by John Grisham
“The lamest one yet. Appeals are all research and paperwork. Piece of cake. Next.”
“I’m a city girl, Jeff. Look around you. This is my life. I can’t survive in Brady.”
“Okay, good point. But who says you have to stay there forever? Give it a go for two or three years, help us get his cases closed and the fees collected. There’s some money out there that I don’t want to lose. Next.”
“Some of his cases could drag on for years. I can’t make that commitment.”
“Then commit to the Tate appeal. That’s eighteen months max. It’ll fly by and we’ll figure out what to do next. Along the way, you can pick and choose other cases that look promising. I’ll help. I’m a pretty good ambulance chaser. Next.”
“I don’t want to deal with Donovan’s widow.”
“You won’t have to, I promise. Mattie and I will take care of Judy. Next.”
She smeared some Camembert on a crostini and took a bite. Chewing, she said, “I don’t want people following me. I don’t like guns.”
“You can practice law without a gun. Look at Mattie. They’re afraid of her. And, like I said, I’ll be close and I’ll protect you. Next.”
She swallowed and took a sip of port. “Okay, here’s one you can’t handle, and there’s no way to say it without being blunt. You and Donovan played by different rules. You stole documents in the Krull Mining case, and I’m sure you’ve cut corners in other cases. I get the feeling that some of the files in that office are, shall we say, contaminated. I want no part of them. The FBI has raided the place once. I’m not going to be there when they raid it again.” “It’s not going to happen, I swear. There’s nothing, other than Krull, to worry about. And I will not jeopardize you or the office. I promise.”
“I don’t completely trust you.”
“Thanks. I’ll earn your trust.”
Another bite of cheese, another sip of port. He was eating too, and waiting. He counted with his fingers and said, “That’s only nine reasons, all of which I have just brilliantly shot down.”
She said, “Okay, number ten, I’m not sure I would get much work done with you around.”
“Good point. You want me to keep my hands off.”
“I didn’t say that. Look at me, Jeff. I’m not in the market for romance, okay? Period. We can fool around all we want, but it’s just for fun. The moment things turn serious, then we’ll have problems.”
He smiled and chuckled and said, “So, let me get this straight. You want to engage in all manner of sexual behavior but without the slightest twinge of commitment. Gee. That’s a tough one. It’s a deal. You win. Look, Samantha, I’m a thirty-two-year-old bachelor and I love being single. You need to understand that Donovan and I were scarred when we were very young. Our parents were miserable and couldn’t stand the sight of each other. It was a war and we were the casualties. To us ‘marriage’ was a dirty word. There’s a reason Donovan and Judy split.”
“Annette said he was quite the tomcat.”
“She should know.”
“I suspected them. For a long time?”
“Who keeps records? And he didn’t tell me everything. Donovan was very private, as you know. Did he put the move on you?”
“No.”
“And if he had?”
“It would have been difficult to say no, I’ll admit.”
“Very few women said no to Donovan, including Annette.”
“Does Mattie know?”
He took a sip of port and glanced around the dining room. “I doubt it. She doesn’t miss much in Brady, but I’m guessing Donovan and Annette were very discreet. If Mattie found out, there would have been complications. She adores Judy and considers Haley a grandchild.”
The waiter stopped by and she asked for the check. Jeff offered to pay for dinner, but she insisted on treating. “You can buy dinner in Brady,” she said. “I’ll pay in New York.”
“Not a bad deal.”
The cheese was gone and the port was disappearing. For a long time they sat and listened to the conversations around them, some in different languages. Jeff smiled and said, “Brady is far away, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is. Another world, and it’s not mine. I gave you ten reasons, Jeff, and I’m sure I can think of ten more. I won’t be there long, so please try and understand.”
“I understand, Samantha, and I don’t blame you.”
