Todd said, “Well, so do we, our new careers. Now that we have these clients, we have to deliver our services. I mean, we’re promising these people we can keep them out of jail and get their fines reduced. Any idea how we might go about that?”
“We’ll figure it out tomorrow. The key is chumming it up with the prosecutors, getting to know them and being persistent. And look, Todd, if we can’t always deliver we won’t be the first lawyers who promised too much. We’ll get our fees and move on.”
“You sound like a real street hustler.”
“That’s my gig. I’m going to bed.”
—
BELOW THEM, ZOLA was awake too. She was in her flimsy bed, propped up against the pillows with a quilt covering her legs. The room was dark, the only light coming from the screen of her laptop.
Her loan counselor was a woman named Tildy Carver, and she worked for a servicing company nearby in Chevy Chase called LoanAid. Ms. Carver had been pleasant enough through law school, but her tone was changing as the semesters progressed. That afternoon, when Zola was sitting in a courtroom taking notes, she had received Ms. Carver’s latest e-mail:
Dear Ms. Maal: When we last corresponded a month ago, you were getting ready for your final semester. At that time, you were not optimistic about your employment possibilities. I’m sure you’re busy with lots of interviews as graduation approaches. Could you please update me on your efforts to find a job? I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely, Tildy Carver, Senior Loan Adviser
Last installment, January 13, 2014: $32,500; total principal and interest: $191,000.
In the safety of her new hiding place, she stared at the “total” figure and shook her head. It was still difficult to believe that she had voluntarily waded into a system that allowed someone like her to borrow so much, with the thought of paying it back an absurd impossibility. Of course, now she wasn’t supposed to worry about repayment, but she found that plan troublesome too. It was wrong to simply run away and blame the system.
Her parents had no idea how much she owed. They knew she was borrowing legitimate sums provided by the government, and they had innocently believed that any program provided by Congress must be thoughtful and good. Now they would never know, which was slightly comforting.
She typed,
Dear Ms. Carver: Nice to hear from you. I interviewed last week with the Department of Justice and I’m waiting for a response. I’m seriously thinking about working in the public sector or for a nonprofit to ease the strain of repayment. I’ll keep you posted.
Sincerely, Zola Maal
She heard footsteps above her and knew her partners were moving about. She turned off her laptop and stretched out under the covers. She was thankful for her cozy little hiding place, thankful that there would be no sudden knock on the door. The first apartment she remembered as a child was not much larger than her new space. She and her two older brothers shared a tiny bedroom. The boys had bunk beds and next to them she slept on a cot. Her parents were close by in another cramped bedroom. She didn’t realize they were poor and frightened and not supposed to be there. In spite of this, though, the home was a happy place with lots of laughter and good times. Her parents worked odd jobs at all hours, but one was usually at home. If not, there was always a neighbor down the hall checking on the kids. Their front door was usually open and folks “from home” were in and out. Someone was always cooking and the aromas hung heavy in the hallways. Food was shared, as was clothing, even money.
And they worked. The Senegalese adults put in long hours with no complaints. Zola was twelve years old before she realized there was a dark cloud hanging over her world. A man they knew was arrested, detained, and eventually sent back. This had terrified the others, and her parents moved again.
She thought of her parents and brother every hour of every day, and usually fell asleep fighting tears. Her future was uncertain, but nothing compared with theirs.
20
The king of D.C. billboards was a colorful tort lawyer named Rusty Savage. His jingle was “Trusting Rusty,” and it was impossible to drive along the Beltway without being confronted with his smiling face exhorting those who’d been injured to trust him. His slick TV ads featured clients who’d suffered all manner of physical trauma but were doing swell because they had wisely picked up the phone and called 1-800-Trust-Me.
The three UPL partners had researched personal injury firms in the District and settled on Rusty. His operation had eight lawyers, several of whom were evidently able to walk into a courtroom and actually try a case. Zola made the call and explained to the lady on the other end that her husband had been badly injured in a wreck involving an 18-wheeler and she needed to see Rusty. The lady explained that he was tied up in a “major trial in federal court” but one of his associates would be happy to meet with her.
If you know nothing about personal injury law, find someone who does. Using a name she’d selected from the phone book, Zola made the appointment.
The office suite was in a glass building near Union Station. She and Todd entered the lobby, which had the look and feel of a busy doctor’s waiting room. Rows of chairs lined the walls along with racks of magazines. A dozen clients, some with crutches and canes, sat in varying degrees of discomfort. Rusty’s relentless advertising blitz was apparently working well. Zola checked in with the receptionist and was given a questionnaire on a clipboard. She filled in the blanks with bogus information but gave an actual phone number, her old cell. After fifteen minutes, a paralegal fetched them and led them back to a large, open space packed with cubbyholes and workstations. Numerous underlings labored frenetically on the phones and desktops, cranking out paperwork. The lawyers had private offices to the sides with views of the city. The paralegal tapped on the door of one, and they entered the domain of Brady Hull.
From the website, they knew that Mr. Hull was about forty and had a law degree from American University. Of course, he was “passionate about fighting for the rights of his clients,” and claimed an impressive series of “major settlements.” The paralegal left them and introductions were made. They sat in leather chairs across from Mr. Hull, whose desk was only slightly tidier than a landfill.
Tom (Todd) explained that Claudia (Zola) Tolliver’s husband was his best friend and he was there only for moral support. The husband, Donnie, had asked Tom to sit in with his wife and take notes while he, Donnie, was confined to the house with his injuries.
Mr. Hull was skeptical at first and said, “Well, I don’t normally do this. We might need to discuss things that are private and confidential.”
Claudia said, “Please, it’s okay. Tom is a trusted friend.”