by Kim Hamilton
ACCIDENTAL
LAWYER
KIM HAMILTON
ACCIDENTAL LAWYER by Kim Hamilton
Copyright © 2017 Kim Hamilton
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. If any of these terms are used, no endorsement is implied. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book, in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Address permissions and review inquiries to [email protected].
Editors: Stacey Donovan, Melody Miller
Cover: 99designs.com, Alfred Obare (Alfie™)
Visit the author’s website at KimHamiltonBooks.com
Second Edition
Printed in the United States of America.
To my husband, Pete, for his constant support; and my daughters, Megan and Kelly who make me proud every day.
CHAPTER ONE
Some lawyers demonstrate their legal prowess in courtrooms with a cool confidence, examining witnesses and charming the jury. Others hunker down in law libraries dissecting case law and writing brilliant legal memorandums. They’re all armed with fancy words, legal precedents, and an air of self-importance. But not me. I wasn’t that kind of lawyer. I was armed with a cell phone camera, a large advertising budget, and a few shreds of remaining dignity.
My name is Jessica Snow. I work for the law offices of Dawson Garner & Associates. It was mid-August. My elevated professional status had me standing alone at the intersection of North Avenue and Smallwood, an area that cried out for urban renewal. The summer heat shimmered like a hellish vapor off the asphalt. My mouth was dry, but the rest of me was cloaked in a layer of sweat. Worst of all, the humidity had ravaged my hair. What wasn’t matted with perspiration was frizzed out like a science-fair project gone wrong. I was there to take photos of the intersection where my client had been hit, but my investigation was interrupted by the assaulting screech of the worn brakes on a Baltimore City transit bus. I involuntarily cringed knowing that when I turned toward the bus I would likely see my face across its entire girth with the words, Dawson Garner & Associates, Have You Been Injured? We can help. Call 555-WANNA SU.
I angled my head in that direction, and there it was. A colossal, roaming display of shameless self-promotion. I was still gaping at it when I heard feet shuffling toward me. Someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Hey lady, isn’t that you?”
I turned toward the voice. A shirtless guy wearing an Orioles baseball cap pointed across the street toward the bus. Standing beside him were three other shirtless men, all in their early twenties, passing around a joint.
Their eyes darted from me to the bus and back again. They were waiting for me to confirm that it was, in fact, my face on the bus, but I couldn’t speak the words. It was hard for me to admit that I was an ambulance chaser.
When Dawson hired me six months ago, I was fresh out of law school, had passed the Maryland Bar exam, and was among the many young grads looking for work. It was no secret that I was hired, not because of my superior legal mind, but because Dawson wanted a young, female lawyer for his advertising campaign. I wasn’t proud, but I took the job, desperate to move out of my parents’ house. It was a temporary holding place until something else turned up. I was competing for legal jobs with thousands of other recent law-school graduates. My problem was that I was not at the top of my class. I hovered closer to average, had no connections. Zero. So, until that recruiter called with my dream job, I was determined to be the best rookie ambulance chaser in the city and prove to Dawson that I was more than just a pretty face. Despite my inexperience and misgivings, I’d become an integral part of Dawson Garner’s legal machine, which pained my mother greatly. It could be a dirty business.
The four guys continued to look from me to the bus as it pulled away.
“Sure does look like you,” the one in the Oriole’s cap continued. “Except for the hair. Hair’s different.”
They stared at my hair. Some of them grimaced. The image on the bus was a testimony to the miracle of Photoshop. It transformed my eyes from ordinary blue to a deep, purple-tinged blue. My mousy brown hair appeared shiny, smooth, and so brown it looked almost black. The bus-me was stunning. In contrast, the person they saw before them resembled a young Sandra Bullock having just rolled out of bed.
“Yeah, that’s me. Any of you need a lawyer?” I squared my shoulders with false bravado and forced eye contact.
They nodded, I suspected, in collective approval of my profession. Another guy, whose cargo shorts hung so low I could see the fly of his boxer shorts, said, “We got a lawyer, lady, but he ain’t as fine as you.”
This brought laughter and more head bobbing from his companions. They inched closer. The air had thickened with heat and the pungent smell of pot. I hugged my messenger bag into my chest.
“Yo. Give little miss attorney some space—you freakin’ her out.” This came from a guy who had tattoos mapping both arms, over his shoulders, and at the base of his neck. The others took a step back and Tattoo Guy turned to me. “I know Dawson Garner. Handled a case for me once. Got me a lot of money.” He tilted his head toward the others. “They don’t mean no harm. Having some fun is all. You lost?”
“I’m not lost. I wanted to see the intersection. I have a client who was struck by a car here last week.”
“You mean Melinda?” Tattoo Guy asked.
What luck. I hadn’t expected to find a witness, but that would sure seal this case for me.
“Yeah, Melinda Taylor. Did any of you see what happened?”
They glared at me in disbelief.
Orioles Hat spoke up. “Lady, Melinda don’t get hit. She don’t ever get hit. She walks into cars when they turn and she falls on the ground. Melinda’s a phony.” He took a hit off the joint.
