Джон Гришэм - The Judge’s List

A slick ambulance chaser named Mal Schnetzer roped in three of the families and filed the first lawsuit, practically before the funerals were over. Without the slightest reserve or concern about ethical niceties, he paid a visit to the home of Bannick’s client and tried to steal the case. Bannick threatened him; they cursed each other and feelings were raw until Bannick agreed to join the lawsuit. He had no experience with death cases and Schnetzer talked a good game about going to trial.

The pot of gold soon turned out to be much smaller than the plaintiffs’ lawyers were dreaming of. The company that owned the party barge had no other assets and filed for bankruptcy. Its insurance carrier at first denied any liability, but Schnetzer effectively threatened it and got some money on the table. He then went behind Bannick’s back again and told his client that he could deliver a check for $400,000 immediately if the client agreed to ditch his lawyer and claim he never wanted him in the first place. Before Bannick could figure out his next move, Schnetzer had settled the cases and disbursed the money to the clients, to himself, and to the other lawyers, except, of course, the rookie who had just been thoroughly outmaneuvered. Bannick had neglected to negotiate a joint agreement with the tort team, and his deal with his ex-client had been verbal. They had agreed that he would receive one-third of any settlement.

One-third of $400,000 was a gigantic fee for a hungry young lawyer, but the money had vanished. Bannick complained to the judge, who was not sympathetic. He thought about suing Schnetzer but decided against it for three reasons. The first was that he was afraid to tangle with the crook. The second was that he doubted he would ever see a dime. And the third, and most important, was that he didn’t want the embarrassment of a public lawsuit in which he played the role of a green lawyer who got duped by an ambulance chaser. There was enough humiliation already as the story made the rounds in the courthouses.

So he added Mal Schnetzer to his list.

To his delight, Mal eventually fleeced some more clients, got caught, indicted, convicted, disbarred, and sent to prison for two years. When he was released, he drifted to Jacksonville where he hustled cases for a gang of billboard lawyers. He made a few bucks and was brazen enough to set up a small law office at Jacksonville Beach, where he settled car wrecks without the benefit of any bar membership. When he was accused of practicing law without a license, he closed up shop and left the state.

Bannick watched him and tracked his movements.

Years passed and he surfaced in Atlanta where he worked in the back room as a paralegal for some divorce lawyers. In 2009, Bannick found him in Houston working as a “consultant” for a well-known tort firm.

Two months earlier, Bannick had rented a furnished eighty-foot unit in a high-end trailer park just outside Sugar Land, half an hour from downtown Houston. It was a massive place with eight hundred identical white trailers parked in long neat rows with wide streets. The rules were strict and enforced: only two vehicles per trailer, no boats or motorcycles, no laundry hanging from lines, no yard signs, no excessive noise. The small neat lawns were maintained by management. All lawn chairs, bikes, and barbecue grills were stored in identical sheds behind the trailers. He had been there twice and, though he had never dreamed of living in a trailer, found it relaxing. No one within a thousand miles knew who he was or what he was doing.

After a quick nap, he drove down the street to a big-box discount store and paid $58 in cash for a Nokia burner phone with a prepaid SIM card good for seventy-five minutes. Since no contract was involved, the clerk didn’t ask for personal information. If he had, there was an entire collection of fake driver’s licenses ready in the wallet. Sometimes they wanted ID, but usually they didn’t care. He had bought so many burners and tossed them all away.

Back at the trailer, he called the law firm late Friday afternoon and asked for Mal Schnetzer, who was gone for the day and the weekend. He explained to the secretary that it was urgent and he needed to speak with him. The secretary, obviously well trained by her bosses, pried a bit and was told that the case involved a young man who had been badly burned on an offshore oil rig, one owned by ExxonMobil. She offered to find another lawyer in the firm, but Mr. Butler said no, he had been referred by a friend and told that Mr. Schnetzer was the man to talk to.

Ten minutes later, his cheap phone buzzed and there was the voice he recognized. He raised his an octave and tried to sound somewhat squeakier. “My son is in the hospital in Lake Charles with burns over eighty percent of his body. It’s just awful, Mr. Snitcher.”

“It’s Schnetzer, by the way.” Still an ass. “And this happened on a rig, right?” Every injury on an offshore platform was covered by the Jones Act, a lawyer’s bonanza.

“Yes, sir. Three days ago. I’m not sure he’s gonna make it. I’m trying to get over there but I’m disabled and can’t drive right now.”

“And you’re down in Sugar Land, right?”

“Yes, sir. And I got lawyers callin’ right and left, buggin’ the hell out of me.”

“Not surprised to hear that.”

“I just hung up on one.”

“Don’t talk to them. How old is your son?”

“Nineteen. He’s a good boy, works hard, supports me and his mom. Still single. He’s all we got, Mr. Schnetzer.”

“I see. So you can’t drive over here to the office.”

“No, sir. If my wife was here she could drive me, but she’s comin’ in from Kansas. That’s where we’re from. We need to get to the hospital. I don’t know what to do, sir. We need your help.”

“Okay. Look, I can be there in about an hour, if that’ll work.”

“You can come here?”

“Yep, I think I can work in a quick trip over.”

“That’d be great, Mr. Schnetzer. We gotta have someone to help us.”

“Just sit tight, okay?”

“Can you get those other lawyers to leave us alone?”

“Sure, I’ll take care of them, no problem. What’s your address?”

Through the blinds, Bannick watched every car that passed as the minutes ticked by. Finally, a long, shiny Ford pickup with a club cab and oversized wheels slowed, stopped, backed up, and parked behind his rental.

The years had not been kind to Mal Schnetzer. He was much heavier, with an impressive gut hanging over his belt and stretching his shirt, and he had a round face above a double chin. His thick gray hair was pulled back and bunched at the neck. He got out, looked around the neighborhood, sized up the trailer, and touched the automatic pistol in a holster on his hip.

Bannick had never encountered a victim with a weapon and it ramped up the excitement. He moved quickly, grabbed a walking cane off the sofa, opened the door, and stepped onto the small porch, hunched like a man in pain. “Hello there,” he called out as Schnetzer walked past the rental car.

“Howdy,” he said.

“I’m Bob Butler. Thanks for doin’ this. I got a cold beer inside. You want one?”

“Sure.” He seemed to relax as he took Butler in, bent at the waist and nonthreatening.

It had been twenty-one years since the two had been face-to-face, back in their days as lawyers in Pensacola. Bannick doubted he would be recognized, and with the cap pulled low and the cheap eyeglass frames he was confident Schnetzer would have no clue. He stepped inside, held the door open, and they entered the cramped den of the trailer. “Thanks for comin’, Mr. Schnetzer.”

“No problem.”

Mal turned away, as if looking for a place to sit, and in that split second Bannick quickly removed Leddie from his pocket, flicked it so that the telescopic sections doubled and tripled in length, and whipped it at the back of Mal’s head. The lead ball sank hard, splintering his cranium. His hands flew up as he grunted and tried to turn around. Leddie landed against his left temple and he fell across a cheap coffee table. Bannick quickly unsnapped the holster, removed the pistol, and shut the door. Schnetzer kicked as he floundered and looked up with wild eyes and tried to say something. Bannick hit him again and again, shattering his skull into a hundred pieces.