did things that only their bosses were supposed to do. A quick reprimand usually got them back in line without substantial damage to the clients.
Mossberg was reluctant to file an official complaint, said he didn’t have time to fool with it, but just wanted to tip off the bar and let it know there was a problem. He e-mailed a copy of Upshaw’s business card with the name of his firm, its address on Florida Avenue, and a phone number. Ms. Sanchez thanked him for his time.
The story was made even more interesting by the fact that it was the second phone call dealing with the law firm of Upshaw, Parker & Lane. The previous week, a local ambulance chaser named Frank Jepperson had unofficially tipped her off that one Zola Parker had tried to hustle one of his clients in a hospital cafeteria. Ms. Sanchez knew Jepperson from two prior complaints about his own unethical behavior. Jepperson had sent her a copy of Zola Parker’s business card.
Sitting at her desk, Ms. Sanchez compared the copies of the two cards. Same firm, same address, different phone numbers. A quick review of the bar’s directory verified that neither Mark Upshaw nor Zola Parker was a member. She summoned a member of her staff, Chap Gronski, whose official title was assistant disciplinary counsel, and gave him the two copies of the firm’s business cards. An hour later, Gronski was back with some research.
He said, “I’ve checked the criminal dockets and found fourteen cases in which Mark Upshaw is the attorney of record. Nothing on Zola Parker. There’s a guy named Todd Lane who’s been active for the past three months, found his name on seventeen entries. There’s probably more. The odd thing is that there is nothing prior to January of this year.”
“Sounds like a start-up, a brand-new firm in town,” she said. “Just what we need.”
“Shall I open a file?” Gronski asked.
“Not yet. There’s no official complaint. When are they due in court again?”
Gronski flipped through some printouts. “Looks like Upshaw has a sentencing hearing for a DUI client in Division 16 at ten in the morning.”
“Ease over and take a look. Have a chat with Upshaw and let’s see what he has to say for himself.”
—
AT TEN THE next morning, Chap Gronski was sitting in Judge Cantu’s courtroom watching the parade. After the third guilty plea and sentencing, the clerk called the name of Jeremy Plankmore. A young man in the back row stood nervously, looked around for help, and stutter-stepped down the aisle. As he approached the bench, alone, Judge Cantu asked, “Are you Mr. Plankmore?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Says here your lawyer is Mark Upshaw. I don’t see him in the courtroom.”
“No, sir, me neither. I’ve been calling him for three days and he won’t answer his phone.”
Judge Cantu looked down at a clerk, who shrugged as if she knew nothing. He looked at the assistant prosecutor, who gave the same shrug. “Very well, step aside, Mr. Plankmore, and I’ll deal with it later. Let’s see if we can get Mr. Upshaw on the phone. He must’ve got his schedule mixed up.”
Plankmore sat in the front row, frightened and confused. Another lawyer moved in for the kill.
Gronski reported back to Ms. Sanchez. They decided to wait two days until Mr. Lane’s next scheduled court appearance.
—
JEREMY PLANKMORE DECIDED to dig a bit deeper. With a friend as extra muscle, he waited until later that afternoon and visited the address on his lawyer’s business card. Upshaw had charged him a thousand bucks, $800 of which he’d paid in cash. The balance was in his pocket, but he had no plans to hand it over. Indeed, his plans were to confront Mr. Upshaw and demand a refund. At the address on Florida Avenue, he couldn’t find the law firm. At The Rooster Bar, he and his friend bought beers and chatted with the bartender, a heavily tattooed young lady named Pammie. Pammie had little to say, especially when Jeremy started poking around with questions about Mark Upshaw and a law firm in the building. She claimed to know nothing and seemed irritated by the questions. Jeremy got the impression she was stonewalling, and he wrote his name and phone number on the back of a paper napkin. He handed it to Pammie and said, “If you bump into Mark Upshaw, tell him to call me. Or else I’ll report him to the Bar Council.”
“Like I said, I don’t know the guy,” Pammie replied.
