“You’re a natural, Zola,” Mark said.
Todd added, “You just need one big case, that’s all. We’re doing the grunt work for peanuts while you’re stalking the big stuff.”
“I feel like a stalker. Is there something else I can do?”
“I can’t think of anything,” Todd said. “You can’t hustle the criminal courts like us because it’s a boys’ game and you’d attract too much attention.”
“I’m not doing that either,” she said. “You can have it.”
Mark said, “I really don’t see you as a divorce lawyer. For that you need a real office because divorce clients take up a lot of time and need a lot of hand-holding.”
“How do you know that?” Todd asked.
“I went to Foggy Bottom.”
“I made an A in Family Law,” she said.
“So did I,” Todd said. “And I skipped half the classes.”
“Can’t we rent a nice little office so I can do divorces?”
“Let’s talk about it later,” Mark said. “I have something that we should discuss. I think I’ve landed a huge case.”
“Do tell,” Todd said.
Mark launched into the story of Ramon’s lawsuit. At the end, he whipped out a contract for legal services and pointed to the signature at the bottom. “He’s all signed up,” he said proudly. Todd and Zola examined the contract and thought of a dozen questions.
Zola asked, “Okay, what’s next?”
“We need to spend some money,” Mark said. “It’ll cost us $2,000 to hire a consultant to review the records. I’ve been looking online and there are plenty of these guys, most are retired doctors, who do nothing but work with law firms and evaluate cases involving medical negligence. There are several here in the District. We spend some cash, get an expert opinion, and if there’s liability, then we refer the case to an ace trial lawyer.”
“How much do we get?” Zola asked.
“Half the fee. That’s how the big tort lawyers operate, by referrals. Grunts like us go out and find the cases, then hand ’em over to the guys who know what they’re doing, and then sit back and wait on the money.”
Todd was skeptical. “I don’t know. If we get involved in a big case, it might blow our cover. If our names are on the pleadings, a lot of people will see them. The trial lawyer, the defense lawyers, the insurance companies, the judge. I don’t know. This seems too risky.”
“We’ll keep our names off the pleadings,” Mark said. “We’ll just tell the trial lawyer to keep us out of it. That should work, right?”
“I don’t know, Mark,” Todd said. “We have no idea what we’re getting into here. Plus, I’m not sure I want to fork over two thousand bucks.”
“We could Trust Rusty, couldn’t we?” Zola asked with a grin.
“Hell no. We’ll hire a med mal specialist. There are several here in the District who do nothing but sue doctors and hospitals. Real trial lawyers. Come on, Todd. I don’t see much of a risk. We can hide in the background, let someone else do the work, and collect a fat fee.”
“How much?”
“Who knows? Say there’s gross negligence on the part of the doctors and hospital. Say we settle for $600,000, just to make the math simple. Our cut will be a hundred grand and we’ve done nothing but hustle the case.”
“You’re dreaming,” Todd said.
“And what’s wrong with that? Zola?”
“Everything’s risky in this game,” she replied. “Every time we stand in front of a judge and pretend to be a lawyer we’re taking a chance. I say we go for it.”
“Are you in, Todd?” Mark asked.
Todd drained his mug and studied his partners. So far, at least in the brief history of UPL, he had been slightly more aggressive than the other two. Backing down now would show weakness. He said, “One step at a time. Let’s see what the consultant says, then go from there.”
“Deal,” Mark said.
23
Frank Jepperson sat behind his oversized desk and stared at Zola’s business card. As a veteran of the personal injury wars in the District, he was quite familiar with her game. In his earlier years, he too had toiled in the vineyards of the city’s hospitals, stalking potential clients. He knew all the tricks. He paid kickbacks to tow truck drivers who worked accident scenes. He greased the palms of traffic cops who sent clients his way. Each morning he reviewed police reports looking for the most promising car wrecks. With success, he’d been able to hire a full-time runner, a former cop named Keefe, and it was Keefe who had hustled the family Zola approached in the cafeteria at GW. Jepperson had signed them up fair and square, and now a rookie was trying to poach.
Jepperson’s turf was the mean streets of the District, where there were few rules and lots of shady players. However, when possible, he tried to protect his turf, especially when a new player looked suspicious.
Keefe sat across from him, with one ostrich-skin cowboy boot across a knee, and clipped his fingernails.
“And you found this place?” Jepperson asked.
“Yep. On the ground floor there’s a joint called The Rooster Bar. The office is two floors above it and no way to get up there. I had a few drinks and chatted with a bartender, who claimed to know nothing. Really clammed up when I asked about Zola Parker.”
“And the Bar Council?”
“I checked. No such lawyer on record. Lots of Parkers, but none named Zola.”
“Interesting. And the firm—Upshaw, Parker & Lane?”
“Nothing, but then, as you know, law firms change so fast it’s impossible to keep up with who’s practicing where. The Bar Council says it has a hard time tracking firm names.”
“Interesting.”
“You want to file a complaint?”
“I’ll think about it. Let’s see if we run across these clowns again.”
—
ON THE EIGHTH floor of the Foggy Bottom Law School, a junior administrator noticed that three professors had reported that two third-year students, Mark Frazier and Todd Lucero, had skipped all classes for the first four weeks of the spring semester. Both had received their loans for their final semester, but evidently were not bothering with classes. It was not at all unusual for graduating students to mail it in, but cutting all classes for over a month was extreme.
She sent an e-mail to Mr. Frazier. It read,
Dear Mark: Are you okay? Your complete absence this semester has been noticed and we are concerned. Please notify me as soon as possible. Faye Doxey, Assistant Registrar.
She sent an identical note to Todd Lucero. After two days, neither had responded.
—
ON FEBRUARY 14, Zola eased into the courtroom of the Honorable Joseph Cantu and watched the proceedings. After almost an hour, a clerk called the name of Gordon Tanner. His lawyer, Preston Kline, stood before Judge Cantu and said, “Your Honor, I have not heard from my client in a month. I can only assume he’s skipped out.”
A clerk handed the judge a note. He read it twice, and said, “Well, Mr. Kline, it appears as though your client is dead.”
“Wow, Judge. You sure about that? I had no idea.”
“It’s been confirmed.”