The Rooster Bar

  “How much?”

  “Who knows? Say there’s gross negligence on the part of the doctors and hospital. Say we settle for $600,000, just to make the math simple. Our cut will be a hundred grand and we’ve done nothing but hustle the case.”

  “You’re dreaming,” Todd said.

  “And what’s wrong with that? Zola?”

  “Everything’s risky in this game,” she replied. “Every time we stand in front of a judge and pretend to be a lawyer we’re taking a chance. I say we go for it.”

  “Are you in, Todd?” Mark asked.

  Todd drained his mug and studied his partners. So far, at least in the brief history of UPL, he had been slightly more aggressive than the other two. Backing down now would show weakness. He said, “One step at a time. Let’s see what the consultant says, then go from there.”

  “Deal,” Mark said.

  23

  Frank Jepperson sat behind his oversized desk and stared at Zola’s business card. As a veteran of the personal injury wars in the District, he was quite familiar with her game. In his earlier years, he too had toiled in the vineyards of the city’s hospitals, stalking potential clients. He knew all the tricks. He paid kickbacks to tow truck drivers who worked accident scenes. He greased the palms of traffic cops who sent clients his way. Each morning he reviewed police reports looking for the most promising car wrecks. With success, he’d been able to hire a full-time runner, a former cop named Keefe, and it was Keefe who had hustled the family Zola approached in the cafeteria at GW. Jepperson had signed them up fair and square, and now a rookie was trying to poach.

  Jepperson’s turf was the mean streets of the District, where there were few rules and lots of shady players. However, when possible, he tried to protect his turf, especially when a new player looked suspicious.

  Keefe sat across from him, with one ostrich-skin cowboy boot across a knee, and clipped his fingernails.

  “And you found this place?” Jepperson asked.

  “Yep. On the ground floor there’s a joint called The Rooster Bar. The office is two floors above it and no way to get up there. I had a few drinks and chatted with a bartender, who claimed to know nothing. Really clammed up when I asked about Zola Parker.”

  “And the Bar Council?”

  “I checked. No such lawyer on record. Lots of Parkers, but none named Zola.”

  “Interesting. And the firm—Upshaw, Parker & Lane?”

  “Nothing, but then, as you know, law firms change so fast it’s impossible to keep up with who’s practicing where. The Bar Council says it has a hard time tracking firm names.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You want to file a complaint?”

  “I’ll think about it. Let’s see if we run across these clowns again.”

  —

  ON THE EIGHTH floor of the Foggy Bottom Law School, a junior administrator noticed that three professors had reported that two third-year students, Mark Frazier and Todd Lucero, had skipped all classes for the first four weeks of the spring semester. Both had received their loans for their final semester, but evidently were not bothering with classes. It was not at all unusual for graduating students to mail it in, but cutting all classes for over a month was extreme.

  She sent an e-mail to Mr. Frazier. It read,

  Dear Mark: Are you okay? Your complete absence this semester has been noticed and we are concerned. Please notify me as soon as possible. Faye Doxey, Assistant Registrar.

  She sent an identical note to Todd Lucero. After two days, neither had responded.

  —

  ON FEBRUARY 14, Zola eased into the courtroom of the Honorable Joseph Cantu and watched the proceedings. After almost an hour, a clerk called the name of Gordon Tanner. His lawyer, Preston Kline, stood before Judge Cantu and said, “Your Honor, I have not heard from my client in a month. I can only assume he’s skipped out.”

  A clerk handed the judge a note. He read it twice, and said, “Well, Mr. Kline, it appears as though your client is dead.”

  “Wow, Judge. You sure about that? I had no idea.”

  “It’s been confirmed.”

  “Oh, well, no one told me. I guess that explains things.”

  “Wait a minute,” Judge Cantu said as he scanned more paperwork. “According to these entries, he died on January 4, a suicide. There’s even a story from the Post. But he appeared with you right here in front of me on January 17. Can you explain this?”

  Kline scratched his jaw as he looked at his copy of the docket. “Well, no, sir, I cannot explain. We were certainly here on the seventeenth, but, frankly, I’ve had no contact with him since then.”

  “I guess because he’s dead.”

  “It’s all very confusing, Judge. I don’t know.”

  Cantu raised both hands in frustration and said, “Well, if the boy’s dead, then I have no choice but to dismiss the case.”

  “Yes, sir, I guess.”

  “Next case.”

  Zola left a few minutes later and reported to her partners.

  —

  MARK ENTERED THE office building on Sixteenth Street and took the elevator to the third floor. He found the door for Potomac Litigation Consultants and stepped into the small reception room. A secretary nodded at a couple of chairs and he took a seat. Five minutes later, Dr. Willis Koonce appeared and introduced himself. Mark followed him to a small office down the hall.