“Yeah, yeah, but if you happen to meet him.” Jeremy and his friend left the bar.
—
SNIFFING A JACKPOT, Darrell Cromley moved with extraordinary speed. He paid $3,500 to a retired doctor for an “expedited review” of Ramon’s medical records. In conclusion, the expert wrote, in language blunter than Dr. Koonce’s, that “the actions taken by the hospital staff and attending doctors fell far below acceptable standards of care and constituted gross negligence.”
Darrell grabbed the two-page summary, attached it to his two-page lawsuit, and filed it on behalf of his client, Ramon R. Taper, against Attorney Mark Upshaw and his firm in the Circuit Court of the District of Columbia. The gist of the lawsuit was obvious: Attorney Upshaw had sat on a clear case of medical negligence and allowed the statute of limitations to expire, thus extinguishing any chance of recovery from the hospital and its doctors. Ramon was seeking actual and punitive damages that totaled $25 million.
Darrell mailed a copy of the lawsuit to the address at The Rooster Bar, and paid a process server $100 to personally deliver it to Mr. Upshaw, as required. At the bar, though, the process server had trouble finding the firm. He assumed it was housed somewhere above the bar—he counted three levels up there—but the only visible door, one to the side, was locked. Inside the bar, he asked around, and was told by the manager that there was no such law firm. No one seemed to know anything about Mark Upshaw. The process server tried to leave the lawsuit with the manager, but he adamantly refused to accept it.
For the next three days, the process server tried to find either the law firm or Mark Upshaw, but had no luck.
At no time did Darrell Cromley consider checking with the District Bar Council to determine if Mark Upshaw was a member.
—
THE LAW FIRM had adopted the strategy of mobility. It left the building each morning and drifted around the city, from coffee shops to libraries to bookstores to outdoor cafés, anywhere the partners could camp out with their laptops and comb the white pages for more clients. An observer might have been curious as to what all three were working on with such diligence, mumbling softly to each other, offering names and addresses while their assortment of cell phones vibrated in a muted chorus of neglected calls. The three were certainly in demand, yet they rarely took a call. Such an observer, and there were none, would not have a clue.
—
TODD WAS BEHIND the bar late one night tidying things up as the last of the customers paid their tabs and left. Maynard, who rarely came to The Rooster Bar, appeared from the kitchen and asked, “Where’s Mark?”
Todd replied, “Upstairs.”
“Get him down here. We need to talk.”
Todd knew it was trouble. He called Mark, who was two floors above him in the firm’s office laboring through the white pages with Zola and adding names to their class action. Within minutes, Mark entered the bar. They followed Maynard to an empty booth. Their boss was scowling, in a foul mood, and wanted answers.
Maynard tossed a business card on the table and asked, “Ever hear of a guy named Chapman Gronski? Goes by Chap?”
Mark picked up the card and felt sick. “Who is he?” Todd asked.
Maynard said, “An investigator for the District Bar Council. He’s been around twice looking for the two of you. Mr. Mark Upshaw, Mr. Todd Lane. Don’t know these guys. I do know Mark Frazier and Todd Lucero. So what the hell’s going on?”
Neither knew what to say, so Maynard continued. He tossed a napkin on the table and said, “A guy named Jeremy Plankmore left this yesterday, said he was a client, said he was looking for his lawyer, a Mr. Mark Upshaw.” He tossed another card on the table and said, “And this guy has been by three times, a littl
e guy named Jerry Coleman. He’s a process server for some lawyer who wants to sue you and your law firm.” He tossed another card on the table and said, “And this is from a father who said his son hired you, Todd, to handle a simple assault case. Said you didn’t show up for court.”
Maynard stared at them and waited. Mark finally said, “Well, it’s a long story, but we’re in a bit of a jam.”
Todd said, “We can’t work here any longer, Maynard. We need to disappear.”
“You got that right and I’m going to help you. You’re fired. I can’t have these people harassing the other bartenders. They’re tired of covering for you guys anyway. Next thing I know the cops will be stopping by with all sorts of questions, and I don’t have to tell you that cops make me real nervous. I don’t know what you’re doing but the party’s over. Get out.”
