Law and Addiction

by Mike Papantonio

  if those two things are mutually exclusive.” His eyes were as cold as

  his words.

  As Jake approached the desk, he tried to smooth a few of the

  wrinkles out of his blazer. While Hodges remained seated, Jake

  extended his hand across the desk and said, “It’s nice to meet you,

  Mr. Hodges.”

  “Oh, God,” said Hodges, shaking his head but not Jake’s hand.

  “Is this the Ted Mack amateur hour?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what that is.” Jake retracted his hand.

  Without asking permission, he took a seat, pretending not to hear

  the old man’s sigh.

  “You say you’re a lawyer?” said Hodges.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t even look like you’ve gone through puberty.” “Well,” Jake said, not sure how to answer, “I have.” Then he

  added, “As I said, I’m a lawyer who practices in Oakley.” “Let me head you off from the get-go: I’m not hiring, and

  Melton doesn’t need another lawyer. There’s not enough business

  for me in this town, and that’s even after my partners had the good

  sense to finally die.”

  “I’m not looking for a job,” Jake said. “But I wouldn’t mind asking your advice, sir.”

  “So this is a consultation?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’re prepared to pay my consultation fee?”

  Jake looked away from the man’s probing eyes. As old as he was,

  Jake thought, this miserable misanthrope deserved to have cataracts. Instead, his blue eyes were sharp and probably hard enough

  to cut glass.

  “I was hoping for some professional courtesy,” he said. “Ah,” said Hodges. “What you’re saying is I can call on you for

  the same, should the occasion warrant. Is that it?”

  Jake started nodding, until Hodges said, “That will happen when

  hell freezes over.”

  “You might be interested to know that I did graduate at the top

  of my class—”

  “Bah.”

  Jake shut his mouth, wondering if the old man would add “humbug.” But he did not.

  “I don’t care if you graduated first in your class from Oxford

  Law,” said Hodges. “At this stage of your career, you don’t even know

  how to properly hold your dick.”

  This conversation wasn’t going the way Jake had imagined.

  He thought about standing up and walking out, or asking Hodges

  whether his mother had been a mutt or a purebred, but insults

  wouldn’t help his situation. Despite how unpleasant Hodges was

  being, Jake didn’t doubt he could be of help if he were willing.

  His arrogance came out of confidence; he knew the law well. That

  explained it, even if it didn’t excuse it.

  “I came here hoping you might be able to answer a few of my

  questions,” Jake said. “My brother recently died of an opioid overdose. I’m trying to figure out a way to sue those responsible.” “What did you say your name was?” asked the old lawyer. “Don

  Quixote?”

  “I’m not tilting at windmills,” Jake said. Unbidden, Anna

  Fowler popped into his mind. He couldn’t afford to get distracted

  from the case, but he remembered that at the cemetery she had

  called him Don. Jake had planned on calling her, but working

  on Blake’s case had consumed him. “My goal is to make the Big

  Pharma players pay for what they did to my brother, and thousands just like him.”

  “If that’s the case, you should stick to jousting with windmills,

  because I can assure you that jousting with silk-stocking corporate

  lawyers is a much tougher enterprise.”

  “How would you proceed with such a case?”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Hodges. “I’m not a fool.”

  “How about pretending for one moment that you’re young and

  idealistic?”

  “I much prefer being old and cynical.”

  “Please,” said Jake.

  Hodges rolled his eyes and said, “You are a wide-eyed babe in

  the woods, aren’t you? Let me acquaint you with some hard facts:

  you can’t be naive and be a lawyer. Or I should say, you can’t be

  naive and be a successful lawyer. Do you understand that?” When Jake didn’t answer, Hodges sighed. “I was never as stupid

  as you’re apparently determined to be. I knew better than to contemplate such a pie-in-the-sky case. But if you’re dead set on making

  a fool of yourself, then you’d better practice copycat law. I’m sure

  there have been other lawyers as irrational and imprudent as you.” Jake wondered if he’d heard correctly. He was pretty sure Hodges

  had said copycat law, not copyright law. He was also pretty sure WVU

  had never offered a course on copycat law.

  “Copycat law?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes,” Hodges said impatiently. “Lots of young lawyers have

  gotten their starts with copycat claims.”

  Jake was afraid to look as stupid as Hodges seemed to think he

  was, so he gingerly attempted a fishing expedition. “And how do

  they typically go about this?”

  “They don’t reinvent the damn wheel,” said Hodges. “They

  find out what kinds of similar claims have been filed. Do you think

  you’re the first lawyer to want to take on the pharmaceutical companies? You find out who’s filed what, and where.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Of course, it makes sense. You save a lot of time by knowing what’s

  out there and how it was done.” The old man cleared his throat and

  added, in singsong cadence, “‘Remember why the good Lord made your

  eyes, so don’t shade your eyes, but plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize.’” Jake’s mouth must have dropped open a little—Hodges looked

  pleased. He seemed to enjoy throwing Jake off his stride. “Tom Lehrer sang that. It’s from his song ‘Lobachevsky.’” At Jake’s

  blank look, Hodges rolled his eyes. “There was a time when this country produced the greatest satirists in the world. Of course, there was

  also a time when there used to be a national sense of humor.” Jake nodded. “Right. So what you’re saying is that I look at these

  other claims, find out what’s worked and what hasn’t, and then

  build my case accordingly in state court.”

