by John Grisham
“This is my beat, ma’am, traffic court. I know all the judges and all the wrinkles.”
“I gotta keep my license,” the young man said.
“What kind of work do you do?” Mark asked, glancing at his watch.
“Package delivery. A good job and I can’t lose it.”
A good job. Pay dirt! For a DUI the fee was $1,000. Mark was thinking of something less for speeding, but the notion of gainful employment raised the stakes. All business, Mark said, “Look, my fee is a thousand bucks, and for that I’ll get it reduced to plain old speeding and keep you out of jail.” He looked at his watch again as if important matters were pressing.
The young man looked hopefully at his mother, who shook her head to say, “This is your mess, not mine.” He looked at Mark and said, “I only got three hundred on me now. Can I pay the rest later?”
“Yes, but it’s due before your next court date. Let me see the citation.”
He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it over. Mark scanned it quickly. Benson Taper, age twenty-three, single, address on Emerson Street in Northeast D.C.
Mark said, “Okay, Benson, let’s go see the judge.”
—
HUSTLING CLIENTS IN the hallway was nerve-racking enough, especially for a rookie pretending to be a lawyer, but walking into a courtroom and staring at the wheels of justice head-on was terrifying. Mark’s knees were weak as they moved down the center aisle. The knot in his stomach grew with each step.
Brace yourself, you idiot, he said to himself. Show no fear. It’s all a game. If Darrell can do it, so can you. He pointed to a spot in a middle row and, directing traffic as if it was his courtroom, whispered to the mother, “Take a seat here.” She did, and they moved on to the front row and sat down. Benson handed over $300 and Mark produced a contract for legal services, identical to the one he’d signed on behalf of Gordy for the attorney Preston Kline. When the paperwork was finished, he and Benson sat and watched the parade.
A few feet in front of them, the bar, a knee-high railing, separated the spectators from the action. Beyond it were two long tables. The one on their right was covered with piles of paper and several young prosecutors milled about, whispering, joking, placing even more papers here and there. The table to their left was almost bare. A couple of bored defense lawyers leaned on it, chatting quietly. Clerks walked back and forth, handing papers to the lawyers and Judge Handleford. Though court was in session, the bench area buzzed with assembly-line activity and no one seemed too worried about making noise. A large sign read, “No Cell Phones. $100 Fine.”
Judge Handleford was a large, bearded white man pushing sixty and thoroughly bored with his daily routine. He rarely looked up and seemed occupied signing his name on orders.
A clerk looked at the crowd and called a name. A tall woman in her fifties walked down the aisle, nervously stepped through the gate, and presented herself to His Honor. She was there for a DUI and had somehow managed to make it this far without some hungry lawyer stuck by her side. Mark made a note of her name: Valerie Blann. He would get her name from the docket and call her later. She pleaded not guilty and was given a return date for late in February. Judge Handleford barely looked up. A clerk called the next name.
Mark swallowed hard again, kicked himself for fortitude, and walked through the gate. With his best lawyerly frown, he walked to the prosecution’s table, picked up a copy of the docket, and took a seat at the defense table. Two more lawyers arrived. One left. They came and went and no one noticed. A prosecutor told a joke and got a few laughs. The judge appeared to be napping now. Mark glanced at the courtroom and saw Zola seated behind Benson’s mother, wide-eyed, watching every move. Todd had made his way to the front row for a closer look. Mark got up, walked over to a clerk seated beside the bench, handed her a card, and informed her that he was representing Mr. Benson Taper. She gave him a look. Who cares?
When Benson’s name was called, Mark stood and motioned for his client. Side by side, they stood in front of Judge Handleford, who was barely showing a pulse. A prosecutor drifted over and Mark introduced himself. Her name was Hadley Caviness and she was extremely cute; great figure, short skirt. Mark took her card; she took his. The judge said, “Mr. Taper, it looks as though you have counsel, so I assume you’re pleading not guilty.”
“That’s correct, Your Honor,” Mark said, his first words in court. And with them, Mark, along with his two partners, was in violation of Section 54B, D.C. Code of Criminal Procedure: unauthorized practice of law; punishable by a fine of up to $1,000, restitution, and no more than two years in jail. And it was no big deal. Because of their thorough research, they knew that in the past forty years only one impostor had served time for the unauthorized practice of law in the District. He had been sentenced to six months with four suspended, and his behavior had been particularly bad.
In the context of criminal conduct, UPL was such a minor offense. No one really got hurt. And if the three of them were diligent, their clients’ interests would be served. Justice would be protected. And on and on. They could rationalize their scheme for hours.
Todd practically held his breath while his partner stood before the judge. Could it be this easy? Mark certainly fit the role, and his suit was nicer than those of the other lawyers on both sides of the courtroom. And the other lawyers? How many of them were trying to survive under a mountain of debt?