“I understand,” Todd said.
“Can we keep the upstairs for a month?” Mark asked. “We need some time to wrap up some things.”
“Wrap up what? You guys have been running a fake law firm and now half the city’s looking for you. What are you doing?”
Todd said, “Don’t worry about the cops. They’re not involved. Let’s just say we have some disgruntled clients.”
“Clients? But you’re not lawyers, right? Last I heard you guys were in law school getting ready to graduate.”
“We dropped out,” Todd said. “And we’ve been hustling clients in the criminal courts, all fees in cash.”
“That’s pretty stupid if you ask me.”
No one asked you, Mark thought, but let it go. And, yes, at the moment it seemed pretty stupid. He said, “We’ll pay you a thousand bucks in cash for another thirty days and you’ll never see us.”
Maynard took a sip of ice water and glared at them.
Todd, stung, said, “Look, Maynard, I’ve worked for you for, what, the last three years. You can’t just fire me like this.”
“You’re fired, Todd. Got that? Both of you. I can’t have this place crawling with investigators and pissed-off clients. You’ve been lucky that someone hasn’t walked in and recognized you.”
“Just thirty days,” Mark said. “And you’ll never know we’re here.”
“I doubt that.” He took another sip and kept glaring. Finally, he asked, “Why do you want to stay here when everybody seems to know your address?”
Mark said, “We need a place to sleep and finish our work. And, they can’t get to us. The door to the upstairs is always locked.”
“I know. That’s why they hang around the bar hassling the other bartenders.”
Todd said, “Please, Maynard. We’ll be out by the first of June.”
“Two thousand dollars cash,” Maynard said.
“Okay, and you’ll keep our cover?” Mark asked.
“I’ll try, but I really don’t like all this attention.”
32
At the Bardtown Federal Detention Facility, Zola’s parents and brother were awakened at midnight and told to gather their things. Each was given two canvas bags to fill with their possessions and thirty minutes to prepare for the trip. Along with about fifty other Africans, some of whom they’d met in detention and knew to be primarily Senegalese, they were loaded onto a white unmarked bus that was designed to transport federal inmates. They were handcuffed and remained so on the bus. Four heavily armed ICE agents, two wielding shotguns, escorted them to their seats and instructed them to sit quietly and ask no questions. Two of the agents assumed positions in the front of the bus, two in the rear. The glass windows were locked and covered with thick metal screens.
Zola’s mother, Fanta, counted five other women in the group. The rest were men, almost all under the age of forty. She was stoic and determined to keep her composure. Emotions were raw, but they had long since accepted the reality of removal.
After four months in captivity, they were relieved to be out of detention. Of course they preferred to remain in the country, but if life in the U.S. meant living in a cage, things could not be much worse in Senegal.
They rode in quiet darkness for almost two hours. The agents occasionally talked and laughed, but the passengers made no sounds. Highway signs told them they were entering Pittsburgh and the bus headed to the airport. It was cleared through security gates and parked inside a large hangar. An unmarked passenger jet waited nearby. On the other side of the airport, far away, the bright lights of the terminal were visible. The passengers left the bus and were herded into a corner where more ICE agents were waiting. One by one, the detainees were questioned and their paperwork reviewed. Once they were cleared, their handcuffs were removed and they were allowed to retrieve their two bags, the contents of which were examined again. The processing moved slowly; no one was in a hurry, especially those headed home.
Another bus arrived. Two dozen Africans got off, all looking as dazed and defeated as those on the first bus. Someone’s paperwork wasn’t in order so the others waited. And waited. It was almost 5:00 a.m. when an official led the first group of passengers to the airplane. A line formed behind them. Slowly, they climbed aboard with their bags and were directed to their seats. Boarding took another hour. The passengers were relieved to know they would not be handcuffed for the flight. Another official read the rules regarding movement while in flight, use of the restrooms, and so on. Yes, they were allowed to talk, but quietly. At the slightest hint of trouble, all passengers would be handcuffed. Any disturbance would lead to an automatic arrest upon arrival. Half a dozen armed agents would accompany them. The flight would take eleven hours, nonstop, and food would be provided.
