The Litigators

by John Grisham

  picture. No one else in the courtroom did. Wally’s heart was racing as he tasted the words “formal negotiations.”

  Jerry shifted weight a few times, then finally said, “Judge, I don’t want to get quoted, so I’ll go the safe route and say that I’m not sure.”

  “So you, and Ms. Karros, cannot give me any guidance on the issue of settlement?” Seawright said with a hint of frustration.

  Both lawyers shook their heads. Nadine knew damn well the case wouldn’t be settled. Jerry was almost positive that it would. Neither, though, could play his or her hand. And, truthfully and ethically, the judge did not have the right to know their strategies outside the courtroom. His job was to referee a fair trial, not monitor settlements.

  Jerry returned to his seat, and Judge Seawright changed subjects again. “I’m looking at October 17, a Monday, as a trial date. I anticipate the trial will last no longer than two weeks.” A dozen lawyers were instantly looking at their calendars, all frowning.

  “If you have a conflict, it had better be a good one,” he said. “Mr. Alisandros?”

  Jerry stood slowly, holding a small leather appointment book. “Well, Judge, that would mean that we’re going to trial ten months after the lawsuit was filed. That’s pretty quick, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed it is, Mr. Alisandros. Eleven months is about my average. I don’t allow my cases to grow stale. What’s your conflict?”

  “No conflict, Judge, but I’m more concerned with having sufficient time to prepare. That’s all.”

  “Hogwash. Discovery is almost complete. You have your experts. The defendant has its experts. God knows both sides have enough legal talent. October 17 is sixty-eight days away. That should be a piece of cake for a litigator of your reputation, Mr. Alisandros.”

  What a show, thought Wally. This case, and all the others, would be settled in a month.

  “What about the defense, Ms. Karros?” Seawright asked.

  “We have some conflicts, Your Honor,” she said. “But nothing that we cannot work around.”

  “Very well. The case of Klopeck versus Varrick Labs is hereby set for jury trial on October 17. Pending a disaster, there will be no delays, no continuances, so don’t even bother to ask.” He tapped his gavel on the bench and said, “Court’s adjourned. Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 31

  News of the trial date swept through the financial press and was all over the Internet. The story was spun various ways, but in general it looked as though Varrick was being frog-marched into a federal courtroom to answer for its multitude of sins. Reuben Massey did not care how the story was told, nor did he care what the public thought at that moment. To the tort bar, it was important to react as if his company was shaken and frightened. He understood trial lawyers.

  Three days after the hearing in Chicago, Nicholas Walker phoned Jerry Alisandros and suggested they arrange a secret meeting between the company and the biggest tort firms involved with Krayoxx. The purpose of the meeting would be to throw open the door to full-scale negotiations. Alisandros jumped at the idea and gravely vowed total silence. From the twenty or so years he’d been dealing with trial lawyers, Nicholas knew the meeting would not be a secret because one (or more) of the lawyers would tip the press.

  The following day, a blurb in the Wall Street Journal reported that Cymbol, Varrick’s principal insurance company, had been put on notice by the company that its reserve fund was about to be activated. Citing an anonymous source, the story went on to speculate that the only reason for such an action was to settle its “Krayoxx mess.” Other leaks followed, and the bloggers were soon declaring another victory for consumers.

  Since every trial lawyer worth his salt owned his own jet, the destination was no problem. With New York City deserted in August, Nicholas Walker secured a large meeting room on the fortieth floor of a half-empty midtown hotel. Many of the trial lawyers were out of the office, off somewhere dodging the heat, but not a single invitation was declined. A large settlement was far more important than a few days of vacation. When they convened, eight days after Judge Seawright set the date for the first trial, there were the six members of the Plaintiffs’ Litigation Committee, plus another thirty trial lawyers, each with thousands of Krayoxx cases. Those as insignificant as Wally Figg did not even know of the meeting.