31
Jeff began the New Year with a bang by getting himself arrested at the airport in Charleston, West Virginia. Around 10:00 p.m. on the first Sunday of the year, a guard strolling through the general aviation area noticed a man attempting to hide in the shadows of a Beech Bonanza, near several other small aircraft. The guard pulled a gun and ordered the man, Jeff, to step away from the airplane. The police were called. They put handcuffs on him and took him to jail. He called Samantha at six the following morning, but just for an update. He was not expecting her to come to the rescue because he had lawyer friends in Charleston. She asked the obvious: “What were you doing snooping around the airport on a Sunday night?”
“Investigating,” he said. Someone was yelling in the background.
She shook her head in frustration at his recklessness. “Okay, what can I do?”
“Nothing. It’s just trespassing. I’ll be out in a few hours. I’ll call.”
Samantha hurried to the office and made the coffee before 7:00 a.m. She had little time to worry about Jeff and his latest adventure. She reviewed her notes, organized a file, poured a cup of coffee for the road, and at 7:30 took off for Colton, a one-hour drive in which she rehearsed her arguments with the judge and the lawyer for Top Market Solutions.
She walked into the Hopper County courthouse, alone. Gone were the days when either Mattie or Annette led interference. She was on her own now, at least for the Booker case. Pamela met her in the hallway and thanked her again. They entered the courtroom and sat at the same table where Donovan Gray had sat with Lisa Tate less than three months earlier, the same spot where they had held hands as the jury returned a just verdict. It was not lost on Samantha that in all likelihood she would be involved in the appeal of that verdict. But not today. Today they were not fighting over anything close to $3 million. Five thousand was more like it, but, judging from Samantha’s nerves, it could have been millions.
The judge called them to order and asked Samantha to proceed. She breathed deeply, looked around, saw that there were no spectators, reminded herself that it was a simple case over a paltry sum, and plowed ahead. She made some brief opening remarks, and called Pamela to the witness stand. Pamela described the old credit card judgment, identified the divorce decree, described what it was like to have her paycheck garnished and her job terminated, and did a beautiful job of talking about living with her two children in her car. Samantha produced certified copies of the credit card judgment, the divorce decree, the garnishment order, and payroll records from the lamp factory. After an hour on the stand, Pamela returned to counsel table.
Top Market Solutions had a weak defense and an even weaker lawyer. His name was Kipling, a low-end litigator from a two-man firm in Abingdon, and it was obvious Kipling had little enthusiasm for the facts or for his client. He rambled on about how Top Market had been deceived by the credit card company and had acted in good faith. His client had no idea the judgment it was trying to enforce had expired.
The judge had no patience with Kipling and his ramblings. He said, “Your motion to dismiss is overruled, Mr. Kipling. Now, let’s go off the record.” The court reporter relaxed and reached for a coffee cup. The judge said, “I want this matter settled, and now. Mr. Kipling, it’s obvious your client has made a mistake and caused a lot of discomfort to Ms. Booker. We can have a full-blown trial in a month or so, right here, in front of me, no jury, but that would be a waste of time because I’ve already decided the case. I assure you it will cost your client less now if it agrees to settle.”
“Well, uh, sure, Your Honor,” Kipling stutte
red, on his heels. It was highly unusual for a trial judge to be so blunt about a future ruling.
“Here’s what I think is fair,” the judge said. In other words, here’s what my ruling will be. “Your client unlawfully garnished Ms. Booker’s paychecks, eleven of them, for a total of $1,300. She was kicked out of her trailer because of this. Your client was directly responsible for her getting fired, though I understand she was able to regain her job. Nevertheless, she went through desperate times and ended up homeless and living in her car with her two children. All because of your client. Ms. Booker is entitled to damages for this. She has demanded $5,000 in her lawsuit, but that seems a bit low. If I decided the case today, I would award the $1,300 in lost wages, plus another $10,000 for damages. If I decide the case next month, I assure you this will seem like a bargain. What do you say, Mr. Kipling?”
Kipling was huddled up with his client, a representative to Top Market, a red-faced little stump of a man in a cheap, tight suit. He was furious and sweating, but he could also grasp what was happening. It was obvious the lawyer and the client did not trust one another. Finally, Kipling said, “Could we have five minutes, Your Honor?”
“Sure, but only five.”