  Koonce was a retired obstetrician who’d practiced in the District years earlier. According to the website, he had spent the past twenty years as a litigation expert, a professional testifier. He claimed to have analyzed thousands of cases and had been called to the witness stand over a hundred times, in twenty-one states. He almost always worked on the plaintiff’s side.

  As soon as Mark sat down, Koonce began with “You got ’em by the balls, son. And they’re covering up like crazy. Here’s my report.” He handed over a two-page document, single spaced. “All the technical stuff is in there. I’ll save you the time by explaining it in layman’s terms. The mother, Asia Taper, was left unattended, for the most part, for a crucial period of time. It’s hard to tell how closely she was monitored because there are missing records, but, suffice to say, the FHR—fetal heart rate—decelerated, the uterus ruptured, and there was a significant delay in performing a cesarean section. Without the delay, the baby would have probably been fine. Instead, it sustained what is known as an ischemic insult, or profound brain injury, and as we know died two days later. Death was a good thing; otherwise the child would have lived ten years or so basically as a vegetable, unable to walk, talk, or feed itself. It all could have been prevented by proper monitoring and a quick cesarean. I would classify the negligence as gross, and as you well know, this should make the case easier to settle.”

  Mark did not know but nodded right along.

  “However, as you also know, Virginia cut a deal with the doctors twenty years ago, in the midst of the great tort reform movement, and all damages are capped. The max you can hope to recover is two million bucks. Sad, but true. Had the child lived, the settlement would be much larger. But, it’s a Virginia case.”

  “So we’re stuck with two million?” Mark said, as if disappointed with such a paltry sum.

  “Afraid so. Are you licensed in Virginia?”

  “No, I’m not.” Nor anywhere else for that matter.

  “Have you handled a med mal case before? I mean, you look pretty young.”

  “No. I’ll refer it. Any suggestions?”

  “Sure.” Koonce grabbed a sheet of paper and handed it over. “Here’s a list of the top D.C. firms for cases like this. All of these guys practice in Virginia; all are good lawyers. I’ve worked with every one of them.”

  Mark looked at the names. “Anyone in particular?”

  “I’d start at the top with Jeffrey Corbett. He’s the best in my book. Handles only ob-gyn cases. He’ll scare the hell out of the doctors and they’ll settle soon enough.”

  Two million. A quick settl
ement. The cash register in Mark’s brain was firing away.

  Koonce was a busy man. He glanced at his watch and said, “My fee for trial work is $40,000, which covers courtroom testimony. If you and Corbett want to use me, say so as soon as possible. I have lots of cases.” He was slowly getting to his feet.

  “Sure thing, Dr. Koonce.”

  They shook hands. Mark gathered Ramon’s medical records and hurried away.

  —

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON, Zola was alone in the bar, waiting for the daily UPL debriefing. She had spent the day away from the hospitals and felt much better about herself. After weeks of digging, she had finally found the right lawyer in Senegal, in Dakar, the capital. According to the website, Diallo Niang worked in a three-lawyer firm and spoke English, though on the phone he was difficult to understand. He did criminal work, as well as immigration and family matters. For a fee of $5,000, Mr. Niang would represent the interests of Zola’s parents and brother when they arrived, though no one had a clue when that might happen. Wiring such a sum to a bank in Senegal made Zola uncomfortable, but under the circumstances she had no choice. Mr. Niang claimed to have plenty of contacts with important people in the government and could help the family reenter the country. Zola had read enough horror stories about the tribulations of deportees upon arriving home, unwanted.

  She opened her laptop and checked her e-mails. She was not surprised to see one from the law school. Faye Doxey wrote,

  Dear Ms. Maal: Professors Abernathy and Zaran are reporting that you have not been to class this semester. We are concerned. Could you please call or write and let us know what’s going on? Sincerely, Faye Doxey, Assistant Registrar.

  She knew, of course, that Mark and Todd had received similar messages and had ignored them. The partners were surprised that anyone at Foggy Bottom was diligent enough to notice. She thought about the e-mail for a moment, then responded:

  Ms. Doxey: I have pneumonia and my doctors insist that I stay in bed and away from everyone. I am monitoring my classes and expect to make a full recovery. Thanks for your concern. I’ll be back soon enough. Sincerely, Zola Maal.

  The lying still bothered her but it was now a way of life. Virtually everything she did was a lie: the fake name and the fake firm and the fake business cards and the fake persona of a concerned lawyer preying on hapless injury victims. She couldn’t continue like this. Could life be any worse if she were still in class and trying to find a real job and worrying about the bar exam and her loans?

  Yes, it could. At least she felt safe and beyond the reach of immigration authorities.

