The Rooster Bar

by John Grisham

  She heard footsteps above her and knew her partners were moving about. She turned off her laptop and stretched out under the covers. She was thankful for her cozy little hiding place, thankful that there would be no sudden knock on the door. The first apartment she remembered as a child was not much larger than her new space. She and her two older brothers shared a tiny bedroom. The boys had bunk beds and next to them she slept on a cot. Her parents were close by in another cramped bedroom. She didn’t realize they were poor and frightened and not supposed to be there. In spite of this, though, the home was a happy place with lots of laughter and good times. Her parents worked odd jobs at all hours, but one was usually at home. If not, there was always a neighbor down the hall checking on the kids. Their front door was usually open and folks “from home” were in and out. Someone was always cooking and the aromas hung heavy in the hallways. Food was shared, as was clothing, even money.

  And they worked. The Senegalese adults put in long hours with no complaints. Zola was twelve years old before she realized there was a dark cloud hanging over her world. A man they knew was arrested, detained, and eventually sent back. This had terrified the others, and her parents moved again.

  She thought of her parents and brother every hour of every day, and usually fell asleep fighting tears. Her future was uncertain, but nothing compared with theirs.

  20

  The king of D.C. billboards was a colorful tort lawyer named Rusty Savage. His jingle was “Trusting Rusty,” and it was impossible to drive along the Beltway without being confronted with his smiling face exhorting those who’d been injured to trust him. His slick TV ads featured clients who’d suffered all manner of physical trauma but were doing swell because they had wisely picked up the phone and called 1-800-Trust-Me.

  The three UPL partners had researched personal injury firms in the District and settled on Rusty. His operation had eight lawyers, several of whom were evidently able to walk into a courtroom and actually try a case. Zola made the call and explained to the lady on the other end that her husband had been badly injured in a wreck involving an 18-wheeler and she needed to see Rusty. The lady explained that he was tied up in a “major trial in federal court” but one of his associates would be happy to meet with her.

  If you know nothing about personal injury law, find someone who does. Using a name she’d selected from the phone book, Zola made the appointment.

  The office suite was in a glass building near Union Station. She and Todd entered the lobby, which had the look and feel of a busy doctor’s waiting room. Rows of chairs lined the walls along with racks of magazines. A dozen clients, some with crutches and canes, sat in varying degrees of discomfort. Rusty’s relentless advertising blitz was apparently working well. Zola checked in with the receptionist and was given a questionnaire on a clipboard. She filled in the blanks with bogus information but gave an actual phone number, her old cell. After fifteen minutes, a paralegal fetched them and led them back to a large, open space packed with cubbyholes and workstations. Numerous underlings labored frenetically on the phones and desktops, cranking out paperwork. The lawyers had private offices to the sides with views of the city. The paralegal tapped on the door of one, and they entered the domain of Brady Hull.

  From the website, they knew that Mr. Hull was about forty and had a law degree from American University. Of course, he was “passionate about fighting for the rights of his clients,” and claimed an impressive series of “major settlements.” The paralegal left them and introductions were made. They sat in leather chairs across from Mr. Hull, whose desk was only slightly tidier than a landfill.

  Tom (Todd) explained that Claudia (Zola) Tolliver’s husband was his best friend and he was there only for moral support. The husband, Donnie, had asked Tom to sit in with his wife and take notes while he, Donnie, was confined to the house with his injuries.

  Mr. Hull was skeptical at first and said, “Well, I don’t normally do this. We might need to discuss things that are private and confidential.”

  Claudia said, “Please, it’s okay. Tom is a trusted friend.”

  “Very well,” Mr. Hull said. He had the frazzled look of a man with too much going on, too many calls to make, too many files to touch, not enough hours in the day. “So your husband got banged up?” he said, glancing at a sheet of paper. “Tell me about it.”

  Claudia began, “Well, it happened three months ago.” She hesitated, looked at Tom, and managed to seem overwhelmed and nervous. “He was driving home from work on Connecticut Avenue, up near Cleveland Park, when he was hit by an 18-wheeler. Donnie was going north, the truck south, and for some reason it veered left, crossed the center line, and hit him. Dead on, just like that.”

  “So liability is clear?” Hull said.

  “Yes, according to the police. The driver has said nothing, so as of now we still don’t know why he crossed over.”

  “I need to see the accident report.”

  “I have it, at home.”

  “You didn’t bring it?” Hull asked rudely.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before. I wasn’t sure what to bring.”

  “Well, send over a copy as soon as you can. And his medicals? Did you bring his medical records?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t know I needed to.”

  Hull rolled his eyes in frustration as his phone beeped. He glanced at it and for a second seemed poised to take the call. “How bad are his injuries?”

  “Well, he almost died. Severe concussion, he was in a coma for a week. Broken jaw, broken collarbone, six broken ribs, one of which pierced a lung. A broken leg. He’s had two operations and will probably need at least one more.”

  Hull seemed impressed and said, “Wow, he did get banged up. What’s the total of his medical bills so far?”