  Large young men in dark suits guarded the door to the meeting room and checked credentials. After a quick breakfast the first morning, Nicholas Walker welcomed everyone as if they were all salesmen for the same company. He even cracked a joke and got a laugh, but just under the surface there was tension. An avalanche of money was about to be unleashed, and the lawyers in the room were seasoned brawlers, ready for hand-to-hand combat.

  So far, there were eleven hundred death cases. Or in other words, eleven hundred cases in which the dead person’s estate claimed Krayoxx was the cause. The medical proof was not exactly ironclad, though it was probably sufficient to become a question for a jury. Going along with their master plan, Nicholas Walker and Judy Beck spent almost no time discussing the basic issue of liability. They presumed, as did the horde on the other side, that the drug was responsible for eleven hundred deaths and thousands of other injuries.

  After the formalities, Walker began by saying that Varrick would like to nail down the value of each death case. Assuming that could be done, they would then move on to the non-death cases.

  Wally was on the shore of Lake Michigan, in a small rental a block off the water, with his darling DeeAnna, who was a knockout in a bikini, and he had just finished some pasta salad when his cell phone chirped. He saw the number, snatched the phone, and said, “Jerry, my man, what’s going on?” DeeAnna, topless in a nearby lounge chair, perked up too. She knew that any call from dear Jerry could be thrilling.

  Jerry explained that he was back in Florida after two days in New York, secret meeting and all, hammering things out with Varrick, tough bunch, just the death cases, you know, but anyway, lots of progress, no deal, no handshake, certainly nothing in writing, but it looks as though each death case will be somewhere around $2 million.

  Wally hummed along with an occasional smile at DeeAnna, who had inched closer. “Good news, Jerry, nice work. Let’s chat next week.”

  “What’s up?” she cooed when the call was over.

  “Nothing, really. Just an update from Jerry. Varrick has filed a bunch of motions and he wants me to take a look.”

  “No settlement?”

  “Nope.”

  All she talked about now was the settlement. Sure, it was his fault for running his big mouth, but the woman was obsessed with the settlement. She didn’t have enough sense to play along as though she couldn’t have cared less. No. She wanted details.

  She wanted money, and this was worrying Wally. He was already thinking of an exit strategy, just like his new hero Oscar. Ditch the women before the money arrives.

  Sixteen million dollars. Seventeen percent of which would flow into the coffers of Finley & Figg, a total of $2.7 million, of which Wally would take 50 percent. He was a millionaire.

  He crawled onto an air mattress and floated across the pool. He closed his eyes and tried not to grin. Soon DeeAnna was next to him, floating on the water, still topless, touching him occasionally to make sure he still needed her. They had been together for many months now, and Wally was finally getting bored. He was finding it more difficult to keep up with her constant demands for sex. He was, after all, forty-six, ten years older than DeeAnna, though her actual birth date was a moving target. The day and month had been nailed down, but the year kept inching forward. He was tired and needed a break, and he was also concerned about her fascination with his Krayoxx money.

  It would be in his best interests to ditch her now, do the breakup routine, one he knew well, and get her out of his life and away from the money. This would not be easy and would take some time. Such a strategy would work well for Oscar too. Paula Finley had hired an obnoxious divorce lawyer named Stamm, and he was ba
nging the war drums. During their first phone chat, Stamm expressed surprise at how little money Oscar cleared from his law practice and went on to imply that money was being hidden. He probed into the murky world of fees paid in cash, but he got nothing from Wally, who knew that territory well. Stamm mentioned the Krayoxx litigation, but got stiff-armed by Wally’s well-rehearsed denials that Oscar was involved.

  “Well, it looks suspicious,” Stamm had said. “Mr. Finley is willing to walk away with nothing but his car and clothes after thirty years of marriage.”

  “Oh no,” Wally had protested. “It makes perfect sense if you really got to know Paula Finley, your client.” They bickered for a while, as divorce lawyers do, then promised to talk later.

  As bad as Wally wanted the money, he decided to delay the actual receipt of the cash for several months. Do the paperwork now, or in the next few weeks, keep it under wraps in court, then get rid of the women.

