John Grisham - The Litigators

“Let’s go, big boy,” David said, grabbing Wally by the arm. He stood, found his balance, and they walked arm in arm out of the building to David’s SUV. By the time they accelerated onto I-94 North, Wally was snoring again.

With the help of his GPS, David found Harbor House an hour after they left the office. It was a small, private treatment facility, tucked away in the woods just north of Waukegan, Illinois. David was unable to rouse Wally, so he left him and went inside, where Patrick Hale was waiting in the reception room. Patrick sent two white-robed orderlies with a stretcher out to fetch Wally, and five minutes later they wheeled him in, still unconscious. David followed Patrick to a small office where paperwork was waiting.

“How many times has he been here?” David asked in an effort to make conversation. “He seems to know the place well.”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential, at least on our end.” His warm smile had vanished when he closed the office door.

“Sorry.”

Patrick was looking at some papers on a clipboard. “We have a slight problem with Wally’s account, Mr. Zinc, and I’m not sure what to do about it. You see, when Wally checked out a year ago, his insurance would pay only $1,000 a day for his treatment here. Because of our exceptional treatment, and results, and facilities and staff, we charge $1,500 a day. Wally left here owing slightly less than $14,000. He’s made a few payments, but his balance is still at $11,000.”

“I am not responsible for his medical bills or his treatment for alcoholism. I have nothing to do with his insurance.”

“Well, then, we will not be able to keep him.”

“You can’t make money charging $1,000 a day?”

“Let’s not get into that, Mr. Zinc. We charge what we charge. We have sixty beds and none are empty.”

“Wally’s forty-six years old. Why does he need someone to co-sign?”

“Normally, he wouldn’t, but he’s not good at paying his bills.”

And that was before Krayoxx, David thought to himself. You should see his balance sheet now.

“How long do you plan to keep him this time?” David asked.

“His insurance will cover thirty days.”

“So it’s thirty days, regardless of how much progress is made with your patient. It’s all driven by the insurance company, right?”

“That’s the reality of it.”

“That sucks. What if a patient needs more time? I have a friend from high school who crashed and burned on cocaine. Did the thirty-day gig a few times, never stuck. It finally took a hard year in a locked-down facility to get him clean and committed.”

“We can all tell stories, Mr. Zinc.”

“I’m sure you can.” David threw up his hands. “Okay, Mr. Hale, what’s the deal? You and I both know he’s not leaving here tonight because he’ll hurt himself.”

“We can forgive the past-due account, but we will require someone to co-sign for the uninsured portion going forward.”

“And that’s $500 a day? Not a penny more.”

“Correct.”

David yanked out his wallet, removed a credit card, and tossed it on the desk. “Here’s my American Express. I’m good for ten days max. I’ll come get him in ten days, and then I’ll think of something else to do.”

Patrick quickly scribbled down the credit card info and handed back the card. “He needs more than ten days.”

“Of course he does. He’s proven that thirty is not enough.”

“Most alcoholics require three or four efforts, if they are in fact ultimately successful.”

“Ten days, Mr. Hale. I don’t have much money, and practicing law with Wally is proving to be less than profitable. I don’t know what you do here, but do it faster. I’ll be back in ten days.”

As he approached the intersection of the Tri-State Tollway, a dashboard warning light flashed red. He was almost out of gas. For the past three days, he had never once checked his fuel gauge.

The truck stop was crowded, grungy, in need of a renovation. There was a diner on one side and a convenience store on the other. David filled his tank, paid by credit card, and went inside to buy a soft drink. There was only one cashier and a line of waiting customers, so he took his time, found a Diet Coke and a bag of peanuts, and was headed to the front of the store when he stopped dead cold.

The rack was crammed with cheap Halloween toys, gadgets, and trinkets. In the middle, at eye level, was a clear plastic container with brightly colored … Nasty Teeth. He grabbed it and went straight for the fine print on the label. Made in China. Imported by Gunderson Toys, Louisville, Kentucky. He collected all four packets, evidence of course, but he also wanted to yank the crap off the market before another kid got sick. The cashier gave him a weird look as she rang up his purchases. He paid in cash and hustled back to his SUV. He pulled away from the pumps and parked under a bright overhanging light near the 18-wheelers.

Using his iPhone, he Googled Gunderson Toys. The company was forty years old and had once been privately owned. Four years earlier, it had been purchased by Sonesta Games Inc., the third-largest toy company in America.

He had a file on Sonesta.

Reuben Massey arrived after dark on a Varrick Gulfstream G650. He landed at Midway Airport and was immediately scooped up by an entourage that sped away in black Cadillac Escalades. Thirty minutes later he entered the Trust Tower and was whisked high into the sky to the 101st floor, where Rogan Rothberg kept an elegant private dining room that was used by only the most senior partners and their most important clients. Nicholas Walker and Judy Beck were waiting, along with Nadine Karros and Marvin Macklow, the managing partner of the law firm. A waiter wearing a white tux brought cocktails as everyone was properly introduced and became comfortable with each other. Reuben had been wanting to meet, and examine, Nadine Karros for many months. He was not disappointed. She turned on the charm, and after the first cocktail Reuben was thoroughly smitten. He ran the ladies hard and was always on the prowl, and, well, you never know what might happen with a new acquaintance. However, according to the scouting report, she was happily married, and her only diversion was working. In the ten months Nick Walker had known Nadine, he had seen nothing less than a complete devotion to professionalism. “It’s not going to work,” he said to his boss back at the home office.

Per Reuben’s preference, dinner was a lobster salad with pasta shells. He sat next to Nadine and hung on her every word. He went heavy on the praise for her handling of the case and the trial. He, along with everyone around the table, was anxiously awaiting a momentous verdict.

“We’re here to have a conversation,” Nick said after the dessert plates were removed and the door closed. “But first, I would like Nadine to tell us what’s up next in the courtroom.”

Without hesitation, she began her summary. “We are presuming the plaintiff has no more witnesses. If the pharmacologist were to appear in the morning, he would be allowed to testify, but according to our sources Dr. Threadgill is still hiding at home in Cincinnati. So, the plaintiff should rest its case at 9:00 a.m. At that point, we have a choice. First, and obvious, is to move for summary judgment. Judge Seawright allows this to be done both orally and in writing. We’ll do both at the same time, if we choose to go that route. In my opinion, which is shared by my trial team, there is an excellent chance Judge Seawright will grant our motion immediately. The plaintiff has failed to establish even the most basic elements of a case, and everyone, including the plaintiff’s lawyer, knows this. Judge Seawright has never liked this case, and, frankly, I get the impression he can’t wait to toss it.”