John Grisham - The Litigators

“Nice work,” he said when she hung up. “I never liked real estate.”

She ignored this and returned to her newspaper. AC began a low growl. When they looked at him, he was standing on his small bed, nose tilted upward, tail straight and pointing, eyes narrow with concentration. His growl grew louder, then, on cue, the distant sound of an ambulance entered their solemn morning. Sirens never failed to excite Wally, and for a second or two he froze as he skillfully analyzed it. Police, fire, or ambulance? That was always the first issue, and Wally could distinguish the three in a heartbeat. Sirens from fire trucks and police cars meant nothing and were quickly ignored, but a siren from an ambulance always quickened his pulse.

“Ambulance,” he said, then placed his newspaper on the table, stood, and casually walked to the front door. Rochelle also stood and walked to a window where she opened the blinds for a quick look. AC was still growling, and when Wally opened the door and stepped onto the front porch, the dog followed. Across the street, Vince Gholston exited his own little boutique and cast a hopeful look at the intersection of Beech and Thirty-eighth. When he saw Wally, he flipped him the bird, and Wally quickly returned the greeting.

The ambulance came screaming down Beech, weaving and lurching its way through heavy traffic, honking angrily, causing more havoc and danger than whatever awaited it. Wally watched it until it was out of sight, then went inside.

The newspaper reading continued with no further interruptions — no sirens, no phone calls from prospective clients or bill collectors. At 9:00 a.m., the door opened, and the senior partner entered. As usual, Oscar wore a long dark overcoat and carried a bulky black leather briefcase, as if he’d been laboring away throughout the night. He also carried his umbrella, as always, regardless of the weather or forecast. Oscar toiled far away from the big leagues, but he could at least look the part of a distinguished lawyer. Dark coats, dark suits, white shirts, and silk ties. His wife did the shopping and insisted that he look the part. Wally, on the other hand, wore whatever he could pull from the pile.

“Morning,” Oscar said gruffly at Ms. Gibson’s desk.

“Good morning,” she replied.

“Anything in the newspaper?” Oscar was not interested in scores or floods or market reports or the latest from the Middle East.

“A forklift operator got crushed in a plant out in Palos Heights,” Ms. Gibson responded promptly. It was part of their morning ritual. If she did not find an accident of some variety to brighten his morning, then his sour mood would only get worse.

“I like it,” he said. “Is he dead?”

“Not yet.”

“Even better. Lots of pain and suffering. Make a note. I’ll check it out later.”

Ms. Gibson nodded as if the poor man were practically signed up as a new client. Of course, he was not. Nor would he be. Finley & Figg rarely got to the accident scene first. Chances were the forklift operator’s wife was already being hounded by more aggressive lawyers, some of whom were known to offer cash and other goodies to get the family on board.

Buoyed by this good news, Oscar walked over to the table and said, “Good morning.”

“Morning, Oscar,” Wally said.

“Any of our clients make the obituaries?”

“I haven’t got that far yet.”

“You should start with the obituaries.”

“Thank you, Oscar. Any more tips on how to read a newspaper?”

Oscar was already walking away. Over his shoulder he asked Ms. Gibson, “What’s on my calendar for today?”

“The usual. Divorces and drunks.”

“Divorces and drunks,” Oscar mumbled to himself as he stepped into his office. “What I need is a good car wreck.” He hung his overcoat on the back of the door, placed his umbrella in a rack by his desk, and began unpacking his briefcase. Wally was soon standing nearby, holding the newspaper. “Does the name Chester Marino ring a bell?” he asked. “Obit. Age fifty-seven, wife, kids, grandkids, no cause given.”

Oscar scratched his close-cropped gray hair and said, “Maybe. Could’ve been a last will and testament.”

“They got him down at Van Easel & Sons. Visitation tonight, service tomorrow. I’ll snoop around and see what’s up. If he’s one of ours, you wanna send flowers?”

“Not until you know the size of his estate.”

“Good point.” Wally was still holding his newspaper. “This Taser thing is out of control, you know. Cops in Joliet are accused of Tasering a seventy-year-old man who went to Walmart to buy Sudafed for his sick grandchild. The pharmacist figured the old man was using the stuff for a meth lab, so the pharmacist, being a good citizen, called the cops. Turns out the cops all got themselves brand-new Tasers, so five of these clowns stop the old man in the parking lot and Taser his ass. Critical condition.”

“So we’re back doing Taser law, are we, Wally?”

“Damn right we are. These are good cases, Oscar. We gotta get a few.”

Oscar sat down and sighed heavily. “So this week it’s Taser guns. Last week it was diaper rashes — big plans to sue the makers of Pampers because a few thousand babies have diaper rashes. Last month it was Chinese drywall.”

“They’ve paid four billion bucks already in the drywall class action.”

“Yes, but we haven’t seen any of it.”

“That’s my point, Oscar. We have got to get serious about these mass tort cases. This is where the money is. Millions in fees paid by companies that make billions in profits.”

The door was open, and Rochelle was listening to every word, though this particular conversation was getting a bit stale.

Wally was talking louder. “We get us a few of these cases, then hook up with the mass tort specialists, give them a piece of the cake, then ride their coattails until they settle, and we walk away with a truckload. It’s easy money, Oscar.”

“Diaper rashes?”

“Okay, that didn’t work. But this Taser thing is a gold mine.”

“Another gold mine, Wally?”

“Yep, I’ll prove it.”

“You do that.”

The drunk at the end of the bar had rallied somewhat. His head was up, his eyes were partially open, and Abner was serving him coffee and chatting away, all in an effort to convince the man it was time to leave. A teenager with a broom was sweeping the floor and arranging tables and chairs. The little pub was showing signs of life.

With his brain coated with vodka, David stared at himself in the mirror and tried in vain to put things into perspective. One moment he was filled with excitement and proud of his bold escape from the death march at Rogan Rothberg. The next moment he was fearful for his wife, his family, his future. The booze gave him courage, though, and he decided to keep drinking.

His phone vibrated again. It was Lana at the office. “Hello,” he said quietly.

“David, where are you?”

“Just finishing breakfast, you know.”

“David, you don’t sound so good. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

A pause, then, “Are you drinking?”

“Of course not. It’s only nine thirty.”

“Okay, whatever. Look, Roy Barton just left here, and he’s in a rage. I’ve never heard such language. All kinds of threats.”

“Tell Roy to kiss my ass.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You heard me. Tell Roy to kiss my ass.”

“You’re losing it, David. It’s true. You’re cracking up. I’m not surprised. I saw this coming. I knew it.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re drunk and you’re cracking up.”

“Okay, I may be drunk but—”

“I think I hear Roy Barton again. What should I tell him?”