by John Grisham
Donovan introduced Mattie and Samantha to Lisa, and said nice things about the way she had held up during the five-day trial. The jury was still deliberating, he said as he pointed to a second-floor window in the courthouse. “That’s their room,” he said. “They’ve had the case about three hours.”
Mattie said, “I’m so sorry about your boys, Lisa. Such a senseless tragedy.”
“Thank you,” she replied softly but had no interest in pursuing the conversation.
“So how was your closing argument?” Samantha asked after an awkward pause.
Donovan smiled the victor’s smile and said, “Probably top three of all time. Had ’em in tears, didn’t I, Lisa?”
She nodded and said, “It was very emotional.”
Jeff finished his call and joined them. “What’s taking so long?” he asked Donovan.
“Relax. They had a nice lunch, courtesy of the county. Now they’re walking through the evidence. I’d give them another hour.”
“Then what?” Mattie asked.
“A big verdict,” he said with another smile. “A record for Hopper County.”
Jeff said, “Strayhorn offered $900,000 when the jury retired. Perry Mason here said no.” Donovan looked at his brother with a sneer, as if to say, “What do you know? Just hang on, I’ll show you.”
Samantha was struck by the sheer recklessness of Donovan’s decisions. His client was a poor woman with little education and dim prospects for a better life. Her husband was in prison for selling drugs. She and her two sons had been living in a small trailer deep in the hills when the tragedy happened. Now she was alone with nothing but a lawsuit. She could walk away right now with at least half a million dollars in cash, more than she had ever dreamed of. Yet her lawyer had said no and rolled the dice. Blinded by the dream of striking gold, he had laughed at the chance of getting a decent sum. What if the jury marched off in the wrong direction and said no? What if the coal company managed to silently exert pressure in places never to be known?
Samantha could not imagine the horror of Lisa Tate walking out of the courtroom empty-handed, with nothing to show for the deaths of her little boys. Donovan, though, seemed unconcerned, even cocky. He certainly appeared calmer than anyone else in their little group. Her father had always said trial lawyers were a strange breed. They walked a fine line between big verdicts and catastrophic failures, and the great ones were not afraid of the risks.
Mattie and Samantha couldn’t hang around. The Bookers were waiting. They said good-bye and Donovan invited them to stop by his office later to celebrate.
Pamela Booker preferred the trailer. She had spoken to the owner and negotiated the rent down to $500 a month for six months. Mattie said the clinic could swing the first three, but after that the rent was all hers. When they picked the kids up from school, Pamela told them about their new home, and they drove straight over to see it.
The call came at 5:20, and the news was great. Donovan had his million-dollar verdict; three million to be exact, the amount he asked from the jury. A million for each child, a million in punitive damages. An unheard-of verdict for that part of the world. Jeff told Mattie the courtroom was still packed when the verdict was read, and the crowd applauded wildly before the judge calmed things down.
Samantha was in the conference room with Mattie and Annette, and all three reveled in the verdict. They high-fived, fist-pumped, and chatted excitedly as if their own little firm had done something great. It wasn’t Donovan’s first million-dollar verdict—he’d had one in West Virginia and one in Kentucky, both coal truck collisions—but it was his largest. They were happy, even giddy, and no one was really sure if they were more excited over winning or relieved at not losing. It didn’t matter.
So this is what litigation is all about, Samantha thought. Maybe she was beginning to understand. This was the rush, the high, the narcotic that pushed trial lawyers to the brink. This was the thrill that Donovan sought when he refused to settle for cash on the table. This was the overdose of testosterone that inspired men like her father to dash around the world chasing cases.
Mattie declared that they would throw a party. She called Chester and snapped him into high gear. Burgers on the grill in their backyard, with champagne to start and beer to finish. Two hours later, the party materialized perfectly in the cool evening. Donovan proved to be a graceful winner, deflecting congratulations and giving his client all the credit. Lisa was there, alone. In addition to the hosts and Samantha, the crowd included Annette with Kim and Adam; Barb and her husband, Wilt; Claudelle and her husband; Vic Canzarro and his girlfriend; and Jeff.
