by Randy Singer
“Hang in there, pal, you’ve got to pull through,” she mumbled to herself as she gunned the engine. “You’re never worth as much dead.”
8
EVEN BELLA HAD TO ADMIT the case sounded good. The caller was Ralph Johnson, who had first come to Brad five years ago after losing two fingers in a saber-saw accident. Bella remembered how Brad had parlayed those two fingers into a nifty structured settlement with a total payout of more than $150,000. After Brad took his third, Johnson would have had enough for a down payment on a new home. In his euphoria, and without even consulting his wife, Ralph decided to get a new pickup, stay in the run-down shack they lived in, and have a little money on the side to party.
Five years later, the party money was gone, and the house was feeling cramped, but the pickup was still going strong. Like a rock. Ralph never regretted the way he spent his windfall.
Now Ralph called from the bedside of his brother Frank at Norfolk General Hospital. Misfortune had again visited the Johnson family, and Ralph was hoping Brad could find another pile of cash to ease the pain. Frank had had the bad luck of navigating an intersection at the same time a sleeping drunk driver in an 18-wheeler blew through a red light and demolished Frank’s vehicle. Ralph was sure this was a case for Brad Carson.
Upon learning the facts, Bella transformed herself into a sugary-sweet grief counselor. But she had a hard time disguising the glee in her voice as she offered Ralph and his brother her deepest condolences. She assured them that Brad would be on the way immediately. Justice would be done. The jerk who caused this terrible tragedy would pay. Dearly.
She talked of justice, but she thought about cash. The case was a gold mine. By the time she hung up the phone, she was practically drooling.
* * *
Brad took the call from Bella on his cell phone and was at the hospital in a flash. He waited briefly for the elevator, lost patience, then bounded up the stairs to the third floor, where Frank Johnson was being treated. He took the stairs two at a time, his feet barely touching the floor, the adrenaline pumping. He always felt this way when he landed a promising new case.
This feeling, this sense of excitement at someone else’s misfortune, always prompted a bout of guilt followed by the same Brad Carson pep talk. The practice of law was so competitive, he reminded himself, there was nothing wrong with feeling good about landing a new case. After all, the damage had already been done, and someone needed to help the man get the money he deserved to get on with his life. Brad was convinced that nobody could do that better than he could. Apparently Frank’s brother agreed. Brad worked hard and got an honest referral. No need to feel bad about that.
Brad put on his best look of professional compassion and stepped inside the door to Frank Johnson’s room. He surveyed the small crowd of people and immediately sensed that something was wrong. Frank was lying uncomfortably in traction, hooked up by tubes to a computer contraption that monitored his vitals and fed him intravenous fluids. Frank’s wife sat by his bedside, holding his hand. Ralph stood next to her with downcast eyes. All of this was typical of the hospital room of an injured client. But the woman with her back to the door was the source of Brad’s discomfort. She was clearly not medical personnel, and Brad sensed trouble.
Ralph sheepishly introduced the stranger as Nikki Moreno, a paralegal for Billy “the Rock” Davenport.
Brad extended his hand to Nikki. In her other hand, and clearly visible to Brad, was a typed contract for legal services. At the bottom of a full page of small print was a signature that Brad assumed belonged to Frank Johnson.
Brad gave her hand a menacing squeeze. Nikki lifted an eyebrow.
She did not look the part of a professional. She was thin—too thin for Brad’s taste—and all legs, which she showed off with a tight miniskirt and three-inch heels. Nikki apparently believed that the gods of style required her to lavishly decorate and puncture her smooth olive skin with a small tattoo on her ankle, a more prominent one on her left shoulder, a pierced navel clearly visible under her cropped blouse, and numerous holes in her ears. Despite her over-the-top presentation, Nikki’s face had an exotic Latino allure that came from sharp, angular bones, deeply tanned skin, long black hair, and dark brown eyes—accentuated with generous amounts of dark eye shadow.
