John Grisham - The Litigators

The teenager’s mother had been in the rear seat, and Wally helped her too. He walked her to the bus bench and into the waiting arms of Rochelle. Vince Gholston, their rival from across the street, appeared, and Wally saw him. “Stay away, Gholston,” he barked. “These are our clients now.”

“No way, Figg. They’re not signed up.”

“Stay away, asshole.”

A crowd grew quickly as onlookers rushed to the scene. Traffic was not moving, and many drivers got out of their cars to take a look. Someone yelled, “I smell gas!” which immediately increased the panic. A Toyota was upside down, and its occupants were trying desperately to get out. A large man with boots kicked at a window but could not break it. People were yelling, screaming. The sirens were getting closer. Wally was circling a Buick whose driver appeared to be unconscious. Oscar was handing out business cards to everyone.

In the midst of this mayhem, a young man’s voice boomed through the air. “Stay away from our clients!” he yelled, and everyone followed the voice. It was an amazing sight. David Zinc was near the bus bench, holding a large, jagged piece of metal from the wreckage, waving it near the face of a frightened Vince Gholston, who was backing away.

“These are our clients!” David said angrily. He looked crazed, and there was no doubt he would use the weapon if necessary.

Oscar moved next to Wally and said, “That kid may have some potential after all.”

Wally was watching with great admiration. “Let’s sign him up.”

When Helen Zinc pulled in to the driveway at 418 Preston, the first thing she noticed was not the well-worn exterior of Finley & Figg, Attorneys-at-Law; rather, it was the flashing neon sign next door advertising massages. She turned off the lights and the engine and sat for a moment to gather her thoughts. Her husband was alive and safe; he’d just had “a few drinks,” according to one Wally Figg, a somewhat pleasant man who’d phoned an hour earlier. Mr. Figg was “sitting with her husband,” whatever that meant. The digital clock on the dash gave the time as 8:20, so for almost twelve hours now she had been worrying frantically over his whereabouts and safety. Now that she knew he was alive, she was thinking of ways to kill him.

She glanced around, taking in the neighborhood, disapproving of everything about it, then got out of her BMW and slowly headed for the door. She had asked Mr. Figg how, exactly, her husband made his way from the tall buildings of downtown Chicago to the blue-collar neighborhood around Preston Avenue. Mr. Figg had said he didn’t have all the details, and it would be best if they talked about it later.

She opened the front door. A cheap bell rattled. A dog growled at her but made no effort to attack.

Rochelle Gibson and Oscar Finley were gone. Wally was sitting at the table, clipping obituaries from old newspapers, and dining on a bag of chips and a diet soda. He stood quickly, swiped his hands on his pants, and offered a big smile. “You must be Helen,” he said.

“I am,” she said, almost flinching as he thrust out a hand to shake.

“I’m Wally Figg,” he said, already sizing her up. A very nice package. Short auburn hair, hazel eyes behind chic designer frames, five feet eight, slender, well dressed. Wally approved. He then turned and waved an arm in the direction of the cluttered table. Beyond it, against the wall, was an old leather sofa, and on the sofa was David Zinc, dead to the world, comatose again. His right pants leg was torn — a small wound from the car smashup and its aftermath — but other than that he looked quite undisturbed.

Helen took a few steps over and gave him a look. “Are you sure he’s alive?” she asked.

“Oh yes, very much so. He got into a scuffle at the car wreck and tore his pants.”

“A scuffle?”

“Yep, guy named Gholston, a slimeball across the street, was trying to steal one of our clients after the big wreck, and David here chased him off with a piece of metal. Somehow he tore his pants.”

Helen, who had endured enough for one day, shook her head.

“Would you like something to drink? Coffee, water, Scotch?”

“I don’t drink alcohol,” she said.

Wally looked at her, looked at David, looked back at her. Must be a strange marriage, he thought.

“Neither do I,” he said proudly. “There’s fresh coffee. I made a pot for David, and he drank two cups before taking his little nap.”

“Yes, thank you,” she said.

They sipped coffee at the table and spoke softly. “The best I can tell,” Wally said, “is that he snapped on the elevator this morning as he was going to work. Cracked up, left the building, and wound up in a bar where he pretty much spent the whole day drinking.”

“That’s what I gather,” she said. “But how did he get here?”

“Haven’t got that far yet, but I gotta tell you, Helen, he says he’s not going back, says he wants to stay here and work.”

She couldn’t help herself as she glanced around the large, open, cluttered room. It would be difficult to imagine a place that appeared to be less prosperous. “Your dog?” she asked.

“That’s AC, the firm dog. He lives here.”

“How many lawyers are in your firm?”

“Just two. It’s a boutique firm. I’m the junior partner. Oscar Finley’s the senior partner.”

“And what kind of work would David do here?”

“We specialize in injury and death cases.”

“Like all those guys who advertise on television?”

“We don’t do TV,” Wally said smugly. If she only knew. He worked on his scripts all the time. He fought with Oscar about spending the money. He watched with envy as other injury lawyers flooded the airwaves with ads that, in his opinion, were almost always poorly done. And, most painfully, he imagined all the lost fees from all the lost cases scooped up by less talented lawyers willing to roll the dice on a TV budget.

David made a gurgling sound and followed it up with a quick nasal snort, and though he was at least making noises, there was no indication he was anywhere near consciousness.

“Do you think he’ll remember any of this in the morning?” she asked as she frowned at her husband.

“Hard to say,” Wally observed. His romance with alcohol was long and ugly, and he had spent many fogged-in mornings struggling to remember what had happened. Wally took a sip and said, “Look, really none of my business and all, but does he do this often? He says he wants to work here, and, well, we need to know if he might have a problem with the bottle.”

“He doesn’t drink much at all. Never has. He might occasionally at a party, but he works too hard to drink much. And since I rarely touch the stuff, we don’t keep it around the house.”

“Just curious. I’ve had my problems.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I’ve been sober for sixty days now.”

That didn’t impress Helen as much as it worried her. Wally was still fighting the bottle, with victory far away. She was suddenly tired of the conversation and tired of the place. “I suppose I should take him home.”

“Yes, I suppose. Or he could stay here with the dog.”

“That’s what he deserves, you know? He should wake up in the morning here on the sofa, still dressed, a splitting headache, upset stomach, parched tongue, and have no idea where he is. That would serve him right, don’t you think?”

“It would, but I’d rather not clean up after him again.”

“He’s already—”

“Twice. Once on the porch, once in the restroom.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. But he needs to go home.”

“I know. Let’s get him up.”

Once awake, David chatted pleasantly with his wife as if nothing had happened. He walked unaided from the office, down the front steps, and to the car. He yelled a long good-bye and a hearty thanks to Wally and even offered to drive. Helen declined. They left Preston and headed north.