would sign the register and leave his card with Grayber with specific instructions to tell the family that Mr. Marino’s lawyer stopped by to pay his respects. The firm would send flowers to the service and a letter to the widow, and in a few days Wally would call the woman and act as though she were somehow obligated to hire Finley & Figg because they had prepared the will. This worked about half the time.

Wally was leaving when a young man entered the room. He was about thirty, nice looking, reasonably dressed with a jacket and tie. He looked at Wally with a great deal of skepticism, which was the way a lot of people initially viewed him, though this no longer bothered him. When two perfect strangers meet at a casket in an empty viewing room, the first words are always awkward. Wally finally managed to state his name, and the young man said, “Yes, well, uh, that’s my father. I’m Lyle Marino.”

Ah, soon-to-be owner of a nice collection of baseball cards. But Wally could not mention this. “Your father was a client of my law firm,” Wally said. “We prepared his last will and testament. I’m very sorry.”

“Thanks,” Lyle said, and seemed relieved. “I can’t believe this. We went to the Blackhawks game last Saturday. Had a great time. Now he’s gone.”

“I’m very sorry. So it was sudden?”

“A heart attack.” Lyle snapped his fingers and said, “Just like that. He was at work Monday morning, at his desk, all of a sudden he started sweating and breathing hard, then he just fell on the floor. Dead.”

“I’m very sorry, Lyle,” Wally said as if he’d known the young man forever.

Lyle was patting the top of the casket and repeating, “I just can’t believe this.”

Wally needed to fill in some blanks. “Your parents divorced about ten years ago, right?”

“Something like that.”

“Is your mother still in the city?”

“Yes.” Lyle wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“And your stepmother. Are you close to her?”

“No. We don’t speak. The divorce was ugly.”

Wally suppressed a smile. A feuding family would run up his fees.

“I’m sorry. Her name is …”

“Millie.”

“Right. Look, Lyle, I gotta run. Here’s my card.” Wally deftly whipped out a business card and handed it over. “Chester was a great guy,” Wally said. “Call us if we can help.”

Lyle took the card and stuffed it into his pants pocket. He was staring blankly at the casket. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Figg, Wally Figg.”

“And you’re a lawyer?”

“Yes. Finley & Figg, a small boutique firm with lots of business in all major courts.”

“And you knew my father?”

“Oh yes, very well. He loved to collect baseball cards.”

Lyle took his hand off the casket and looked square into the shifty eyes of Wally Figg. “You know what killed my father, Mr. Figg?”

“You said it was a heart attack.”

“Right. You know what caused the heart attack?”

“Well, no.”

Lyle glanced at the door to make sure they were still alone. He glanced around the room to make sure no one could possibly be listening. He took a step closer so that his shoes were almost touching those of Wally, who by now was expecting to hear that old Chester had been murdered in some clever fashion.

In a near whisper, Lyle asked, “Ever hear of a drug called Krayoxx?”

There was a McDonald’s in the shopping center next to Van Easel’s. Wally bought two cups of coffee, and they huddled in a booth, as far away from the counter as possible. Lyle had a stack of papers—articles pulled from the Internet—and it was obvious he needed someone to talk to. Since his father’s death forty-eight hours earlier, he had become obsessed with Krayoxx.

The drug had been on the market for six years, and its sales had grown rapidly. In most cases, it lowered the cholesterol of obese people. Chester’s weight had slowly climbed toward three hundred pounds, and this had caused other increases—blood pressure and cholesterol, to name the most obvious. Lyle had hounded his father about his weight, but Chester couldn’t stay away from the midnight ice cream. His way of handling the stress of the ugly divorce was to sit in the dark and knock out one pint after another of Ben & Jerry’s. Once the weight was on, he couldn’t get it off. His doctor prescribed Krayoxx a year earlier, and his cholesterol dropped dramatically. At the same time, he began complaining of an irregular heart rate and shortness of breath. He reported these to his doctor, who assured him there was nothing wrong. The dramatic dip in his cholesterol far outweighed any of these minor side effects.

Krayoxx was made by Varrick Labs, a New Jersey firm currently number three on Big Pharma’s list of the world’s ten largest drug companies, annual sales of some $25 billion, and a long, ugly history of bruising battles with federal regulators and tort lawyers.

“Varrick makes six billion a year off Krayoxx,” Lyle was saying as he sifted through research. “With an annual increase of 10 percent.”

Wally ignored his coffee as he scanned a report. He listened silently, though the wheels were turning so fast he was almost dizzy.

“And here’s the best part,” Lyle said, picking up another sheet of paper. “Ever hear of a law firm called Zell & Potter?”

Wally had never heard of Krayoxx, though at 240 pounds and with a slightly elevated cholesterol he was mildly surprised his doctor had not mentioned the drug. Nor had he heard of Zell & Potter, but, sensing they were major players in something important, he wasn’t about to admit his ignorance. “I think so,” he said, frowning, searching.

“Big plaintiffs’ firm in Fort Lauderdale.”

“Yep.”

