John Grisham - The Litigators

David opened his left eye and looked out the window. Next to the cab was a city transit bus waiting in traffic, packed with weary workers, its exhaust spewing fumes. Along its side was an ad, three feet by one, proclaiming the services of Finley & Figg, Attorneys. “Drunk Driving? Call the Experts. 773-718-JUSTICE.” Address in smaller print. David opened his right eye and for an instant saw the smiling face of Wally Figg. He focused on the word “drunk” and wondered if they could help in some way. Had he seen such ads before? Had he heard of these guys? He wasn’t sure. Nothing was clear; nothing made sense. The cab was suddenly spinning again, and faster now.

“Four eighteen Preston Avenue,” he said to the driver, then passed out.

——

Rochelle was never in a hurry to leave, because she never wanted to go home. As tense as things could get around the office, they were far tamer than her cramped and chaotic apartment.

The Flanders’ divorce got off to a rocky start, but with Oscar’s skillful manipulation it was now on track. Mrs. Flander had hired the firm and paid a retainer of $750. It would eventually be worked out and settled on no-fault grounds, but not before Oscar clipped her for a couple of grand. Still, Oscar was fuming over the bingo card and lying in wait for his junior partner.

Wally rolled in at 5:30, after an exhausting day looking for Krayoxx victims. The search had turned up no one but Chester Marino, but Wally was undaunted. He was onto something big. The clients were out there, and he would find them.

“Oscar’s on the phone,” Rochelle said. “And he’s upset.”

“What’s up?” Wally asked.

“A bingo card showed up: $399.”

“Pretty clever, huh? My uncle plays bingo at the VFW.”

“Brilliant.” She gave him the quick version of the Flander situation.

“See! It worked,” Wally said proudly. “You gotta get ’em in here, Ms. Gibson, that’s what I always say. The $399 is the bait, then you pull the switch. Oscar did it perfectly.”

“What about false advertising?”

“Most of what we do is false advertising. Ever hear of Krayoxx? Cholesterol drug?”

“Maybe. Why?”

“It’s killing people, okay, and it’s gonna make us rich.”

“I think I’ve heard this before. He’s off the phone.”

Wally went straight to Oscar’s door, rapped it as he pushed it open, and said, “So you like my bingo card ads, I hear.”

Oscar was standing at his desk, tie undone, tired, and in need of a drink. Two hours earlier he’d been ready for a fight. Now he just wanted to leave. “Come on, Wally, bingo cards?”

“Yep, we’re the first law firm in Chicago to use bingo cards.”

“We’ve been the first several times, and we’re still broke.”

“Those days are over, my friend,” Wally said as he reached into his briefcase. “Ever hear of a cholesterol drug called Krayoxx?”

“Yeah, yeah, my wife’s taking it.”

“Well, Oscar, it’s killing people.”

Oscar actually smiled, then caught himself. “How do you know this?”

Wally dropped a stack of research onto Oscar’s desk. “Here’s your homework, all about Krayoxx. A big mass tort firm in Fort Lauderdale sued Varrick Labs last week over Krayoxx, a class action. They claim the drug vastly increases the risk of heart attack and stroke, and they have experts to prove it. Varrick has put more crap on the market than any of the Big Pharmas, and it’s also paid more in damages. Billions. Looks like Krayoxx is its latest boondoggle. The mass tort boys are just now waking up. This is happening now, Oscar, and if we can pick up a dozen or so Krayoxx cases, then we’re rich.”

“I’ve heard this all before, Wally.”

When the cab stopped, David was awake again, though semiconscious. With some effort, he managed to toss two $20 bills over the front seat and with even more effort managed to extricate himself from the cab. He watched it drive away, then vomited in the gutter.

Afterward, he felt much better.

Rochelle was tidying up her desk and listening to the partners bicker when she heard heavy footsteps on the porch. Something hit the door, then it swung open. The young man was wild-eyed, red-faced, unsteady on his feet, but well dressed.

“Can I help you?” she said with great suspicion.

David looked at her but didn’t see her. He looked around the room, wobbled, squinted as he tried to focus.

“Sir?” she said.

“I love this place,” he said to her. “I really, really love this place.”

“How nice. Could I—”

“I’m looking for a job, and this is where I want to work.”

AC smelled trouble and walked around the corner of Rochelle’s desk. “How cute!” David said loudly, giggling. “A dog. What’s his name?”

“AC.”

“AC. All right. Help me out here. What does AC stand for?”

“Ambulance Chaser.”

“I like it. I really, really like it. Does he bite?”

“Don’t touch him.”

The two partners had moved quietly into view. They were standing in the door of Oscar’s office. Rochelle gave them a nervous look.

“This is where I want to work,” David repeated. “I need a job.”

“Are you a lawyer?” Wally asked.

“Are you Figg or Finley?”

“I’m Figg. He’s Finley. Are you a lawyer?”

“I think so. As of eight o’clock this morning I was employed by Rogan Rothberg, one of six hundred. But I quit, snapped, cracked up, went to a bar. It’s been a long day.” David leaned against the wall to steady himself.

“What makes you think we’re looking for an associate?” Oscar asked.

“Associate? I was thinking more in terms of coming straight in as a partner,” David said, then doubled over in laughter. No one else cracked a smile. They were not sure what to do, but Wally would later confess he thought about calling the police.

When the laughing stopped, David steadied himself again and repeated, “I love this place.”

“Why are you leaving the big firm?” Wally asked.

“Oh, lots of reasons. Let’s just say I hate the work, hate the people I work with, and hate the clients.”

“You’ll fit in here,” Rochelle said.

“We’re not hiring,” Oscar said.

“Oh, come on. I went to Harvard Law School. I’ll work part-time — fifty hours a week, half of what I’ve been working. Get it? Part-time?” He laughed again, alone.

“Sorry, pal,” Wally said dismissively.

Not too far away, a driver hit the horn, a long frantic sound that could only end badly. Another driver slammed his brakes violently. Another horn, more brakes, and for a long second the firm of Finley & Figg held its collective breath. The crash that followed was thunderous, more impressive than most, and it was obvious that several cars had just mangled themselves at the intersection of Preston, Beech, and Thirty-eighth. Oscar grabbed his overcoat. Rochelle grabbed her sweater. They followed Wally out the front door, leaving the drunk behind to take care of himself.

Along Preston, other offices emptied as lawyers and their clerks and paralegals raced to inspect the mayhem and offer solace to the injured.

The pileup involved at least four cars, all damaged and scattered. One was lying on its roof, tires still spinning. There were screams amid the panic and sirens in the distance. Wally ran to a badly crumpled Ford. The front passenger door had been torn off, and a teenage girl was trying to get out. She was dazed and covered in blood. He took her arm and led her away from the wreckage. Rochelle helped as they sat the girl on a nearby bus bench. Wally returned to the carnage in search of other clients. Oscar had already found an eyewitness, someone who could help place blame and thus attract clients. Finley & Figg knew how to work a wreck.