—
CHOOSING THE RIGHT hospital proved difficult. There were so many in the city. Potomac General was a busy, sprawling, chaotic public hospital and the preferred unloading place for victims of street violence. On the high end, George Washington was where they took President Reagan when he was shot. There were at least eight more in between.
They had to start somewhere and decided it would be General. Todd dropped Zola off at the front entrance and went in search of a parking place. As a lawyer now, Ms. Parker wore a fake designer jacket and skirt that fell above the knees but wasn’t too short. Her brown leather pumps were quite stylish, and with a knockoff Gucci attaché she certainly looked like a professional in some field. She followed signs and made her way to the cafeteria on the ground floor. She bought coffee, took a seat at a metal table, and waited on Todd. Not far away, a teenager in a wheelchair sat with a woman, probably his mother, and ate ice cream. One leg was in a thick cast with metal rods protruding. Judging from his mother’s appearance, the family was not affluent.
Affluency was to be avoided, the UPL partners had determined. Those with money were more likely to know a real lawyer. Poor folks would not, or so they reasoned. Against a far wall, a man of about fifty had plaster on both ankles, and appeared to be in pain. He was alone and trying to eat a sandwich.
When Todd entered the cafeteria he stopped and glanced around. He made eye contact with Zola and went to buy coffee. He eventually sat at her table, where she was busy reviewing the UPL new client packet, plagiarized from Rusty’s. “Any victims?” he said quietly as he picked up a sheet of paper.
She was scribbling some useless notes and said, “That kid over there with the broken leg. Dude in the far corner with matching bum ankles.”
Todd slowly looked around as he sipped his coffee.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” she said. “It seems so wrong, preying on unsuspecting people.”
“Come on, Zola. Nobody’s watching. These folks might need our services, and if we don’t get them Trusty Rusty will. Besides, if they tell us to get lost we haven’t lost anything.”
“You go first.”
“Okay, I’ll take the white kid. You’ve got the black guy.”
Todd stood and pulled out his cell phone. He walked away, deep in conversation with no one, and began pacing around the cafeteria. He circled back, and as he walked by the kid with the broken leg he said to the phone, “Look, the trial is next week. We’re not taking fifty thousand because the insurance company is trying to screw you. Got that? I’ll tell the judge that we’re ready for trial.” He stuffed the phone into his pocket, turned around, and with a big smile said to the kid, “Hey, that’s a nasty-looking leg. What happened?”
“Broke it in four places,” the mother said proudly. “Had surgery yesterday.”
The kid smiled and seemed to enjoy the attention. Todd looked at the cast, kept smiling, and said, “Wow. Nice job. How’d you do it?”
The kid said proudly, “I was on a skateboard and hit some ice.”
Skateboard = assumption of risk, self-inflicted injury. Ice = natural element. As the lawsuit dissipated, Todd asked, “Were you by yourself?”
“Yep.” Personal negligence = no one else to blame.
Todd said, “Well, good luck.” He yanked out his phone, took a non-call, and walked away. As he brushed beside Zola, he said, “Strike one. It’s up to you.” He left the cafeteria, still on the phone. He was right; no one was watching; no one cared.
Slowly, she stood and adjusted her fake reading glasses. Holding a sheet of paper in one hand and a cell phone in the other, she walked around the cafeteria. Tall, thin, well dressed, attractive. The man with the injured ankles couldn’t help but notice her as she drew close, on the phone. She smiled at him as she walked by and he returned the smile. Then she was back with a pleasant “Say, are you Mr. Cranston?”
He smiled and said, “No. Name’s McFall.”
She was standing next to him looking at his ankles. She said, “I’m an attorney and I’m supposed to meet a Mr. Cranston here at 2:00 p.m.”
“Sorry. Wrong guy.”
Evidently, McFall wasn’t much of a talker. She said, “Must’ve been a good car wreck.”
“No car wreck. I stepped on some ice and fell off the patio. Broke both ankles.”
What a klutz, she thought, as another lawsuit evaporated. She said, “Well, hang in there.”
“Thanks.”
She returned to her table and her coffee and buried her face in paperwork. Todd returned after a few minutes and whispered, “Did you sign him up?”
“No. He fell on some ice.”
“Ice, ice, ice. Where’s global warming when you need it?”
“Look, Todd, I’m just not cut out for this. I feel like a vulture.”
“That’s exactly what we are.”
21
Wilson Featherstone was another third-year student at Foggy Bottom and had been a member of the gang in the early days. During their second year, he and Todd got sideways over a girl, and they had partied with him less and less. But he was still a good friend, of Mark’s anyway, and his calls had been persistent. He was not going away, and Mark finally agreed to meet for a drink. Avoiding the old neighborhood, Mark chose a dive near Capitol Hill. Late on a Thursday night, with Todd serving drinks at The Rooster Bar and Zola reluctantly trolling at GW Hospital, Mark walked in late and saw Wilson at the bar, half a beer already down.
“You’re late,” Wilson said with a smile and a warm handshake.
“Good to see you, man,” Mark said as he slid onto the stool next to him.
“What’s with the beard?”
“Can’t find a razor. How you doing?”
“I’m fine. The question is, how are you doing?”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve skipped the first three weeks of classes and we’re all talking about you. Same for Todd. What’s going on?”
The bartender stopped by and Mark ordered a draft. He shrugged and said, “I’m taking a break, that’s all. Reasonably severe motivational problems. Gordy kind of messed me up, you know?”
“You’ve moved out of your apartment. Todd too. No one’s seen Zola. You guys cracking up or something?”
“I don’t know what they’re doing. We were with Gordy at the end and we’re struggling, I guess.”
Wilson took a drink as the bartender sat a mug in front of Mark. Wilson asked, “What happened with Gordy?”