And there it was. The ugly truth about this business—some clients lied. Melinda’s credibility had been tossed to the curb, yet I had to support her story until I had conclusive evidence to the contrary.
“How do you know she didn’t get hit if you didn’t see it happen?”
Orioles Hat tilted his head to the side and studied me. “Are you for real, lady? How could I see something that didn’t happen?”
He was right. Their revelation about Melinda had thrown me off my game. It was time for me to leave. I reached into my messenger bag and handed each of them a business card. “I’m Jessica Snow. Call me if you need a lawyer.”
My new pot-smoking friends each pocketed my card and ambled off to reposition themselves on their street corner. I waited for the walk signal, crossed the street to my car, cranked the air conditioner, and shot out in the direction of my office.
It’s a big jump from a law school classroom to a real legal environment with actual clients. The first thing I learned about personal injury law was there’s a shitload of money to be made if you have the stomach for it. The second thing I learned is that I don’t quite have the stomach for it. My colleague, Marty Ferguson, he’s got a stomach made of steel. He’ll start a file for anyone with a pulse. Last week he signed up a guy who drove his car straight into a mailbox. The client claimed he was distracted by a billboard of a woman with a generous cleavage. Marty plans to sue the billboard com
pany. Or maybe the woman with the cleavage. Probably both.
I cruised south on Charles toward the office and passed a variety of row homes, some newly renovated, some worse for wear, and numerous retail spaces: hair salons, tattoo parlors, food vendors. Our office, which once housed a doughnut shop on the first floor, was a traditional row home flanked by Uncle Mo’s Subs and Sundries on the south side and Top Notch Tax Service on the other. The interior of my car was beginning to cool when I parked in one of our designated spaces behind the building. I walked in the back door and through the kitchen to our reception area.
“What the hell happened to your hair?” Kari Cruz asked.
Kari managed our front office. She had ten years on me age-wise and, despite my legal training, was savvier than me in many ways. Kari knew the nuts and bolts of the personal injury business and possessed a bold and brassy manner that I envied.
“It’s the humidity,” I said, trying to smooth down the sides with my hands.
“That is one bad case of the frizzies.” She laughed. “I should hook you up with my girl, Paulette, at the House of Hair. She could tame that monster down.”
“I don’t have time for that right now. You know that new pedestrian case? Melinda Taylor? She’s a phony. I ran into some guys on the corner where it happened. They claim she has a history of scamming for insurance money.”
“You went to that intersection by yourself? Jess, you can’t be doing that. Not in that kinda neighborhood. You got book smarts, not street smarts. Let me ride shotgun with you when you do that investigating stuff.” Kari exuded inner-city-girl confidence, having grown up one of three children raised by a single mom in West Baltimore.
Dawson emerged from his office holding a cigar in the corner of his mouth. He never lit it inside but liked to play with it. “What’s wrong with your hair?”
“It’s the humidity. It’s awful out there. I should get hazard pay.” I tried to run my fingers through the strands, but they got caught in the tangles.
“Did you get the photos?” Dawson asked.
“I got some great photos. But I also talked to four guys who say Melinda’s a phony. She has a habit of walking into cars.”
Dawson pulled the cigar out of his mouth and pointed it at me. It was time for another lesson. “Did the insurance company say she’s a fake?”
“Not yet.”
“Then she’s not a fake now, is she?” he said with a crooked, disapproving smile.
“Right, got it.”
“That’s my girl. But just in case, call Dr. Khann’s office. Let them know we may have a liability issue. Have him keep her treatment short.”
Dr. Khann was one of many medical providers to whom we refer clients. It’s a competitive industry. Dozens of doctors in the area woo us for our referrals. They’ll show up with doughnuts in the morning or arrange a catered lunch. Food is a great motivator. I referred a new client to Dr. Shon on Pratt Street last week, not because of his stellar medical credentials, but because he’d delivered a tray of homemade cheese ravioli and tiramisu from Sabatino’s. We don’t prostitute ourselves for food alone, though—there are other incentives. Dawson used Drs. Leighton & Loade near the Belvedere Hotel because they show up with an occasional box of Stradivarius cigars. Other popular incentives include local event tickets, and there are many: The Ravens, the Orioles, shows at the Hippodrome, anything at the Arena, the Preakness...Baltimore’s a great city for doling out bribes.
“Can you meet with Delroy Johnson? He’s expected any minute,” Dawson said. “I need you to get his new file started.”
“Delroy? I settled a case for him last month. What’s he got now?”
“It’s another bus case. He said the bus made a sudden stop and was rear-ended. Delroy banged his head and has some neck pain. You know—the usual.”
“Argh. I hate bus cases. And Delroy’s cheap cologne makes my eyes water.”
“Yes, but at least it helps mask his bad breath.”
I nodded my agreement.
“He’s a loyal client, Jessica. Give him the VIP treatment.”
Dawson retreated to his office as the front door opened. Delroy Johnson walked in. “It’s so hot out there. This guy on the corner has a sign that says ‘will work for air conditioning’.”
