The Rooster Bar

by John Grisham

  “That, sir, is none of your business. But I fired them because they were attracting too much attention. I can hire and fire at will, as you know.”

  “Of course. We checked the door to the upstairs and it appears to stay locked. I guess we could get a warrant and kick it in.”

  “I suppose you could,” Maynard said. He opened a drawer, pulled out a ring of keys, found the one he wanted, unhooked it, and tossed it across the table. “That’ll do it, but please don’t involve the bar. It’s one of my better ones.”

  Hobart picked up the key and said, “You got it. Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  —

  AFTER DARK, ZOLA’S cab left the hotel and weaved through the thinning traffic of central Dakar. Twenty minutes later, it stopped at a busy intersection and she got out. She walked to a tall modern building where two security guards blocked the front door. They spoke no English but were impressed with her looks. She handed them a scrap of paper with the name of Idina Sanga, Avocat, and they quickly opened the door and led her through the lobby to an elevator.

  According to her profile, Madame Sanga was a partner in a firm of ten lawyers, half of them women, and she spoke not only French and English but Arabic as well. She specialized in immigration matters, and, at least on the phone, seemed confident that she could handle the situation. She met Zola at the elevator on the fifth floor and they walked to a small conference room with no windows. Zola thanked her for staying after hours.

  Judging from her photo on the firm’s website, Madame Sanga was about forty years old, but in person she seemed much younger. She had been educated in Lyon and Manchester and spoke perfect English with a lovely British accent. She smiled a lot, was easy to talk to, and Zola spilled her guts.

  For a modest retainer, Madame Sanga would take charge. The case was not unusual. No laws had been broken, and the initial harassment was typical. She had the right contacts with the police and immigration, and she was confident that in short order Abdou Maal would be released. Fanta and Bo would not be arrested. The family would be free to move about, and Madame Sanga would go about the task of obtaining proper documentation.

  —

  MARK AND TODD were sleeping soundly on their cheap twin beds on the fourth floor of 1504 Florida Avenue when someone knocked on the door. Mark stepped into their cramped den, flipped on a light, and said, “Who is it?”

  “The police. Open up.”

  “You got a warrant?”

  “Got two of them. For Frazier and Lucero.”

  “Shit!”

  Detective Stu Hobart entered with two uniformed officers. He handed a sheet of paper to Mark and said, “You’re under arrest.” Todd stumbled out of the bedroom, wearing nothing but a pair of red boxers. Hobart handed him a warrant of his own.

  “What the hell for?” Mark asked.

  “Unauthorized practice of law,” Hobart said proudly, and Mark laughed in his face. “Are you kidding me? Don’t you have better things to do?”

  “Shut up,” Hobart said. “Get dressed and let’s go.”

  “Go where?” Todd asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “To jail, ass face. Let’s go.”

  “What a crock,” Todd said. They retreated to the bedroom, threw on some clothes, and returned to the den. A cop whipped out a pair of handcuffs and said, “Turn around.”

  “You gotta be kidding,” Mark said. “We don’t need handcuffs.”

  “Shut up and turn around,” the cop snarled, eager for a confrontation. Mark turned around and the cop yanked his hands in place and slapped on the handcuffs. The other cop secured Todd, and the two were shoved out the door. Another uniformed cop was waiting at the curb, smoking a cigarette and guarding two D.C. patrol cars, engines running. Mark was pushed into the rear seat of one, Todd the other. Hobart assumed the passenger’s seat, and as they drove away Mark said, “Right now in this city you’ve got gang wars, drug deals, rapes, and murders, and you guys are busy arresting two law students who wouldn’t harm anyone.”

  “Just shut up, okay?” Hobart snarled over his shoulder.

  “I don’t have to shut up. There’s not a law on the books that says I have to shut up, especially when I’m being arrested for some lousy misdemeanor like this.”

  “It’s not a misdemeanor. If you knew anything about the law you’d know it’s a felony.”