  She shrugged and looked at Tom, who shrugged back as if he had no clue. She said, “Close to $200,000, maybe. He’s doing rehab now but can’t get around too well. Here’s the thing, Mr. Hull, I don’t know what to do. The lawyers called night and day right after it happened. I finally stopped answering the phone. I’ve been dealing with the insurance company and I’m not sure I can trust them.”

  “Never trust an insurance company in a case like this,” he said sternly, as if she’d already blundered. “Don’t talk to them.” Hull was not as distracted now and able to focus. “What kind of work does Donnie do?”

  “He drives a forklift in a warehouse. Pretty good job. He makes about forty-five a year. Hasn’t worked since the accident and I’m running out of money.”

  “We can provide bridge loans,” Hull said smugly. “Do it all the time. We don’t want our clients pinching pennies while we negotiate a settlement. If liability is as clear as you say, we’ll get this thing settled without going to court.”

  “How much do you charge?” she asked. Tom had yet to say a word.

  “We charge nothing,” Hull said proudly. “No recovery, no fee.”

  Tom wanted to say, “Gee, I’ve seen that on about fifty billboards.” But, of course he kept it to himself.

  Hull went on, “We get paid when you get paid. Our fee is based on a contingency, usually 25 percent of a settlement. If we go to trial, then obviously there’s a lot more work on our end, so we bump it up to one-third.”

  Claudia and Tom nodded. Finally, something they had learned in law school.

  She said, “Well, here’s the deal, Mr. Hull. The insurance company says they’ll pay all the medicals, and the lost wages, and the rehab expenses, and on top of all that pay us $100,000 for a settlement.”

  “A hundred grand!” Hull said in disbelief. “That sounds like an insurance company. They’re lowballing you because you don’t have a lawyer. Look, Claudia, in my hands, this case is worth a million bucks. Tell the insurance company to screw itself and, no, wait, don’t tell them anything. Don’t say another word to the adjuster. Who is the company, by the way?”

  “Clinch.”

  “Oh, of course. Sounds like Clinch. I sue t
hose clowns all the time, know them well.”

  Claudia and Tom relaxed a bit. Their research had led them to Clinch, one of the leading commercial insurers in the region. Its website boasted of a long tradition of protecting freight and transportation companies.

  “A million dollars?” Tom repeated.

  Hull exhaled, smiled, even managed to chuckle. He clasped his hands behind his head as if the old master needed to enlighten his students. “I make no guarantees, okay? I can’t properly evaluate any case until I have all the facts. Police report, medicals, lost wages, the other driver’s safety record, all that jazz. And then there’s the huge issue of permanent disability, which, to be brutally honest, means a lot more money. Let’s hope Donnie makes a full recovery, goes back to work, and is soon clicking along as if nothing happened. If so, based on medicals in the range of what you said, I would demand something in the neighborhood of one-point-five from Clinch and haggle for a few months.”

  Tom gawked in disbelief.

  Claudia, overwhelmed, said, “Wow. How do you arrive at that figure?”

  “It’s an art form, really. But not that complicated. Take the total of the medicals and use a multiple of, say, five or six. Clinch will counter with three, maybe three and a half. Clinch also knows my reputation and those folks do not want to see me in a courtroom, believe me. That will be a huge factor in this negotiation.”

  “So you’ve nailed them before?” Tom asked.

  “Oh, many times. This little law firm terrifies even the biggest insurance companies.”

  At least that’s what your TV ads claim, Tom thought to himself.

  “I had no idea,” Claudia said, as if in shock.

  His desk phone rang again and he resisted the urge to grab it. He rocked forward, placed his elbows on the desk, and said, “Here’s the drill. My paralegal will take care of the paperwork. You and Donnie sign the contract for legal services, it’s all in black and white with no surprises. Once we have it, I’ll contact the insurance company and ruin its day. We’ll begin gathering the medical records and we’re off and running. If liability is clear, we’ll have it settled within six months. Any more questions?” He was obviously ready to move on to the next case.

  Claudia and Tom gave each other blank looks and shook their heads. She said, “I guess not. Thanks, Mr. Hull.”

  Hull stood, stretched out his hand, and said, “Welcome aboard. You’ve just made a great decision.”

  “Thank you,” she said as she shook it. Tom shook too and they hustled out of the office. The paralegal handed her a folder with the words “New Client Packet: Trusting Rusty” on the cover and led them to the door.

  When the elevator door closed, they started laughing. “What a nice little tutorial,” Zola said.

  “Personal Injury Law 101,” Todd replied. “A crash course like that would take four months at Foggy Bottom.”

  “Yes, and taught by some clown who’s never advertised on a billboard.”

  “Now all we need is a client or two.”

  As Todd drove away, Zola checked her phone and chuckled. “We’re getting rich. Mark just hustled another DUI for six hundred in cash. Division 4.”

