“Of course he does,” Mark said.
Louie slurped his coffee and said, “But, I was hoping that after you passed the bar exam this summer you might be able to help a little with my case, maybe sit with me at trial so the jury will think I have two lawyers, you know? I guess that’s not going to happen.”
“No, it’s not going to happen. I’m taking a break.”
“That’s really weird.”
She placed three bowls of steaming beef stew on the table. Louie attacked his as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. Mark glared at his mother, then glanced at the clock. He’d been there for forty minutes and couldn’t imagine staying another hour.
25
On Monday, March 3, federal agents raided the corporate headquarters of Swift Bank in downtown Philadelphia. The press was tipped off and there was plenty of footage of a small army of men with “FBI” emblazoned on their parkas hauling boxes and computers to waiting trucks. The company issued a statement saying all was well, it was cooperating and all that, while its stock price plummeted.
A business commentator on cable recapped the bank’s troubles. Two congressional investigations were underway, along with the FBI’s. U.S. Attorneys in three states were preening for the cameras and promising to get to the bottom of things. At least five class action suits were on the books and the lawyers were in a frenzy. More litigation was a certainty. Swift’s CEO had just resigned—to spend more time with his family—and took with him about $100 million in stock options, loot that would undoubtedly make all that family time more enjoyable. The CFO was negotiating his exit package. Hundreds of former employees were surfacing, blowing whistles, and suing for wrongful terminations. Old lawsuits against Swift were reexamined and revealed that the bank’s bad behavior had been ongoing for at least a decade. Customers were howling and closing accounts. Consumer watchdogs were issuing statements condemning “the most fraudulent banking practices in U.S. history.”
Nine percent of Swift’s stock was owned by an investment firm in L.A. As its largest stockholder, it had nothing to say. The UPL partners monitored Swift’s mess on a daily basis and printed every word they could find about the bank. So far, Hinds Rackley had managed to escape attention.
They decided that with such chaos the time was right to join the fun. Mark contacted a law firm in Miami and signed on as a plaintiff in its class action. Todd called a toll-free number advertised by a law firm in New York and joined its class action. Zola stayed closer to home and joined forces with a D.C. firm well known in the mass tort business.
Within hours of becoming litigants, they were flooded with paperwork being churned out by the lawyers hounding Swift. It was an impressive collection.
According to the latest estimates, there were potentially one million Swift customers who had been subjected to the bank’s corrupt practices.
—
RAMON CALLED EVERY day, even on weekends. He wanted updates on his case, and Mark explained over and over that the initial review, from their “first expert,” was positive and they were proceeding as fast as possible. Mark had an appointment with the great Jeffrey Corbett on Wednesday, March 19, the earliest open date on his packed schedule. Evidently, his trial calendar was something to behold and he hardly had time to consider new cases.
When Ramon called on Tuesday, he dropped the bomb that Asia, his ex, had come to life down in Charleston and was curious about the lawsuit. Mark had little doubt that Ramon, probably under the influence, had tried to impress her with big talk about hiring lawyers to pursue a malpractice case. Mark was certain she would not be a factor.
Mark was wrong. On Wednesday, he received a call from a lawyer in Charleston, a Mr. Mossberg. Since the incoming phone number was unknown, Mark, as always, debated whether to take the call. After five rings he accepted it.
Mossberg began with “I represent Asia Taper, and I understand you represent her ex-husband. That right?”
“That’s correct. Ramon Taper is our client.”
“Well, you can’t sue without her. She was, after all, the mother of the child.” Mossberg’s tone was aggressive to the point of being confrontational.
Just great, Ramon. There goes a chunk of our fee. Just what we needed—another pushy trial lawyer getting in the way.
“Yes, I understand that,” Mark said as he quickly searched for Mossberg online.
“My client says your client has all the medical records. That true?”
“I have the records,” Mark said. Edwin Mossberg. Six-man firm specializing in personal injury, downtown Charleston. Forty-five years old. So twenty years in the trenches and far more experienced than anyone at UPL. A big guy, flabby cheeks, full head of gray hair, expensive suit and tie. Biggest victory to date an eleven-million verdict against a hospital in Atlanta. And lots of lesser, though still impressive, verdicts.
“Can you send me a copy of them?” Mossberg practically demanded.
“Sure, no problem.”
“So, tell me, Mr. Upshaw, what’s been done on the case?”
For the thousandth time Mark pinched the bridge of his nose and asked himself what the hell he was doing. He gritted his teeth and said, “Well, right now the medicals are being evaluated by our expert. Should have a report in a few days.”
“Who’s the expert?” Mossberg asked, as if he knew every expert in the field.
“We’ll talk about him later,” Mark said, finding his footing. One asshole to another.
“I’d like to see the report as soon as you have it. There are a lot of bad experts out there, and I happen to know the best. Guy lives at Hilton Head. I’ve used him several times, with great success I might add.”
Oh, please add; would love to hear more about your phenomenal successes. “That’s great,” Mark said. “Zip me your contract and I’ll be in touch.”
“Sure. And, Mr. Upshaw, there’s no lawsuit without my client, you understand? Asia has suffered greatly because of this, and I’m determined to get every dime of compensation she is entitled to.”
Go, Superman! “So am I, Mr. Mossberg,” Mark said. “Good day.” He ended the call and wanted to throw his phone out the window.
—