John Grisham - The Litigators

Thuya watched it from his high chair and seemed amused. Each week David and Helen hoped to see some tiny sign of improvement in his condition, and each week they were disappointed. As his doctors predicted, progress was highly unlikely. The damage was, after all, permanent.

David sat by him, rubbed his head as always, and handed him a French fry. He chatted with Soe and Lu as the women formed a gaggle around the baby. Eventually, they made their way to the table, where they were delighted to learn that David and Helen would be eating with them. They usually avoided burgers and fries, but not tonight. David explained that they were a bit rushed and would not have time to take Thuya out for a drive.

Halfway through a cheeseburger, David’s cell phone vibrated in his coat pocket. He looked at it, jumped to his feet, whispered “It’s Wally” to Helen, and stepped outside the front door.

“Where are you, Wally?”

In a weak, dying voice, the reply came, “I’m drunk, David. So drunk.”

“That’s what we figured. Where are you?”

“You gotta help me, David. There’s no one else. Oscar won’t talk to me.”

“Sure, Wally, you know I’ll help, but where are you?”

“At the office.”

“I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

He was on the sofa next to the table, snoring, AC nearby watching him with great suspicion. It was Wednesday night, and David assumed, correctly, that Wally’s last shower had been bright and early Monday morning, the day the retrial commenced, six days after Oscar’s dramatic collapse, and six days after Wally’s legendary mistrial. No shower, no shave, no change of clothes — he was wearing the same navy suit and white shirt as when David had last seen him. The tie was missing. The shirt was heavily stained. There was a slight tear on the right leg of his trousers. Dried mud caked the soles of his new black wing tips. David tapped his shoulder and called his name. Nothing. His face was red and puffy, but there were no bruises, cuts, or scrapes. Perhaps he had not been brawling in bars. David wanted to know where he had been, but then he didn’t. Wally was safe. There would be time for questions later, one being “How’d you get here?” His car was nowhere in sight, which was somewhat of a relief. Maybe, drunk as he was, Wally had the presence of mind not to drive. On the other hand, his car could have been wrecked, stolen, or repossessed.

David punched him on the biceps and yelled from six inches away. Wally’s heavy breathing paused for a second, then continued. AC was whining, so David let him out for a pee and made a pot of coffee. He sent a text to Helen: “Drunk as a skunk but alive. Not sure what’s next.” He called Rochelle and passed along the news. A call to Oscar’s cell went straight to voice mail.

Wally rallied an hour later and took a cup of coffee. “Thanks, David,” he said over and over. Then, “Have you called Lisa?”

“And who might Lisa be?”

“My wife. You need to call her, David. That sonofabitch Oscar won’t talk to me.”

David decided to play along, to see where the chatter might go. “I did call Lisa.”

“You did? What did she say?”

“Said you guys got a divorce years ago.”

“That sounds just like her.” He was staring at his feet, glassy-eyed, unable or unwilling to make eye contact.

“She said she still loves you, though,” David said, just for the fun of it.

Wally started crying, the way drunks do when they cry over nothing and everything. David felt a little lousy but a lot more amused.

“I’m sorry,” Wally said, wiping his face with a forearm. “I’m so sorry, David, thank you. Oscar won’t talk to me, you know. Laid up in my apartment, hiding from his wife, cleaning out my refrigerator. I came home, had the door locked and chained. We had a big fight, neighbors called the police, I barely got away. Running away from my own apartment now, what kinda deal is that?”

“When did this happen?”

“I don’t know. An hour ago, maybe. Not real sharp on times and days right now for some reason. Thank you, David.”

“You’re welcome. Look, Wally, we need to put together a plan. Sounds like your apartment is off-limits. If you want to sleep here tonight and sober up, I’ll pull up a chair and keep you company. AC and I will get you through this.”

“I need help, David. Ain’t just a matter of sobering up.”

“Okay, but getting sober will be an important first step.”

Wally suddenly burst into laughter. He threw his head back and laughed as loud as humanly possible. He shook, squealed, gyrated, coughed, lost his breath, wiped his cheeks, and when he couldn’t laugh anymore, he sat and chuckled for several minutes. When things were under control, he glanced at David and laughed again.

“Got something you’d like to share, Wally?”

Working hard to suppress more laughter, he said, “I just thought of the first time you came here, remember?”

“I remember some of it.”

“I’ve never seen anybody drunker. All day in a bar, right?”

“Yep.”

“Falling-down drunk, then you took a swing at that prickhead Gholston across the street, almost hit him too.”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“I looked at Oscar, he looked at me, we said, ‘This guy has potential.’ ” A pause as he drifted away for a moment. “You threw up twice. Now who’s drunk and who’s sober?”

“We’re gonna get you sober, Wally.”

His body was no longer shaking, and he was silent for a long time. “Do you ever wonder what you got yourself into here, David? You had it all, big firm, big salary, life in the lawyers’ fast lane.”

“I have no regrets, Wally,” David said. For the most part, it was a true statement.

Another long pause and Wally cradled his coffee cup with both hands and stared into it. “What’s gonna happen to me, David? I’m forty-six years old, broker than ever, humiliated, a drunk who can’t stay away from the sauce, a washed-up street lawyer who thought he could play in the big leagues.”

“Now is not the time to ponder the future, Wally. What you need is a good detox, get all the alcohol out of your system, then you can make decisions.”

“I don’t want to be like Oscar. He’s seventeen years older than me, and in seventeen years I don’t want to be here doing the same shit we do every day, you know, David? Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you wanna be here in seventeen years?”

“I really haven’t thought about it. I’m just trying to get through this trial.”

“What trial?”

He didn’t appear to be joking or pretending, so David let it pass. “You went through rehab a year ago, didn’t you, Wally?”

He grimaced as he struggled to remember his last rehab. “What’s today?”

“Today is Wednesday, October 26.”

Wally began nodding. “Yes, October of last year. In for thirty days, a great time.”

“Where was the rehab?”

“Oh, Harbor House, just north of Waukegan. My favorite. It’s right on the lake, beautiful. I guess we should call Patrick.” He was reaching for his wallet.

“And who’s Patrick?”

“My counselor,” Wally said, handing over a business card. Harbor House — Where a New Life Begins. Patrick Hale, Team Leader . “You can call Patrick any time of the day. It’s part of his job.”

David left a message on Patrick’s voice mail, said he was a friend of Wally Figg’s and it was important that they speak soon. Moments later, David’s cell vibrated. It was Patrick, truly sorry to hear the bad news about Wally, but ready to help immediately. “Don’t let him out of your sight,” Patrick said. “Please, bring him in now. I’ll meet you at the House in an hour.”