by John Grisham
“He didn’t say that. Said he needs a lawyer and at the moment Mattie and Annette are tied up. He’s yours by default.”
“What kind of case?” Samantha asked, glancing at her six skyscrapers standing together on top of an army surplus file cabinet.
“Social Security. Be careful. Line two.”
Barb worked part-time and ran the front. Samantha had spoken to her for only a few seconds early that morning as she was being introduced. The clinic also had a part-time paralegal named Claudelle. An all-girls show.
She punched line two and said, “Samantha Kofer.”
Mr. Duncan said hello and quizzed her to make sure she was really a lawyer. She assured him she was but at that moment had doubts. Soon he was off and running. He was going through a rough spell and really wanted to chat about it. All manner of misfortune had hit him and his family, and based on the first ten minutes of his narrative he had enough problems to keep a small law firm busy for several months. He was unemployed—had been wrongfully terminated but that would be yet another story—but his real problem was his health. He had ruptured a lower disk and couldn’t work. He had applied for disability status under Social Security, and had been denied. Now he was losing everything.
Because Samantha had so little to offer, she was content to let him ramble. After half an hour, though, she got bored. Ending the conversation was a challenge—he was desperate and clinging—but she finally convinced him she would immediately review his case with their Social Security specialist and get back to him.
By noon, Samantha was famished and exhausted. It was not the fatigue brought on by hours of reading and poring over thick documents, or the relentless pressure to impress people, or the fear of not measuring up and being shoved off the track to partnership. It was not the exhaustion she had lived with for the past three years. She was drained from the shock and fear of looking at the emotional wreckage of real humans, desperate people with little hope and looking to her for help.
For the rest of the firm, though, it was a typical Monday morning. They met for a brown-bag lunch in the main conference room, a weekly ritual, to eat quickly while discussing cases, clients, or any other business deemed necessary. But on this Monday the main topic was the new intern. They were keen to examine her. Finally, she was encouraged to speak.
“Well, I need some help,” Samantha said. “I just got off the phone with a man whose claim for Social Security disability was denied. Whatever that means.”
This was met with a mix of laughter and amusement. The word “disability” seemed to draw a reaction from the rest of the firm. “We no longer take Social Security cases,” Barb said from the front line. She met the clients first, as they came through the front door.
“What was his name?” Claudelle asked.
Samantha hesitated and looked at the eager faces. “Okay, first things first. I’m not sure where we are with confidentiality. Do you—do we—discuss each other’s cases openly, or are we each bound by rules of the attorney-client privilege?”
This drew even more laughter. All four talked at once, as they laughed and chuckled and nibbled on their sandwiches. It was immediately clear to Samantha that, within these walls, these four ladies talked about everyone and everything.
“Inside the firm, it’s all fair game,” Mattie said. “But outside, not a word.”
“Good enough.”
Barb said, “His name was Joe Duncan. Kinda rings a bell.”
Claudelle said, “I had him a few years ago, filed a claim, got denied. I think it was a bad shoulder.”
“Well, now it’s spread to his lower lumbar,” Samantha said. “Sounds like a mess.”
“He’s a serial claimant,” Claudelle said. “And that’s one reason we don’t take Social Security cases anymore. There is so much fraud in the system. It’s pretty rotten, especially around here.”
“So what do I tell Mr. Duncan?”
“There’s a law firm down in Abingdon that does nothing but disability cases.”
Annette chimed in, “Cockrell and Rhodes, better known as Cock and Roach, or Cockroach for short. Really bad boys who have a racket with some doctors and Social Security judges. All of their clients get checks. They’re batting a thousand.”
Mattie added, “A triathlete could file a claim and the Cockroaches could get him disability benefits.”
“So we never—”
“Never.”
Samantha took a bite of her highly processed turkey sandwich and looked directly at Barb. She almost asked the obvious: “If we don’t take these cases, then why did you send the phone call back to me?” Instead, she made a mental note to keep the radar on high alert. Three years in Big Law had honed her survival skills razor sharp. Throat cutting and backstabbing were the norm, and she had learned to avoid both.