  “Well, it should be a misdemeanor, and you should be sued for wrongful arrest.”

  “That’s terrifying, coming from you. Now shut up.”

  In the rear seat of the car behind them, Todd casually asked, “Does this give you guys a real thrill, knocking on doors in the middle of the night and slapping on handcuffs?”

  “Just shut up, okay?” snarled the cop behind the wheel.

  “Sorry, pal, but I don’t have to shut up. I can talk all I want. The District has the highest murder rate in the country and you’re wasting your time harassing us.”

  “Just doing our job,” the driver said.

  “Your job sucks, you know that? I guess we’re lucky you didn’t send in a SWAT team to kick in the door and spray bullets everywhere. That’s your biggest thrill, right? Get all dressed up like Navy SEALs and pounce on people.”

  “I’m going to stop this car and kick your ass,” the driver said.

  “You do that and I’ll sue your own fat ass at nine o’clock Monday morning. Big lawsuit, federal court.”

  “You gonna do it yourself or hire a real lawyer?” the driver said, and the other cop howled with laughter.

  Ahead, Mark was saying, “How’d you find us, Hobart? Somebody at the Bar Council picked up our trail and called the cops? Figures. You must be real low on the pole to get stuck with a petty crime like this.”

  “I wouldn’t call two years in jail petty,” Hobart said.

  “Jail? I’m not going to jail, Hobart. I’ll just hire me another street lawyer, probably one without a license, and he’ll be ten steps ahead of you. There’s no way we’re going to jail. We’ll pay a small fine, get the old slap on the wrist, promise to never do it again, and walk out of court. Hell, we’ll be back in business while you’re still chasing jaywalkers.”

  “Just shut up.”

  “Not going to happen, Hobart.”

  At Central Jail, Mark and Todd were pulled out of the rear seats and jostled roughly into a basement entry. Once they were inside, the handcuffs were removed and they were separated. Over the next hour, each filled out two intake forms, got fingerprinted, and then was set in front of a camera for the standard mug shot. They were reunited in a holding cell where they waited for another hour, certain that they were about to be thrown in a cell with some real criminals. At 5:30, though, they were released on their own recognizance and informed that they could not leave the District of Columbia. Their citations directed them to appear in Division 6 in a week for their first appearances. They knew the place well.

  Throughout the morning, they monitored the Post online and saw nothing about their arrests. Certainly, they could not be that newsworthy. They decided to wait before telling Zola that there was an arrest warrant with her name on it. She had enough on her mind anyway, and she was safely out of reach.

  In their apartment, they spent two hours writing checks from the firm account. Refunds, to current clients who’d paid them in cash and were now getting stiffed because their lawyers were out of business. As bad as they needed the money, they simply could not walk away from their clients. The total was almost $11,000 and it was painful to part with, but they felt better when they mailed the envelopes. Mark managed to sell his Bronco for $600 at a used-car lot. He took the money in cash, signed over the title, and resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at the old wreck he’d driven for the past nine years. After dark, they loaded the firm’s new desktop computer, color printer, and three boxes of files into the back of Todd’s car. They threw some of their clothes into the rear seat, had one last beer at The Rooster Bar, and drove to Baltimore.

  While
Mark killed time in a hotel sports bar, Todd finally told his parents that he would not be graduating in a week. He admitted he had not been truthful, had in fact not gone to class at all that spring, did not have a job of any sort, was $200,000 in debt, and was now drifting and trying to figure out life. His mother cried while his father yelled, and the episode was even uglier than he had anticipated. On his way out, he said he was taking a long trip and needed to leave his car in the garage. His father yelled no, but he left it anyway and walked half a mile to the hotel.