  “That’s one way to do it,” Hodges said, leaning back in his chair,

  “if you want to have your case dismissed.”

  “Dismissed? Why?”

  “This is West Virginia, sonny. It is not exactly a bastion of liberal

  law. You have no chance of prevailing in court on the state level.

  The politics of big money will eat you alive before the ink even dries

  on the half-ass pleading you intend to file. In federal court, you

  might have at least a snowball’s chance in hell.”

  Jake’s pulse started racing; he could see the wisdom in that.

  “And how would I be able to make a federal case?”

  “For starters, if you think that bringing a case on behalf of a

  bunch of long-dead drug addicts is going to open those doors, then

  you’re exactly the fool I thought you were.” At Jake’s blank look (he

  was beginning to feel déjà vu), the old lawyer grew impatient. “Your

  best chance at success is to represent a county or a city that has

  lost millions of dollars from this drug epidemic of yours. Of course,

  you’ll have to figure out how to show specific damages to that kind of client. In fact
, you’ll have to figure out a lot of things as you waste

  the first three to five years of your career.”

  “I guess one thing I need to figure out before I can start wasting

  that time is how I go about getting hired by a county or city in the

  first place.”

  “You know what they say,” said Hodges. “It’s not what you know,

  it’s who you know.”

  That wasn’t exactly reassuring advice, thought Jake, to someone

  who didn’t even own a Rolodex.

  Hodges gave a few underhand waves of his right hand, gesturing

  for Jake to “shoo.”

  Jake stood. “You’ve been a big help, Mr. Hodges.”

  The lawyer snorted. “For your sake, I hope that’s not true. Now

  don’t come back unless you make an appointment. And unless you

  bring money.”

  3

  LAWYERS, GUNS, AND MONEY

  Jake sat in the waiting area near the reception desk. The law firm of Paul Vogel and Associates took up the entire fifth floor of the six-story brick River Building located along the Ohio River. The former warehouse had been revamped in the seventies for commercial office space. From its upper floors you could look out on the states of Kentucky, Ohio, and of course, West Virginia.

  The law offices were adorned with marble flooring, ornate glass chandeliers, and antique doors. Jake couldn’t help but feel out of place, despite the receptionist’s friendliness. He only had one suit to his name, but since he saved that for special occasions, today he’d worn his backup professional garb: a blue blazer and khaki pants. He’d declined coffee out of fear that he might spill some on his clothes; he wanted to avoid a dry-cleaning expense.

  In the months since speaking to Hodges, it had been the rare day when he hadn’t gone to bed exhausted. Blake was always on his mind, always spurring him on, but while the case was moving ahead, Jake wasn’t sure if he was getting somewhere or if he was just spinning his wheels. He’d heard that Walt Disney once remarked, “I must be successful; I owe seven million dollars.” That’s how Jake

  20 felt. Like the emperor with his new clothes, he was just waiting to be called out by someone who’d noticed he wasn’t really the lawyer he was pretending to be.

  “Mr. Rutledge?”

  The words didn’t register at first.

  “Mr. Rutledge?”

  Jake realized the receptionist was talking to him, and he jumped

  to his feet.

  “Mr. Vogel will see you now,” she said.

  Paul Vogel’s office reflected the lawyer. There were more pictures

  than diplomas, and mementos from Vogel family trips stood out more than the room’s legal library. Along the walls were historic black-and-white photographs of the Ohio River, and old nautical memorabilia. Beyond the large windows was the river itself.

  The two men shook hands, and then Vogel motioned Jake to a chair and said, “Please have a seat, Mr. Rutledge.”

  As he took a seat, he said, “Jake.”

  “And I’m Paul.”

  Paul Vogel was in his late forties but moved with an exuberance that made him seem far more youthful. He was medium-size and wiry, with alert blue eyes that didn’t seem to miss a thing. Jake’s glance kept drifting over to a framed picture of a younger iteration of him standing next to a musician.

  “I got that taken with Warren Zevon two years before he died,” Paul said. “Do you know his music?”

  Jake thought about it and came up with a title: ‘Werewolves in London’?”

  “Good one,” said Paul. “But my personal favorite is ‘Lawyers, Guns, and Money.’ It’s sort of become this office’s anthem. When people are desperate, they call for all of the above.”

  “I don’t know the song,” said Jake.

  “If you get a chance, give it a listen. It’s an office tradition to play the song loudly every Friday at the end of the workweek.”

  “Good tradition,” said Jake.

  Next to a picture of Zevon was another photo. Jake knew its subject, then turned from the picture to Paul. “When I first walked into the office, I could see your resemblance to your father.”

  The lawyer tilted his head back, his face showing his surprise. “You knew my father?”