In a toast, Mattie said, “Victories are rare in our business, so let’s savor this moment of triumph, good over evil and all that jazz, and wipe out these three bottles of champagne. Cheers!”
Samantha was sitting in a wicker patio swing chatting with Kim when Jeff asked if she needed a top-off. She did, and he took her empty glass. When he returned, he looked at the narrow empty spot beside her, and she invited him to have a seat. It was very cozy. Kim got bored and left them. The air was cool, but the champagne kept them warm.
21
Her second adventure in the Cessna Skyhawk was not quite as thrilling as the first. They waited at the Noland County Airfield an hour for some weather to move on. Perhaps they should have waited longer. Donovan at one point mumbled something about postponing the trip. Jeff, also a pilot, seemed to agree, but then saw a break in the front and thought they could make it. After watching them study a weather screen at the terminal and fret over “turbulence,” Samantha was secretly hoping they would cancel. But they did not. They took off into the clouds, and for the first ten minutes she thought she might be sick. From the front, Donovan said, “Hang on,” as the small plane was tossed about. Hang on to what, exactly? She was in the rear seat, which was cramped even for her. She had been relegated to second class and was already promising herself she would never do this again. Bullets of rain pecked vigorously at the windshield.
At six thousand feet the clouds thinned considerably and the ride became smooth. Up front both pilots seemed to relax. All three on board had headsets, and Samantha, breathing normally, was fascinated by the radio. The Skyhawk was being handled by Washington air traffic control, and there were at least four other aircraft on the same frequency. Everyone was terribly excited about the weather, with pilots calling in the latest updates based on what they had encountered. Her fascination, though, soon led to boredom as they hummed along, bouncing slightly on top of the clouds. She could see nothing below, and nothing on either side. An hour in and she almost nodded off.
Two hours and fifteen minutes after they left Brady, they landed at a small airport in Manassas, Virginia. They rented a car, found a drive-thru for carryout lunch tacos, and arrived at the Kofer Group’s new digs in Alexandria at 1:00 p.m. Marshall greeted them warmly and apologized for the emptiness of the place. It was, after all, Saturday.
Marshall was delighted to see his daughter, especially under the circumstances. She was hanging around with a real trial lawyer and seemed keenly interested in pursuing a promising lawsuit against corporate bad guys. After just two weeks in the coalfields she was well on her way to a real conversion. He had been trying in vain for years to show her the light.
After some small talk, Marshall said to Donovan, “Congrats on the verdict down there. Tough place to get one.”
Samantha had not mentioned the Tate verdict to her father. She had e-mailed him twice with details about the meeting, but nothing about the trial. Donovan said, “Thanks. There was a line or two in the Roanoke paper. I guess you saw it.”
“Missed that,” he said. “We monitor a lot of trials through a national network. Your story popped up late last night and I read the summary. A great set of facts.”
They were seated around a square table with real flowers in the center, next to coffee in a silver pot. Marshall had dressed down and was slumming in a cashmere sweater and slacks. The Gray boys were in j
eans and old sports coats. Samantha wore jeans and a sweater.
Donovan said thanks again and answered Marshall’s questions about the trial. Jeff said nothing and missed nothing. He and Samantha exchanged looks occasionally. She poured more coffee and finally said, “Perhaps we should move along.”
“Right,” Marshall said as he took a sip. “How much do I know?”
“There’s nothing new,” Samantha said. “I’ve just started digging and I’m sure we’ll learn a lot more after I file the claim for black lung benefits.”
“Casper Slate has a nasty reputation,” Marshall said.
“They’ve earned it,” Donovan replied. “I’ve fought them for a long time.”
“Give me your lawsuit. Give me your theory.”
