John Grisham - The Litigators

“No, yes. I’m not sure. Who?”

“We played on my course. I shot a 78. Poor Nick was 20 strokes back. Not much of a golfer, I’m afraid. He’s the chief in-house lawyer for Varrick Labs. Known him for years. Prince of an asshole, but honorable.”

There was a gap Wally needed to fill here, but he could think of nothing helpful. “So, Jerry, you didn’t call to brag about your golf game, right?”

“No, Wally. I’m calling to inform you that Varrick wants to open a dialogue on the issue of settlement. Not actual negotiations, mind you, but they want to start talking. This is the way it usually happens. They crack the door. We get a foot in. They tap-dance. We tap-dance. And before you know it, we’re talking money. Big money. Are you with me, Wally?”

“Oh yes.”

“I thought so. Look, Wally, we have a long way to go before your cases are in a posture to be settled. Let’s get to work. I’ll line up the doctors to do the exams — that’s the crucial part. You need to jack up your efforts to find more cases. We’ll probably settle the death cases first — how many do you have now?”

“Eight.”

“Is that all? Thought it was more.”

“It’s eight, Jerry, with one on the fast track, remember? Klopeck.”

“Right, right. With that hot chick on the other side. Frankly, I’d like to try that one just to stare at her legs all day.”

“Anyway.”

“Anyway, let’s kick into high gear. I’ll call later this afternoon with a game plan. Lots of work to do, Wally, but the fix is in.”

Wally returned to the courtroom and resumed his wait. He kept repeating, “The fix is in. The fix is in.” Game’s up. Party’s over. He’d heard it all his life, but what did it mean in the context of high-powered litigation? Was Varrick throwing in the towel, surrendering so quickly, cutting its losses? Wally assumed so.

He glanced at the haggard, beaten-down lawyers around him. Ham-and-eggers just like himself who spent their days trying to squeeze fees out of working stiffs with no money to spare. You poor bastards, he thought.

He couldn’t wait to tell DeeAnna, but first he had to talk to Oscar. And not at Finley & Figg, where no conversation was ever private.

They met for lunch two hours later at a spaghetti house not far from the office. Oscar had had a rough morning trying to referee six grown children fighting over their dead mother’s estate, in which there was virtually nothing of value. He needed a drink and ordered a bottle of inexpensive wine. Wally, at 241 days sober, had no trouble sticking with water. Over Caprese salads, Wally quickly recapped his conversation with Jerry Alisandros and ended with a dramatic “This is the moment, Oscar. It’s finally going to happen.”

Oscar’s mood changed as he listened and gulped down the first glass. He managed a smile, and Wally could almost see the skepticism evaporating. He took out a pen, shoved the salad aside, and began scratching. “Let’s run through the math again, Wally. Is a death case really worth $2 million?”

Wally glanced around to make sure no one was listening. The coast was clear. “I’ve done a ton of research, okay? I’ve looked at dozens of settlements in mass tort drug cases. There are too many unknowns right now to predict how much each case is worth. You gotta determine liability, cause of death, medical history, age of the deceased, income-earning potential, stuff like that. Then we gotta find out how much Varrick is tossing in the pot. But a million bucks is the floor, I think. We have eight. Fees are at 40 percent. Half to Jerry, plus a stroke for his expertise, and we’re looking at a net to our firm of something like $1.5 mill.”

Oscar was scribbling with a fury, though he’d heard these numbers a hundred times. “They’re death cases. They gotta be worth more than a mill each,” he said, as if he’d handled dozens of these large cases.

“Maybe two,” Wally said. “Then we got all the non-death cases, 407 as of now. Let’s say only half can qualify after a medical exam. Based on somewhat similar cases — the mass drug variety — I think $100,000 is a reasonable figure for a client whose heart valve has been slightly damaged. That’s $20 million, Oscar. Our cut is something in the neighborhood of $3.5 million.”

Oscar wrote something, then stopped, took a long drink of wine, and said, “So, we should talk about our split, right? Is that where this is going?”

“The split is one of several pressing issues.”

“Okay, what’s wrong with fifty-fifty?” All fee fights began with an even split.

Wally stuffed a slice of tomato into his mouth and chewed it fiercely. “What’s wrong with fifty-fifty is that I discovered Krayoxx, rounded up the cases, and so far I’ve done about 90 percent of the work. I have the eight death cases in my office. David has the other four hundred upstairs. You, if I’m not mistaken, have no Krayoxx cases in your office.”

“You’re not asking for 90 percent are you?”

“Of course not. Here’s my suggestion. We have a ton of work to do. All of these cases have to be screened by a doctor, evaluated, and so on. Let’s put everything else aside — me, you, David — and get to work. We prep the cases while we’re also looking for new ones. Once the settlement news breaks, every lawyer in the country will go crazy over Krayoxx, so we gotta get even busier. And once the checks arrive, I think a sixty-thirty-ten split is fair.”

Oscar had ordered the lasagna special, and Wally the stuffed ravioli. When the waiter was gone, Oscar said, “Your fee is twice mine? That’s never happened before. I don’t like it.”

“What do you like?”

“Fifty-fifty.”

“And what about David? We promised him a cut when he agreed to take the non-death cases.”

“Okay, fifty for you, forty for me, ten for David. Rochelle gets a nice bonus but no piece of the pie.”

With so much money on the way, it was easy to toss around the numbers, even easier to cut a deal. There had been nasty fights over $5,000 fees, but not today. The money soothed them and took away any desire to squabble. Wally slowly reached across, and Oscar did the same. They quickly shook hands and plunged into their entrées.

After a few bites, Wally said, “How’s the wife?”

Oscar frowned, grimaced, and looked away. Paula Finley was a subject completely off-limits because no one at the firm could stand her, including Oscar.

Wally pressed on. “You know, Oscar, this is the moment. If you’re ever going to ditch her, do it now.”

“Marital advice from you?”

“Yes, because you know I’m right.”

“I assume you’ve been thinking about this.”

“Yes, because you have not, and that’s because you’ve never believed in these cases, until now perhaps.”

Oscar poured more wine and said, “Let’s hear it.”

Wally leaned in closer again, as if they were swapping nuclear secrets. “File for divorce now, immediately. No big deal. I’ve done it four times. Move out, get an apartment, cut all ties. I’ll handle it on your end, and she can hire whomever she wants. We’ll draw up a contract, date it six months ago, and it’ll say that I get 80 percent of the Krayoxx settlements, if any, and you and David split 20 percent. You gotta show some income from Krayoxx; otherwise her lawyer will go nuts. But most of the money can stay in a slush fund for, I don’t know, a year or so, until the divorce is over. Then, at some unknown point in the future, you and I settle up.”

“That’s a fraudulent transfer of assets.”

“I know. I love it. I’ve done it a thousand times, though on a much smaller scale. I suspect you have too. Pretty clever, don’t you think?”

“If we get caught, we could both get thrown in jail for contempt of court, with no hearing.”