Delroy was in his early seventies. Until his recent semi-retirement, he worked long hours at the pawn shop he owned on Holliday Street, The Pawn Palace. His son runs the shop most of the time, with occasional assistance from Delroy.
Today he sported a lime-green collared golf shirt and madras pants in yellow, green, orange, and pink. His ankle-high white socks peeked out over a pair of pale-yellow Sperry’s. I guessed he took his last settlement check and hit the men’s department at Macy’s. He proudly marched toward Kari and me. An invisible cloud of cheap cologne engulfed my breathable space.
“Dawson said I need to meet with you to get my new bus case going. What do ya think it’s worth this time? I’m looking to upgrade my entire wardrobe, maybe even get one of them monogrammed bathrobes and start smoking a pipe.”
Delroy was a man with a clear vision.
“Too soon to tell, Delroy. Let’s start with the accident. What happened?”
“I was on the number seven bus leaving Mondawmin Mall heading to the Pawn Palace. Just before St. Paul Street, Marva—that’s the bus driver—slammed on the brakes, and then the van behind the bus rear-ended us. I flew out of my seat and hit the one in front of me. That’s how I got this.” He pointed to the center of his forehead, which looked normal to me. “Then I fell back again and my head nearly came off my neck.” He rubbed his neck with both hands and winced. “I need to go back to see Doc Cohen.”
“Sure, Delroy, I’ll get you over there. But first, did you see what caused the bus driver to make the sudden stop?”
“No. But there was people talking about it. Seems Marva saw her husband on that street corner getting chummy with a local... uhhh... a local business woman, if you know what I mean. Marva was so honking mad, she slammed the brakes, threw the bus into park, and launched herself out the door after her husband. Poor guy. I hope for his sake he outran her.”
“What about the van that hit the bus?”
“I don’t know anything about that van. Mind you, I was in a great deal of pain,” he said, rubbing his neck again and wincing.
What a pro.
“Okay, Delroy. Here’re some papers I need you to sign. This one is our retainer agree—”
“Oh yeah, Jess. I know the drill. I seen these before. Gimme a pen and I’ll sign away.” Delroy seemed pleased to be a regular, like part of the family.
I handed Delroy a pen, and as he signed the paperwork, I got on the phone with the receptionist at Dr. Cohen’s office. Cohen was a chiropractor with a private practice a few blocks from our office. There’s a framed chiropractic license on the wall near his desk, so I’m pretty sure he’s legitimate. He treated many of our clients with neck and back pain. It’s a simple arrangement. He provides us with medical records and bills documenting our client’s painful injuries, and we send him a fat check to cover those bills as soon as the claim is resolved. If we’re unable to resolve a claim, he eats the bills and doesn’t charge the client. This is business as usual in the world of personal injury law.
I arranged for Dr. Cohen to see Delroy knowing it would score us a catered lunch sometime next week, courtesy of Dr. Cohen’s marketing manager.
I stood to escort Delroy to the door. As we reached the middle of the reception area, he stopped. “You know, Jess. I like you. You’re easier on the eyes than old Dawson there,” he said tilting his head toward Dawson’s office and wincing once again at the effort. “I’m gonna share my little secret with you.”
“Secret? Oh, I don’t know, Delroy. You should share those with your wife or you’re drinking buddies—not me.”
“I’m not married, and my drinking buddies aren’t good listeners on account of their advanced inebriation. No, Jess, you gonna like this. Yo
u see, I got to thinking after my first bus case that these accidents happen kinda regular in the city. Folks are always riding buses and buses are always having accidents. Get where I’m going with this? I ride the buses a lot and now that I’m retired, I can ride them even more to increase my odds of being on one when that next accident...”
“Nah nah nah...” I slapped my hands to my ears. He smiled at me and nodded his head. I continued to chant as I walked away from him, returned to my office, and shut the door. I heard Kari exchange a few words with him. The front door closed.
Kari hollered through my door, “That Delroy sure is clever.”
#
Dawson stood in the reception area waiting for me when I returned from the bathroom. “Jess, would you come into my office?” I knew he was in there with Sal Seidelbaum, the firm’s marketing guy. They were discussing a new advertising campaign. My stomach turned at the thought of more transit buses and billboards bearing my face.
I found the two of them sitting opposite each other in matching faux-leather wingback chairs. I took a seat on the faux-leather sofa and was joined by Bailiff, Dawson’s beloved orange tabby cat. He had ten pounds of excess fat and the propensity for shedding mountains of fur. He snuggled in and nudged me with his nose, requesting a gentle petting. I complied.
“Jess, we’ve got to work on increasing our incoming business. We need to capture more of the market, make more money. So, I’ve got some good news for you. Sal is going to produce our first television commercial.” Both men were on the edges of their seats with silly schoolboy grins, barely able to contain their excitement. A numbing chill passed through me. I felt a little nauseous and saw black spots dance before my eyes. Bailiff sensed something was wrong and tried to leap from the couch. It was more of a waddle, then a fall.
“What’s wrong, Jess? You look a little pale,” Dawson said.