Brad immediately determined he would not be outhustled by a legal assistant for a second-rate ambulance chaser like the Rock. “What are you doing here?” he asked bluntly.
“Our firm represents Frank Johnson. What are you doing here?” Nikki fired back.
Brad shot a glance at Ralph Johnson. Ralph pinned his eyes to a spot on the floor.
“Mr. Johnson—” Brad pointed to Ralph—“called me to see if I could help his brother the same way that I helped him. I didn’t know that you were tailgating the ambulance to the hospital.”
“It’s not my fault you’re a day late and a dollar short,” Nikki retorted. She turned to Mrs. Johnson. “Brad’s a pretty good lawyer who could do a pretty good job if this were a garden-variety personal injury case. But he works alone. In a complicated case involving serious injuries, you’ll be better off with the resources of a firm like Davenport & Associates.”
Brad snorted. “Your boss doesn’t know the first thing about trying cases.” He turned from Nikki to Ralph. “Tell your brother about our case, Ralph. Tell him how a real lawyer operates.”
All eyes turned to Ralph, who was still mesmerized by the spot on the floor. He stood silent and unmoving, like a statue.
“A real lawyer,” Nikki interjected, “does not act up so bad in court that he gets thrown in jail in the middle of his client’s case. It’s hard to be effective for your client when you’re sitting in jail.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Brad snapped.
The statue cleared his throat. “It’s like this,” Ralph said haltingly. “Ms. Moreno, here, brings some things to the case that no other firm brings. She can help us prove the other driver was drunk. She’s an eyewitness to his drinking—”
“I can always subpoena her,” Brad interrupted. “I’m telling you, Ralph, you don’t want Davenport trying your brother’s case. The other side will laugh all the way to a defense verdict.”
“You can’t subpoena me if I’m representing the truck driver,” Nikki said, raising her voice. She waved the paperwork under Brad’s nose. “And believe me, if Mr. Johnson reneges on this contract, the truck driver will hire me in a heartbeat.”
Brad rolled his eyes. “If you’re a witness, I’ll subpoena you. And why would the truck driver hire you?”
Brad knew this argument between him and a second-class paralegal was totally undignified. But what are my options? Let her steal the case so the Rock can sell out Frank for a quick and easy settlement?
Not in a million years.
A nurse wearing the most severe scowl imaginable stepped between Brad and Nikki—where did she come from?—and unceremoniously asked them to leave the room. “My patient has enough trauma in his life right now,” she said scornfully. “Why don’t you take your little disagreement into the hallway?”
Chastised and feeling like a total idiot, Brad murmured an apology to the family, flashed another angry glare at Nikki, and walked quickly from the room.
Nikki followed.
“What a coincidence,” Brad lectured, “that you just happened upon this accident and happened to witness the other driver slamming down a few drinks. What do you do, spend all night listening to a police scanner, waiting for some poor soul to get killed or injured? I ought to report you to the bar.”
Nikki just stood there, staring at Brad.
“Are you finished?” she said at last.
“For now.”
“Good, because then maybe you’ll listen. We were doing just fine here until you showed up, hotshot. If you don’t mind, I’m going to go back in there to confer with my client. You, by the way, are not invited.” She turned on her heel.
Brad saw his window of opportunity closing quickly
. He could not stand the thought of a hapless lawyer like the Rock representing Frank Johnson. He had to do something. Fast.
“Wait,” Brad said. “We’ve both been called on this case.” He paused. He was having difficulty forcing out this next sentence. “Let’s work as co-counsel and split the fee.”
Nikki stopped at the door and turned. She brushed her long dark hair back over her shoulder. If it was designed to impress, it didn’t. Brad was already starting to hate himself for suggesting this pact with the devil.
Nikki glanced around the hallway and took a step toward Brad. “Okay, here’s the scoop,” she said in a hushed voice. “If you want a piece of this case, you hire me. It’s a package deal. The case and I come together.”
Brad was stunned. Slack-jawed. If he told her off, he would lose the case for sure.
