18
Samantha found the lamp factory in a badly neglected industrial park outside the town of Brushy in Hopper County. Most of the metal buildings had been abandoned. Those still in business had a few cars and pickups in their parking lots. It was a sad barometer of an economy long in decline, and far from the pretty poster envisioned by the Chamber of Commerce.
At first, over the phone, Mr. Simmons said he had no time for a meeting, but Samantha pressed and charmed her way into the promise of thirty minutes. The front reception area reeked of cigarette smoke and the linoleum floors had not been swept in weeks. A grouchy clerk led Samantha to a room down the hall. Voices penetrated the thin walls. Machinery roared from somewhere in the rear. The operation had the feel of a business trying gamely to avoid the fate of its industrial park neighbors as it churned out cheap lamps for cheap motels at the lowest wages possible, with absolutely no thought of additional benefits. Pamela Booker said the perks included one week of unpaid vacation and three sick days, also without pay. Don’t even think about health insurance.
Samantha calmed herself by thinking of all the meetings she had suffered through before, meetings with some of the most incredible jerks the world had ever seen, really rich men who gobbled up Manhattan and ran roughshod over anyone in their way. She had seen these men devour and annihilate her partners, including Andy Grubman, a guy she actually missed occasionally. She had heard them yell and threaten and curse, and on several occasions their diatribes had been aimed at her. But she had survived. Regardless of what a prick Mr. Simmons was, he was a kitten compared to those monsters.
He was surprisingly cordial. He welcomed her, showed her a seat in his cheap office, and closed the door. “Thanks for seeing me,” she said. “I’ll be brief.”
“Would you like some coffee?” he asked politely.
She thought of the dust and clouds of cigarette smoke and could almost visualize the brown stains caked along the insides of the communal coffeepot. “No thanks.”
He glanced at her legs as he settled in behind his desk and relaxed as though he had all day. She silently tagged him as a flirt. She began by recapping the latest adventures of the Booker family. He was touched, didn’t know they were homeless. She handed him an edited, bound copy of the documents involved, and walked him step-by-step through the legal mess. The last exhibit was a copy of the lawsuit she filed the day before, and she assured him there was no way out for Top Market Solutions. “I got ’em by the balls,” she said, a deliberate effort at crudeness to judge his reaction. He smiled again.
In summary, the old credit card judgment had expired and Top Market knew it. The garnishment should never have been ordered, and Pamela Booker’s paycheck should have been left alone. She should still have her job.
“And you want me to give her her job back?” he asked, the obvious.
“Yes sir. If she has her job she can survive. Her kids need to be in school. We can help her find a place to live. I’ll drag Top Market into court, make them cough up what they clipped her for, and she’ll get a nice check. But that will take some time. What she needs right now is her old job back. And you know that’s only fair.”
He stopped smiling and glanced at his watch. “Here’s what I’ll do. You get that damned garnishment order revoked so I don’t have to fool with it, and I’ll put her back on the payroll. How long will that take?”
Samantha had no idea but instinctively said, “Maybe a week.”
“We got a deal?”
“A deal.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Anything.”
“How much is your hourly rate? I mean, I got a guy over in Grundy, not that sharp, really, and slow to return calls, slow with everything, and he charges me two hundred bucks an hour. That might not be much in the big leagues, but you see where we are. I’d send him more work, but, hell, it’s not worth it. I’ve been looking around but there aren’t many reasonable lawyers in these parts. I figure you gotta be real reasonable if Pamela Booker can hire you. So, what’s your rate?”
“Nothing. Zero.”
He stared at her, mouth open. “I work for legal aid,” she said.
“What’s legal aid?”
“It’s free legal services for low-income people.”
It was a foreign concept. He smiled and asked, “Do you take on lamp factories?”
“Sorry. Just poor folks.”
“We’re losing money, I swear. I’ll show you the books.”
“Thank you, Mr. Simmons.”
As she raced back to Brady with the good news, she thought of the possible ways to quash the garnishment order. And the more she thought, the more she realized how little she knew about the basics of practicing everyday law.
In New York, she had seldom left the office late in the afternoon and gone straight home. There were too many bars for that, too many single professionals on the prowl, too much networking and socializing and hooking up and, well, drinking to be done. Every week someone discovered a new bar or a new club that had to be visited before it got discovered and the throngs ruined it.
