John Grisham - The Litigators

“We will not get caught. She thinks Krayoxx is all mine, right?”

“Right.”

“So, it’ll work. It’s our law firm, and we make the rules on how the money gets split. Completely within our discretion.”

“Her lawyers won’t be stupid, Wally. They’ll know all about the big Krayoxx settlement as soon as it happens.”

“Come on, Oscar, it ain’t like we hit these licks all the time. Over the last ten years I suspect your adjusted gross has averaged, what, $75,000?”

Oscar shrugged. “About the same as yours. Pretty pathetic, don’t you think? Thirty years in the trenches.”

“Not the point, Oscar. The point is that in a divorce, they’ll look at what you’ve earned in the past.”

“I know.”

“If the Krayoxx money is mine, then we can argue, with evidence, that your income hasn’t changed.”

“What will you do with the money?”

“Bury it offshore until the divorce is over. Hell, Oscar, we could leave it offshore and pop down to Grand Cayman once a year to check on it. Believe me, there’s no way they’ll ever know. But you gotta file now and get out.”

“Why are you so keen on me getting a divorce?”

“Because I loathe that woman. Because you’ve been dreaming of a divorce since your honeymoon. Because you deserve to be happy, and if you sack this bitch and hide the money, your life will take a dramatic turn for the better. Think of it, Oscar, single at sixty-two with cash in the bank.”

Oscar couldn’t suppress a smile. He drained his third glass. He took a few bites. He was obviously struggling with something, so he finally asked, “How do I break it to her?”

Wally dabbed the corners of his mouth, stiffened his spine, and assumed the voice of authority. “Well, there are many ways to do it, and I’ve tried them all. Have you two ever talked about splitting up?”

“Not that I recall.”

“I assume it would be easy to start a big fight.”

“Oh, so easy. She’s always unhappy about something, usually money, and we fight almost every day.”

“That’s what I figured. Do it like this, Oscar. Go home tonight and drop the bomb. Tell her you’re unhappy and you want out. Plain and simple. No fighting, no bickering, no negotiating. Tell her she can have the house, the car, the furniture, she can have it all if she’ll agree to a no-fault.”

“And if she won’t agree?”

“Leave anyway. Come stay at my place until we can find you an apartment. Once she sees you walk out the door, she’ll get angry and start scheming, especially Paula. It won’t take long for her to blow up. Give her forty-eight hours and she’ll be a cobra.”

“She’s already a cobra.”

“And she has been for decades. We’ll file the papers, have them served on her, and that’ll send her over the edge. She’ll have a lawyer by the end of the week.”

“I’ve given this advice before, just never thought I’d do it myself.”

“Oscar, sometimes it takes balls to walk away. Do it now while you can still enjoy life.”

Oscar poured the last of the wine into his glass and started smiling again. Wally could not remember the last time he’d seen his senior partner so content.

“Can you do it, Oscar?”

“Yep. In fact, I think I’ll go home early, start packing, and get it over with.”

“Awesome. Let’s celebrate with dinner tonight. On the firm.”

“A deal, but that bimbo won’t be around, right?”

“I’ll lose her.”

Oscar downed the wine like a shot of tequila and said, “Damn, Wally, I haven’t been this excited in years.”

It had been difficult to convince the Khaing family that they sincerely wanted to help, but after a few weeks of Big Mac dinners a high level of trust developed. Each Wednesday, after an early dinner of something healthier, David and Helen pulled through the same McDonald’s, ordered the same burgers and fries, and drove to the apartment complex in Rogers Park to visit the family. Zaw, the grandmother, and Lu, the grandfather, joined in because they were also fond of fast food. For the rest of the week they lived on a diet that was primarily rice and chicken, but on Wednesday the Khaings ate like real Americans.

Helen, seven months pregnant and looking every day of it, was initially hesitant about the weekly visits. If there was lead in the air, she had an unborn baby to protect. So David checked everything. He badgered Dr. Biff Sandroni until he cut his fee from $20,000 to $5,000, with David doing most of the legwork. David went through the apartment himself and collected samples of wall paint, water, ceramic coatings, cups and saucers, plates, mixing bowls, family photo albums, toys, shoes, clothing, virtually anything and everything the family came into contact with. He drove this collection to Sandroni’s lab in Akron, dropped it off, then picked it up two weeks later and returned it to the family. According to Sandroni’s report, there were only traces of lead, acceptable levels and nothing for the family to worry about. Helen and the baby were safe in the Khaing apartment.

Thuya had been poisoned by the Nasty Teeth, and Dr. Sandroni was prepared to say so, under oath, in any court in the country. David was sitting on a promising lawsuit, but they had yet to find a defendant. He and Sandroni had a short list of four Chinese companies known to make similar toys for American importers, but they had not been able to pinpoint the manufacturer. And, according to Sandroni, there was a good chance they would never identify it. The set of Nasty Teeth could have been made twenty years earlier, then stored in a warehouse for a decade before being shipped to the U.S., where it could have spent another five years languishing in the supply chain. The manufacturer and the importer could still be in business, or they might have gone bust years ago. The Chinese were under constant pressure from U.S. watchdogs to monitor the amount of lead used in a thousand products, and it was often impossible to determine who made what in the maze of cheap factories scattered around the country. Dr. Sandroni had an endless list of sources, he’d been involved in hundreds of lawsuits, but after four months of digging, he was empty-handed. David and Helen had been to every flea market and toy store in Greater Chicago, and they had put together an astonishing collection of fake teeth and vampire fangs, but nothing exactly like Nasty Teeth. Their search wasn’t over, but it had lost steam.

Thuya was home now, alive but grievously wounded. The brain damage was severe. He could not walk without assistance, speak clearly, feed himself, or control his bodily functions. His vision was limited, and he could barely respond to basic commands. Ask him his name and he would open his mouth and emit a sound similar to “Tay.” He spent most of his time in a special bed with guardrails, and keeping it clean was a difficult task. Caring for the boy was a daily struggle that involved everyone in the family and many of the neighbors. The future was beyond contemplation. His condition was not likely to improve, according to the rather tactful statements of his doctors. Off the record and away from the family, they told David in confidence that Thuya’s body and mind would not grow normally, and there was nothing else they could do. And there was no place to put him — no facility for brain-damaged children.

Thuya was spoon-fed a special formula that was a mix of finely ground fruit and vegetables and loaded with daily nutrients. He wore diapers made especially for such children. The formula, diapers, and medications were running $600 a month, of which David and Helen had pledged half. The Khaings had no health insurance, and had it not been for the generosity of the Lakeshore Children’s Hospital he would not have received such high-quality care. He would probably be dead. In short, Thuya was now a burden that was almost inconceivable.