The Litigators (7 page)

She closed his door behind her and placed the bingo card in front of Mr. Finley. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said.

“What’s he done now?” Oscar asked as he scanned the card. “Three hundred and ninety-nine dollars?”

“Yep.”

“I thought we agreed that $500 was the minimum for a no-fault?”

“No, we agreed on $750, then $600, then $1,000, then $500. Next week I’m sure we’ll agree on something else.”

“I will not do a divorce for $400. I’ve been a lawyer for thirty-two years, and I will not prostitute myself for such a meager fee. Do you hear me, Ms. Gibson?”

“I’ve heard this before.”

“Let Figg do it. It’s his case. His bingo card. I’m too busy.”

“Right, but Figg’s not here, and you’re not really that busy.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s visiting the dead, one of his funeral laps around town.”

“What’s his scheme this time?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“This morning it was Taser guns.”

Oscar laid the bingo card on his desk and stared at it. He shook his head, mumbled to himself, and asked, “What kind of tormented mind could even conceive of the notion of advertising on bingo cards in a VFW?”

“Figg,” she said without hesitation.

“I might have to strangle him.”

“I’ll hold him down.”

“Dump this riffraff on his desk. Make an appointment. They can come back later. It’s an outrage that people think they can just walk in off the street and see a lawyer, even Figg, without an appointment. Give me a little dignity, okay?”

“Okay, you have dignity. Look, they have some assets and almost no debt. They’re in their sixties, kids are gone. I say you split ’em up, keep her, start the meter.”

B
y 3:00 p.m., Abner’s was quiet again. Eddie had somehow disappeared with the lunch crowd, and David Zinc was alone at the bar. Four middle-aged men were getting drunk in a booth as they made big plans for a bonefishing trip to Mexico.

Abner was washing glasses in a small sink near the beer taps. He was talking about Miss Spence. “Her last husband was Angus Spence. Ring a bell?”

David shook his head. At that moment, nothing rang a bell. The lights were on, but no one was home.

“Angus was the billionaire no one knew. Owned a bunch of potash deposits in Canada and Australia. Died ten years ago, left her with
a bundle. She would be on the Forbes list, but they can’t find all the assets. The old man was too smart. She lives in a penthouse on the lake, comes in every day at eleven, has three Pearl Harbors for lunch, leaves at 12:15 when the crowd comes in, and I guess she goes home and sleeps it off.”

“I think she’s cute.”

“She’s ninety-four.”

“She didn’t pay her tab.”

“She doesn’t get a tab. She sends me a thousand bucks every month. She wants that stool and three drinks and her privacy. I’ve never seen her talk to anyone before. You should consider yourself lucky.”

“She wants my body.”

“Well, you know where to find her.”

David took a small sip of a Guinness stout. Rogan Rothberg was a distant memory. He wasn’t so sure about Helen, and he really didn’t care. He had decided to get wonderfully drunk and enjoy the moment. Tomorrow would be brutal, and he would deal with it then. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could interfere with this delightful slide into oblivion.

Abner slid a cup of coffee in front of him and said, “Just brewed it.”

David ignored it. He said, “So you work on retainer, huh? Just like a law firm. What could I get for a thousand bucks a month?”

“At the rate you’re going, a thousand won’t touch it. Have you called your wife, David?”

“Look, Abner, you’re a bartender, not a marriage counselor. This is a big day for me, a day that will change my life forever. I’m in the middle of a major crack-up, or meltdown, or whatever it is. My life will never be the same, so let me enjoy this moment.”

“I’ll call you a cab whenever you want.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

F
or initial client conferences, Oscar always put on his dark jacket and straightened his tie. It was important to set the tone, and a lawyer
in a black suit meant power, knowledge, and authority. Oscar firmly believed the image also conveyed the message that he did not work cheap, though he usually did.

He pored over the proposed property settlement, frowning as if it had been drafted by a couple of idiots. The Flanders were on the other side of his desk. They occasionally glanced around to take in the Ego Wall, a potpourri of framed photos showing Mr. Finley grinning and shaking hands with unknown celebrities, and framed certificates purporting to show that Mr. Finley was highly trained and skilled, and a few plaques that were clear proof he had been justly recognized over the years. The other walls were lined with shelves packed with thick, somber law books and treatises, more proof still that Mr. Finley knew his stuff.

