A House Divided

by Robert Whitlow

  Corbin sat up straighter in his chair. “My letter explicitly prohibited him from direct contact with you. He was supposed to get in touch with me.”

  “Uh, maybe you should talk to my wife. She’s the one who answered the door. I was lying down because my back was bothering me.”

  Corbin fumed while he waited for Mrs. Bowater to come to the phone. Courage wasn’t a common commodity in people used to economic oppression. He could visualize Harold Dickens standing on the porch delivering his threats to a cowering Mrs. Bowater.

  “Hello,” Mrs. Bowater said in a voice that trembled slightly.

  “I know Mr. Dickens came by and tried to intimidate you,” Corbin began, “but I want to reassure you and your husband that I’m going to—”

  “He said you were a drunk,” Mrs. Bowater interrupted. “Is that true?”

  “No,” Corbin replied. “And I could sue him for slander for saying that in an effort to pressure you into backing off your legitimate claims.”

  “And he agreed to fix up the house this week if we dropped you as a lawyer. Otherwise he’s going to tell everybody that we’re troublemakers and bad tenants.”

  “Mrs. Bowater, let me do this the right way.”

  “Can you guarantee the judge will make him fix this place up?”

  Corbin hesitated. “No lawyer can guarantee exactly what will happen, but I wouldn’t have taken your case on a contingent fee basis if I didn’t think we could win. Remember, I don’t get a cent unless Dickens or his insurance company pays you. And this isn’t just about repairs on the house. There are also the injuries your husband suffered when he fell because of the leaks Dickens didn’t fix.”

  “Medicare will pay the doctor bills, won’t it?”

  “Yes, but not for pain and suffering.”

  “We don’t care about that. Before he left I told Mr. Dickens we’d give him a chance to make things right before getting a lawyer involved. We believe that’s the honest thing to do.”

  Corbin knew he was defeated. Dickens was both savvy and sneaky. He knew how to intimidate and manipulate simple folks like the Bowaters.

  “I’ve got your card in my pocketbook,” Mrs. Bowater continued. “If we need you we’ll give you a holler.”

  The call ended, leaving Corbin steamed. He slid open the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of bourbon. There wasn’t much more than an ounce of amber liquid left. He drained the last drops of whiskey in a single gulp. The front door beeped.

  “I’m in here!” he called out irritably.

  In a few seconds Millie Watson eased her face into view. Corbin quickly moved the bottle from his desk to the floor beside his chair and stood up.

  “I should have called,” Millie said, her eyes wide.

  Corbin could tell by the look on the young woman’s face that she’d seen the whiskey bottle.

  “It’s okay,” he said with a wave of his hand, not exactly sure what he meant by the words. “What can I do for you?”

  “I met with Mr. Morgan, and he’s going to help me file for bankruptcy. When I told him about Josh’s cancer, he asked a bunch of questions, then said I should come back to you and talk about filing a lawsuit.”

  “A lawsuit?”

  “Against Colfax.”

  Corbin reached up to straighten his tie, only to discover he didn’t have one on. “Uh, come in and have a seat,” he said. “And close the door.”

  Millie hesitated.

  “Or leave the door open. It doesn’t really matter unless someone else comes into the reception area.”

  Corbin saw Millie cautiously glance at the spot where the whiskey bottle had rested on his desk. She sat on the edge of a chair across from him.

  “What exactly did Barry tell you?” he asked.

  “Just that the stuff they make at Colfax could have caused Josh to get cancer. When I told him about Mitchell Kilpatrick having the same disease, he said you were the kind of lawyer to look into it.”

  “Branson Kilpatrick and I have been friends for years. He mentioned Mitchell’s illness to me the other day.”

  Corbin tapped his legal pad with his pen, then told Millie about the court hearing he’d witnessed the previous day. While he talked, the morning fog that had clouded his mind lifted.

  The young woman’s eyes widened as she listened. “Mr. Morgan didn’t say anything about that.”