  —

  CHOOSING THE RIGHT hospital proved difficult. There were so many in the city. Potomac General was a busy, sprawling, chaotic public hospital and the preferred unloading place for victims of street violence. On the high end, George Washington was where they took President Reagan when he was shot. There were at least eight more in between.

  They had to start somewhere and decided it would be General. Todd dropped Zola off at the front entrance and went in search of a parking place. As a lawyer now, Ms. Parker wore a fake designer jacket and skirt that fell above the knees but wasn’t too short. Her brown leather pumps were quite stylish, and with a knockoff Gucci attaché she certainly looked like a professional in some field. She followed signs and made her way to the cafeteria on the ground floor. She bought coffee, took a seat at a metal table, and waited on Todd. Not far away, a teenager in a wheelchair sat with a woman, probably his mother, and ate ice cream. One leg was in a thick cast with metal rods protruding. Judging from his mother’s appearance, the family was not affluent.

  Affluency was to be avoided, the UPL partners had determined. Those with money were more likely to know a real lawyer. Poor folks would not, or so they reasoned. Against a far wall, a man of about fifty had plaster on both ankles, and appeared to be in pain. He was alone and trying to eat a sandwich.

  When Todd entered the cafeteria he stopped and glanced around. He made eye contact with Zola and went to buy coffee. He eventually sat at her table, where she was busy reviewing the UPL new client packet, plagiarized from Rusty’s. “Any victims?” he said quietly as he picked up a sheet of paper.

  She was scribbling some useless notes and said, “That kid over there with the broken leg. Dude in the far corner with matching bum ankles.”

  Todd slowly looked around as he sipped his coffee.

  “I’m not sure I can do this,” she said. “It seems so wrong, preying on unsuspecting people.”

  “Come on, Zola. Nobody’s watching. These folks might need our services, and if we don’t get them Trusty Rusty will. Besides, if they tell us to get lost we haven’t lost anything.”

  “You go first.”

  “Okay, I’ll take the white kid. You’ve got the black guy.”

  Todd stood and pulled out his cell phone. He walked away, deep in conversation with no one, and began pacing around the cafeteria. He circled back, and as he walked by the kid with the broken leg he said to the phone, “Look, the trial is next week. We’re not taking fifty thousand because the insurance company is trying to screw you. Got that? I’ll tell the judge that we’re ready for trial.” He stuffed the phone into his pocket, turned around, and with a big smile said to the kid, “Hey, that’s a nasty-looking leg. What happened?”

  “Broke it in four places,” the mother said proudly. “Had surgery yesterday.”

  The kid smiled and seemed to enjoy the attention. Todd looked at the cast, kept smiling, and said, “Wow. Nice job. How’d you do it?”

  The kid said proudly, “I was on a skateboard and hit some ice.”

  Skateboard = assumption of risk, self-inflicted injury. Ice = natural element. As the lawsuit dissipated, Todd asked, “Were you by yourself?”

  “Yep.” Personal negligence = no one else to blame.

  Todd said, “Well, good luck.” He yanked out his phone, took a non-call, and walked away. As he brushed beside Zola, he said, “Strike one. It’s up to you.” He left the cafeteria, still on the phone. He was right; no one was watching; no one cared.

  Slowly, she stood and adjusted her fake reading glasses. Holding a sheet of paper in one hand and a cell phone in the other, she walked around the cafeteria. Tall, thin, well dressed, attractive. The man with the injured ankles couldn’t help but notice her as she drew close, on the phone. She smiled at him as she walked by and he returned the smile. Then she was back with a pleasant “Say, are you Mr. Cranston?”

  He smiled and said, “No. Name’s McFall.”

  She was standing next to him looking at his ankles. She said, “I’m an attorney and I’m supposed to meet a Mr. Cranston here at 2:00 p.m.”

  “Sorry. Wrong guy.”

  Evidently, McFall wasn’t much of a talker. She said, “Must’ve been a good car wreck.”

  “No car wreck. I stepped on some ice and fell off the patio. Broke both ankles.”

  What a klutz, she thought, as another lawsuit evaporated. She said, “Well, hang in there.”

  “Thanks.”

  She returned to her table and her coffee and buried her face in paperwork. Todd returned after a few minutes and whispered, “Did you sign him up?”

  “No. He fell on some ice.”

  “Ice, ice, ice. Where’s global warming when you need it?”

  “Look, Todd, I’m just not cut out for this. I feel like a vulture.”

  “That’
s exactly what we are.”

  21

  Wilson Featherstone was another third-year student at Foggy Bottom and had been a member of the gang in the early days. During their second year, he and Todd got sideways over a girl, and they had partied with him less and less. But he was still a good friend, of Mark’s anyway, and his calls had been persistent. He was not going away, and Mark finally agreed to meet for a drink. Avoiding the old neighborhood, Mark chose a dive near Capitol Hill. Late on a Thursday night, with Todd serving drinks at The Rooster Bar and Zola reluctantly trolling at GW Hospital, Mark walked in late and saw Wilson at the bar, half a beer already down.