The Rooster Bar

“Why is that? Hell, it’s my lawsuit. Why should she get anything from the case if she wants no part of it?”

“That’s the law,” Mark said, without a clue. However, something from law school was sticking and he vaguely remembered a case from first-year torts. “Let’s worry about that later. Right now we need to proceed with the investigation. Any settlement is way down the road.”

“Don’t seem right.”

“Do you want to proceed?”

“Sure, that’s why I’m here. Do you want the case?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Then we got a deal. Now tell me what’s going to happen.”

“Well, first, you sign a contract for legal services with my firm, which will give me the authority to request all the records. I’ll have them reviewed, and if there appears to be clear liability on the part of the doctors and hospital then you and I will have another conversation. We’ll decide if we want to file a lawsuit.”

“How long will that take?”

Clueless again, Mark said, convincingly, “Not long. A matter of weeks. We don’t sit on things, Ramon. We move fast.”

“And you don’t want any money up front?”

“No. Some firms ask for a retainer or expense money, but not us. Our contract calls for a contingency of one-third if there’s a settlement, 40 percent if we go to trial. These are complex cases that are vigorously defended by folks with plenty of money. So, our cut is a little higher than your average injury case. And, this type of litigation is expensive. We’ll front the out-of-pocket money and get repaid at settlement. You okay with that?”

Ramon took a sip of water and gazed through the window. While he pondered things, Mark removed a contract from his briefcase and filled in the blanks. Eventually, Ramon removed his bulky glasses and wiped his eyes with a paper napkin. Softly, he said, “This is so bad, Mr. Upshaw.”

“Please, call me Mark.”

His lips trembled and he said, “Sure, Mark. We had things going good, me and Asia. Loved that woman, I guess I always will. She wasn’t strong but she was a good girl, and a beauty. She didn’t deserve this. I guess no one does. We were so ready for Jackie, we had tried for so long.”

“Jackie?”

“His name was Jackson Taper, and we were going to call him Jackie. After Jackie Robinson. I like baseball.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He lived for two days, never had a chance. They screwed him up, Mark. It should not have happened.”

“We’ll get to the bottom of it, Ramon. I promise.”

Ramon smiled, bit his bottom lip, wiped his eyes again, and put on his glasses. He reached for a pen and signed the contract.



AS WAS THEIR habit, the partners met in the late afternoon in the same booth in the rear of The Rooster Bar to recap the daily business. Mark and Todd had beers, Zola a soft drink. After three weeks of practicing law with no authority to do so, they had learned a lot and were somewhat comfortable with their routines; Zola less so than the other two. The fear of getting caught was almost gone, though it would always nag at some level. Mark and Todd were regularly appearing in the criminal courts, same as a thousand other lawyers, and answering the same questions from bored judges. They made quick deals with prosecutors, not a single one of whom seemed the least bit curious about their credentials. They signed their bogus names on orders and other paperwork. They roamed the halls in search of clients, often bumping into other lawyers, all too busy to suspect anything. Despite their fast start, they soon learned that business was not that easy to hustle. On a good day they would rake in $1,000 or so in fees from new clients. On a bad day they would net nothing, which was not unusual.

Zola had narrowed her search to the three busiest hospitals—Catholic, General, and George Washington. She had yet to sign up a single client, but was encouraged by a few near misses. She didn’t like what she was doing, preying on the injured, but for the moment she had no choice. Mark and Todd were working hard to support the business. She felt compelled to contribute something.

They debated at length about how often they should be seen hustling potential clients and standing in front of judges. On the one hand, familiarity would give them credibility as they became everyday players in the assembly line. But on the other hand, the more lawyers, prosecutors, clerks, and judges they met, the larger the pool of people who might one day ask the wrong question. And what might that question be? A bored clerk might ask, “What’s your bar number again? The one I’m showing is not in the system.” There were 100,000 lawyers in the D.C. Bar Council, and each one had a number that had to be added to every order and pleading. Mark and Todd were using fictitious numbers, of course. However, the sheer number of lawyers provided excellent cover, and so far the clerks had shown no interest.

Or a judge might ask, “When were you admitted to the bar, son, haven’t seen you around here?” But, so far, no judge had been even remotely curious.

Or an assistant prosecutor might ask, “Delaware Law, huh? I have a friend who went there. Do you know so-and-so?” However, the assistant prosecutors were far too busy and important for such idle chatter, and Mark and Todd kept their conversations brief.

Questions were never feared from the most important folks of all: their clients.

Zola sipped her soda and said, “Okay, I have a confession. I think I’ve pulled a Freddy Garcia.”

“Oh, we gotta hear this,” Todd said with a laugh.

“So last night I was at GW, doing my act, and I noticed a young black couple at a table eating one of those dreadful pizzas. She was banged up, plaster here and there, a neck brace, cuts on the face. Had to be a car wreck, right? So I venture over, do my little dance, and they want to talk. Turns out she was hit by a taxi—ka-ching, lots of insurance—and their eight-year-old daughter is upstairs in ICU. The case gets better and better. Then they ask me what I’m doing hanging around a hospital cafeteria, and I deliver my lines perfectly. My mother is quite ill, on her last legs, and I’m doing the awful bedside waiting game. I give them my card and we promise to talk later. My phone rings and I scoot away to check on dear old Mom, right? I’m smiling as I leave the hospital because I’ve finally hooked a big one.”

She paused to make them wait, and continued, “Well, this afternoon I get a phone call, not from my brand-new clients, but from their lawyer. Seems as though they’ve already hired one, a real nasty dude named Frank Jepperson. And, boy, did he have a lot on his mind.”

Mark was laughing. Todd said, “You really did it—another Freddy Garcia.”

“Yep. He accused me of trying to steal his client. I said no, we were just having a nice little chat as I took a break from sitting with Mom. Really? he asked. Then why did I give them my card? And who the hell is Upshaw, Parker & Lane? Said he’d never heard of them. And so on. I finally hung up. Look, guys, I’m just not cut out for this. You gotta find me another specialty. Some of the cafeteria workers are starting to give me dirty looks.”