The Rooster Bar

  and played along. She gave him a note card with the name of Diallo Niang, the lawyer in Dakar, and said that if at all possible he should call her when they were headed for the plane. Zola would immediately call Mr. Niang, who would try to facilitate their arrival. But there were many unknowns.

  Zola’s mother, Fanta, said little. She held Zola’s hand and sat, downcast, sad, and fearful, while the men did the talking. After twenty minutes, Todd and Mark excused themselves and waited in the hall.

  When the visit was over, they returned to the car and Zola removed the hijab. She wiped her eyes and said nothing for a long time. When they crossed into Maryland, Todd stopped at a convenience store and bought a six-pack. With the afternoon to kill, they decided to detour through Martinsburg and pay their respects to Gordy. In the public cemetery not far from the church, they found his new headstone, with fresh dirt around it.

  —

  ON SUNDAY, MARK borrowed Todd’s car and drove home to Dover. He needed to see his mother and have a serious chat but was in no mood to deal with Louie. His situation had not changed and his case was slowly grinding through the system, with a trial date looming in September.

  Louie was still asleep when Mark arrived around eleven. “He usually wakes up around noon, in time for lunch,” Mrs. Frazier said as she poured fresh coffee at the kitchen table. She wore a pretty dress and heels and smiled a lot, obviously happy to see her favorite son. A pot of stew simmered on the stove and smelled delicious.

  “So how’s law school?” she asked.

  “Well, Mom, that’s what I need to discuss,” Mark said, eager to get it over with. He told the sad story of Gordy’s death and explained how devastating it was. Because of the trauma, he had decided to take the semester off and ponder his future.

  “You’re not graduating in May?” she asked, surprised.

  “No. I need some time, that’s all.”

  “What about your job?”

  “It disappeared. The firm merged with a bigger one and I got squeezed in the process. It was a bad firm anyway.”

  “But I thought you were excited about it.”

  “I think I was pretending to be excited, Mom. The job market is pretty lousy these days and I grabbed the first offer that came along. Looking back, it was not going to work.”

  “Oh, dear. I was hoping you might be able to help Louie after you passed the bar exam.”

  “I’m afraid Louie is beyond help, Mom. They’ve got him nailed and he’s looking at some hard time. Does he talk to his lawyer?”

  “No, not really. He’s got some public defender who’s very busy. I’m so worried about him.”

  You should be. “Look, Mom, you need to brace yourself for the fact that Louie is going away. They caught him on video selling crack to an undercover cop. There’s not a lot of wiggle room.”

  “I know, I know.” She took a sip of coffee and held back tears. Changing the subject, she asked, “But what about your student loans?”

  She had no idea how much money Mark owed and he wasn’t about to tell her. “I’ve put them on hold for the time being. No problem.”

  “I see. So if you’re not in school, what are you doing these days?”

  “Working here and there, tending bar a lot. And what about you? Surely you don’t sit around here all day with him.”

  “Oh no. I’m working part-time at Kroger and part-time at Target. And when I’m not working, I volunteer at a nursing home. And when I get really bored I go down to the jail and visit the lady prisoners. Jail’s just full of them. All drug related, you know. I swear I think drugs will be the ruin of this country. So I keep busy and try to stay away from here.”

  “What does he do all day?”

  “Sleeps, eats, watches television, plays video games. Gripes about his problems. I shamed him into riding my old bike down in the basement but he managed to break it. Says it can’t be fixed. I buy him some beer every now and then so he’ll shut up. The court order prohibits alcohol but he goes on and on until I buy beer. I figure no one will ever know.”

  “Have you thought about moving up his court date?”

  “Can you do that?”

  “I don’t see why not. It’ll be a plea bargain, Mom. Louie’s not going to trial, because he has no defense. He’ll get a better deal if he simply pleads guilty and gets it over with.”

  “But he says he wants to go to trial.”

  “That’s because he’s an idiot, okay? If you’ll remember, I met with his lawyer when I was home for Christmas. He showed me the file and the video. Louie has convinced himself that he can smile at a jury and con them into believing that the cops entrapped him in a bogus drug deal. He thinks he can walk out of the courtroom a free man. Not going to happen.”

  “How does a plea bargain work?”

  “It’s simple. Almost every criminal case is settled with a plea bargain. He admits his guilt, avoids a trial, and the prosecution cuts him some slack on his sentence. He’s looking at a max of ten years. I have no idea what a deal might look like, but he could probably get five with time served. With good behavior, crowded jails, and so on, he might be out in three years or so.”

  “And he wouldn’t have to wait until September?”

  “I doubt it. With my limited knowledge, I don’t see why he couldn’t do the deal much sooner than that. That would get him out of the house.”

  There was the slightest hint of a tiny grin at the corners of her mouth, but only for a second. “I just can’t believe this,” she said, her eyes drifting away. “He’s such a good boy.”

