John Grisham - The Litigators

“To kiss my ass.”

“Why don’t you tell him, David? You have a phone. Give Mr. Barton a call.” With that, she hung up.

Abner was easing over, curious to get the scoop on this latest phone call. He was rubbing the wooden counter again, for the third or fourth time since David had planted himself at the bar.

“The office,” David said, and Abner frowned as if this were bad news for everyone. “The aforementioned Roy Barton is looking for me, throwing things. Wish I could be a fly on the wall. Hope he has a stroke.”

Abner moved closer. “Say, I never caught your name.”

“David Zinc.”

“A pleasure. Look, David, the cook just got here. You want something to eat? Maybe something loaded with grease? French fries, onion rings, a big thick burger?”

“I want a double order of onion rings and a large bottle of ketchup.”

“Attaboy.” Abner disappeared. David drained his latest Bloody Mary and went to look for the restroom. When he returned, he assumed his seat, checked the time—9:28—and waited for the onion rings. He could smell them back there somewhere sizzling in hot oil. The drunk to his far right was gulping coffee and struggling to keep his eyes open. The teenager was still sweeping floors and arranging furniture.

The phone vibrated on the counter. It was his wife. David made no move to answer it. When the vibrating was over, he waited, then checked the voice mail. Helen’s message was about what he expected: “David, your office has called twice. Where are you? What are you doing? Everyone is very worried. Are you all right? Call me as soon as possible.”

She was a doctoral student at Northwestern, and when he had kissed her good-bye that morning at 6:45, she was still under the covers. When he arrived home the night before at 10:05, they had dined on leftover lasagna in front of the television before he fell asleep on the sofa. Helen was two years older and wanted to get pregnant, something that was looking more and more unlikely given her husband’s perpetual exhaustion. In the meantime, she was pursuing a Ph.D. in art history, and doing so at a leisurely pace.

A soft beep, then a text message from her: “Where are you? Are you okay? Please.”

He preferred not to speak to her for several hours. He would be forced to admit he was cracking up, and she would insist he get professional help. Her father was a shrink and her mother was a marriage counselor, and the entire family believed that all of life’s problems and mysteries could be solved with a few hours in therapy. At the same time, though, he couldn’t stand the thought that she was frantically worrying about his safety.

He sent a text: “I’m fine. I had to leave the office for a while. I’ll be okay. Please don’t worry.”

She replied: “Where are you?”

The onion rings arrived, a huge pile of golden-brown circles covered in thick batter and grease, hot from the fryer. Abner placed them in front of David and said, “These are the best. How about a glass of water?”

“I was thinking about a pint of beer.”

“You got it.” Abner found a mug and stepped to the tap.

“My wife’s looking for me now,” David said. “You got a wife?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Sorry. She’s a great girl, wants a family and all, but we can’t seem to get things started. I worked four thousand hours last year, can you believe it? Four thousand hours. I usually punch in at seven in the morning and leave around ten at night. That’s a typical day, but it’s not unusual to work past midnight. So when I get home, I crash. I think we had sex once last month. Hard to believe. I’m thirty-one. She’s thirty-three. Both in our prime and wanting to get pregnant, and big boy here can’t stay awake.” He opened the bottle of ketchup and unloaded a third of it. Abner placed a frosty pint of lager in front of him.

“At least you’re making plenty of dough,” Abner said.

David peeled off an onion ring, dipped it in ketchup, and stuffed it in his mouth. “Oh, sure, they pay me. Why would I subject myself to such abuse if I weren’t getting paid?” David glanced around to make sure no one was listening. No one was there. He lowered his voice as he ground away on the onion ring, and said, “I’m a senior associate, five years in, my gross last year was three hundred K. That’s a lot of money, and since I don’t have time to spend it, it’s just piling up in the bank. But look at the math. I worked four thousand hours but billed only three thousand. Three thousand hours, tops in the firm. The rest of it got lost in firm activities and pro bono work. Are you with me, Abner? You look bored.”

“I’m listening. I’ve served lawyers before. I know how dull they are.”

David took a long swig of lager and smacked his lips. “I appreciate your bluntness.”

“Just doing my job.”

“The firm bills my time at five hundred bucks an hour. Times three thousand. That’s one point five mill for dear old Rogan Rothberg, and they pay me a measly three hundred K. Multiply that by five hundred associates all doing pretty much the same thing, and you understand why law schools are packed with bright young students who think they want to join a big law firm and make it to partner and get rich. Are you bored, Abner?”

“Fascinating.”

“You want an onion ring?”

“No thanks.”

David stuffed another large one into his parched mouth, then washed it down with half a pint. There was a loud thud at the end of the bar. The drunk down there succumbed once again. His head was on the counter.

“Who’s the guy?” David asked.

“His name’s Eddie. His brother owns half of the place, so he runs a tab that never gets paid. I’m sick of the guy.” Abner eased away and spoke to Eddie, who didn’t respond. Abner removed the coffee cup and wiped the counter around Eddie, then slowly made his way back to David.

“So you’re walking away from three hundred grand,” Abner said. “What’s the plan?”

David laughed, much too loud. “A plan? Haven’t got that far. Two hours ago I reported for work as always; now I’m cracking up.” Another swig. “My plan, Abner, is to sit here for a long time and try to analyze my crack-up. Will you help me?”

“It’s my job.”

“I’ll pay my tab.”

“Sounds like a deal.”

“Another pint, please.”

After an hour or so of reading the newspaper, eating her yogurt, and enjoying her coffee, Rochelle Gibson reluctantly went to work. Her first task was to check the client register for one Chester Marino, now resting quietly in a modestly priced bronze casket at Van Easel & Sons Funeral Home. Oscar was right. The firm had prepared a last will and testament for Mr. Marino six years earlier. She found the thin file in the storage room next to the kitchen and took it to Wally, who was hard at work amid the debris on his desk.

The office of Wallis T. Figg, Attorney and Counselor-at-Law, had been a bedroom in the original scheme of things, but over the years, as walls and doors were reconfigured, the square footage had been expanded somewhat. It certainly gave no hint of once being a bedroom, but then it didn’t much resemble an office either. It began at the door with walls no more than twelve feet apart, then doglegged to the right, to a larger space where Wally worked behind a 1950s-style faux-modern desk he’d snapped up at a fire sale. The desk was covered with stacks of manila files and used legal pads and hundreds of phone message slips, and to anyone who didn’t know better, including prospective clients, the desk gave the impression that the man behind it was extremely busy, maybe even important.

As always, Ms. Gibson walked slowly toward the desk, careful not to upset the piles of thick law books and old files stacked along the route. She handed him the file and said, “We did a will for Mr. Marino.”