  “He didn’t know. The prosecutor and the lawyer for Colfax wanted to keep it quiet. I just happened to be over at the courthouse.”

  It hurt to link Ray to a conspiracy of silence, but it was the truth.

  “All I want is for Josh to get the best medical treatment available so he can beat this cancer. But I don’t have money to pay a lawyer,” Millie said.

  “These kinds of cases are handled on what’s called a contingent fee.”

  Corbin repeated the familiar litany about percentage payment of any recovery as attorney’s fees in personal injury cases.

  “The first step would be a preliminary investigation prior to filing suit.”

  “So you’ll look into it?” Millie asked.

  Toxic tort litigation against a large corporation wasn’t in the same legal universe as a premises liability claim against a scuzzy landlord like Harold Dickens. Corbin glanced at the picture of his swearing-in ceremony. He’d been young then and full of fight. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  TEN

  Roxy stood in front of a long mirror in the women’s restroom at O’Hare and applied a fresh coat of lipstick. She’d made it onto the plane in Atlanta seconds before the doors closed, then spent every spare moment on the one-hour-and-fifty-five-minute flight poring over the information needed to question Dr. Sellers. Her brain was crammed with data about buttressed generics, polymorphs, targeted proteins, and enzyme-binding agents.

  She took a taxi from the airport to an office on LaSalle Street. Roxy loved the vibrant feel of downtown Chicago and felt energized by its sprawling hustle and bustle. She barely had time to boot up her laptop when a door opened and a stocky, black-haired man in his late fifties, wearing an open-collared shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots, opened the door.

  “Ms. Gage?” he asked in a Texas drawl.

  “Yes.”

  “Your office called and told me you’d be coming instead of Mr. Caldweller.”

  Dr. Willard Sellers looked like he’d be more at home on a ranch than in a chemistry lab. Roxy followed the chemist down a narrow hallway and into a conference room barely big enough for four people. His laptop was open on the table.

  “Do you have my curriculum vitae?” he asked.

  His educational and professional qualifications, including academic papers published in scientific journals, ran to twenty pages. Roxy had identified five papers of particular interest and reviewed them in detail for Mr. Caldweller in her memo.

  “Yes, I do. And before we do anything else, I’d like to ask you about the article you published last year in the American Journal of Chemistry about enzyme-binding agents.”

  The chemist’s eyes perked up. “Okay.”

  Because Dr. Sellers was a shadow expert, Roxy’s meeting with him was, under the law, nothing more than a conversation at a cocktail party. He would never testify in the case or prepare a formal report. However, his opinion was important because it would help Roxy’s firm decide what to ask in-house or outside experts and develop strategies for cross-examination of witnesses used by the plaintiffs. Everybody in high-stakes litigation utilized the practice.

  She placed a recording device on the table. “Let’s go,” she said.

  Getting a scientist like Dr. Sellers to talk about a peer review paper was easy. Even though the particular article wasn’t directly relevant to the lawsuit, it was a recent work and helped Roxy set the tone for the type of interaction with the chemist she hoped would be most beneficial. Over the next three hours they transitioned from topic to topic.

  “Let’s take a break,” Dr. Sellers suggested after he finished a particularly
long explanation about the chemical interactions of compounds in the drug that was subject to the litigation.

  “Sure.”

  The chemist stood to his feet and stretched. “You’ve done your homework,” he said. “You’ve read my CV. What’s on yours?”

  “Undergraduate degree in chemistry from Georgia Tech, followed by law school at Emory. I’ve been with Frank and Donaldson for five years.”

  “You remind me of a graduate student who interned with me last year and now works in the petrochemical field.”

  Two hours later Roxy rubbed her forehead in fatigue. She had a much clearer idea of the small holes in their case and how to fill them.

  “What have I forgotten to ask you?” she asked.

  Dr. Sellers thought for a moment. “About this,” he said.