  The following morning, Mark and Todd caught a train to New York City. As it was leaving Penn Station, Todd handed over the Washington Post. At the bottom of the front page of the Metro section, a small headline read, “Two Arrested for Unauthorized Practice of Law.” They were described as law school dropouts, former students at Foggy Bottom, where no one in administration had anything to say. Nor did Margaret Sanchez with the D.C. Bar Council. The two had apparently been roaming the city’s courtrooms soliciting clients under assumed names and routinely appearing before judges. An unnamed source described them as “pretty good lawyers.” A former client said Mr. Upshaw worked very hard on her case. A current client said he just wanted his money back. There was no mention of Zola Maal, though the story said “a third suspect is involved.” If found guilty, they could face up to two years in prison and a fine of $1,000.

  Their phones were crazy with calls from old friends at Foggy Bottom.

  Todd said, “My dad will love this. Me, a felon.”

  Mark said, “My poor mother. Both of her sons headed to the slammer.”

  35

  Zola was horrified at the news that her partners had been arrested. Even worse, the cops were looking for her as well, though she wasn’t too worried about being tracked down in Senegal. Mark and Todd were in Brooklyn and claimed to have things under control, but she had serious doubts about that. They had been wrong about almost everything since January, and she found it difficult to accept their abundant confidence at this point. She found the story online and monitored it. Her name had not been mentioned and she found nothing about herself in the court dockets. Her Facebook page was flooded with comments and questions from friends, but she had stopped responding weeks earlier.

  Idina Sanga had not been allowed to visit Abdou in jail, and after two days of waiting Zola was even more concerned. The police had been to the hotel twice to check on her mother and brother, but offered nothing in the way of news. Being with her family was comforting, and her presence and reassurances gave them hope. Bo and Fanta asked repeatedly about her studies, and graduation from law school, and the bar exam, and so on, but she managed to deflect their questions and keep the conversations away from the mess she had created back home. If they only knew. But, of course, they would not. They would never again set foot on U.S. soil, and Zola wasn’t sure she wanted to either.

  On the flight over, Zola had read a dozen articles about the crowded and dangerous conditions in Dakar’s jails and prisons. She hoped that Bo and her mother had not been so curious. The places were deplorable.

  Eventually, Zola ventured out of the hotel and went for walks around Dakar. The city sprawled across the Cap Vert peninsula and was a jumble of villages and former French colonial towns. The streets were hot and dusty and badly maintained, but brought to life each morning with heavy traffic and swarms of people. Many of the women wore long, sweeping dresses made of bright fabrics. Many of the men wore fine suits and seemed just as busy as those in D.C., with cell phones and briefcases. Horses pulling carts laden with fruits and produce battled with sleek new SUVs in the clogged intersections. As frantic as it looked at first, the city had a laid-back feel to it. Everyone seemed to know everyone else and few seemed to be in a hurry. Chatter and laughter filled the air. Music was everywhere, roaring from car stereos and shop doors and thumping from street bands giving impromptu concerts.

  During her second full day in the city, Zola found the U.S. embassy and registered as a tourist. An hour later, as she was nearing the hotel, two policemen stopped her and asked for identification. She knew the police had broad powers to question and even detain. For almost any reason, anyone could be jailed for forty-eight hours.

  One of the cops spoke a little English. She said she was an American and spoke no French. They were surprised to see her U.S. passport and her (real) New Jersey driver’s license. She had wisely left the fake stuff at the hotel.

  After a very long fifteen minutes, they handed her documents back and let her go. The incident was frightening enough, and she decided to save the tourist stuff for another day.

  —

  HER PARTNERS WERE set up in a small suite at a budget hotel on Schermerhorn Street in downtown Brooklyn. One bedroom, a fold-out sofa, small kitchenette, $300 a night. From an office supply store they paid $90 to rent for one month a printer/copier/scanner/fax machine.