  For what was supposed to be the slowest month of the year, August was proving to be quite productive. On August 22, Helen Zinc gave birth to an eight-pound girl, Emma, and for a couple of days her parents acted as though they had produced the first baby in history. Mother and child were in perfect health, and when they arrived home, all four grandparents were waiting, along with two dozen friends. David took a week off and found it impossible to stay out of the little pink nursery.

  He was called back into action by an angry federal judge, one who evidently did not believe in vacations and was rumored to work ninety hours a week. Her name was Sally Archer, or Sudden Sal, as she had been aptly nicknamed. She was young and brash, extremely bright, and in the process of driving her staff into the ground. Sudden Sal ruled quickly and wanted every lawsuit settled the day after it was filed. David’s labor case had been assigned to Archer, who had minced no words in voicing her low opinion of Cicero Pipe and its sleazy practices.

  Under pressure from multiple arms of the federal government, and Sudden Sal as well, the prime contractor convinced its sub, Cicero Pipe, to clean up its labor mess and legal problems and get on with its portion of the water-treatment plant. The criminal charges against the would-be arsonist, Justin Bardall, and others at the company would take months to untangle, but the wage-and-hour dispute could, and would, be wrapped up quickly.

  Six weeks after filing the lawsuit, David hammered out a settlement that was hard for him to believe. Cicero Pipe agreed to pay to each of his five clients the lump sum of $40,000. In addition, the company would pay $30,000 each to another three dozen undocumented workers, most Mexican and Guatemalan, who had been paid $200 a week for at least eighty hours.

  Because of the notoriety of the case, said notoriety being greatly enhanced by Oscar’s vigorous defense of his own property and the ensuing arrest of the wealthy owner of Cicero Pipe, the hearing before Sudden Sal attracted some reporters. Judge Archer began by recapping the lawsuit, and in doing so guaranteed she would be quoted by describing Cicero Pipe’s abuses as “slave labor.” She lashed out at the company, rebuked its lawyers, who were actually pretty nice guys in David’s opinion, and in general grandstanded for thirty minutes as the reporters scribbled away.

  “Mr. Zinc, are you satisfied with this settlement?” Her Honor inquired. The agreement was in writing. The deal had been cut a week earlier; the only remaining issue was attorneys’ fees.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” David said quietly. The three lawyers for Cicero Pipe hunkered down, almost afraid to look up.

  “I see that you have submitted a request for attorneys’ fees,” Sudden Sal observed as she looked at some paperwork. “Fifty-eight hours. I would say, in light of what you have accomplished and the money you’ve obtained for all these workers, that your time has been well spent.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” David said. He was standing at his table.

  “What is your hourly rate, Mr. Zinc?”

  “Well, Your Honor, I have been anticipating that question, and the truth is that I really don’t have an hourly rate. My clients can’t afford to pay by the hour.”

  Judge Archer nodded. “In the past year, have you billed anyone by the hour?”

  “Oh sure. Until last December, I was a senior associate at Rogan Rothberg.”

  The judge laughed into her microphone and said, “Oh boy. Talk about experts at the hourly rate. What were you worth back then, Mr. Zinc?”

  David shifted uncomfortably and shrugged. “Judge, the last time I worked on the clock, the client was billed $500 an hour.”

  “Then you’re worth $500 an hour.” Sudden Sal scribbled for a few seconds, then announced, “Let’s round it off to $30,000. Any objections, Mr. Lattimore?”

  The defendant’s chief counsel stood and paused and pondered what to say. Objecting would do no good because the judge was clearly in the other camp. His client was getting clobbered so badly anyway, what was another $30,000? And if Lattimore expressed misgivings about the fees, he knew that Sudden Sal would hit him with a quick “Well, then, Mr. Lattimore, what’s your hourly rate?”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Lattimore said.

  “Good. I want all funds exchanged within thirty days. Court’s adjourned.”