“I did hear about this accident on the scanner,” Nikki whispered. “I got to the scene before any help arrived. The other driver smelled like a brewery. I asked if he was okay. Somebody else was already helping Mr. Johnson. I looked into the truck and saw an open bottle of Jack Daniels. I told him I worked for a lawyer and suggested he have a drink to calm his nerves.”
She paused, allowing the audacity of what she had done to sink in.
“I’ve been hanging with the Rock long enough to know the protocol. You tell a drunk driver at the scene to drink some more and then not talk to anyone. The blood-alcohol test will not be able to distinguish what percentage is due to alcohol consumed before the accident and how much is due to alcohol consumed after the accident and before the police arrived. The only person who knows how much the truck driver drank after the accident, as opposed to before the accident—” Nikki again paused and checked the hallway, looking this way and that—“is me. That’s why both you and Mr. Johnson need me on this case.”
Brad just stood there, shaking his head, condemning her with his eyes. He had never seen such outrageous conduct.
“Of course,” Nikki continued, “I didn’t want to see the guy get away with drunk driving, so I came over here as soon as Mr. Johnson could have visitors. I told Mr. and Mrs. Johnson that if they retained our firm, I would be happy to testify on their behalf.”
“That was big of you,” Brad huffed.
“If the Johnsons decide to use some other firm—including yours,” Nikki continued in her conspiratorial whisper, “I’ll just give the truck driver a call, and he’ll retain us. That way any information I have will either be protected by the attorney-client privilege or I’ll just conveniently forget it.”
“You’ve got no morals,” Brad said, stating the obvious.
“Says the man who purposefully baits a judge and gets himself thrown in jail.”
“That’s different.”
Nikki shrugged. “Whatever.” She smiled. “My morals are beside the point. I’m not stupid. I’ve got a case you want, and you need a good paralegal.” She looked down the hallway one more time. The coast was still clear. “And if you repeat this, I’ll deny I ever said it—but I also know you’re ten times the lawyer Davenport ever dreamed of being. Take the deal, Carson.”
Brad did some quick math in his head. Even if he gave Nikki a huge salary out of his one-third contingency fee, he would still turn a handsome profit. If he didn’t like her work, he could fire her. If she was good, he did need a paralegal, and he could sure use a hustler like Nikki. But he would lay down some strict ethical guidelines on acceptable behavior in soliciting cases.
“Here’s the deal,” Brad said. “I can’t give you a percentage of the case because it’s unethical to give a nonlawyer a percentage for bringing a case to the firm. And despite the way you operate, some of us still believe the ethical rules that govern lawyers ought to be followed every once in a while. But if you bring this case to our firm, and you agree to abide by our code of conduct, I’ll give you a one-year contract for fifty thousand dollars.” He frowned to emphasize his displeasure at making such a distasteful offer.
Nikki scoffed. “This case alone is worth half a million to your firm. And I can bring in a bunch of other cases like it. But I’m willing to prove myself in the first year.” Nikki furrowed her brow and glanced at the contract in her hand, as if she were trying to calculate the combined worth of the contract and her own brilliance. “I’ll come for a mere seventy-five thousand, plus a bonus if we do well on the Johnson case. We can talk about the amount of the bonus when we negotiate year two.”
Brad pushed a sharp breath out through his nose, like she had just asked him for the Grand Canyon. He shook his head. “Sixty thousand.”
Nikki didn’t hesitate or blink. She just turned on her heel again and headed straight for the hospital room.
“Okay,” Brad fumed. “Seventy-five.”
She turned. “Plus medical benefits, parking, and a 401(k) plan.”
“You’re hired,” Brad said quickly.
The two new partners walked down the hall to the waiting area and drew up a short contract on the back of the paper that Johnson had signed. The knot in the pit of Brad’s stomach reminded him he would have to break this news to Bella. He prepared himself to offer her a raise.
“One more question,” Brad said to Nikki as he signed the makeshift agreement. “Where did that truck driver really get the Jack Daniels?”
“If you want the answer to that one,” Nikki said, smiling, “you’ll have to give me a raise.”