The after hours were different in Brady. She had yet to see the inside of a bar; from the street they looked sketchy, both of them. She had yet to meet another young, unmarried professional. So, her choice boiled down to (1) hanging around the office so she wouldn’t have to (2) go to her apartment and stare at the walls. Mattie preferred to hang around too, and each afternoon by 5:30 she was roaming around, shoeless, looking for Samantha. Their ritual was evolving, but for now it included sipping a diet soda in the conference room and gossiping while watching the street. Samantha was eager to pry about the possible hanky-panky between Annette and Donovan, but she did not. Maybe later, maybe one day when she had more proof, or probably never. She was still too new to town to involve herself in such sensitive matters. Plus, she knew Mattie was rabidly protective of her nephew.
They had just settled into their chairs and were ready for half an hour or so of debriefing when the bells clanged on the front door. Mattie frowned and said, “Guess I forgot to lock it.”
“I’ll see,” Samantha said, as Mattie went to find her shoes.
It was the Ryzers, Buddy and Mavis, from deep in the woods, Samantha surmised after a quick introduction and once-over. Their paperwork filled two canvas shopping bags, with matching stains. Mavis said, “We got to have a lawyer.”
Buddy said, “Nobody’ll take my case.”
“What is it?” Samantha asked.
“Black lung,” he replied.
In the conference room, Samantha ignored the shopping bags as she took down the basics. Buddy was forty-one, and for the past twenty years had worked as a surface miner (not a strip miner) for Lonerock Coal, the third-largest producer in the U.S. He was currently earning $22 an hour operating a track shovel at the Murray Gap Mine in Mingo County, West Virginia. His breathing was labored as he spoke, and at times Mavis took over. Three children, all teenagers “still in school.” A house and a mortgage. He was suffering from black lung caused by the coal dust he inhaled during his twelve-hour shifts.
Mattie finally found her shoes and entered the room. She introduced herself to the Ryzers, took a hard look at the shopping bags, sat down next to Samantha, and began taking her own notes. At one point she said, “We’re seeing more and more surface miners with black lung, not sure why but one theory is that you guys are working longer shifts, thus you inhale more of the dust.”
“He’s had it for a long time,” Mavis said. “Just gets worse every month.”
“But I gotta keep working,” Buddy said. About twelve years earlier, somewhere around 1996, they weren’t sure, he began noticing a shortness of breath and a nagging cough. He’d never smoked and had always been healthy and active. He was playing T-ball with the kids one Sunday when his breathing became so labored he thought he was having a heart attack. That was the first time he mentioned anything to Mavis. The coughing continued and during one fit of wheezing he noticed black mucus on the tissues he was using. He was reluctant to seek benefits for his condition because he feared retaliation from Lonerock, so he kept working and said nothing. Finally, in 1999, he filed a claim under the federal black lung law. He was examined by a doctor certified by the Department of Labor. His condition was the most severe form of black lung disease, more formally known as “complicated coal workers’ pneumoconiosis.” The government ordered Lonerock to begin paying him monthly benefits of $939. He continued working and his condition continued to deteriorate.
As always, Lonerock Coal appealed the order and refused to begin payments.
Mattie, who’d dealt with black lung for fifty years, scribbled away and shook her head. She could write this story in her sleep.
Samantha said, “They appealed?” The case seemed clear-cut.
“They always appeal,” Mattie said. “And about that time you folks met the nice boys at Casper Slate, right?”
Both heads dropped at the very sound of the name. Mattie looked at Samantha and said, “Casper Slate is a gang of thugs who wear expensive suits and hide behind the facade of a law firm, headquarters in Lexington and offices throughout Appalachia. Wherever you find a coal company, you’ll find Casper Slate doing its dirty work. They defend companies who dump chemicals in rivers, pollute the oceans, hide toxic waste, violate clean air standards, discriminate against employees, rig government bids, you name the sleazy or illegal behavior and Casper Slate is there to defend it. Their specialty, though, is mining law. The firm was built here in the coalfields a hundred years ago, and almost every major operator has it on retainer. Their methods are ruthless and unethical. Their nickname is Castrate, and it’s fitting.”