  Wearing coats and ties, they walked into a Citibank branch on Fulton Street and asked to see an account manager. Using their real names, driver’s licenses, and Social Security numbers, they opened a checking account for the Legal Clinic of Lucero & Frazier. Using an old story, they said they were friends from law school and had grown weary of the grind in the big Manhattan firms. Their little clinic would help real people with real problems. They borrowed an address from an office building six blocks away, though an address was needed only to print on their new checks, which they would never see anyway. Mark wrote a personal check for $1,000 to open the account, and as soon as they were back in their suite they faxed a wiring authorization to their bank in D.C. The balance, just under $39,000, was wired to their new account, and the old one was closed. They e-mailed Ms. Jenny Valdez at Cohen-Cutler in Miami with the news that their firm of Upshaw, Parker & Lane had merged with a firm in Brooklyn, Lucero & Frazier. She e-mailed a pile of forms making the necessary changes, and they spent an hour on the paperwork. She asked them again about the Social Security numbers and bank account numbers for the eleven hundred clients they had referred to the class action, and they demurred again, saying simply that they were in the process of gathering that information.

  Getting Hinds Rackley on the phone would be impossible, so they decided to begin with one of his law firms. The website for Ratliff & Cosgrove was useful enough and did a passable job of glossing over the fact that it was little more than a four-hundred-member firm that handled mortgage foreclosures, repossessions, delinquent accounts, bankruptcies, debt collections, and student loan defaults. Gordy had described it as “the gutter end” of financial services. It had about a hundred lawyers in its home office in Brooklyn, and its managing partner was Marvin Jockety, a sixtyish guy with a fleshy face and less than sterling résumé.

  Mark sent him an e-mail:

  Dear Mr. Jockety, My name is Mark Finley, and I’m a freelance investigative journalist. I’m working on a story about Mr. Hinds Rackley, who I believe is a business associate of yours. After weeks of digging, I have discovered that Mr. Rackley, through his Shiloh Square Financial, and Varanda Capital, and Baytrium Group, and Lacker Street Trust, owns a total of eight for-profit law schools scattered around the country. Judging from the bar exam results, it appears as though these eight law schools cater to a segment of the population that has no business studying law or sitting for the exam. However, it appears as though the schools are quite profitable.

  I would like to arrange a meeting with Mr. Rackley as soon as possible. I have mentioned this story, without too many details, to the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, and both are interested. Time is of the essence.

  My phone number is 838-774-9090. I am in the city and eager to speak with Mr. Rackley or his representative.

  Thanks, Mark Finley

  It was Monday, May 12, at 1:30 p.m. They noted the time and wondered how long it would take Mr. Jockety to respond. As they waited and killed time in the suite, they launched an assault upon the unsuspecting folks in the suburbs of Wilmington, Delaware. Using online directories, they ret
urned to their mischief and began adding additional names to their class action. Once you’ve committed eleven hundred felonies, what’s another two hundred or so?

  At 3:00, Mark re-sent the e-mail to Jockety, and did so again at 4:00. At 6:00, they took the subway to Yankee Stadium, where the Mets were playing in an overhyped crosstown grudge match that was not a sellout. They bought two tickets to the cheap seats in center field and paid $10 for twelve ounces of light beer. They moved to the top row to get far away from the other fans scattered through the bleachers.

  They were due in court on Friday and had decided it would be wise not to miss the date. With their vast experience, they knew that bench warrants would be issued for their arrests. Todd called Hadley Caviness, who answered after the second ring.

  “Well, well,” she said. “Looks like you boys found trouble after all.”

  “Yes, dear, we are in trouble. Are you alone? Fair question.”

  “Yes, I’m going out later.”

  “Happy hunting. Look, yes, we need a favor. We’re supposed to be arraigned this Friday but we’ve skipped town with no plans to return anytime soon.”

  “I don’t blame you. You’ve caused quite a stir around the courthouse. Everybody has a story.”

  “Let ’em talk. Back to the favor.”

  “Have I ever denied you anything?”

  “No, you have not, and I love you for it.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “So, here’s the favor. Do you think it’s possible to ease over to Division 6 and ask the clerk to bump us down the road for a