John Grisham - The Litigators

He couldn’t rent a car because of his DUI conviction and lack of a valid license. He asked around and learned that another shuttle ran from the Spirit of Rio to the Strip every thirty minutes. He played dollar slots in the lobby and won $100. Maybe this was his lucky weekend.

The shuttle was packed with overweight retirees. Wally couldn’t find a seat, so he stood, clutched the handrails, rocked along in bodily contact with sweaty people, and, as he glanced around, he wondered how many might be Krayoxx victims. High cholesterol was definitely on display. He had business cards in his pockets, as always, but he let it pass.

He roamed the casino for a while, watching closely as an astonishing variety of people played blackjack, roulette, and craps, games he’d never played and had no desire to try now. He killed some time at a slot machine and twice said no thanks to a comely cocktail waitress. Wally was beginning to realize that a casino was a lousy place for a recovering drunk. At 7:00 p.m., he found his way to a banquet room on the mezzanine. Two security guards blocked the door, and Wally was relieved when they found his name on the list. Inside, there were two dozen or so well-dressed men, and three women, engaged in light chatter over drinks. A buffet dinner was being arranged along a far wall. Some of the lawyers knew each other, but Wally was not the only rookie in the crowd. They all seemed to recognize his name, and they all knew about his lawsuit. Before long, he was beginning to fit in. Jerry Alisandros sought him out, and they shook hands like old friends. Others crowded around, then little pockets of conversation peeled off here and there. They talked about lawsuits, politics, the latest in private jets, homes in the Caribbean, and who was getting divorced and remarried. Wally had little to add, but he gamely hung on and proved to be a good listener. Trial lawyers prefer to do all the talking, and at times they all talked at once. Wally was happy to just grin, listen, and sip his club soda.

After a quick dinner, Alisandros stood and began the conversation. The plan was to meet at nine the following morning, in the same room, and get down to business. They should be finished by noon. He had spoken several times with Nicholas Walker at Varrick, and obviously the company was shell-shocked. In its long and colorful history of litigation, it had never been hit so fast and so hard with so many lawsuits. It was scrambling to get some sense of the damage. According to experts hired by Alisandros, the potential pool of injured or dead could be as high as half a million.

This news — of so much misery and suffering — was well received around the table.

The potential cost to Varrick, according to yet another expert hired by Alisandros, was at least $5 billion. Wally was fairly certain he was not the only one at the table who did a quick multiplication: 40 percent of $5 billion. The others, though, seemed to take it all in stride. Another drug, another war with Big Pharma, another massive settlement that would make them even richer. They could buy more jets, more homes, more trophy wives, assets Wally cared nothing for. All he wanted was a chunk in the bank, enough cash to make life enjoyable and free from the daily grind.

In a roomful of considerable egos, it was only a matter of time before someone else wanted the floor. Dudley Brill, from Lubbock, boots and all, plunged into the retelling of a recent conversation with a high-ranking Varrick defense lawyer in Houston, who strongly implied that the company had no plans to settle until after the drug’s liability was tested before a few juries. Therefore, based on Brill’s analysis of a conversation no one else in the room knew about, he was of the firm opinion that he, Dudley Brill of Lubbock, Texas, should lead the first trial, and do so in his hometown, where the jurors had proven they loved him and would fork over huge sums if he asked for them. Brill had obviously been drinking, as had everybody else but Wally, and his self-serving analysis touched off a furious debate around the dinner table. Before long, several skirmishes were under way, with tempers flaring and insults being traded.

Jerry Alisandros managed to bring order. “I was hoping we could save all of this for tomorrow,” he said diplomatically. “Let’s retire now, go to our separate corners, and come back tomorrow all sobered up and rested.”

From the looks of things the following morning, not all of the trial lawyers went to their rooms and to bed. Puffy eyes, red eyes, hands grabbing cold water and coffee — the signs were there. There was no shortage of hangovers. There were not as many lawyers either, and as the morning dragged on, Wally began to realize a lot of business had been conducted over drinks late the night before. Deals had been cut, alliances forged, backs stabbed. Wally wondered where he stood.

Two experts talked about Krayoxx and the most recent studies. Each lawyer spent a few minutes talking about his or her lawsuit — number of clients, number of potential client deaths versus injuries, judges, opposing counsel, and verdict trends in the jurisdiction. Wally winged it nicely and said as little as possible.

An incredibly boring expert dissected the financial health of Varrick Labs and deemed the company fit enough to sustain huge losses from a Krayoxx settlement. The word “settlement” was used frequently and was always ringing in Wally’s ears. The same expert became even more tedious when analyzing the various insurance coverages Varrick had in force.

After two hours, Wally needed a break. He eased out and went to find a restroom. When he returned, Jerry Alisandros was waiting outside the door. “When are you headed back to Chicago?” he asked.

“In the morning,” Wally replied.

“Flying commercial?”

Of course, Wally thought. I do not have my own jet, so like most poor Americans I’m forced to pay for a ticket on a jet owned by someone else. “Sure,” he said with a smile.

“Look, Wally, I’m headed to New York this afternoon. Why don’t you hitch a ride? My firm just bought a brand-new Gulfstream G650. We’ll have lunch on the plane and drop you off in Chicago.”

There would be a price to pay, a deal to be cut, but Wally was looking for one anyway. He had read about rich trial lawyers and their private jets, but it had never crossed his mind that he would see the inside of one. “That’s very generous,” he said. “Sure.”

“Meet me in the lobby at 1:00 p.m., okay?”

“You got it.”

There were a dozen or so private jets lined up on the deck at McCarran Field’s general aviation center. As Wally followed his new pal Jerry past them, he wondered how many were owned by the other mass tort boys. When they got to Jerry’s, he climbed the steps, took a breath, then stepped inside the gleaming G650. A striking Asian girl took his coat and asked what he wanted to drink. Just club soda.

Jerry Alisandros had a small entourage with him — an associate, two paralegals, and an assistant of some kind. They huddled briefly in the rear of the cabin as Wally settled into the rich leather seat and thought about Iris Klopeck and Millie Marino, and those wonderful widows whose dead husbands had led Wally into the world of mass torts, and now to this. The flight attendant handed Wally a menu. Down the aisle, far away, he could see a kitchen with a chef, just waiting. As they taxied, Jerry made his way to the front and sat down opposite Wally. “What do you think?” he asked, raising his hands to take in his latest toy.

“Sure beats commercial,” Wally said. Jerry howled with laughter — no doubt the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

A voice announced takeoff, and they all buckled their seat belts. As the jet left the runway and shot upward, Wally closed his eyes and tried to savor the moment. It might never happen again.