They stomped out of the courtroom.
Pamela leaned over and nervously whispered, “I can’t believe this.”
Samantha nodded smugly as if it were just another day in court. She pretended to be captivated by a document, frowning and underlining some terribly important words, while wanting to yell, “I can’t believe it either. This is my first trial!”
Of course, it really wasn’t a trial, but more of a hearing. But it was her first lawsuit, and to win in such a slam-dunk fashion was thrilling.
The main door opened and they stomped back to their table. Kipling looked at the judge and said, “Your Honor, well, uh, well it looks like my client made some mistakes and is truly sorry for all the trouble it caused. What you suggested is a fair settlement. We’ll take it.”
Samantha floated back to Brady. She thought of Donovan and Jeff after the Tate verdict, floating back to town with a $3 million verdict in their pocket. They could not have been more excited and overwhelmed than Samantha at that moment. She and her colleagues had rescued the Bookers from homelessness, even starvation, and returned them to a normal life. They had pursued justice with determination, and found it. The bad guys had been thoroughly routed.
As a lawyer, she had never felt so worthy. As a person, she had never felt so needed.
Monday’s brown-bag lunch was spent celebrating Samantha’s crushing victory in her first lawsuit. Annette advised her to savor the moment because victories were rare in their business. Mattie cautioned her about celebrating too soon; the check had not yet been received. Once they rehashed the Booker case, the conversation drifted to other matters. Mattie reported that Jeff was out of jail in Charleston. Did he post a bond or did he escape? Samantha asked. A prominent lawyer there, one of Donovan’s pals, secured his release. No, he did not elaborate on his alleged crime.
Annette received an off-the-record call that morning from a clerk in the courthouse, alerting her to the possibility that an unnamed lawyer for the Crump family planned to file a petition to probate the prior will of Francine Crump, one she had signed five years earlier, and presumably the one she had shown Samantha. The family was claiming the prior will was valid because Francine had destroyed the later will, the free one prepared by the clinic. It was a looming mess that no one around the table wanted to jump into. Let the Crumps have their land and sell it to a coal company; they didn’t care. However, as Mattie explained, as lawyers they were officers of the court, and thereby duty-bound to prevent, if possible, a fraud. They had the original free will, mailed to them by some mysterious person after Francine was felled by a stroke. She had not destroyed it; indeed, she was hiding it from her children and wanted the clinic to protect it, and to probate it. Should they produce the will now, and start a war that would rage for several years? Or should they wait and see what the Crumps alleged? There was a good chance the family would continue with its lying about Francine’s destruction of the will. If these lies were told under oath, and then exposed, there could be serious implications for the family. In all likelihood, they were walking into a trap, one that the clinic could avoid by producing the will now.
It was a legal quagmire, a classic law school exam question, designed to drive students insane. They decided to wait another week, though all three lawyers, along with Claudelle and Barb, knew the will should be produced and the family alerted.
A heavy snowfall was expected to begin late in the afternoon, and they discussed the office contingencies. Mattie, Annette, and Samantha usually walked to work anyway, so the clinic would be open. Claudelle was eight months pregnant and would not be expected to show up. Barb lived deep in the countryside on a road that was seldom plowed.
By 3:00 p.m. the snow was already falling. Samantha was watching it from her desk, daydreaming and avoiding her files, when the prepaid phone buzzed in her purse. Jeff said he was still in the Charleston area. “How was jail?” she asked.
“Be careful what you say,” he said.
“Oh right, I forgot.” She stood and walked to the front porch.
He said he entered the ramp at the general aviation section of the airport by an unlocked gate in a chain-link fence. The small terminal was open but only a clerk was there, a young girl sitting at a desk flipping through tabloid magazines. From the shadows he watched the area for half an hour and saw no movements. In the distance, at the main terminal, there were a few flights, but nothing involving small aircraft. There were thirteen airplanes tied down on the ramp, including four Skyhawks. Two were unlocked, and he crawled inside one and sat in the darkness for ten minutes.