Donovan took a deep breath and glanced at Samantha. He said, “Federal court, probably in Kentucky. Maybe West Virginia. Certainly not Virginia because of the caps on damages. We file the lawsuit with one plaintiff, Buddy Ryzer, and we sue Casper Slate and Lonerock Coal. We allege fraud and conspiracy, perhaps racketeering, and we ask for the moon in punitive damages. It’s a punitive case, plain and simple. Lonerock Coal is currently capitalized at six billion and insured to the hilt. Casper Slate is private and we don’t know what it’s worth, but we’ll find out. As we dig, we hope we find other fraud cases. The more the better. But if we don’t, we’ll always be ready to take the Ryzer case to the jury and ask for a fortune in punitives.”
Marshall nodded as if he agreed, as if he’d done this a hundred times.
Donovan paused and asked, “What’s your take on it?”
“Agreed, so far. It sounds good, especially if the fraud really exists and there’s no way to explain it away. It certainly looks legitimate, and the jury appeal is fantastic. Actually, I think it’s brilliant. A corrupt law firm full of high-priced lawyers hiding medical evidence to beat some poor, sick miner out of his meager benefits. Wow! It’s a trial lawyer’s dream. It’s a clear punitive case with tremendous upside potential.” He paused, took a calculated sip, and continued. “But, first, of course, there is the little matter of the actual lawsuit. You practice alone, Donovan, with almost no staff and, shall we say, limited resources. A lawsuit like this will take five years and cost $2 million, minimum.”
“One million,” Donovan said.
“Split the difference. One and a half. I’m assuming that’s still out of your reach.”
“It is, but I have friends, Mr. Kofer.”
“Let’s go with Marshall, shall we?”
“Sure, Marshall. There are two law firms in West Virginia and two in Kentucky that I conspire with. We often pool our money and resources and divide the work. Still, I’m not sure we can risk that much. I suppose that’s why we’re here.”
Marshall shrugged and laughed and said, “That’s my business. The litigation wars. I consult with lawyers and with litigation funders. I play matchmaker between the guys with the cash and the guys with the cases.”
“So you can arrange one or two million for the litigation expenses?”
“Sure, that’s no problem, not in this line. Most of our work involves between ten and fifty million. Two mill is easy.”
“And how much does it cost us, the lawyers?”
“That depends on the fund. The great thing about this case is that it’ll cost two million, let’s say, and not thirty million. The less you take for expenses, the more you keep in fees. I’m assuming you’ll get 50 percent of the recovery.”
“I’ve never asked for 50 percent.”
“Well, welcome to the big leagues, Donovan. In all major cases the trial lawyers get 50 percent these days. And why not? You take all the risks, do all the work, and put up all the money. A big verdict is a windfall for a client like Buddy Ryzer. Poor guy’s trying to get a thousand dollars a month. Get him a few million and he’s a happy dude, right?”
“I’ll think about it. I’ve never taken more than 40.”
“Well, it may be difficult to arrange funding if we’re not at 50. That’s just the way it is. So we line up the money, now what about the manpower? Casper Slate will throw an army of lawyers at you, their best and brightest, meanest and slickest, and if you think they cheat now, just wait until their own necks are on the line and they’re trying to hide their dirty underwear. It’ll be a war, Donovan, one like we seldom see.”
“You ever sue a law firm?”
“No. I was too busy suing airlines. Believe me, they were tough enough.”
“What was your biggest verdict?”
Samantha almost said, “Please, come on.” The last thing they needed was Marshall Kofer onstage telling his war stories. Without the slightest hesitation, he gave that smug smile and said, “I popped Braniff for forty million in San Juan, Puerto Rico, in 1982. Took seven weeks.”
She wanted to ask, Great, Dad, and was that the fee you kept offshore and tried to bury until Mom got wind of it?
Marshall continued, “I was the lead lawyer, but there were four of us, and we worked our tails off. My point, Donovan, is that you will need some high-powered help. The fund will scrutinize you and your team before it commits the money.”