“What’s the value of the house?” he asked without taking his eyes off the agreement.

“Around two-fifty,” Mr. Flander replied.

“I think it’s more,” Mrs. Flander added.

“This is not a good time to be selling a house,” Oscar said wisely, though every homeowner in America knew the market was weak. More silence as the wise man studied their work.

He lowered the papers and peered over his drugstore reading glasses into the expectant eyes of Mrs. Flander. “You’re getting the washer and dryer, along with the microwave, treadmill, and flat-screen television?”

“Well, yes.”

“In fact, you’re getting probably 80 percent of the household furnishings, right?”

“I suppose. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, except he’s getting most of the cash.”

“I think it’s fair,” said Mr. Flander.

“I’m sure you do.”

“Do you think it’s fair?” she asked.

Oscar shrugged as if it weren’t his business. “Pretty typical, I’d say. But cash is more important than a trainload of used furniture. You’ll
probably move into an apartment, something much smaller, and you won’t have enough room for all your old stuff. He, on the other hand, has money in the bank.”

She shot a hard look at her soon-to-be-ex-husband. Oscar hammered away. “And your car is three years older, so you’re getting the old car and the old furniture.”

“It was his idea,” she said.

“It was not. We agreed.”

“You wanted the IRA account and the newer car.”

“That’s because it’s always been my car.”

“And that’s because you’ve always had the nicer car.”

“That’s not true, Barbara. Don’t start exaggerating like you always do, okay?”

Louder, Barbara responded, “And don’t you start lying in front of the lawyer, Cal. We agreed we would come here, tell the truth, and not fight in front of the lawyer. Didn’t we?”

“Oh, sure, but how can you sit there and say I’ve always had the nicer car? Have you forgotten the Toyota Camry?”

“Good God, Cal, that was twenty years ago.”

“Still counts.”

“Well, yes, I remember it, and I remember the day you wrecked it.”

Rochelle heard the voices and smiled to herself. She turned a page of her paperback. AC, asleep beside her, suddenly rose to his feet and began a low growl. Rochelle looked at him, then slowly got up and walked to a window. She adjusted the blinds to give herself a view, then she heard it—the distant wail of a siren. As it grew louder, AC’s growl also picked up the volume.

Oscar was also at a window, casually looking at the intersection in the distance, hoping for a glimpse of the ambulance. It was a habit too hard to break, not that he really wanted to stop. He, along with Wally and now Rochelle and perhaps thousands of lawyers in the city, couldn’t suppress a rush of adrenaline at the sound of an approaching ambulance. And the sight of one flying down the street always made him smile.

The Flanders, though, were not smiling. They had gone silent, both glaring at him, each hating the other. When the siren faded away, Oscar returned to his chair and said, “Look, folks, if you’re going to fight, I can’t represent both of you.”

Both were tempted to bolt. Once on the street, they could go their separate ways and find more reputable lawyers, but for a second or two they were not sure what to do. Then Mr. Flander blinked. He jumped to his feet and headed for the door. “Don’t worry about it, Finley. I’ll go find me a real lawyer.” He opened the door, slammed it behind him, then stomped past Rochelle and the dog as they were settling into their places. He yanked open the front door, slammed it too, and happily left Finley & Figg forever.

H
appy hour ran from five to seven, and Abner decided his new best friend should leave before it started. He called a cab, soaked a clean towel with cold water, then walked to the other side of the bar and gently punched him. “David, wake up, pal, it’s almost five o’clock.” David had been out for an hour. Abner, like all good bartenders, did not want his after-work crowd to see a drunk facedown on the bar, comatose, snoring. Abner touched his face with the towel and said, “Come on, big guy. Party’s over.”

David suddenly came around. His eyes and mouth flew open as he gawked at Abner. “What, what, what?” he stammered.

“It’s almost five. Time to go home, David. There’s a cab outside.”

“Five o’clock!” David shouted, stunned at the news. There were half a dozen other drinkers in the bar, all watching with sympathy. Tomorrow it could be them. David got to his feet and with Abner’s help managed to pull on his overcoat and find his briefcase. “How long have I been here?” he asked, looking around wildly as if he’d just discovered the place.

“A long time,” Abner replied. He stuffed a business card into a coat pocket and said, “Call me tomorrow and we’ll settle the tab.” Arm in arm they staggered to the front door and through it. The cab was at the curb. Abner opened the rear door, wrestled David into the seat, said “He’s all yours” to the driver, and closed the door.

