—
AT NINE THE following morning, as Zola was somewhere between Belgium and Senegal, Mark and Todd strolled into the student union on the campus of American University and found a table in a half-empty cafeteria. With jeans and backpacks they looked like everyone else. They bought coffee and made themselves at home, as if settling in for some serious studying. Mark pulled out one of his phones and walked to a wall of windows overlooking the campus. He called the Miami firm of Cohen-Cutler and asked to speak to a lawyer named Rudy Stassen. According to the firm’s website, Stassen was one of several Cohen-Cutler partners spearheading the Swift Bank litigation. A secretary said Mr. Stassen was in a meeting. Mark said it was important and he would hold. Ten minutes later, Stassen said hello.
Mark introduced himself as a lawyer in D.C. and claimed to have eleven hundred Swift customers all signed up and ready to join one of the six class actions.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Stassen said with a laugh. “We’re suing like crazy. Two hundred thousand at last count. Where are your clients?”
“All in the D.C. area,” Mark said as he placed his phone on the table and sat across from Todd. He punched the speaker button and lowered the volume. “I’m sort of shopping around, looking for the best deal. What are your fees?”
“Not sure. We think the attorneys’ fees will be negotiated separately. As of now, we have 25 percent contracts with our clients, and we’ll take an extra 8 percent off the gross settlement. All subject to court approval, of course. What’s your name again, Upshaw? I’m not finding a website.”
“Don’t have one,” Mark said. “I’ve solicited with direct mail.”
“Okay, that’s odd.”
“It works. What can you say about the negotiations?”
“Stalled, as of now. Swift is claiming, in the press of course, that it wants to settle and move on, but its lawyers are dragging their feet. They’re padding the file like crazy, billing millions, the usual routine. But we still think the bank will cave in and settle. You want in? You said you’re shopping around.”
“Eight percent sounds good. I’m in. Send me the paperwork.”
“Good move. I’ll turn it over to an associate named Jenny Valdez and she’ll walk you through it.”
“Got a question for you,” Mark said.
“Sure.”
“How does your law firm handle 200,000 clients?”
Stassen laughed and said, “With a lot of muscle. Right now we have ten associates who are supervising thirty paralegals and legal assistants. It’s a bitch, all right, the biggest class we’ve ever put together, but we can handle it. Your first class action?”
“Yeah. Looks like crazy work.”
“?‘Crazy’ is a good word, but, believe me, it’s worth it. We do all right, Mr. Upshaw.”
“Just call me Mark.”
“Thanks for the business, Mark. We’ll get you included and you can tell your clients they’ll be signed up within twenty-four hours. After that, it’s just a waiting game. Here’s the number for Jenny Valdez. Got a pen?”
“Yep.” Mark wrote down the number and ended the call. He pecked away on his laptop while Todd left to fetch something to eat. Little was said as they chewed on muffins and sipped coffee. They were thinking about Zola, who had sent them a text with the message that she was on the ground, her flight uneventful.
Finally, Mark took a deep breath and called Jenny Valdez. He chatted with her for fifteen minutes, scribbled notes, and assured her their paperwork was in order. He was ready to zip along the PIS statements for all eleven hundred of their Swift clients. When he put his phone down, he looked at Todd and said, “When I push this Send button, we will be committing eleven hundred new felonies. Are we ready for this?”
“I thought we’d made that decision.”
“No second thoughts?”
“Everything’s a second thought. And third and fourth. But, it’s our only chance of escape. Let’s do it.”
Mark gently pushed the Send key.
—
ZOLA’S CAB INCHED along in traffic far more chaotic than she had ever seen. Her driver said the air-conditioning was broken, but she doubted it had worked in years. All the windows were down and the air was thick and rancid. She wiped sweat from her forehead and realized her blouse was soaked and sticking to her skin. Outside, small cars, trucks, and vans were bumper to bumper with horns honking and drivers yelling at each other. Scooters and motorcycles, most with two passengers and even some with three, cut and weaved through the gridlock, missing each other by inches. Pedestrians darted from cab to cab selling bottles of water while others begged for coins.
Two hours after leaving the airport, the taxi stopped at the hotel and Zola paid in West African francs, the equivalent of $65. She walked into the lobby and was relieved to find cooler air. The clerk spoke bad English but managed to understand her request. He called the room and within minutes Bo bounced off the elevator and hugged his sister. They had not heard a word from Abdou, nor had they seen the police all day. They were still under orders to remain in the hotel and afraid to leave. As Bo had realized, the hotel was used by the police to keep track of other newly returned detainees.
Of course, there was no sign of Diallo Niang. Zola had called his number while sitting in traffic, but got nothing.
With Bo translating, Zola paid cash for two larger rooms that connected, and went upstairs to see her mother. After they changed rooms, Zola began calling lawyers. During her flight, she had spent hours online searching for the right one. She wasn’t sure she had located her, but she had a plan.
34
Over at the Bar Council, Margaret Sanchez had become obsessed with the case of Upshaw, Parker & Lane. As Chap Gronski slowly pieced together its scheme and scam, and the extent of its brazenness became clear, Ms. Sanchez was determined to nail the three. But first she had to find them. With a nod from her boss, she contacted the District police and, with some difficulty, convinced a detective to take a look. In the scope of the District’s criminal activity, the police department had little interest in some law students who were gaming the system and not physically harming anyone.
Detective Stu Hobart got the nod and reviewed the case with Ms. Sanchez. Chap had tracked down the owner of The Rooster Bar, and he and Hobart made the visit together. They found Maynard in his office, one floor above the Old Red Cat in Foggy Bottom.