  As Dr. Sellers laid out a problem she’d not considered, but which created a huge risk for the law firm to be blindsided, Roxy grew more and more nervous. None of the internal documents from their client had tipped her off, but now she saw that they should have. If Mr. Caldweller had been in the room, he would have bored holes with his eyes through Roxy for not seeing it and giving him a heads-up. She tried to keep her voice nonchalant for the sake of the recording.

  “I see—thanks for clarifying that,” she said.

  “Glad to do it,” Dr. Sellers said.

  She turned off the recorder. “Wow, I really mean it,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “I didn’t realize the significance of the interaction between those two compounds. It was in the information we received, but—”

  “I see things like this from time to time,” the chemist interjected. “The company hopes they can bury a problem in the midst of a data dump and takes a chance no one will identify its relevance.”

  “Which is why I’m glad I got to talk with you.”

  Dr. Sellers checked his watch and made an entry into his computer.

  “I have to get ready for another of these meetings tomorrow. This is supposed to be a vacation week, but I work harder consulting than I do teaching or in research.”

  “What’s the general subject of your next consult?”

  “Medical claims for exposure to phenoxyacetic acid herbicides, particularly 2,4-dichlorophenoxyacetic acid. There are ancillary questions related to organophosphorus insecticides. I’ve not written about this area professionally, but I’ve studied it for years. I grew up on a family farm wondering if the stuff my father and uncles used to kill weeds and insects might not be good for us, either. Dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane was a great bug killer.”

  “DDT.”

  “Right. And we know how that turned out.”

  “Which side hired you?” Roxy asked.

  “Defendants.”

  Janelle arrived at the office five minutes after Millie Watson left. In the meantime, Corbin put the empty whiskey bottle in a plastic bag and deposited it in a large bin behind the building. There was a foul taste in his mouth left over from his drinking the previous night, but he didn’t have any toothpaste at the office. He made a mental note to buy some—and another bottle of bourbon. Reentering the office, he found Janelle talking to a tall young man with a dark mustache and goatee.

  “Good morning, Corbin,” Janelle said cheerfully. “You remember Stanley, don’t you? He put off a remodeling job so he could get right on the Bowater matter. I told him you were in a hurry to nail down the problems—no pun intended. Anyway, he has his camera and is ready to go as soon as you tell him what you want him to do.”

  While Janelle chattered away, Corbin tried to decide whether he should pay Stanley for missing a job to investigate a remodeling case that wasn’t going to happen. When the secretary stopped talking, Corbin stepped forward and shook Stanley’s hand.

  “Well,” Corbin said, drawing out the word as long as possible, “there’s not going to be a Bowater case.”

  Janelle’s face fell. “What happened?”

  “You know I can’t discuss that. Even if a case doesn’t pan out, the discussions I have with prospective clients are confidential.”

  “It’s okay,” Stanley said before Janelle could respond. “I’ll be on my way. I appreciate you thinking about me.”

  “Wait a minute,” Janelle said. “You lost a job so you could do this—”

  “Naw, I’ll give them a call as soon as I leave here. I’m not going to charge Mr. Gage if I don’t do anything.”

  Corbin’s opinion of Stanley was rising faster than a hot new stock.

  “Tell you what,” Corbin said. “I have some roof shingles that need to be replaced at my duplex. Would you be interested in taking a look at it and giving me a bid?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “You’d better,” Janelle interjected.

  After Stanley left, Corbin turned to his secretary. “Something way bigger than the Bowater case has come up this morning,” he said, and told her about his conversation with Millie Watson.

  By the time he finished, Janelle’s mouth was hanging open in shock. “Are you kidding or crazy?” she managed. “When was the last time you looked in the mirror? Do you think you’re a character in a TV show? I mean, that type of case . . .”

  “I wouldn’t turn it into a class action,” Corbin replied defensively. “But if I could sign up both children and join them as plaintiffs in the same lawsuit—”

  Janelle spun around, put her hands over her ears, and began walking rapidly toward the women’s bathroom.