Zola was on the edge of her seat, waiting for someone to scream, “This guy’s a fake!” But no one looked twice at Lawyer Upshaw. He seamlessly joined the treadmill, just another one of dozens. After watching the proceedings for half an hour, she had noticed that some of the defense lawyers knew each other and knew a prosecutor or two and seemed right at home. Others kept to themselves and spoke to no one but the judge. It didn’t matter. This was traffic court, and everyone was going through the motions that never changed.
Benson’s next court appearance was a month away. Judge Handleford scribbled his name; Mark said, “Thanks, Your Honor,” and led his client out of the courtroom.
The city’s newest law firm had a few weeks to figure out what to do. Benson’s cash paid for an early lunch at a nearby deli. Halfway through his sandwich, Todd remembered Freddy Garcia and they had another good laugh.
For the afternoon rigors, Mark changed suits—he now owned three—and Todd got dressed up. They hit the courthouse at 1:00 p.m. and trolled for clients. Evidently, there was an endless supply. At first they worked together, learning little tricks as they went along. No one noticed them and they relaxed as they blended in with the other lawyers buzzing around the sprawling courthouse.
Outside Division 6, Todd stuck his phone to his ear and had an important conversation with no one. Loud enough for all to hear, he said, “Look, I’ve handled a hundred DUI cases with you on the other side so don’t feed me that crap. This kid blew 0.09, barely over the limit, and he has a perfect driving record. Stop beating around the bush. Reduce it to reckless driving or I’ll have a chat with the judge. If you force me to, I’ll take it to trial and you know what happened the last time. I embarrassed the cops and the judge tossed the charges.” A pause as he listened to his dead phone, then, “That’s more like it. I’ll stop by in an hour to sign the deal.”
When he stuck his phone in his pocket, a man walked over and asked, “Say, are you a lawyer?”
—
ZOLA, STILL DRESSED casually, moved from one courtroom to the other, sizing up defendants who appeared without lawyers. The judges often asked them where they worked, were they married, and so on. Most had jobs that were not that impressive. She took notes on some of the better prospects. Using the names and addresses from the dockets for reference, she made a list of names for her partners to call. After a couple of hours, she became bored with the grinding monotony of small-time criminal justice.
It might have been boring, but it was more fun than sitting in class and worrying about the bar exam.
—
AT FIVE, THEY
entered The Rooster Bar and found a corner table. Mark fetched two beers and a soda from the bar and ordered sandwiches. He would work the six-to-midnight shift, so the drinks and food were on the house.
They were pleased with their first day on the job. Todd had snagged one DUI client and appeared before Judge Cantu. The prosecutor had mentioned that he had never seen Todd before, and he replied that he had been around for a year. Mark had hustled a simple assault in Division 9 and appeared before a judge who looked him over but said nothing. Within a few days their faces would be familiar.
Their haul was $1,600 cash, with promissory notes for another $1,400. Add the fact that their earnings were non-reportable and tax-free, and they were almost giddy with the prospects of striking gold. The beauty of their scheme was its brazenness. No one in his right mind would stand in front of a judge and pass himself off as a lawyer.
19
At midnight, Mark climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and entered his cramped apartment. Todd was waiting on the sofa with his laptop. There were two empty cans of beer on the flimsy coffee table they’d purchased for $10. Mark got a beer from the small fridge and fell into a chair across from the sofa. He was exhausted and needed sleep. “What are you working on?” he asked.
“The class action. There are now four of them filed against Swift Bank, and it looks like it’s a simple matter of calling one of the lawyers and signing on. I think it’s time to do it. These guys are advertising like crazy but only on the Internet. No TV ads yet, and I think the reason is that each claim is worth so little. These are not injury cases with big values. The damages are not much, just a few bucks for the bogus fees and such that Swift padded onto the monthly statements. The beauty is that there are so many of them, maybe as many as a million customers who got clipped by Swift.”
“I saw where the CEO appeared before Congress today.”
“Yes, and it was a bloodletting. The guy got hammered from both sides of the aisle. He was a terrible witness, I mean the guy was literally sweating, and the committee had a field day with him. Everyone is demanding his resignation. One blogger thinks Swift looks so bad it has no choice but to settle this mess quickly and move on. He thinks the bank will throw a billion or so at the class actions, then spend some real money with a new ad campaign to gloss over its sins.”
“The usual. No mention of Rackley?”
“Oh no. The guy is hiding behind his wall of shell companies. I’ve been looking for hours and there’s no mention of him or his fronts. I wonder if Gordy was right about his involvement with Swift.”
“I’ll bet he’s right, but we need to keep digging.”
They were quiet for a moment. Normally, a television would be on, but they had yet to call the cable company. They planned to piggyback on the line from the bar, but they were not ready for a lot of questions from an installer. Their two flat screens were in a corner.
Mark finally said, “Gordy, Gordy. How often do you think of him?”
“A lot,” Todd said. “All the time.”
“Do you ask yourself what we should’ve done different?”
“Truthfully, yes. We could have done this or that, but Gordy was not himself. I’m not sure we could have stopped him.”
