“Oh, well, no one told me. I guess that explains things.”
“Wait a minute,” Judge Cantu said as he scanned more paperwork. “According to these entries, he died on January 4, a suicide. There’s even a story from the Post. But he appeared with you right here in front of me on January 17. Can you explain this?”
Kline scratched his jaw as he looked at his copy of the docket. “Well, no, sir, I cannot explain. We were certainly here on the seventeenth, but, frankly, I’ve had no contact with him since then.”
“I guess because he’s dead.”
“It’s all very confusing, Judge. I don’t know.”
Cantu raised both hands in frustration and said, “Well, if the boy’s dead, then I have no choice but to dismiss the case.”
“Yes, sir, I guess.”
“Next case.”
Zola left a few minutes later and reported to her partners.
—
MARK ENTERED THE office building on Sixteenth Street and took the elevator to the third floor. He found the door for Potomac Litigation Consultants and stepped into the small reception room. A secretary nodded at a couple of chairs and he took a seat. Five minutes later, Dr. Willis Koonce appeared and introduced himself. Mark followed him to a small office down the hall.
Koonce was a retired obstetrician who’d practiced in the District years earlier. According to the website, he had spent the past twenty years as a litigation expert, a professional testifier. He claimed to have analyzed thousands of cases and had been called to the witness stand over a hundred times, in twenty-one states. He almost always worked on the plaintiff’s side.
As soon as Mark sat down, Koonce began with “You got ’em by the balls, son. And they’re covering up like crazy. Here’s my report.” He handed over a two-page document, single spaced. “All the technical stuff is in there. I’ll save you the time by explaining it in layman’s terms. The mother, Asia Taper, was left unattended, for the most part, for a crucial period of time. It’s hard to tell how closely she was monitored because there are missing records, but, suffice to say, the FHR—fetal heart rate—decelerated, the uterus ruptured, and there was a significant delay in performing a cesarean section. Without the delay, the baby would have probably been fine. Instead, it sustained what is known as an ischemic insult, or profound brain injury, and as we know died two days later. Death was a good thing; otherwise the child would have lived ten years or so basically as a vegetable, unable to walk, talk, or feed itself. It all could have been prevented by proper monitoring and a quick cesarean. I would classify the negligence as gross, and as you well know, this should make the case easier to settle.”
Mark did not know but nodded right along.
“However, as you also know, Virginia cut a deal with the doctors twenty years ago, in the midst of the great tort reform movement, and all damages are capped. The max you can hope to recover is two million bucks. Sad, but true. Had the child lived, the settlement would be much larger. But, it’s a Virginia case.”
“So we’re stuck with two million?” Mark said, as if disappointed with such a paltry sum.
“Afraid so. Are you licensed in Virginia?”
“No, I’m not.” Nor anywhere else for that matter.
“Have you handled a med mal case before? I mean, you look pretty young.”
“No. I’ll refer it. Any suggestions?”
“Sure.” Koonce grabbed a sheet of paper and handed it over. “Here’s a list of the top D.C. firms for cases like this. All of these guys practice in Virginia; all are good lawyers. I’ve worked with every one of them.”
Mark looked at the names. “Anyone in particular?”
“I’d start at the top with Jeffrey Corbett. He’s the best in my book. Handles only ob-gyn cases. He’ll scare the hell out of the doctors and they’ll settle soon enough.”
Two million. A quick settlement. The cash register in Mark’s brain was firing away.
Koonce was a busy man. He glanced at his watch and said, “My fee for trial work is $40,000, which covers courtroom testimony. If you and Corbett want to use me, say so as soon as possible. I have lots of cases.” He was slowly getting to his feet.
“Sure thing, Dr. Koonce.”
They shook hands. Mark gathered Ramon’s medical records and hurried away.
—
LATE THAT AFTERNOON, Zola was alone in the bar, waiting for the daily UPL debriefing. She had spent the day away from the hospitals and felt much better about herself. After weeks of digging, she had finally found the right lawyer in Senegal, in Dakar, the capital. According to the website, Diallo Niang worked in a three-lawyer firm and spoke English, though on the phone he was difficult to understand. He did criminal work, as well as immigration and family matters. For a fee of $5,000, Mr. Niang would represent the interests of Zola’s parents and brother when they arrived, though no one had a clue when that might happen. Wiring such a sum to a bank in Senegal made Zola uncomfortable, but under the circumstances she had no choice. Mr. Niang claimed to have plenty of contacts with important people in the government and could help the family reenter the country. Zola had read enough horror stories about the tribulations of deportees upon arriving home, unwanted.
She opened her laptop and checked her e-mails. She was not surprised to see one from the law school. Faye Doxey wrote,
Dear Ms. Maal: Professors Abernathy and Zaran are reporting that you have not been to class this semester. We are concerned. Could you please call or write and let us know what’s going on? Sincerely, Faye Doxey, Assistant Registrar.
She knew, of course, that Mark and Todd had received similar messages and had ignored them. The partners were surprised that anyone at Foggy Bottom was diligent enough to notice. She thought about the e-mail for a moment, then responded:
Ms. Doxey: I have pneumonia and my doctors insist that I stay in bed and away from everyone. I am monitoring my classes and expect to make a full recovery. Thanks for your concern. I’ll be back soon enough. Sincerely, Zola Maal.
The lying still bothered her but it was now a way of life. Virtually everything she did was a lie: the fake name and the fake firm and the fake business cards and the fake persona of a concerned lawyer preying on hapless injury victims. She couldn’t continue like this. Could life be any worse if she were still in class and trying to find a real job and worrying about the bar exam and her loans?
Yes, it could. At least she felt safe and beyond the reach of immigration authorities.
The lying continued with the next e-mail. It was from Tildy Carver at LoanAid.