John Grisham - The Litigators

For five minutes nothing was said. Then Helen casually began, “Look, I think I have most of the major plot points, but just a few details might help. Where was the bar?”

“Abner’s. A few blocks from the office.” He was sitting low, with the collar of his overcoat turned up over his ears.

“Been there before?”

“No, great place, though. I’ll take you there sometime.”

“Sure. Why not tomorrow? And you walked into Abner’s at what time this morning?”

“Between 7:30 and 8:00. I fled the office, ran a few blocks, found Abner’s.”

“And started drinking?”

“Oh yes.”

“Recall what you consumed?”

“Well, let’s see.” He paused as he tried to remember. “For breakfast, I had four of Abner’s special Bloody Marys. They’re really good. Then I had a plate of onion rings and several pints of beer. Miss Spence showed up, and I had two of her Pearl Harbors, wouldn’t want to do that again.”

“Miss Spence?”

“Yep. She shows up every day, same stool, same drink, same everything.”

“And you liked her?”

“I adored her. Very cute, hot.”

“I see. She married?”

“No, a widow. She’s ninety-four and worth a few billion.”

“Any other women?”

“Oh no, just Miss Spence. She left sometime around noon, and, uh, let’s see. I had a burger and fries for lunch, then back to the beer, and then at some point I took a nap.”

“You blacked out?”

“Whatever.”

A pause as she drove and he stared out the windshield.

“So how did you get from the bar to that law office back there?”

“A cab. Paid the guy forty bucks.”

“Where did you get into the cab?”

A pause. “Don’t remember that.”

“Now we’re making progress. And the big question: How did you find Finley & Figg?”

David began shaking his head as he pondered this. Finally, he said, “I have no idea.”

There was so much to talk about. The drinking — could there be a problem, in spite of what she’d told Wally? Rogan Rothberg — was he going back? Should she bring up Roy Barton’s ultimatum? Finley & Figg — was he serious? Helen had a lot on her mind, plenty to say, a long list of complaints, but at the same time she couldn’t help but be slightly amused. She had never seen her husband so plastered, and the fact that he’d jumped from a tall building downtown and landed in the outback would soon become a family tale of legendary proportions. He was safe, and that was really all that mattered. And he probably wasn’t crazy. The crack-up could be dealt with.

“I have a question,” he said, his eyelids getting heavier.

“I have lots of questions,” she replied.

“I’m sure you do, but I don’t want to talk now. Save it for tomorrow when I’m sober, okay? It’s not fair to hammer me now when I’m drunk.”

“Fair enough. What’s your question?”

“Are your parents, by chance, in our home at this moment?”

“Yes. They’ve been there for some time. They’re very concerned.”

“How nice. Look, I’m not walking into our home if your parents are there, got that? I don’t want them to see me like this. Understand?”

“They love you, David. You scared all of us.”

“Why is everyone so scared? I texted you twice and said I was okay. You knew I was alive. What’s all the panic about?”

“Don’t get me started.”

“So I had a bad day, what’s the big deal?”

“A bad day?”

“Actually, it was a pretty good day, come to think of it.”

“Why don’t we argue tomorrow, David? Isn’t that what you asked?”

“Yes, but I’m not getting out of the car until they leave. Please.”

They were on the Stevenson Expressway, and traffic was heavier. Nothing was said as they inched along. David struggled to stay awake. Helen finally picked up the cell phone and called her parents.

About once a month Rochelle Gibson arrived for work expecting her usual quiet time, only to find the office already opened, the coffee brewed, the dog fed, and Mr. Figg bustling around with excitement over a new scheme to stalk injured people. This irritated her immensely. It not only ruined the few tranquil moments in her otherwise noisy day but also meant more work.

She was barely inside the door when Wally nailed her with a hearty “Well, good morning, Ms. Gibson,” as if he were surprised to see her arrive at work at 7:30 on a Thursday.

“Good morning, Mr. Figg,” she replied with far less enthusiasm. She almost added “And what brings you here so early?” but held her tongue. She would hear about his scheme soon enough.

With coffee, yogurt, and the newspaper, she settled at her desk and tried to ignore him.

“I met David’s wife last night,” Wally said from the table across the room. “Very cute and nice. Said he doesn’t drink much, maybe blows it out from time to time. I think the pressure gets to him occasionally. I know that’s my story. Always the pressure.”

When Wally drank, he needed no excuse. He boozed it up after a hard day, and he had wine with lunch on an easy day. He drank when he was stressed, and he drank on the golf course. Rochelle had seen and heard it all before. She also kept up with the score — sixty-one days without a drink. That was the story of Wally’s life — a count of some sort always in progress. Days on the wagon. Days until his driving suspension was over. Days until his current divorce was final. And sadly, days until he was released from rehab.

“What time did she get him?” she asked without looking up from the newspaper.

“After eight. He walked out of here, even asked if he could drive. She said no.”

“Was she upset?”

“She was pretty cool. Relieved more than anything else. The big question is whether he’ll remember anything. And if he does, then the question is whether he’ll find us again. Will he really walk away from the big firm and the big bucks? I got my doubts.”

Rochelle had her doubts too, but she was trying to minimize the conversation. Finley & Figg was not the place for a big-firm type with a Harvard degree, and, frankly, she didn’t want another lawyer complicating her life. She had her hands full with these two.

“I could use him, though,” Wally went on, and Rochelle knew the latest scheme was now on the way. “You ever hear of a cholesterol drug called Krayoxx?”

“You’ve already asked me this.”

“It causes heart attacks and strokes, and the truth is just now coming out. The first wave of litigation is unfolding, could be tens of thousands of cases before it’s over. The mass tort lawyers are all over it. I talked to a big firm in Fort Lauderdale yesterday. They’ve already filed a class action and are looking for more cases.”

Rochelle turned a page as if she were hearing nothing.

“Anyway, I’m spending the next few days looking for Krayoxx cases, and I could sure use some help. Are you listening, Ms. Gibson?”

“Sure.”

“How many names are in our client database, both active and retired?”

She took a bite of yogurt and seemed exasperated. “We have about two hundred active files,” she said.

At Finley & Figg, though, a file deemed active was not necessarily one that received attention. More often than not, it was simply a neglected file that no one had bothered to retire. Wally usually had about thirty files he would touch in a week’s time — divorces, wills, estates, injuries, drunk drivers, small contract disputes — and another fifty or so he diligently avoided. Oscar, who was more willing to take on a new client but was also slightly more organized than his junior partner, had about one hundred open files. Throw in a few that were lost, hidden, or unaccounted for, and the number was always around two hundred.