“I tell myself that. I miss him, though. I miss him a lot. I wonder what he would think if he could see us now.”
“The Gordy we once knew would tell us we’re crazy. But that last guy would probably want to join our firm.”
“As the senior partner, no doubt.” They managed a quick laugh. Mark said, “I read a story once about a guy who killed himself. Some shrink was going on about the futility of trying to understand it. It’s impossible, makes no sense at all. Once a person reaches that point, he’s in another world, one that his survivors will never understand. And if you do figure it out, then you might be in trouble yourself.”
“Well, I’m not in trouble, because I’ll never understand it. Sure he had a lot of problems, but suicide wasn’t the answer. Gordy could have cleaned up, got his meds straight, worked things out with Brenda, or not. If he had said no to the wedding, he would have been much happier in the long run. You and I have the same problems with law school, the bar exam, unemployment, loan sharks, and we’re not suicidal. In fact, we’re fighting back.”
“And we’re not bipolar, so we’ll never understand.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” Todd said.
Mark chugged his beer. “Right. What about our hit list?”
Todd closed his laptop and placed it on the floor. “Nothing. I called eight of our prospective victims and no one wanted to talk. The phone is a great equalizer, and these folks are not nearly as nervous tonight as they were in court today.”
“Does it seem too easy? I mean, we signed up three thousand bucks in fees today, and we had no idea what we’re doing.”
“We had a good day and won’t always be so lucky. What’s amazing is the traffic, the sheer number of people who get chewed up by the system.”
“Thank God for them.”
“It’s an endless supply.”
“This is crazy, you know? And it’s not sustainable.”
“True, but we could run this racket for a long time. And it sure beats the alternative.”
Mark took a sip, exhaled mightily, and closed his eyes. “There’s no turning back. We’re violating too many laws. Unauthorized practice. Tax evasion. And I suppose some code section on labor laws. If we join the class action against Swift, we can add that to our list.”
“Are you having second thoughts?” Todd asked.
“No. You?”
“No, but I do worry about Zola. At times I feel like we’ve dragged her into it. She’s awfully fragile right now, and frightened.”
Mark opened his eyes and stretched his legs. “True, but at least she feels safe now. She has a good hiding spot and that’s of the utmost importance. She’s a tough girl, Todd, who’s survived more than we can imagine. Right now she’s where she wants to be. She needs us.”
“Poor girl. She met with Ronda tonight, had a drink somewhere, and told her that she was thinking about taking a semester off, said she couldn’t focus right now on law school and the bar exam. She thinks she sold the story. I talked to Wilson and told him that the two of us would eventually show up for classes. He’s concerned but I assured him we’re okay. Maybe these people will leave us alone.”
“If we ignore them they’ll forget about us. They have more pressing matters to worry about.”
Todd said, “Well, so do we, our new careers. Now that we have these clients, we have to deliver our services. I mean, we’re promising these people we can keep them out of jail and get their fines reduced. Any idea how we might go about that?”
“We’ll figure it out tomorrow. The key is chumming it up with the prosecutors, getting to know them and being persistent. And look, Todd, if we can’t always deliver we won’t be the first lawyers who promised too much. We’ll get our fees and move on.”
“You sound like a real street hustler.”
“That’s my gig. I’m going to bed.”
—
BELOW THEM, ZOLA was awake too. She was in her flimsy bed, propped up against the pillows with a quilt covering her legs. The room was dark, the only light coming from the screen of her laptop.
Her loan counselor was a woman named Tildy Carver, and she worked for a servicing company nearby in Chevy Chase called LoanAid. Ms. Carver had been pleasant enough through law school, but her tone was changing as the semesters progressed. That afternoon, when Zola was sitting in a courtroom taking notes, she had received Ms. Carver’s latest e-mail:
Dear Ms. Maal: When we last corresponded a month ago, you were getting ready for your final semester. At that time, you were not optimistic about your employment possibilities. I’m sure you’re busy with lots of interviews as graduation approaches. Could you please update me on your efforts to find a job? I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely, Tildy C
arver, Senior Loan Adviser
Last installment, January 13, 2014: $32,500; total principal and interest: $191,000.
In the safety of her new hiding place, she stared at the “total” figure and shook her head. It was still difficult to believe that she had voluntarily waded into a system that allowed someone like her to borrow so much, with the thought of paying it back an absurd impossibility. Of course, now she wasn’t supposed to worry about repayment, but she found that plan troublesome too. It was wrong to simply run away and blame the system.
Her parents had no idea how much she owed. They knew she was borrowing legitimate sums provided by the government, and they had innocently believed that any program provided by Congress must be thoughtful and good. Now they would never know, which was slightly comforting.
She typed,
Dear Ms. Carver: Nice to hear from you. I interviewed last week with the Department of Justice and I’m waiting for a response. I’m seriously thinking about working in the public sector or for a nonprofit to ease the strain of repayment. I’ll keep you posted.
Sincerely, Zola Maal
