John Grisham - The Litigators

He dreamed of such things behind his locked door. The phone lines were blinking nonstop, but he refused to pick up. Most of the calls were from Wally’s “non-death cases,” folks Wally had tracked down through his various schemes. Let Rochelle, Wally, and young David worry about the calls and the frantic clients. Oscar planned to stay in his office and avoid the frenzy, if possible.

Rochelle was ready to quit, and she demanded another firm meeting. “See what you’ve started,” Oscar sneered at David as all four gathered around the table late one afternoon.

“What’s on the agenda?” Wally asked, though everyone knew.

Rochelle had twisted David’s arm to the point where he was willing to run interference. He cleared his throat and got right to the point. “We have to get these Krayoxx cases organized. Since the drug was pulled, the phones are ringing like crazy with people who either are already signed up or want to jump on board.”

“Ain’t it great?” Wally said with a wide, satisfied grin.

“Maybe, Wally, but this is not a mass tort firm. We’re not equipped to handle four hundred cases at a time. Your big mass tort boys have dozens of associates and even more paralegals, lots of bodies to handle the work.”

“We have four hundred cases?” Oscar asked, and it wasn’t clear if he was pleased or overwhelmed.

Wally slurped down some diet soda and said, proudly, “We have the eight death cases, of course, and 407 non-death cases, and counting. And I’m sorry that these minor cases are causing so much trouble, but when it’s time to settle, and when we get to plug these guys into the compensation grid hammered out by Jerry Alisandros, we’ll probably learn that each non-death is worth a paltry hundred thousand bucks or so. Times 407. Anybody here want to do the math?”

“That’s not the issue, Wally,” David countered. “We get the math. What you’re missing is the fact that these cases may not be cases. Not a single one of these non-death clients has been evaluated by a doctor. We don’t know if they have actually been harmed, do we?”

“No, not yet, and we have not filed suit for these clients either, have we, now?”

“No, but these people certainly believe they’re full-fledged clients and they’re about to be compensated. You’ve painted a rosy picture.”

“When will they see a doctor?” Oscar asked.

“Soon,” Wally shot in his direction. “Jerry is in the process of hiring an expert doctor here. He will examine each patient and give a report.”

“And you’re assuming that everyone has a legitimate claim?” David asked.

“I’m not assuming anything.”

“How much will each exam cost?” Oscar asked.

“We don’t know until we find the doctor.”

“Who’s paying for the exams?” Oscar asked.

“The Krayoxx Litigation Group. KLG for short.”

“Are we on the hook?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“What is this?” Wally growled angrily. “Why is everybody hammering me? The first firm meeting was all about my girlfriend. This one is all about my cases. I’m starting to dislike firm meetings. What’s wrong with you guys?”

“I’m fed up with these people on the phone,” Rochelle said. “It’s nonstop. Everybody’s got a story. Some are crying because you’ve scared them to death, Wally. Some even stop by and want me to hold their hands. They all think they got bad hearts because of you and the FDA.”

“What if they do have bad hearts, and their bad hearts are caused by Krayoxx, and we’re able to get them some cash? Isn’t that what lawyers are supposed to do?”

“What if we hire a paralegal for a few months?” David suggested, rather abruptly, then braced for the reactions. When the other three didn’t speak quickly enough, he plowed on. “We can stick him or her in the junk room upstairs and send all the Krayoxx cases up there. I’ll help him or her set up the litigation software and filing systems so that he or she is on top of every case. I’ll supervise the project if you want. All phone calls dealing with Krayoxx can be routed to the new office. We take the pressure off Rochelle, and Wally can keep doing what he does best — hustle cases.”

“We’re not in a position to hire anyone,” Oscar said, predictably. “Our cash flow is far below normal, thanks to Krayoxx. And, since you’re not paying the bills yet, and not even close to doing so, I might add, I don’t think you’re in a position to suggest spending more money.”

“I understand,” David said. “I was just suggesting a way for the firm to get itself organized.”

Actually, you’re quite lucky we decided to hire you, Oscar thought to himself and almost said aloud.

Wally liked the idea but, at the moment, didn’t have the spine to take on his senior partner. Rochelle admired David for his boldness, but she wasn’t about to comment on an issue dealing with the overhead.

“I have a better idea,” Oscar said to David. “Why don’t you become the Krayoxx paralegal? You’re already upstairs. You know something about litigation software. You’re always squawking about getting organized around here. You’ve been wanting a new filing system. Judging by your monthly grosses, it looks as though you have some spare time. It’ll save us some dough. Whatta you say?”

It was all true, and David wasn’t about to back down. “Okay, what’s my cut of the settlement?”

Oscar and Wally looked at each other, all four eyes narrowing as this rattled around their brains. They had not yet decided how they themselves would split the money. There had been some loose chatter about a bonus for Rochelle and one for David, but as for the real division of the spoils, not a word.

“We’ll have to talk about that,” Wally said.

“Yes, this is a matter for the partners,” Oscar added, as if being a partner in their firm were akin to belonging to an exclusive and powerful club.

“Well, hurry up and decide something,” Rochelle said. “I can’t answer all these calls and do all the filing.”

There was a knock on the door. DeeAnna was back.

Reuben Massey’s master plan to deal with his company’s latest drug mess had been upended by the death of Senator Kirk Maxwell, who was now derisively known in the Varrick hallways as Jerk Maxwell. His widow had not filed suit, but her windbag of a lawyer was thoroughly savoring his fifteen minutes in the spotlight. He was readily available for interviews, even got himself on a few of the cable yak fests. He colored his hair, bought some new suits, and was living the dream of so many lawyers.

Varrick’s common stock had dipped to $29.50, its lowest price in six years. Two Wall Street analysts, two men loathed by Massey, had issued sell recommendations. One wrote: “After only six years on the market, Krayoxx accounts for one-quarter of Varrick’s revenue. With it off the market, the company’s near-term forecast is quite uncertain.” The other wrote: “The numbers are frightening. With one million potential Krayoxx plaintiffs, Varrick will be mired in the cesspool of mass tort litigation for the next ten years.”

At least he got the word “cesspool” right, Massey mumbled to himself as he flipped through the morning financials. It was not yet 8:00 a.m. The sky over Montville was cloudy, the mood inside his bunker was somber, but, oddly, he was in good spirits. At least once a week, and more often if possible, Mr. Massey allowed himself the pleasure of eating someone for breakfast. Today’s meal would be especially delightful.

——

As a young man Layton Koane had served four terms in the U.S. House before he was called home by the voters after a messy affair with a female staffer. Disgraced, he was unable to find meaningful work back home in Tennessee, and as a college dropout he possessed no real talents or skills. His résumé was embarrassingly thin. Divorced, unemployed, bankrupt, and only forty years old, he drifted back to the Capitol and decided to venture down the yellow brick road traveled by so many washed-up politicians. He embraced one of Washington’s time-honored traditions. He became a lobbyist.