John Grisham - The Litigators

“I suppose.”

“Thank you so much. Now, I suggest we all hit the streets.”

Their first stop was an all-you-can-eat pizza house not far from the office. The restaurant was owned by a chain, a somewhat infamous company that was suffering through a firestorm of bad press caused entirely by its menu. A leading health magazine had analyzed its food and declared it all hazardous and unfit for human consumption. Everything was drenched with grease, oils, and additives, and no effort was made to cook anything even remotely healthy. Once the food was ready, it was served buffet style and offered at ridiculously low prices. The chain had become synonymous with hordes of morbidly obese people feeding at its buffet troughs. Profits were soaring.

The assistant manager was a plump young man named Adam Grand, and he asked them to wait ten minutes before he could take a break. David and Wally found a booth as far away from the buffet tables as possible, which wasn’t far at all. The booth was roomy and wide, and David realized that everything in the place was oversized — plates, glasses, napkins, tables, chairs, booths. Wally was on his cell phone, eagerly lining up another meeting with a potential client. David could not help but watch the enormous people digging through piles of thick pizza. He almost felt sorry for them.

Adam Grand slid in beside David and said, “You got five minutes. My boss is yelling back there.”

Wally wasted no time. “You told me on the phone that your mother died six months ago, heart attack. She was sixty-six and took Krayoxx for a couple of years. How about your father?”

“Died three years ago.”

“Sorry. Krayoxx, perhaps?”

“No, colon cancer.”

“Brothers, sisters?”

“One brother who lives in Peru. He will not be involved in any of this.”

David and Wally were scribbling away. David felt as though he should say something important, but had nothing on his mind. He was there as the chauffeur. Wally was about to ask another question when Adam threw a curveball. “Say, I just talked to another lawyer.”

Wally’s spine straightened; his eyes widened. “Oh, really. What’s his name?”

“He said he was a Krayoxx expert, and he could get us a million bucks, no sweat. Is that true?”

Wally was ready for combat. “He’s lying. If he promised you a million bucks, then he’s an idiot. We can’t promise anything in the way of money. What we can promise is that we’ll provide the best legal representation you can find.”

“Sure, sure, but I like the idea of a lawyer telling me how much I might get, know what I mean?”

“We can get you a lot more than a million bucks,” Wally promised.

“Now we’re talking. How long will this take?”

“A year, maybe two,” Wally promised again. He was sliding across a contract. “Look this over. It’s a contract between our firm and you as the legal representative of your mother’s estate.” Adam scanned it quickly and said, “Nothing up front, right?”

“Oh no, we front the litigation expenses.”

“Forty percent for you guys is pretty steep.”

Wally was shaking his head. “That’s the industry average. All standard. Any lawyer doing mass torts who’s worth his salt is getting 40 percent. Some want 50, but not us. I think 50’s unethical.” He looked at David for confirmation, and David nodded and frowned at the thought of those shady lawyers out there who possessed questionable ethics.

“I guess so,” Adam said, then signed his name. Wally snatched the contract and said, “Great, Adam, good move and welcome aboard. We’ll add this case to our lawsuit and kick things into high gear. Any questions?”

“Yeah, what should I tell this other lawyer?”

“Tell him you went with the best, Finley & Figg.”

“You’re in good hands, Adam,” David said solemnly, and immediately realized he sounded like a bad commercial. Wally shot him a look that said, “Seriously?”

“I guess that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” Adam said. “We’ll know when the big check gets here. You promised more than a million, Mr. Figg, and I take you at your word.”

“You won’t be sorry.”

“See you,” Adam said and disappeared.

Wally was stuffing his legal pad into his briefcase when he said, “That was easy.”

“You just guaranteed the guy something over a million. Is that wise?”

“No. But if that’s what it takes, then that’s what it takes. Here’s how it works, young David. You sign ’em up, get ’em on board, keep ’em happy, and when there’s money on the table, they’ll forget about what you said up front. Say, for example, a year from now Varrick gets sick of its Krayoxx mess and throws in the towel. Let’s say our new pal Adam here is due less than a million, pick a number—$750,000. Now, do you really believe that loser will walk away from that much money?”

“Probably not.”

“Exactly. He’ll be one happy boy, and he’ll forget about anything we said today. That’s how it works.” Wally took a long, hungry look at the buffet bars. “Say, you got plans for dinner? I’m starving.”

David had no plans, but he would not be eating there. “Yeah, my wife’s waiting for a late snack.”

Wally looked again at the troughs and the hulking masses of people grazing there. He froze for a second, then cracked a smile. “What a great idea,” he said, complimenting himself.

“I’m sorry.”

“Look at those people. What’s the average weight?”

“I have no idea.”

“Neither do I, but if I’m a bit pudgy at 240, those folks are well over 400 pounds.”

“You’re losing me, Wally.”

“Look at the obvious, David. This place is packed with grossly overweight people, half of whom are probably on Krayoxx. I’ll bet if I yelled out right now, ‘Who’s on Krayoxx?’ half of these poor bastards would raise their hands.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I’m not, but don’t you see my point?”

“You want to start handing out cards?”

“No, smart-ass, but there must be a way to screen these people for Krayoxx users.”

“But they’re not dead yet.”

“It won’t be long. Look, we can add them to our second lawsuit of non-death cases.”

“I’m missing something here, Wally. Help me. Aren’t we required to prove, at some point, that the drug actually causes some type of damage?”

“Sure, and we’ll prove it later when we hire our experts. Right now, the important thing is to get everybody signed up. It’s a horse race out here, David. We gotta figure out a way to screen these folks and sign them up.”

Six o’clock was approaching, and the restaurant was packed. David and Wally had the only booth not being used for dinner. A large family of four approached, each holding two platters of pizza. They stopped at the booth and cast menacing looks at the two lawyers. This was serious business.

Their next stop was a duplex in a neighborhood near Midway Airport. David parked at the curb, behind an ancient Volkswagen Beetle on blocks. Wally was saying, “Frank Schmidt, age fifty-two when he succumbed last year to a massive stroke. I spoke with his widow, Agnes.” But David was only half listening. He was trying to convince himself that he was really doing this — scrambling around the rough spots of Chicago’s Southwest Side with his new boss, who couldn’t drive because of problems, after dark, on the lookout for street thugs, knocking on strange doors of untidy homes, not knowing what was inside, all in an effort to hustle clients before the next lawyer came along. What would his friends from Harvard Law think about it? How hard would they laugh? But David decided he really didn’t care. Any law job was better than his old one, and most of his friends from law school were miserable. He, on the other hand, had been liberated.