—
AT TEN THE next morning, Chap Gronski was sitting in Judge Cantu’s courtroom watching the parade. After the third guilty plea and sentencing, the clerk called the name of Jeremy Plankmore. A young man in the back row stood nervously, looked around for help, and stutter-stepped down the aisle. As he approached the bench, alone, Judge Cantu asked, “Are you Mr. Plankmore?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Says here your lawyer is Mark Upshaw. I don’t see him in the courtroom.”
“No, sir, me neither. I’ve been calling him for three days and he won’t answer his phone.”
Judge Cantu looked down at a clerk, who shrugged as if she knew nothing. He looked at the assistant prosecutor, who gave the same shrug. “Very well, step aside, Mr. Plankmore, and I’ll deal with it later. Let’s see if we can get Mr. Upshaw on the phone. He must’ve got his schedule mixed up.”
Plankmore sat in the front row, frightened and confused. Another lawyer moved in for the kill.
Gronski reported back to Ms. Sanchez. They decided to wait two days until Mr. Lane’s next scheduled court appearance.
—
JEREMY PLANKMORE DECIDED to dig a bit deeper. With a friend as extra muscle, he waited until later that afternoon and visited the address on his lawyer’s business card. Upshaw had charged him a thousand bucks, $800 of which he’d paid in cash. The balance was in his pocket, but he had no plans to hand it over. Indeed, his plans were to confront Mr. Upshaw and demand a refund. At the address on Florida Avenue, he couldn’t find the law firm. At The Rooster Bar, he and his friend bought beers and chatted with the bartender, a heavily tattooed young lady named Pammie. Pammie had little to say, especially when Jeremy started poking around with questions about Mark Upshaw and a law firm in the building. She claimed to know nothing and seemed irritated by the questions. Jeremy got the impression she was stonewalling, and he wrote his name and phone number on the back of a paper napkin. He handed it to Pammie and said, “If you bump into Mark Upshaw, tell him to call me. Or else I’ll report him to the Bar Council.”
“Like I said, I don’t know the guy,” Pammie replied.
“Yeah, yeah, but if you happen to meet him.” Jeremy and his friend left the bar.
—
SNIFFING A JACKPOT, Darrell Cromley moved with extraordinary speed. He paid $3,500 to a retired doctor for an “expedited review” of Ramon’s medical records. In conclusion, the expert wrote, in language blunter than Dr. Koonce’s, that “the actions taken by the hospital staff and attending doctors fell far below acceptable standards of care and constituted gross negligence.”
Darrell grabbed the two-page summary, attached it to his two-page lawsuit, and filed it on behalf of his client, Ramon R. Taper, against Attorney Mark Upshaw and his firm in the Circuit Court of the District of Columbia. The gist of the lawsuit was obvious: Attorney Upshaw had sat on a clear case of medical negligence and allowed the statute of limitations to expire, thus extinguishing any chance of recovery from the hospital and its doctors. Ramon was seeking actual and punitive damages that totaled $25 million.
Darrell mailed a copy of the lawsuit to the address at The Rooster Bar, and paid a process server $100 to personally deliver it to Mr. Upshaw, as required. At the bar, though, the process server had trouble finding the firm. He assumed it was housed somewhere above the bar—he counted three levels up there—but the only visible door, one to the side, was locked. Inside the bar, he asked around, and was told by the manager that there was no such law firm. No one seemed to know anything about Mark Upshaw. The process server tried to leave the lawsuit with the manager, but he adamantly refused to accept it.
For the next three days, the process server tried to find either the law firm or Mark Upshaw, but had no luck.
At no time did Darrell Cromley consider checking with the District Bar Council to determine if Mark Upshaw was a member.
—
THE LAW FIRM had adopted the strategy of mobility. It left the building each morning and drifted around the city, from coffee shops to libraries to bookstores to outdoor cafés, anywhere the partners could camp out with their laptops and comb the white pages for more clients. An observer might have been curious as to what all three were working on with such diligence, mumbling softly to each other, offering names and addresses while their assortment of cell phones vibrated in a muted chorus of neglected calls. The three were certainly in demand, yet they rarely took a call. Such an observer, and there were none, would not have a clue.
—
TODD WAS BEHIND the bar late one night tidying things up as the last of the customers paid their tabs and left. Maynard, who rarely came to The Rooster Bar, appeared from the kitchen and asked, “Where’s Mark?”
Todd replied, “Upstairs.”
“Get him down here. We need to talk.”
Todd knew it was trouble. He called Mark, who was two floors above him in the firm’s office laboring through the white pages with Zola and adding names to their class action. Within minutes, Mark entered the bar. They followed Maynard to an empty booth. Their boss was scowling, in a foul mood, and wanted answers.
Maynard tossed a business card on the table and asked, “Ever hear of a guy named Chapman Gronski? Goes by Chap?”
Mark picked up the card and felt sick. “Who is he?” Todd asked.
Maynard said, “An investigator for the District Bar Council. He’s been around twice looking for the two of you. Mr. Mark Upshaw, Mr. Todd Lane. Don’t know these guys. I do know Mark Frazier and Todd Lucero. So what the hell’s going on?”
Neither knew what to say, so Maynard continued. He tossed a napkin on the table and said, “A guy named Jeremy Plankmore left this yesterday, said he was a client, said he was looking for his lawyer, a Mr. Mark Upshaw.” He tossed another card on the table and said, “And this guy has been by three times, a little guy named Jerry Coleman. He’s a process server for some lawyer who wants to sue you and your law firm.” He tossed another card on the table and said, “And this is from a father who said his son hired you, Todd, to handle a simple assault case. Said you didn’t show up for court.”
Maynard stared at them and waited. Mark finally said, “Well, it’s a long story, but we’re in a bit of a jam.”
Todd said, “We can’t work here any longer, Maynard. We need to disappear.”
“You got that right and I’m going to help you. You’re fired. I can’t have these people harassing the other bartenders. They’re tired of covering for you guys anyway. Next thing I know the cops will be stopping by with all sorts of questions, and I don’t have to tell you that cops make me real nervous. I don’t know what you’re doing but the party’s over. Get out.”
“I understand,” Todd said.