She would not discuss it now with Barb, but she would bring it up when the moment was right.
Claudelle seemed to be the clown of the group. She was only twenty-four, married for less than a year, pregnant, and having a rough time of it. She had spent the morning in the bathroom, fighting nausea and thinking vile thoughts about her unborn baby, a boy who had already been named after his father and was already causing as much trouble.
The tone was surprisingly raunchy. In forty-five minutes they not only covered the firm’s pressing business but managed to explore morning sickness, menstrual cramps, labor and childbirth, men, and sex—no one seemed to be getting enough.
Annette broke up the meeting when she looked at Samantha and said, “We’re in court in fifteen minutes.”
9
Generally speaking, her experience with courtrooms had not been pleasant. Some visits had been required, others voluntary. When she was in the ninth grade, the great Marshall Kofer was trying an airline crash case in federal court in downtown D.C., and he convinced Samantha’s civics teacher that her students’ learning experience would be greatly enriched by watching him in action. For two full days, the kids sat in stultifying boredom as expert witnesses argued over the aerodynamics of severe icing. Far from being proud of her father, Samantha had been mortified at the unwanted attention. Fortunately for him, the students were back in class when the jury returned a verdict in favor of the manufacturer, handing him a rare loss. Seven years later she returned to the same building, but a different courtroom, to watch her father plead guilty to his crimes. It was a fine day for her mother, who never considered showing up, and so Samantha sat with an uncle, one of Marshall’s brothers, and dabbed her eyes with tissues. A pre-law class at Georgetown had required her to watch a portion of a criminal trial, but a mild case of the flu kept her away. All law students do mock trials, and she had enjoyed them to a point, but wanted no part of the real thing. During her clerkship she seldom saw a courtroom. During her interviews, she had made it clear she wanted to stay far away from litigation.
And now she was walking into the Noland County Courthouse, headed for the main courtroom. The building itself was a handsome old redbrick structure with a sagging, bright tin roof over the third floor. Inside, a dusty foyer displayed fading portraits of bearded heroes, and one wall was covered with legal notices stapled slapdash to bulletin boards. She followed Annette to the second floor where they passed an ancient bailiff napping in his chair. They eased through thick double doors and stepped into the rear of the courtroom. Ahead, a judge was working at his bench as a few lawyers shuffled paperwork and bantered back and forth. To the right was the empty jury box. The high walls were covered with even more fading portraits, all men, all bearded and apparently serious about legal matters. A couple of clerks chatted and flirted with the lawyers. Several spectators watched and waited for justice to prevail.
Annette cornered a prosecutor, a man she hurriedly introduced to her intern as Richard, and said they represented Phoebe Fanning, who would be filing for a divorce as soon as possible. “How much do you know?” she asked Richard.
The three moved to a corner near the jury box so no one could hear
. Richard said, “According to the cops, they were both stoned and decided they ought to settle their differences with a good fight. He won, she lost. Somehow a gun was involved, unloaded, and he whacked her in the head with it.”
Annette recounted Phoebe’s version as Richard listened carefully. He said, “Hump’s his lawyer and all he wants now is a low bond. I’ll argue for a higher one and maybe we can keep this old boy in jail a few more days, let him cool off while she clears out.” Annette nodded, agreed, and said, “Thanks, Richard.”
Hump was Cal Humphrey, a fixture from down the street; they had just walked past his storefront office. Annette said hello and introduced Samantha, who was appalled at the size of his stomach. A pair of gaudy suspenders strained under the load and seemed ready to pop, with consequences that would be too gross to consider. Hump whispered that “his man” Randy (for a second he could not remember his last name) needed to get out of jail because he was missing work. Hump didn’t buy Phoebe’s version of events, but instead suggested that the entire conflict had been started when she attacked his client with the unloaded pistol.
“That’s why we have trials,” Annette mumbled as they eased away from Hump. Randy Fanning and two other inmates were escorted into the courtroom and placed on the front row. Their handcuffs were removed and a deputy stood close. The three could have been members of the same gang—faded orange jail overalls, unshaven faces, messy hair, hard looks. Annette and Samantha sat in the audience, as far away as possible. Barb tiptoed into the courtroom, handed Annette a file, and said, “Here’s the divorce.”