  Jake nodded. “He represented my mother in a wrongful-death claim against the coal company where my father worked for almost thirty years. The coal company claimed my father’s cigarette smoking killed him. No one else would take the case.”

  “That sounds like Dad,” said Paul. He didn’t hide his proud smile. “He favored tough cases.”

  “He won a settlement for my family,” said Jake. “It wasn’t a lot of money, but we were in sore need of anything we could get. My mother used to say that Hank Vogel was heaven-sent.”

  “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that,” Paul said, “but it never grows old.”

  “I was sorry to learn he died,” Jake said. “To be honest, when I found myself in this pickle, the first person I thought might be able to help me was Hank Vogel. It was only after I tried to track your father down that I learned about his death. That’s how I found out about you.”

  “That’s what recommended me?”

  Jake nodded. “I was hoping the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.”

  “That’s been my lifelong hope as well.”

  “I’m certain I never would have become a lawyer if it weren’t for your father. When I was a kid, we talked a few times; I liked it that he didn’t talk down to me.”

  “Judging from the email you sent me,” said Paul, “I think my father would have approved of your career choice.” Paul picked up a printout of Jake’s email and studied it for a moment. “Just to make sure I’m not missing something, let me clarify a few things.”

  “Shoot,” said Jake.

  “You have no affiliation with any law firm, and are in fact a solo practitioner?”

  Jake nodded.

  “And you don’t have an office, but you work out of your house?”

  “Correct.”

  “You haven’t worked for any other law firm, or even interned anywhere?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And yet county commissions in two different states hired you to represent their interests against some of the biggest corporations in this country?”

  Jake shrugged. “I suppose I should point out that Wirt County is the smallest of West Virginia’s fifty-four counties; Vinton County also happens to have the smallest population in Ohio.”

  “When I received your letter asking for this consultation,” Paul said, “I wondered if someone was having a little fun at my expense. I don’t mean to be rude, Jake, but lawyers with your inexperience don’t get these kinds of cases.”

  “No joke,” Jake said. “I think I was so persistent that they decided hiring me was the easiest way to get rid of me.”

  “And I assume you don’t have the kind of deep pockets typically needed to engage a case like this?”

  “Guilty as charged,” said Jake. “I’m flat broke.”

  “I’d like to hear how you’ve gotten as far as you have,” said Paul.

  “It probably helped that I agreed to work on a contingency fee of only fifteen percent,” said Jake.

  Paul whistled softly. “Most lawyers would never consider working for a percentage that small,” he said. “But then again, I suppose you have to get the horse out of the barn.”

  “I never took on these cases to make my fortune,” Jake said.

  Paul looked at him, his eyes warm but shrewd. “Anything else help land you these counties?” he asked.

  “I had contacts,” Jake admitted, to which Paul started nodding— as if he must have struck some inappropriate backroom deals that explained his hiring.

  “But those contacts only got me in the doors of the county commissioners,” Jake said. “I was lucky to have an uncle who was well thought of in Wirt County, and my Mars
hall roommate vouched for me to his father in Vinton County.”

  “That was the extent of your contacts?” said a surprised Paul.

  “Less than six thousand people live in all of Wirt County,” said Jake. “And I think everyone there knows my Uncle Bill. Vinton County is bigger, but it feels like a small town.”

  “And you only knew your roommate?”

  “Quinn Barnett might have overstated my qualifications to his father.”

  “What did he say?”

  Jake shrugged. He didn’t like talking himself up. “Quinn was very complimentary. He told his father that if I hadn’t tutored him as much as I had his last two years of college, he never would have graduated.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He might have mentioned that I worked almost a full-time night job along with taking a heavy course load, but still managed to pull down good grades.”

  “What were your grades at Marshall?”

  “I graduated with honors.”

  “Mostly A’s?”

  Jake shrugged, and then nodded.

  “And let me guess, Law Review at WVU?”

  Instead of answering, Jake said, “Most people don’t know WVU has the fourth-oldest Law Review in the country.”

  “And you still managed to work a part-time job all three years?”

  Jake nodded. “It seemed like I didn’t sleep for three straight years. I was so busy I didn’t keep in contact with my twin brother, Blake, like I should have. That’s why I was oblivious to his opioid addiction. Two days before I graduated, I got the call that Blake had died of a drug overdose.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Paul.

  “In a roundabout way, that’s why I’m here. I came home and buried my brother, and then I began asking questions. This opioid problem is devastating the country, but I knew nothing about it. Blake’s death prompted me to become fully aware of the circumstances killing hundreds of people every single day. I didn’t set out with some kind of crazy vendetta in mind, but the more I learned, the more I began to treat my brother’s death like it was a homicide investigation. Have you ever seen those police flowcharts with string and lines connecting individuals and events?”

  Paul nodded.

  “If you visit my house,” Jake said, “you would see how I used an entire wall to map out the collusion between the manufacturers, the distributors, the medical community, the government, and basically the entire opioid pharmaceutical business. The opioid epidemic did not occur naturally, Mr. Vogel. I’m not overstating my case when I say there was a classic RICO-type conspiracy and subsequent cover-up here.”