Saving the best for last, David wrapped up his unforgettable first day at Finley & Figg with: “And, dear, even as we speak, Wally and DeeAnna are naked on the sofa having a romp with the window open and the dog watching and the unpaid fee getting satisfied in spectacular fashion.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish. The $300 will be forgiven, and DeeAnna will be divorced by noon tomorrow.”
“What a sleazeball.”
“Which one?”
“How about both? Do most of your clients pay this way?”
“I doubt it. I mentioned Iris Klopeck. I suspect she’s more in line with the firm’s client profile. The fee couch couldn’t hold up under the pounding.”
“You can’t work for these people, David. Come on. Quit Rogan if you want, but let’s find a different firm somewhere. These two clowns are a couple of crooks. What about ethics?”
“I doubt if they spend much time discussing ethics.”
“Why not look for a nice midsized firm somewhere, with nice people who don’t carry guns and chase ambulances and swap labor for sex?”
“What’s my specialty, Helen?”
“Something to do with bonds.”
“Right. I know a lot about high-yield, long-term bonds issued by foreign governments and corporations. That’s all I know about the law because that’s all I’ve done for the past five years. Put that on a résumé, and the only people who might call are a handful of eggheads at other large firms, just like Rogan, who might be in need of someone like me.”
“But you can learn.”
“Of course I can, but no one will hire a five-year lawyer at a nice salary and put him in kindergarten. They demand experience, and I don’t have it.”
“So Finley & Figg is the only place you can work?”
“Or someplace like it. I’ll treat it like a seminar for a year or two, then maybe open my own shop.”
“Great. One day on the job and you’re already thinking about leaving.”
“Not really. I love the place.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“Yes, and it’s so liberating.”
CHAPTER 13
Wally’s mass-mailing scheme proved futile. Half of the letters were returned by the postal service for a variety of reasons. Phone traffic spiked a bit in the week that followed, though most of the calls were from former clients who demanded to be removed from Finley & Figg’s mailing list. Undaunted, Wally filed a lawsuit in the U.S. District Court for the Northern District of Illinois, naming Iris Klopeck and Millie Marino, as well as “others to be named later,” and claimed their loved ones had been killed by the drug Krayoxx, manufactured by Varrick Labs. Throwing darts, Wally asked for an even $100 million in total damages, and he demanded a trial by jury.
The filing was not nearly as dramatic as he wished. He tried desperately to attract the media to the lawsuit he was brewing, but there was little interest. Instead of simply filing it online, he and David, both dressed in their finest dark suits, drove to the Everett M. Dirksen U.S. Courthouse in downtown Chicago and hand delivered the twenty-page lawsuit to the clerk. There were no reporters and no photographers, and this upset Wally. He harangued a deputy clerk into snapping a photograph of the two grim-faced lawyers as they filed the lawsuit. Once back at the office, he e-mailed the lawsuit and the photograph to the Tribune, the Sun-Times, the Wall Street Journal, Time, Newsweek, and a dozen other publications.
David prayed the photograph would go unnoticed, but Wally got lucky. A reporter from the Tribune called the office and was immediately put through to an ecstatic Attorney Figg. The avalanche of publicity began.
On the front page of Section B the following morning, a headline read: “Chicago Attorney Attacks Varrick Labs over Krayoxx.” The article summarized the lawsuit and said local attorney Wally Figg was a “self-described mass tort specialist.” Finley & Figg was a “boutique firm” with a long history of fighting big drug companies. The reporter, though, did some sniffing and quoted two well-known plaintiffs’ lawyers as saying, in effect, we’ve never heard of these guys. And there was no record of similar lawsuits filed by Finley & Figg during the past ten years. Varrick responded aggressively by defending its product, promising a vigorous defense, and “looking forward to a fair trial before an impartial jury to clear our good name.” The reproduced photograph was rather large. This tickled Wally and embarrassed David. They were quite a pair: Wally was balding, rotund, and badly dressed, while David was taller, trimmer, and much younger looking.
The story went wild on the Internet, and the phone rang nonstop. At times, Rochelle was overwhelmed and David helped out. Some of the callers were reporters, others were lawyers sniffing around for information, but most were Krayoxx users who were terrified and confused. David wasn’t sure what to say. The firm’s strategy, if it could be called that, was to pick through the net and take the death cases, then at some undefined point in the future corral the “non-death” clients and lump them into a class action. This was impossible to explain over the phone because David didn’t quite grasp it himself.
As the phones rang and the excitement continued, even Oscar came out of his office and showed some interest. His little firm had never seen such activity, and, well, maybe this was indeed their big moment. Maybe Wally was finally right about something. Maybe, just maybe, this could lead to real money, which meant at long last the divorce he so fervently wanted, followed immediately by retirement.
The three lawyers met at the table late in the day to compare notes. Wally was wired, even perspiring. He waved his legal pad in the air and said, “We got four death cases here, brand-new ones, and we gotta sign ’em up right now. Are you in, Oscar?”
“Sure, I’ll take one,” Oscar said, trying to appear reluctant as always.
“Thank you. Now, Ms. Gibson, there’s a black lady who lives on Nineteenth, not far from you, Bassitt Towers, number three. She says it’s safe.”
“I will not go to Bassitt Towers,” Rochelle said. “I can practically hear the gunfire from my apartment.”
“That’s my point. It’s right down the street from you. You could stop by on the way home.”
“I will not.”
Wally slammed his legal pad onto the table. “Can’t you see what’s happening here, damn it? These people are begging us to take their cases, cases that are worth millions of bucks. There could be a huge settlement within a year. We’re on the verge of something big here, and you, as always, couldn’t care less.”
“I will not risk my neck for this law firm.”
“Great. So when Varrick settles and the cash pours in, you will forgo your share of the bonus. That’s what you’re telling us?”
“What bonus?”
Wally walked to the front door and back to the table, pacing. “Well, well, how quickly we forget. Remember the Sherman case last year, Ms. Gibson? Nice little car wreck, a rear-ender. State Farm paid sixty grand. We took a third, a nice fee of twenty thousand for good ol’ Finley & Figg. We paid some bills. I took seven grand, Oscar took seven, and we gave you a thousand bucks cash under the table. Didn’t we, Oscar?”
“Yes, and we’ve done it before,” Oscar said.
Rochelle was calculating as Wally was talking. It would be a shame to miss a piece of the lottery. What if Wally was right for a change? He shut up, and things were quiet and tense for a moment as the air cleared. AC rose to his feet and began growling. Seconds passed, then the distant sound of an ambulance could be heard. It grew louder, but, oddly, no one moved to the window or to the front porch.