The matter of young David Zinc was dealt with quickly. Though he had worked at Rogan Rothberg for five years, he was no longer employed there. No conflict of interest existed because at the time the firm did not represent Varrick, and Zinc did not represent the dead clients. Nadine Karros had never met him; indeed, only one associate on her side of the table could recall ever knowing who he was. Zinc had worked in international finance, a world away from litigation.
Zinc was now working in the world of street law and happy to be even further away from international finance. Very much on his mind these days was the Burmese housekeeper and her lead-poisoned grandson. He had a name, a phone number, and an address, but making contact had proved difficult. Toni, Helen’s friend, had suggested to the grandmother that the family consult a lawyer, but this had terrified the poor woman to the point of tears. She was emotionally spent, confused, and, for the moment, unapproachable. Her grandson remained on life support.
David had contemplated running the case by his two partners but quickly thought better of it. Wally might go charging into the hospital room and frighten someone to death. Oscar might insist on taking charge of the case and then want an extra percentage in the event of a settlement. As David was learning, his two partners did not split money equally and, according to Rochelle, fought over fees. Points were given for the lawyer who made initial contact, more for the lawyer who worked up the file, and so on. According to Rochelle, on almost every decent car wreck Oscar and Wally quibbled over the split.
David was at his desk drafting a simple will for a new client—typing it himself because Rochelle had informed him weeks earlier that three lawyers were far too many for one secretary—when his e-mail chimed with a note from the federal court clerk. He opened the e-mail and found an answer to their amended complaint. His eyes went straight to the attorney register, straight to the name of Nadine Karros of Rogan Rothberg, and he felt faint.
David had never met her, but he certainly knew her by reputation. She was famous throughout the entire Chicago bar. She tried and won the biggest cases of all. He had never uttered a recorded word in court. But there they were, names listed together as if they were equals. For the plaintiffs—Wallis T. Figg, B. Oscar Finley, David E. Zinc, of the firm of Finley & Figg, along with S. Jerry Alisandros of the firm of Zell & Potter. And for Varrick Laboratories, Nadine L. Karros and R. Luther Hotchkin of the firm of Rogan Rothberg. On paper, David looked as if he belonged in the game.
He read the answer slowly. The obvious facts were admitted; all liability was denied. Overall, it was a straightforward, almost benign response to a $100 million lawsuit, and it was not what they had anticipated. According to Wally, the first response from Varrick would be a vicious motion to dismiss, accompanied by a weighty brief prepared by bright Ivy Leaguers who toiled in the firm’s research department. The motion to dismiss would cause a significant skirmish, but they would prevail because such motions were rarely granted, according to Wally.
Along with the answer, the defense filed a set of basic interrogatories that sought personal information about each of the eight dead clients and their families, and requested the names and general testimonies of the expert witnesses. As far as David knew, they had yet to hire experts, though Jerry Alisandros was believed to be in charge of that. Ms. Karros also wanted to take the eight depositions as soon as possible.
According to the clerk, a hard copy of the answer and other filings was in the mail.
David heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. Wally’s. He lumbered in, panting, and said, “You see what they filed?”
“Just read it,” David answered. “Seems rather tame, don’t you think?”
“What do you know about litigation?”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry. Something’s up. I gotta call Alisandros and figure this thing out.”
“It’s just a simple answer and some discovery. Nothing to panic over.”
“Who’s panicked? You know this woman—it is your old law firm?”
“Never met her, but she’s supposed to be terrific in the courtroom.”
“Yeah, well, so is Alisandros, but we ain’t going to court.” He said this with a noticeable lack of conviction. He left the office mumbling and stomped down the stairs. A month had passed since they had filed the lawsuit, and Wally’s dreams of a quick gold strike were fading. It looked as though they would be required to do a little work before the settlement talks began.
Ten minutes later, David received an e-mail from the junior partner. It read: “Can you get started on those interrogatories? I gotta run down to the funeral home.”
Sure, Wally. I’d love to.
CHAPTER 18
The minor charges against Trip were eventually dropped due to a lack of interest, though the court did require him to sign a statement promising to stay away from the firm of Finley & Figg and its lawyers. Trip vanished, but his ex-girlfriend did not.
DeeAnna arrived minutes before 5:00 p.m., her usual time. On this day, she was dressed like a cowgirl—skintight jeans, boots with pointed toes, a tight red blouse upon which she had neglected to fasten the top three buttons. “Is Wally in?” she cooed at Rochelle, who couldn’t stand her. The cloud of perfume caught up with her and settled into the room, causing AC to sniff, then growl and retreat even farther under the desk.
“He’s in,” Rochelle said dismissively.
“Thanks, dear,” DeeAnna said, trying to irritate Rochelle as much as possible. She strutted to Wally’s office and entered without knocking. A week earlier, Rochelle had instructed her to sit and wait like all the other clients. It was becoming apparent, though, that she had far more clout than the other clients, at least as far as Wally was concerned.
Once inside the office, DeeAnna walked into the arms of her lawyer, and after a long kiss with an embrace and the obligatory fondle Wally said, “You look great, baby.”
“All for you, baby,” she said.
Wally checked to make sure the door was locked, then returned to his swivel chair behind his desk. “I need to make two calls, then we’re outta here,” he said, drooling.
“Anything, baby,” she cooed, then she took a seat and pulled out a celebrity gossip magazine. She read nothing else and was as dumb as a rock, but Wally didn’t care. He refused to judge her. She’d had four husbands. He’d had four wives. Who was he to pass judgment? Right now, they were in the process of trying to kill each other in bed, and Wally had never been happier.
Outside, Rochelle was tidying up her desk, anxious to leave now that “that hooker” was in Mr. Figg’s office and who knew what they were doing in there. Oscar’s door opened, and he emerged, holding some paperwork. “Where’s Figg?” he asked, looking at Figg’s closed door.
“In there with a client,” Rochelle said. “Door’s bolted and locked.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“Yep. Third day in a row.”
“Are they still negotiating his fee?”
“Don’t know. He must’ve raised it.”
Though the fee was small—just a typical no-fault divorce case—Oscar was due a portion of it, but he wasn’t sure how to get his split when half was being paid on the sofa. He stared at Wally’s door for a moment, as if waiting for the sounds of passion, and, hearing none, turned to Rochelle and waved the papers. “Have you read this?”