Donovan said, “I’m not worried about the team, or the preparation, or the trial. I’ve spent my career looking for a case like this. The lawyers I bring in are all veteran trial lawyers and they know the terrain. This is our backyard. The jurors will be our people. The judge, we can only hope, will be beyond the reach of the defendants. And on appeal, the verdict will be in the hands of federal judges, not state judges elected by the coal companies.”
“I realize this,” Marshall said.
“You didn’t answer the question,” Jeff said, almost rudely. “How much do we give up in exchange for the funding?”
Marshall shot him a hard look, then instinctively smiled and said, “Depends. It’s negotiable. That’s my job to arrange the deal, but, just guessing, I’d say the fund I have in mind would ask for a fourth of the attorneys’ fees. As you know, it’s impossible to predict what a jury might do; therefore it’s impossible to project what the fees might be. If the jury gives you, say, ten million, and the expenses are two, then the expenses come off the top and you split eight with your client. He gets four million, you get the same. The fund gets a quarter of that. You get the rest. Not a great deal for the fund, but not a loser either. A 50 percent return. Needless to say here, fellas, but the bigger the verdict the better. Personally, I think ten million is low. I can see a jury getting highly agitated with Casper Slate and Lonerock Coal and going for blood.”
He was quite convincing, and Samantha had to remind herself that he once extracted huge sums from juries.
“Who are these guys?” Donovan asked.
“Investors, other funds, hedge funds, private equity guys, you name it. There is a surprising number of Asians who have discovered the game. They’re petrified by our tort system but also captivated by it. They think they’re missing something. I have several retired lawyers who struck gold in their day. They know litigation and are not afraid of the risks. They’ve done quite well in this business.”
Donovan seemed unsure. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is all new to me. I’ve heard of litigation funds but I’ve never been near one.” Marshall said, “It’s just old-fashioned capitalism, but from our side of the street. Now a plaintiffs’ lawyer with a great case but no money can take on corporate thugs anywhere and level the field.”
“And they review the case and predict the outcome?”
“That’s my job, really. I consult with both sides—the trial lawyer and the fund. Based on what Samantha has told me, and a review of the pertinent documents, and especially because of your growing reputation in the courtroom, I have no hesitation in recommending this case to one of my funds. It will approve one to two million bucks in short order, and you’re in business.”
Donovan looked at Jeff, who looked at Marshall and asked, “Back in your prime, Mr. Kofer, would you take this case?”
“In a heartbeat. Big law firms make lousy defendants, especially when you catch ’em red-handed.”
Donovan asked Samantha, “Do you think Buddy Ryzer is up to the challenge?”
She replied, “I have no idea. All he wants are his benefits, present and past. We haven’t discussed a lawsuit like this. In fact, he doesn’t even know all the stuff I found in his medical records. I was planning on meeting with him next week.”
“What’s your gut feeling?”
“You want my gut feeling about something I know nothing about?”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes. He’s a fighter.”
They walked down the street to a sports bar with five screens all showing college football. Donovan was a Hokie from Virginia Tech, rabid as all of them, and was keen to find scores. They ordered beers and gathered around a table. After the waiter placed four tall mugs in front of them, Marshall said to Donovan, “Your name popped up online last night. I was looking at contamination cases in the coalfields—sorry but that’s how I spend my reading time—and I came across the Peck Mountain sludge pond and the Hammer Valley cancer cluster. According to a story in the Charleston paper, you’ve been investigating the case for some time. Anything in the works?”
Donovan made eye contact with Samantha, who quickly shook her head. No, I haven’t said a word. He said, “We’re still investigating, and signing up clients.”
“Clients mean a lawsuit, right? Not prying here, just a bit curious. It sounds like a massive case, and a very expensive one. Krull Mining is a monster.”
“I know Krull very well,” Donovan said, with caution. Not for a split second would he trust Marshall Kofer with any information he might swap or barter in another deal. When it was obvious he preferred not to talk about the case, Marshall said, “Oh well, I know two funds that specialize in toxic waste cases. It’s an extremely lucrative area, I might add.”