Just as Brad expected. He made a mental note to keep an eye on Nikki Moreno.
9
“I CAN’T DO IT,” SARAH SAID. “I won’t do it. It might endanger the members of our church still worshiping in Riyadh. It may hinder the efforts of the World Mission Society to send other missionaries. But most important, it would probably mean I could never go back to the Saudis again—never return to the people I love.”
Brad shot a sideways glance at Leslie. He had not anticipated this reaction to his proposal that Sarah file suit against the Saudis as well as the insurance company. Brad had predicted Sarah would balk at the prospect of risking any money on the case, so he offered to take the case on contingency and fund the expenses strictly out of firm reserves. Sarah would pay absolutely no fee unless they recovered. But Brad never dreamed that Sarah would still object for philosophical reasons. Clients never objected to the potential for a huge recovery when lawyers took all the risks.
“Well,” Brad said after a long silence. He stared at his legal pad on the conference room table. “Nobody is going to force you to file this case. But it seems to me that there are times to turn the other cheek and times to fight back.” Brad made a desperate mental search for some biblical arguments, but his repertoire was limited to what little he could remember from his Sunday school days.
He vaguely remembered that Christ Himself got angry a time or two and beat up on some guys in the temple—he could recall the picture from his Bible. “I mean, even Christ turned over the tables on those men selling pigeons in the temple.” He looked up and noticed Sarah trying to suppress a grin. Maybe he should stick to logic. “I think it all comes down to the greater good. You could go back into Saudi Arabia and reach dozens of people, maybe even hundreds, as a missionary. But what if this lawsuit resulted in real religious freedom in Saudi Arabia? How many Sarah Reeds could minister in the country then? And not under cover of darkness, but in the light of day. And what if this case results in similar cases against China and other repressive countries? Could it be that God is calling you to take this stand, at this time, to pave the way for thousands of others to go where they could never go before?”
Brad finished talking and waited patiently for Sarah’s response. She was deep in thought, not smiling at all now. Leslie fixed her eyes on Sarah as well.
“Brad, I just don’t know,” Sarah replied tentatively. “I’ve got to have some time to think about it, pray about it. What you say makes sense, but only if we win. If we lose, it’s not just a case, and it’s not just money, it’s my calling at risk. I could never go back. You c
an shake off the dust and move on to your next case. But I couldn’t live with myself if I made it any harder on the converts in Saudi Arabia.”
“What would Charles want?” Leslie asked softly.
Sarah studied her folded hands. “What would Jesus do? If I knew the answer to that question, then I’d know what Charles would want.”
More silence followed. The threesome eventually agreed that Sarah would take a few days to think and pray. Leslie would start drafting the lawsuit just in case. Brad made a note to get his hands on a Bible and muster some support for the proposition that Jesus would have filed suit. But he had to admit, it seemed odd to imagine the Man who went without objection to His death on a cross filing suit over a human rights violation.
Brad didn’t have the foggiest idea what Jesus would do. But he did know what he wanted to do. He had to get Sarah’s permission to file this case. And he had to find a way to win.
* * *
Nikki enjoyed the first five minutes of her new job. She spent the time unpacking her personal belongings in her new office, waiting for Brad to arrive with instructions.
But at 8:35 Nikki’s solitude was shattered when a thick woman in a foul mood parked herself at Nikki’s office door. She stood there with one hand on her hip, the other handling a cigarette, while she huffed and puffed about the traffic, the miserable weather, and the other evils of living in Tidewater. “You must be Nikki Moreno,” she finally said, her voice filled with scorn.
“Yep,” Nikki replied. “Do you mind putting out that cigarette while you’re standing in my office?”
Bella pointed out that she was not technically in Nikki’s office, and even if she were, she’d put the cigarette out when she darn well pleased. Nikki pointed out that Bella was the only person she knew who was big enough to be technically in Nikki’s office at the same time that she was technically in the hallway and technically in the reception area. The conversation went downhill from there.