  Maybe. Louie had flirted around the edges of the drug scene throughout high school. There were plenty of red flags but his parents had always chosen to ignore them. At every sign of trouble, they had rushed in to defend him and believe his lies. They had enabled Louie, and now the bill was due.

  Mark knew exactly what was coming next. She looked at him with watery eyes and asked, “Could you talk to his lawyer, Mark? He needs some help.”

  “No way, Mom. Louie is going to prison and I’m not getting near his case. The reason is simple. I know Louie, and he’ll blame everybody but himself. And he’ll especially blame me. You know that.”

  “You’ve always been so hard on him.”

  “And you’ve always looked the other way.”

  A commode flushed in the back of the house. Mrs. Frazier glanced at the clock and said, “He’s up early. I told him you were coming home for lunch.”

  Louie lumbered into the kitchen with a big smile for his brother. Mark stood, got bear-hugged, and tried to seem happy to see him. Louie resembled a grizzled bear shaken from hibernation: unshaven, matted hair, eyes puffy from too much sleep. He wore an ancient Eagles sweatshirt that was straining around the waist and baggy gym shorts that would fit a nose tackle. No shoes or socks, but the ankle monitor. It was undoubtedly the same outfit he slept in.

  Mark almost made a crack about his obvious weight gain, but let it pass.

  Louie poured himself some coffee and took a seat at the table. “What are you guys talking about?” he asked.

  “Law school,” Mark said quickly, before Mrs. Frazier could say something about Louie’s case. “I was just telling Mom that I’m taking a semester off. Need some time to readjust. My job disappeared and the market is pretty soft right now, so I’m sort of catching my breath.”

  “That sounds fishy,” Louie observed. “Why would you quit with only one semester to go?”

  “I’m not quitting, Louie. I’m postponing.”

  Mrs. Frazier said, “His best friend committed suicide and this is really bothering him.”

  “Wow, sorry. But it seems weird to blow off your last semester.”

  Yes, Louie, but you’re hardly in a position to comment on the career paths of others, Mark thought, but was determined to avoid tension. He said, “Believe me, Louie, I have things under control.”

  “I’m sure you do. Say, Mom, what’s in that pot on the stove? Something smells good.”

&nbs
p; “Beef stew. How about an early lunch?” She was already getting to her feet. As she opened a cabinet, she threw Mark under the bus with “Mark thinks you should consider a plea bargain, Louie. Have you discussed this with your lawyer?”

  Great, Mom. Now we can slug it out.

  Louie smiled at Mark and snarled, “So you’re practicing law now, huh?”

  If you only knew. “Not at all, Louie, and I have no advice. Mom and I were just discussing things in general.”

  “Sure you were. Yes, Mom, I’ve discussed it with my lawyer, during one of our few conversations. And if I plead guilty, then off I go, with credit for time served, which includes house arrest with my little ankle bracelet. So I could spend the next six months in prison, avoiding gangs, taking cold showers with my back to the wall, eating powdered eggs and stale toast, or I can spend the next six months right here. Not much of a choice is it?”

  Mark shrugged as if he had no opinion. The wrong word at this point could ignite something nastier, and he wanted no part of it. Mrs. Frazier was busy placing paper napkins and old silver on the table.

  Louie went on, “I’m not pleading guilty, regardless of what the two of you think. I want my day in court. The cops entrapped me and I can prove it to the jury.”

  Mark said, “Great. I’m sure your lawyer knows what he’s doing.”

  “He knows more about criminal law than you do.”

  “Of course he does,” Mark said.

  Louie slurped his coffee and said, “But, I was hoping that after you passed the bar exam this summer you might be able to help a little with my case, maybe sit with me at trial so the jury will think I have two lawyers, you know? I guess that’s not going to happen.”

  “No, it’s not going to happen. I’m taking a break.”

  “That’s really weird.”

  She placed three bowls of steaming beef stew on the table. Louie attacked his as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. Mark glared at his mother, then glanced at the clock. He’d been there for forty minutes and couldn’t imagine staying another hour.

  25

  On Monday, March 3, federal agents raided the corporate headquarters of Swift Bank in downtown Philadelphia. The press was tipped off and there was plenty of footage of a small army of men with “FBI” emblazoned on their parkas hauling boxes and computers to waiting trucks. The company issued a statement saying all was well, it was cooperating and all that, while its stock price plummeted.

  A business commentator on cable recapped the bank’s troubles. Two congressional investigations were underway, along with the FBI’s. U.S. Attorneys in three states were preening for the cameras and promising to get to the bottom of things. At least five class action suits were on the books and the lawyers were in a frenzy. More litigation was a certainty. Swift’s CEO had just resigned—to spend more time with his family—and took with him about $100 million in stock options, loot that would undoubtedly make all that family time more enjoyable. The CFO was negotiating his exit package. Hundreds of former employees were surfacing, blowing whistles, and suing for wrongful terminations. Old lawsuits against Swift were reexamined and revealed that the bank’s bad behavior had been ongoing for at least a decade. Customers were howling and closing accounts. Consumer watchdogs were issuing statements condemning “the most fraudulent banking practices in U.S. history.”