  Returning to his office, Corbin stood in front of a small mirror with a gilt frame that Colonel Parker had bought for the firm. The first thing he noticed was his eyes. They were so bloodshot that Max Hogan probably didn’t have to ask if Corbin had been on a recent binge. The skin beneath both eyes was sagging more than he’d noticed before. He needed a haircut but he’d done a decent job shaving and only missed a tiny place under his lip. It barely showed. He rubbed it and noticed that his fingernails were seriously past due for a trim. Going to his desk, he rummaged around in a drawer until he found a pair of clippers. He was snipping his fingernails over a circular metal trash can when Janelle appeared in the doorway.

  “Corbin, how long have I worked for you?” she asked.

  Knowing it was a trick question, Corbin hesitated. “Nineteen years?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “I knew it was a long time,” Corbin began. “You know how things run together—”

  “And I’ve earned the right to tell you the truth,” she interrupted. “You’re in no shape to take on big-time litigation like this. It wouldn’t be right for you to start something you can’t finish. What did Colonel Parker used to say about not strapping on your gun unless there’s a bullet in every chamber of the magazine? It would be criminal for you to ask these folks to trust you.”

  As Janelle listed his inadequacies, Corbin didn’t get angry. His secretary knew the magnitude and scope of his faults as an attorney better than anyone.

  “How will you feel when the case gets dismissed and you have to think about two sick little boys and their families who believed you were going to help them?” she continued. “I’d be worried about you too. When the black bear of booze and depression jumps on your back and you don’t show up for two or three days at a stretch, there’s no way I can cover for you.”

  Janelle paused to take a breath. Corbin scratched his chin with the newly trimmed fingernails on his left hand.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll call Millie Watson and tell her I’m not the lawyer who should evaluate the case. This might even be too much for Foxcroft and Bartlett, but they’re the best plaintiff lawyers in the area. I’ll send her over to them so they can check it out.”

  Janelle’s shoulders slumped. It wasn’t a victory pose.

  “I’m sorry, Corbin,” she said, “but I had to speak up before you did something that could hurt a lot of people.”

  “Okay, okay.” He held up his hand. “You’ve won. So you should shut up before
you unconvince me.”

  Janelle snapped her mouth closed and returned to her desk.

  Corbin sank down in his chair.

  And desperately wished he’d brought a bottle of whiskey from home to replace the one he finished earlier.

  ELEVEN

  Good morning, and thanks for calling Simpkin, Brown, and Stamper,” announced the perky receptionist with the British accent.

  “This is Ray Gage at the DA’s office. I’d like to speak with Nate Stamper, please.”

  While he waited on hold, Ray tried to imagine the former London resident pronouncing his name. Hiring a secretary from the UK had created a buzz in the legal community and bolstered the perception that Simpkin, Brown, and Stamper was a cut above the other firms in town.

  Nate came on the phone. “Hey, Ray. I did an hour of damage control with Guy Hathaway after we got back from court yesterday. He couldn’t get it through his head that the judge had the power to disregard your recommendation and impose a fine. I tried to convince him you did all you could.”

  “And I hope you told him a $2,500 fine is a lot better than a $225,000 fine.”

  “No, because then he would have gone off about your father jumping in and mouthing off to the judge about how big the fine could be. I hate to say it, but your old man needs to realize it’s time to close up shop and spend more time fishing and—”

  Nate stopped. Ray suspected the rest of his sentence had to do with alcohol.

  “That’s up to him,” Ray replied. “His name is the only one on the door. But I called because I wanted to bring a proposed order.”

  “Just scan and send it as an e-mail attachment. I’ll redline any changes and shoot it back to you.”

  Ray cleared his throat. “How are things going with my résumé? I’m 100 percent ready to make a move, and there’s no place I’d rather end up than with your firm.”

  “It’s on the agenda for our partners’ meeting in a couple of weeks. We get together at Mr. Simpkin’s lake house the first of every month. I know how I’m going to vote, but Simpkin and Brown still have a few questions.”