  The lying continued with the next e-mail. It was from Tildy Carver at LoanAid.

  Dear Ms. Maal: When we last corresponded you had just interviewed with the Department of Justice. Any word? You were thinking of going the public service route under the Department of Education’s loan forgiveness program. I’m not sure this is best for you. It does require a ten-year commitment, which is a long time. But that decision is yours. Anyway, I would appreciate an update on your employment situation at your earliest convenience. Regards, Tildy Carver, Senior Loan Adviser.

  Last installment, January 13, 2014: $32,500; total principal and interest: $191,000.

  As always, she stared at the figures in disbelief. The temptation was always to ignore the e-mails for a day or so, but she decided to confront this one head-on.

  Dear Ms. Carver: I didn’t get the job at Justice and right now I’m unable to interview anywhere else. I’m currently bedridden with pneumonia and under a doctor’s care. I hope to return to classes in a few days and I’ll check in then. Sincerely, Zola Maal.

  Mark arrived with a big smile and ordered a beer. Todd entered the bar, stopped long enough to get a draft, and joined them. He looked tired and haggard after a long day in the trenches and was in a foul mood. He greeted them with “I just spent eight hours hustling the losers in the courthouse and got nothing. Zero. A big, fat goose egg. And what have the two of you been doing?”

  “Relax, pal,” Mark said. “Some days are better than others.”

  Todd gulped his beer and said, “Relax my ass. We’ve been doing this crap for a month and it feels like I’m carrying the load here. Let’s be honest, two-thirds of the fees are from cases I’ve hustled.”

  “Well, well,” Mark said, amused. “Our first fight. I suppose it happens with every law firm.”

  Zola closed her laptop and glared at Todd.

  “I’m not fighting,” he said. “Just had a bad day.”

  She said, “As I recall, I was advised to stay away from the criminal courts because it’s a boys’ game. My part of the scheme is to hang around hospitals and stalk the wounded, the theory being that one of my cases could make up for a bunch of yours. Right?”

  “Yes, but you don’t have any cases,” Todd sneered.

  “I’m trying, Todd,” she said coldly. “If you have a better idea I’d love to hear it. I really don’t like what I’m doing.”

  “Children, children,” Mark said with a grin. “Let’s all relax and count our money.”

  All three took a drink and waited. Mark finally said, “I met with our expert today, the one we paid $2,000, and he says it’s a clear case of gross negligence by the doctors and hospital. I have copies of his report for you to read at your leisure. It’s beautiful, worth every penny. He says, and this guy is a real professional, that in the hands of the right lawyer the case is worth the max under Virginia law—$2 million. He says the guy to hire is one Jeffrey Corbett, a med mal stud who’s gotten rich off suing obstetricians. Office about four blocks from here. I checked him out online and the guy is totally legit. According to an article in a medical magazine, and one not so favorable, Mr. Corbett makes between five and ten million a year.” He took another drink. “Does this help your nasty mood, Todd?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thought so. And if you guys agree, I say I call Mr. Corbett and line up an appointment.”

  “It can’t be this easy,” Zola said.

  “We’re just lucky, okay? According to my research, over two thousand ob-gyns get sued every year for all manner of negligence. Lots of bad-birth cases out there, and we’ve managed to stumble across one.”

  Todd waved a waiter over and ordered another round.

  24

  The following Saturday, they left D.C. early in Todd’s car and drove two hours to the Bardtown Federal Detention Facility near Altoona, Pennsylvania. From the outside, nothing had changed since their last visit seven weeks earlier. The razor wire glistened in the sunlight. The tall chain-link fencing looked just as foreboding. The parking lot was filled with cars and trucks of the dozens of employees protecting the homeland.

  Zola wore a long, loose black dress. As Todd turned off the ignition, she pulled out a hijab and draped it over her head and shoulders. “Such a good little Muslim,” Todd said.

  “Shut up,” she said, and got out.

  For the occasion, Mark Upshaw, her attorney, wore a coat and tie. He had called ahead to arrange the meeting, hoping to avoid the drama they had created the last time. Evidently, the paperwork was in order, and they were led to the same visiting room, where they waited half an hour for her parents and brother to be brought in. Zola introduced her friends again and hugged her mother.

  They controlled their emotions as Bo, her brother, explained that they had no idea when they would be shipped out. An official had told them that ICE was waiting for enough Senegalese to be processed so the chartered flight would be full. No need to waste any seats for such an expensive trip. A hundred was the number they had in mind, and they were still rounding up illegals.

  Bo asked about law school, and the partners agreed that everything was going well. Abdou, her father, patted Zola’s arm and said they were so proud of her for becoming a lawyer. Zola smiled