Buddy couldn’t help but mumble, “Sons of bitches.” He didn’t have a lawyer; thus, he and Mavis were forced to battle it out with a horde from Casper Slate, lawyers who had mastered the procedures and knew precisely how to manipulate the federal black lung system. Buddy was examined by their doctors—the same doctors whose research was being funded by the coal industry—and their report found no evidence of black lung. His medical condition was blamed on some benign spot on his left lung. Two years after he applied for benefits, his award was reversed by an administrative law judge who relied on the reams of medical evidence submitted by Lonerock’s doctors.
Mattie said, “Their lawyers exploit the weaknesses in the system, and their doctors search for ways to blame the condition on anything but black lung. It’s no surprise that only about 5 percent of the miners who have black lung get any benefits. So many legitimate claims are denied, and many miners are too discouraged to pursue their claims.”
It was after 6:00 p.m. and the meeting could last for hours. Mattie took charge by saying, “Look folks, we’ll read through your materials here and review your case. Give us a couple of days and we’ll call you. Please don’t call us. We will not forget about you, but it’ll just take some time to plow through all this. Deal?”
Buddy and Mavis smiled and offered polite thanks. She said, “We’ve tried lawyers everywhere, but nobody’ll help us.”
Buddy said, “We’re just glad you let us in the door.”
Mattie followed them to the front, with Buddy gasping for air and tottering like a ninety-year-old. When they were gone, she returned to the conference room and sat across from Samantha. After a few seconds she said, “What do you think?”
“A lot. He’s forty-one and looks sixty. It’s hard to believe he’s still working.”
“They’ll fire him soon, claim he’s a danger, which is probably true. Lonerock Coal busted its unions twenty years ago, so there’s no protection. He’ll be out of work and out of luck. And he’ll die a horrible death. I watched my father shrink and shrivel and gasp until the end.”
“And that’s why you do this.”
“Yes. Donovan went to law school for one reason—to fight coal companies on a bigger stage. I went to law school for one reason—to help miners and their families. We’re not winning our little wars, Samantha, the enemy is too big and powerful. The best we can hope for is to chip away, one case at a time, trying to make a difference in the lives of our clients.”
“Will you take this case?”
Mattie took a sip through a straw, shrugged, and said, “How do you say no?”
“Exactly.”
“It’s not that easy, Samantha. We can’t say yes to every black lung case. There are too many. Private lawyers won’t touch them because they don’t get paid until the very end, assuming they win. And the end is never in sight. It’s not unusual for a black lung case to drag on for ten, fifteen, even twenty years. You can’t blame a lawyer in private practice for saying no, so we get a lot of referrals. Half of my work is black lung, and if I didn’t say no occasionally, I couldn’t represent my other clients.” Another sip as Mattie eyed her closely. “Do you have any interest?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to help, but I don’t know where to start.”
“Same as your other cases, right?”
They smiled and enjoyed the moment. Mattie said, “Here’s a problem. These cases take time, years and years because the coal companies fight hard and have all the resources. Time is on their side. The miner will die eventually, and prematurely, because there’s no cure for it. Once coal dust gets in your body, there’s no way to remove or destroy it. Once black lung sets in, it gets worse and worse. The coal companies pay the actuaries and they play the odds, so the cases drag on. They make it so difficult and cumbersome it discourages not only the miner who’s sick but his friends as well. That’s one reason they fight so hard. Another reason is to frighten away the attorneys. You’ll be gone in a few months, back to New York, and when you leave you’ll leave behind some files, work that will be dumped on our desks. Think about that, Samantha. You have compassion and you show great promise for this work, but you’re only passing through. You’re a city girl, and proud of it. Nothing wrong with that. But think about your office and the day you leave it, and how much work will be left undone.”
“Good point.”
“I’m going home. I’m tired and I think Chester said we’re having leftovers. See you in the morning.”
“Good night, Mattie.”
Long after she left, Samantha sat in the dimly lit conference room and thought about the Ryzers. Occasionally, she looked at the shopping bags filled with the sad history of their fight to collect what was due. And there she sat, a perfectly capable and licensed attorney with the brains and resources to render real assistance, to come to the aid of someone in need of representation.
What was there to fear? Why was she feeling timid?
The Brady Grill closed at eight. She was hungry and went out for a walk. She passed Donovan’s office and noticed every light was on. She wondered how the Tate trial was going but knew he was too busy to chat with her. At the café she bought a sandwich, took it back to the conference room, and carefully unloaded the Ryzers’ shopping bags.
She hadn’t pulled an all-nighter in several weeks.