  Nine percent of Swift’s stock was owned by an investment firm in L.A. As its largest stockholder, it had nothing to say. The UPL partners monitored Swift’s mess on a daily basis and printed every word they could find about the bank. So far, Hinds Rackley had managed to escape attention.

  They decided that with such chaos the time was right to join the fun. Mark contacted a law firm in Miami and signed on as a plaintiff in its class action. Todd called a toll-free number advertised by a law firm in New York and joined its class action. Zola stayed closer to home and joined forces with a D.C. firm well known in the mass tort business.

  Within hours of becoming litigants, they were flooded with paperwork being churned out by the lawyers hounding Swift. It was an impressive collection.

  According to the latest estimates, there were potentially one million Swift customers who had been subjected to the bank’s corrupt practices.

  —

  RAMON CALLED EVERY day, even on weekends. He wanted updates on his case, and Mark explained over and over that the initial review, from their “first expert,” was positive and they were proceeding as fast as possible. Mark had an appointment with the great Jeffrey Corbett on Wednesday, March 19, the earliest open date on his packed schedule. Evidently, his trial calendar was something to behold and he hardly had time to consider new cases.

  When Ramon called on Tuesday, he dropped the bomb that Asia, his ex, had come to life down in Charleston and was curious about the lawsuit. Mark had little doubt that Ramon, probably under the influence, had tried to impress her with big talk about hiring lawyers to pursue a malpractice case. Mark was certain she would not be a factor.

  Mark was wrong. On Wednesday, he received a call from a lawyer in Charleston, a Mr. Mossberg. Since the incoming phone number was unknown, Mark, as always, debated whether to take the call. After five rings he accepted it.

  Mossberg began with “I represent Asia Taper, and I understand you represent her ex-husband. That right?”

  “That’s correct. Ramon Taper is our client.”

  “Well, you can’t sue without her. She was, after all, the mother of the child.” Mossberg’s tone was aggressive to the point of being confrontational.

  Just great, Ramon. There goes a chunk of our fee. Just what we needed—another pushy trial lawyer getting in the way.

  “Yes, I understand that,” Mark said as he quickly searched for Mossberg online.

  “My client says your client has all the medical records. That true?”

  “I have the records,” Mark said. Edwin Mossberg. Six-man firm specializing in personal injury, downtown Charleston. Forty-five years old. So twenty years in the trenches and far more experienced than anyone at UPL. A big guy, flabby cheeks, full head of gray hair, expensive suit and tie. Biggest victory to date an eleven-million verdict against a hospital in Atlanta. And lots of lesser, though still impressive, verdicts.

  “Can you send me a copy of them?” Mossberg practically demanded.

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “So, tell me, Mr. Upshaw, what’s been done on the case?”

  For the thousandth time Mark pinched the bridge of his nose and asked himself what the hell he was doing. He gritted his teeth and said, “Well, right now the medicals are being evaluated by our expert. Should have a report in a few days.”

  “Who’s the expert?” Mossberg asked, as if he knew every expert in the field.

  “We’ll talk about him later,” Mark said, finding his footing. One asshole to another.

  “I’d like to see the report as soon as you have it. There are a lot of bad experts out there, and I happen to know the best. Guy lives at Hilton Head. I’ve used him several times, with great success I might add.”

  Oh, please add; would love to hear more about your phenomenal successes. “That’s great,” Mark said. “Zip me your contract and I’ll be in touch.”

  “Sure. And, Mr. Upshaw, there’s no lawsuit without my client, you understand? Asia has suffered greatly because of this, and I’m determined to get every dime of compensation she is entitled to.”

  Go, Superman! “So am I, Mr. Mossberg,” Mark said. “Good day.” He ended the call and wanted to throw his phone out the window.

  —

  TODD AND ZOLA took the news well. Mark met them for a quick lunch at a restaurant near the District Courthouse, where Todd had just pulled the firm’s first double play by signing up two DUIs in one session of court. With $700 of fresh cash in his pocket, he insisted on paying for lunch and planned to take the afternoon off. Though none of the three would admit it, the idea of such a fat, easy fee from Ramon’s case was intoxicating. And, it made their lives l
ess urgent. Why bother with hustling the criminal courts and hospitals when serious money was just around the corner? All three were putting in fewer hours and spending less time together. There was no friction; they just needed some space.

  The early rush at the District Courthouse provided the richest opportunities. Mark and Todd were usually there at nine going through their routines. Some days were lucky; most were not. After a few weeks at the game, both knew they couldn’t last much longer. It was difficult to comprehend how Darrell Cromley and Preston Kline and the real hustlers could spend their careers roaming the hallways, ready to pounce on unsuspecting people. Perhaps they had no real choice; it was the only work for which they were suited. Perhaps it was made easier by the fact that they never feared getting caught without a license.

  Zola had given up on chasing ambulances, though she had yet to inform her partners. She had changed and refined and polished her