David watched him disappear into the bar. He looked at the driver and said, “What’s your name?”

The driver said something unintelligible, and David barked, “Can you speak English?”

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked.

“Now, that’s a really good question. You know any good bars around here?”

The driver shook his head.

“I’m not ready to go home, because she’s there and, well, oh, boy.” The inside of the cab had started to spin. There was a loud honk from behind. The driver eased into traffic. “Not so fast,” David said with his eyes closed. They were going ten miles an hour. “Go north,” David said.

“I need a destination, sir,” the driver said as he turned onto South Dearborn. Rush-hour traffic was already heavy and slow.

“I might be sick,” David said, swallowing hard and afraid to open his eyes.

“Please, not in my car.”

They stopped and started for two blocks. David managed to calm himself. “A destination, sir?” the driver repeated.

David opened his left eye and looked out the window. Next to the cab was a city transit bus waiting in traffic, packed with weary workers, its exhaust spewing fumes. Along its side was an ad, three feet by one, proclaiming the services of Finley & Figg, Attorneys. “Drunk Driving? Call the Experts. 773-718-JUSTICE.” Address in smaller print. David opened his right eye and for an instant saw the smiling face of Wally Figg. He focused on the word “drunk” and wondered if they could help in some way. Had he seen such ads before? Had he heard of these guys? He wasn’t sure. Nothing was clear; nothing made sense. The cab was suddenly spinning again, and faster now.

“Four eighteen Preston Avenue,” he said to the driver, then passed out.

———

R
ochelle was never in a hurry to leave, because she never wanted to go home. As tense as things could get around the office, they were far tamer than her cramped and chaotic apartment.

The Flanders’ divorce got off to a rocky start, but with Oscar’s skillful manipulation it was now on track. Mrs. Flander had hired the firm and paid a retainer of $750. It would eventually be worked out and settled on no-fault grounds, but not before Oscar clipped her for a couple of grand. Still, Oscar was fuming over the bingo card and lying in wait for his junior partner.

Wally rolled in at 5:30, after an exhausting day looking for Krayoxx victims. The search had turned up no one but Chester Marino, but Wally was undaunted. He was onto something big. The clients were out there, and he would find them.

“Oscar’s on the phone,” Rochelle said. “And he’s upset.”

“What’s up?” Wally asked.

“A bingo card showed up: $399.”

“Pretty clever, huh? My uncle plays bingo at the VFW.”

“Brilliant.” She gave him the quick version of the Flander situation.

“See! It worked,” Wally said proudly. “You gotta get ’em in here, Ms. Gibson, that’s what I always say. The $399 is the bait, then you pull the switch. Oscar did it perfectly.”

“What about false advertising?”

“Most of what we do is false advertising. Ever hear of Krayoxx? Cholesterol drug?”

“Maybe. Why?”

“It’s killing people, okay, and it’s gonna make us rich.”

“I think I’ve heard this before. He’s off the phone.”

Wally went straight to Oscar’s door, rapped it as he pushed it open, and said, “So you like my bingo card ads, I hear.”

Oscar was standing at his desk, tie undone, tired, and in need of a drink. Two hours earlier he’d been ready for a fight. Now he just wanted to leave. “Come on, Wally, bingo cards?”

“Yep, we’re the first law firm in Chicago to use bingo cards.”

“We’ve been the first several times, and we’re still broke.”

“Those days are over, my friend,” Wally said as he reached into his briefcase. “Ever hear of a cholesterol drug called Krayoxx?”

“Yeah, yeah, my wife’s taking it.”

“Well, Oscar, it’s killing people.”

Oscar actually smiled, then caught himself. “How do you know this?”

Wally dropped a stack of research onto Oscar’s desk. “Here’s your homework, all about Krayoxx. A big mass tort firm in Fort Lauderdale sued Varrick Labs last week over Krayoxx, a class action. They claim the drug vastly increases the risk of heart attack and stroke, and they have experts to prove it. Varrick has put more crap on the market than any of the Big Pharmas, and it’s also paid more in damages. Billions. Looks like Krayoxx is its latest boondoggle. The mass tort boys are just now waking up. This is happening now, Oscar, and if we can pick up a dozen or so Krayoxx cases, then we’re rich.”