  Outside the courtroom, David spent time with three reporters, patiently answering their questions. When he was finished, he drove to the apartment of Soe and Lwin, where he met with his three Burmese clients and broke the news that they would soon receive checks for $40,000 each. The message wasn’t clear in translation, and Soe repeated himself several times to convince the men. They laughed and thought it was all a joke, but David refused to laugh along. When reality set in, two of the three began crying. The third was too shocked. David tried to make the point that they had earned the money with their sweat and labor, but this, too, did not translate well.

  David was in no hurry. He had been away from his new daughter for all of six hours, a record, but she wasn’t going anywhere. He sipped tea from a tiny cup and chatted with his clients, glowing in his first major victory. He had taken a case that most lawyers would refuse. His clients had bravely stepped out from the shadows of illegal immigration to confront a wrong, and David had coaxed them into it. Three little guys a million miles from home, abused by a big company with plenty of big friends, nothing between them and more abuse except a young attorney and a court of law. Justice, with its flaws and ambiguities, had prevailed in a magnificent way.

  Driving to the office, alone, David was filled with immense pride and a sense of accomplishment. He hoped to have many great wins in the future, but this one would always be special. Never, in five years with the big firm, had he ever felt so proud of being a lawyer.

  It was late and the office was deserted. Wally was on vacation, checking in occasionally with the latest Krayoxx update. Oscar was AWOL for a few days, not even Rochelle knew where he’d gone. David checked his phone messages and mail, puttered around his desk for a few minutes, then got bored with it. As he locked the front door, a police car pulled to a stop in front of the building. Friends of Oscar’s, keeping an eye on the place. David waved at the two officers and headed home.

  CHAPTER 32

  Fresh from a long Labor Day weekend, Wally wrote to his client Iris Klopeck:

  Dear Iris:

  As you know, our trial is set for next month, October 17 to be exact, but this is not something to worry about. I spent most of last month negotiating with the attorneys at Varrick, and we have arrived at a very favorable settlement. The company is in the process of offering a sum in the neighborhood of $2 million for the wrongful death of your husband, Percy. This offer is not official, but we expect to receive it in writing within the next fifteen days. I know this is considerably more than the $1 million I promised, but, nonetheless, I need your approval to accept this offer when it is formally put on the table. I’m quite proud of our little boutique firm. We are like David battling Goliath, but right now we’re winning.

  Please sign the attached form authorizing the settlement and mail it back.

 
; Sincerely,

  Wallis T. Figg

  Attorney and Counselor-at-Law

  He sent similar letters to the other seven clients in his wonderful little class of death cases, and when he finished, he kicked back in his swivel rocker, placed his shoeless feet on his desk, and once again contemplated the money. His dreams were interrupted, though, when Rochelle buzzed in with a curt “That woman is on the phone. Please talk to her. She’s driving me crazy.”

  “Okay,” Wally snapped and stared at the phone. DeeAnna was not going away quietly. During the drive home from Lake Michigan, he had picked a fight with her and managed to escalate it to the level of some serious name-calling. In the heat of the battle, he had announced that they were through, and for two tranquil days thereafter they did not speak. Then she showed up at his apartment, drunk, and he relented and allowed her to sleep on the sofa. She was apologetic, even pitiful, and managed to offer some manner of sexual adventure every five minutes. Wally had declined, so far. Now she was calling at all hours and had even appeared at the office several times. But Wally was determined. It had become clear to him that his Krayoxx money wouldn’t last three months with DeeAnna in the picture.

  He picked up the phone and offered a brusque “Hello.” She was already crying.

  The windy, gloomy Monday would long be remembered at Zell & Potter as the Labor Day Massacre. No holiday was being observed—they were professionals, not laborers, not that it mattered. Holidays were often ignored, as were weekends. The building was open early, and by 8:00 a.m. the halls were buzzing with lawyers eagerly pursuing a variety of defective drugs and the companies that made them.

  Occasionally, though, a pursuit yielded nothing. A chase went nowhere. A well was dry.

  The first blow landed at 9:00 a.m., when Dr. Julian Smitzer, the firm’s director of medical research, insisted on seeing Jerry Alisandros, who really didn’t have the time but couldn’t say no, especially when the matter was described by his secretary as