It was almost seven when the jet’s engines began making noises. The doors were shut and locked and an official instructed them to fasten their seat belts. He then went through the safety and emergency procedures. Brown bags were given to all passengers. A cheese sandwich, an apple, and a small container of juice. At 7:20, the airplane shuddered and began moving toward a taxiway.
Twenty-six years after arriving in Miami as stowaways on a Liberian freighter, Abdou and Fanta Maal were leaving their adopted land as criminals, and headed for an uncertain future. Their son Bo, who was seated behind them, was leaving the only country he’d ever really known. As the plane lifted off, they held hands and fought tears.
—
AN HOUR LATER, a caseworker at Bardtown called Zola with the news that her family was en route to Dakar, Senegal. It was a routine call made to the contact person listed by each detainee. Though Zola knew it was coming, she nonetheless took it hard. She walked upstairs and informed Mark and Todd, and they spent an hour trying to console her. They decided to take a long walk and find some breakfast.
It was a somber meal. Zola was too worried and preoccupied to touch her waffle. Todd and Mark were genuinely concerned about her family, but they had stayed up most of the night fretting over their own predicament. Darrell Cromley had filed suit much faster than they had expected. The Bar Council was on their trail, no doubt tipped off by either Cromley or that prick Mossberg down in Charleston. Not that it really mattered; their little charade was over. They felt lousy about a lot of things, but the clients they were stiffing really bothered them. Those people had trusted them, had paid them, were now getting cheated, and would get chewed up again by the system.
As they ate and watched Zola, she picked up her phone and called Diallo Niang for the second time. Dakar, Senegal, was four time zones ahead and the workday was in full swing. Again, Diallo Niang did not answer his cell, nor did anyone answer his office line. In return for the $5,000 retainer Zola had paid weeks earlier, Niang had agreed to meet her family at the airport, arrange temporary housing, and, most important, keep the authorities happy. He’d claimed to be an expert on immigration matters and knew exactly what to do. When she couldn’t get him on the phone, she became frantic.
With so many people looking for them, returning to their address was not a good idea. They walked a few blocks, found a Starbucks, bought coffee, opened their laptops, logged in
, and returned to the white pages. The search for more fake clients gave them something to do, something else to think about.
—
AS THE MONOTONY of the flight wore on, the passengers became less subdued and more talkative. Almost all claimed to have a friend or relative waiting on the ground, though the uncertainty was palpable. No one even pretended to be optimistic. They had been away for years and had no valid paperwork or identification, at least not of the Senegalese variety. Those who’d had fake U.S. driver’s licenses had been forced to surrender them. The Dakar police were notoriously rough on returnees. Their attitude was simple—if you don’t want to be here, who needs you? The U.S. is kicking you out, so no one really wants you. They were often treated like outcasts. Housing and employment were difficult to find. Though many of their countrymen dreamed of immigrating to the U.S. and Europe, they were scornful of those who’d tried and failed.
Abdou and Fanta had relatives scattered throughout the country, but they were not to be trusted. Over the years, they had been contacted by various siblings and cousins who wanted help entering the U.S. illegally. Abdou and Fanta had been unable, or unwilling, to get involved. It was dangerous enough living without documentation. Why risk detection by assisting others?
Now that they needed help, there was no one they could trust. Zola had assured them that Diallo Niang was on retainer and would take care of them. They were praying fervently for his intervention and assistance.
They flew into the sunlight and back into the night. After eleven hours, and two more rounds of brown bag food, the plane began its descent into Dakar, and once again the mood on board became somber. Their return trip ended after midnight, a twenty-four-hour adventure none of them had bargained for. The plane taxied to the main terminal and stopped at the last gate of a long concourse. The engines died but the doors remained closed. An ICE official explained that once inside they would be handed over to Senegalese officials, outside U.S. jurisdiction. Good luck.