When the judge called Randy Fanning to the bench, Annette sent a text message to Phoebe, who was sitting in her car outside the courthouse. Randy stood before the judge, with Hump to his right and Richard to his left, but farther away. Hump began a windy narrative about how much his client needed to be at work, how deep his roots were in Noland County, how he could be trusted to show up in court anytime he was needed, and so on. It was just a garden-variety marital dispute and things could be worked out without getting the judicial system further involved. As he rambled, Phoebe eased into the courtroom and sat beside Annette. Her hands were trembling, her eyes moist.
Richard, for the prosecution, dwelt on the gravity of the charges and the real possibility of a lengthy jail term for Fanning. Nonsense, said Hump. His man was innocent. His man had been attacked by his “unbalanced” wife. If she insisted on pushing matters, she just might be the one going to jail. Back and forth the lawyers argued.
The judge, a peaceful old gentleman with a slick head, asked calmly, “I understand the alleged victim is here in the courtroom. Is that correct, Ms. Brevard?” he asked, scanning the audience.
Annette jumped to her feet and said, “She’s right here, Your Honor.” She walked through the bar as if she owned the courtroom, Phoebe in tow. “We represent Phoebe Fanning, whose divorce we’ll be filing within the next ten minutes.”
Samantha, still safely in the audience, watched as Randy Fanning glared at his wife. Richard seized the moment and said, “Your Honor, it might be helpful to notice the apparent wounds to the face of Ms. Fanning. This woman has had the hell beaten out of her.”
“I’m not blind,” replied the judge. “I don’t see any damage to your face, Mr. Fanning. The court also takes note of the fact that you’re over six feet tall and rather stout. Your wife is, let’s say, quite a bit smaller. Did you slap her around?”
Randy shuffled his considerable weight from foot to foot, obviously guilty, and managed to say, “We had a fight, Judge. She started it.”
“I’m sure she did. I think it’s best if you continue to settle down for a day or two. I’m sending you back to jail and we’ll meet again on Thursday. In the meantime, Ms. Brevard, you and your client tend to her pressing legal matters and keep me posted.”
Hump said, “But, Your Honor, my client will lose his job.”
Phoebe blurted, “He doesn’t have a job. He cuts timber part-time and sells meth full-time.”
Everyone seemed to swallow hard as her words rattled around the courtroom. Randy was ready to resume the fight and glared at his wife with murderous hatred. The judge finally said, “That’s enough. Bring him back Thursday.” A bailiff grabbed Randy and led him away and out of the courtroom.
Standing at the main door were two men, a couple of ruffians with matted hair and tattoos. They stared at Annette, Samantha, and Phoebe as they walked by. In the hallway, Phoebe whispered, “Those thugs are with Randy, all in the meth business. I gotta get out of this town.”
Samantha thought: I might be right behind you.
They walked into the office of the Circuit Court and filed the divorce. Annette was asking for an immediate hearing for a restraining order to keep Randy away from the family. “The earliest slot is Wednesday afternoon,” a clerk said.
“We’ll take it,” Annette said.
The two thugs were waiting just outside the front door of the courthouse, and they had been joined by a third angry young man. He stepped in front of Phoebe and growled, “You better drop the charges, girl, or you’ll be sorry.”
Phoebe did not back away; instead, she looked at him in a way that conveyed years of familiarity and contempt. She said to Annette, “This is Randy’s brother Tony, fresh from prison.”
“Did you hear me? I said drop the charges,” Tony said in a louder growl.
“I just filed for divorce, Tony. It’s over. I’m leaving town as fast as I can, but I’ll be sure and come back when he goes to court. I’m not dropping the charges, so please get out of the way.”
One thug stared at Samantha, the other at Annette. The brief confrontation ended when Hump and Richard walked out of the courthouse and saw what was happening. “That’s enough,” Richard said, and Tony backed away.