“They filed suit in Florida last week against Varrick, a huge lawsuit for wrongful deaths caused by Krayoxx. Here’s the story in the Miami Herald.”

Wally scanned the story as his heart rate doubled.

“I’m sure you heard about this lawsuit,” Lyle said.

Wally was constantly amazed at the naïveté of the average guy. Over two million lawsuits are filed in the United States each year, and poor Lyle here was thinking that Wally had noticed one filed in south Florida. “Yep, I’ve been watching this one,” Wally said.

“Does your firm handle cases like this?” Lyle asked, so innocently.

“It’s our specialty,” Wally said. “We cut our teeth on injury and death cases. I’d love to go after Varrick Labs.”

“You would? Have you ever sued them before?”

“No, but we’ve gone after most of the major drug companies.”

“This is great. Then you’re willing to take my dad’s case?”

Damn right I’ll take it, Wally thought, but through years of experience he knew not to rush in. Or at least not to seem overly optimistic. “Let’s just say the case has real potential. I’ll need to confer with my senior partner, do some research, chat with the boys down at Zell & Potter, do my homework. Mass tort work is very complicated.”

And it could also be insanely lucrative, which was Wally’s primary thought at the moment.

“Thank you, Mr. Figg.”

At five minutes before eleven, Abner became somewhat animated. He began watching the door as he continued shining martini glasses with his white towel. Eddie was awake again, sipping coffee but still in another world. Finally, Abner said, “Say, David, could you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Could you move two stools over? The one you got now is reserved at eleven each morning.”

David looked to his right—there were eight empty stools between him and Eddie. And to his left there were seven empty stools between him and the other end of the bar. “Are you kidding?” David asked.

“Come on.” Abner grabbed his pint of beer, which was almost empty, replaced it with a full one, and situated everything two stools to the left. David slowly lifted himself up and followed his beer. “What’s the deal?” he asked.

“You’ll see,” Abner said, nodding at the door. There was no one else in the pub, other than, of course, Eddie.

Minutes later, the door opened, and an elderly Asian man appeared. He wore a dapper uniform, a bow tie, and a little driver’s cap. He was helping a lady much older than himself. She walked with a cane, unassisted but with the driver hovering, and the two of them shuffled across the floor toward the bar. David watched with fascination—was he finally seeing things, or was this for real? Abner was mixing a drink and watching too. Eddie was mumbling to himself.

“Good morning, Miss Spence,” Abner said politely, almost with a bow.

“Good morning, Abner,” she said as she slowly lifted herself up and delicately mounted the stool. Her driver followed her movements with both hands but didn’t touch her. Once she was properly seated, she said, “I’ll have the usual.”

The driver nodded at Abner, then backed away and quietly left the bar.

Miss Spence was wearing a full-length mink coat, thick pearls around her tiny neck, and layers of thick rouge and mascara that did little to hide the fact that she was at least ninety years old. David admired her immediately. His own grandmother was ninety-two and strapped to a bed in a nursing home, absent from this world, and here was this grand old dame boozing it up before lunch.

She ignored him. Abner finished mixing her drink, a baffling combination of ingredients. “One Pearl Harbor,” he said as he presented it to her. She slowly lifted it to her mouth, took a small sip with her eyes closed, swirled the booze around her mouth, then offered Abner the slightest of heavily wrinkled grins. He seemed to breathe again.

David, not quite plastered but well on his way, leaned over and said, “Come here often?”

Abner gulped and showed both palms to David. “Miss Spence is a regular, and she prefers to drink in silence,” he said, panicky. Miss Spence was taking another sip, again with her eyes closed.

“She wants to drink in silence in a bar?” David asked in disbelief.

“Yes!” Abner snapped.

“Well, I guess she picked the right bar,” David said, flopping an arm around and taking in the emptiness of the pub. “This place is deserted. Do you ever have a crowd around here?”

“Quiet,” Abner urged. His face said, “Just be cool for a while.”

But David kept on. “I mean, you’ve had just two customers all morning, me and old Eddie down there, and we all know that he doesn’t pay his tab.”

At the moment, Eddie was lifting his coffee cup in the general direction of his face but was having trouble finding his mouth. Evidently, he did not hear David’s comment.

“Knock it off,” Abner growled. “Or I’ll ask you to leave.”

“Sorry,” David said and went silent. He had no desire to leave because he had no idea where to go.

The third sip did the trick and loosened things up a little. Miss Spence opened her eyes and looked around. Slowly, and with an ancient voice, she said, “Yes, I come here often. Monday through Saturday. And you?”

“My first visit,” David said, “but I doubt it’s my last. After today, I’ll probably have more time to drink and more reasons for doing so. Cheers.” He leaned across with his pint of lager and ever so carefully touched her glass.

“Cheers,” she said. “And why are you here, young man?”

“It’s a long story, and getting longer. Why are you here?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Habit, I guess. Six days a week for how long, Abner?”

“At least twenty years.”

She apparently did not want to hear David’s long story. She took another sip and looked as though she wanted to nod off. David was suddenly sleepy too.