In other words, there was virtually no security. He could have tampered with any of the airplanes on the ramp. Then he saw a guard and decided to get arrested. It was only trespassing, a misdemeanor. He’d had more serious charges, he reminded her. The guard was nice and Jeff turned on the charm. He said he was a pilot and had always dreamed of owning a Beech Bonanza; he just wanted to see one up close. No harm intended. The guard believed him and was sympathetic, but he had a job to do.
Jail was no big deal. The lawyer would take care of things.
But while he was chatting up the guard, he asked about other guards who had worked there, other guys on the ramp who may not be around now. He got one name, a man who quit before Christmas, and he was tracking him down now.
She closed her eyes and told him to be careful. She also knew he would spend the rest of his life trying to find the men who killed his brother.
The thrill of litigation was tempered somewhat two days later when Samantha accompanied Mattie to a black lung hearing before an administrative law judge (ALJ) in the federal courthouse in Charleston. The miner, Wally Landry, was fifty-eight years old and had not worked in seven years. He was hooked to oxygen and confined to a wheelchair. Fourteen years earlier, he had filed a claim for black lung benefits based on a doctor’s report that he was suffering from complicated black lung disease. The district director of the Department of Labor awarded him benefits. His employer, Braley Resources, appealed to the ALJ, who suggested to Mr. Landry that he find an attorney. Mattie eventually agreed to represent him. They prevailed before the ALJ, and Braley appealed to the Benefits Review Board (BRB) in Washington. The case bounced back and forth between the ALJ and the BRB for five years before the BRB issued a final ruling in Landry’s favor.
The company appealed the ruling to the federal Court of Appeals where it sat for two years before being remanded back to the ALJ. The ALJ requested additional medical evidence and the experts went to war, again. Landry had started smoking at the age of fifteen, quit twenty years later, and as a smoker got hammered with the usual barrage of medical opinions stating that his lung problems were caused by tar and nicotine and not coal dust.
“Anything but coal dust,” Mattie said over and
over. “That’s always their strategy.”
Mattie had worked on the case for thirteen years, had 550 hours invested, and if she ultimately prevailed would have to fight to get approved at $200 an hour. The fee would be paid by Braley Resources and its insurance company, whose lawyers charged far more than $200 an hour. On those rare occasions when the clinic collected a fee in a black lung case, the money went into a special account that helped cover the expenses of future black lung cases. As of now, that fund had about $20,000 in it.
The hearing took place in a small courtroom. Mattie said it was at least the third time they had all gathered there to rehash the contrasting medical opinions. She and Samantha sat at one table. Not far away, a fashionable gang of sharply dressed lawyers from Casper Slate busily unpacked their thick briefcases and went about their work. Behind Samantha was Wally Landry, shriveled and breathing through a tube in his nose, his wife at his side. When Wally first filed his claim fourteen years earlier, he’d been entitled to $641 a month. The legal fees paid by Braley at that time amounted to at least $600 an hour, according to Mattie’s off-the-cuff calculations, but don’t try and make sense of it, she said. The legal fees paid by coal companies and their insurers far exceed the benefits they’re fighting to avoid, but that’s beside the point. The hurdles and delays discourage other miners from filing claims, and they certainly scare off the lawyers. In the long run, the companies win, as always.
A slick-rick in a black suit sauntered over to their table and said, “Well, hello, Mattie. Nice to see you again.” Mattie reluctantly got to her feet, offered a limp hand, and said, “Good morning, Trent. Always a pleasure.”
Trent was about fifty with graying hair and confident looks. His smile was drippy and fake, and when he said, “So sorry about your nephew. Donovan was a fine lawyer,” Mattie quickly withdrew her hand and snapped, “Let’s not talk about him.”
“Sorry, of course not. And who is this?” he asked, looking at Samantha. She was on her feet and said, “Samantha Kofer, an intern with the clinic.”
“Ah, yes, the brilliant investigator who dug through the Ryzer records. I’m Trent Fuller.” He extended a hand but Samantha ignored it.
“I’m a lawyer, not an investigator,” she said. “And I represent