Hump said, “Let’s go gals. I’ll walk you back to the office.” As Hump lumbered down Main Street, talking nonstop about another case he and Annette were contesting, Samantha followed along, rattled by the incident and wondering if she needed a handgun in her purse. No wonder Donovan practiced law with a small arsenal.
The rest of her afternoon was client-free, thankfully. She had heard enough misery for one day, and she needed to study. Annette loaned her some well-used seminar materials designed for rookie lawyers, with sections on divorce and domestic relations, wills and estates, bankruptcy, landlord and tenant, employment, immigration, and government assistance. A section on black lung benefits had been added later. It was dry and dull, at least to read about, but she had already learned firsthand that the cases were anything but boring.
At five o’clock, she finally called Mr. Joe Duncan and informed him she could not handle his Social Security appeal. Her bosses prohibited such representation. She passed along the names of two private attorneys who took such cases and wished him well. He was not too happy with the call.
She stopped by Mattie’s office and they recapped her first day on the job. So far so good, though she was still rattled by the brief confrontation on the courthouse steps. “They won’t mess with a lawyer,” Mattie assured her. “Especially a girl. I’ve been doing this for twenty-six years and I’ve never been assaulted.”
“Congratulations. Have you been threatened?”
“Maybe a couple of times, but nothing that really scared me. You’ll be fine.”
She felt fine leaving the office and walking to her car, though she couldn’t help but glance around. A light mist was falling and the town was growing darker. She parked in the garage under her apartment and climbed the steps.
Annette’s daughter, Kim, was thirteen; her son, Adam, was ten. They were intrigued by their new “roommate” and insisted that she join them at mealtime, but Samantha had no plans to crash their dinner every night. With her crazy schedule, and Blythe’s, she had grown accustomed to eating alone.
As a professional with a stressful job, Annette had little time to cook. Evidently, cleaning was not a priority either. Dinner was mac and cheese from the micro
wave with sliced tomatoes from a client’s garden. They drank water from plastic bottles, never from the tap. As they ate, the kids peppered Samantha with questions about her life, growing up in D.C., living and working in New York, and why in the world she had chosen to come to Brady. They were bright, confident, easy to humor, and not afraid to ask personal questions. They were courteous too, never failing to say “Yes ma’am” and “No ma’am.” They decided she was too young to be called Miss Kofer, and Adam felt as though Samantha was too much of a mouthful. They eventually agreed on Miss Sam, though Samantha was hopeful the “Miss” would soon disappear. She told them that she would be their babysitter, and this seemed to puzzle them.
“Why do we need one?” Kim asked.
“So your mother can go out and do whatever she wants to do,” Samantha said.
They found this amusing. Adam said, “But she never goes out.”
“True,” Annette said. “There’s not much to do in Brady. In fact, there’s nothing to do if you don’t go to church three nights a week.”
“And you don’t go to church?” Samantha asked. So far, in her brief time in Appalachia, she had become convinced that every five families had their own tiny church with a leaning white steeple. There were churches everywhere, all believing in the inerrancy of the Holy Scripture but evidently agreeing on little else.
“Sometimes on Sunday,” Kim said.
After supper, Kim and Adam dutifully cleared the table and stacked the dishes in the sink. There was no dishwasher. They wanted to watch television with Miss Sam and ignore their homework, but Annette eventually shooed them off to the small bedrooms. Sensing that her guest might be getting bored, Annette said, “Let’s have some tea and talk.”
With nothing else to do, Samantha said yes. Annette scooped up a pile of dirty clothes and tossed them into the clothes washer beside the refrigerator. She added soap and cranked a dial. “The noise will drown out anything we say,” she said as she reached into a cabinet for tea bags. “Decaf okay?”
“Sure,” Samantha said as she stepped into the den, a room overrun with sagging bookshelves, stacks of magazines, and soft furniture that had not been dusted in months. In one corner there was a flat-screen TV (the garage apartment did not have one), and in another corner Annette kept a small desk with a computer and a stack of files. She brought two cups of steaming tea, handed one to Samantha, and said, “Let’s sit on the sofa and talk about girl