Gray Mountain

Mr. Ryzer in his claim for black lung benefits.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.” The smile vanished as his eyes narrowed and flashed with hatred. He actually pointed a finger at her as he spoke. “We deeply resent the allegations made against our law firm by your client in his ill-fated lawsuit. Don’t make that mistake again, I’m warning you.” His voice increased in volume as he lectured her. The other three suits from Castrate froze and glared at her.

Samantha was stunned, but there was nowhere to hide. “But you know the allegations are true,” she said.

He took a step closer, jabbed his finger in her face, and said, “We’ll sue you and your client for libel, do you understand?”

Mattie reached forward and gently shoved his hand away. “That’s enough, Trent, go back to your box.”

He relaxed and offered the same drippy smile. He kept glaring, though, and with a lower voice said to Samantha, “Your client caused us great embarrassment, Ms. Kofer. Even though that lawsuit has been dismissed, it still stings. His black lung claim will get the full treatment in our firm.”

“Don’t they all?” Mattie snapped. “Hell, this one’s been on the docket for fourteen years and you’re still fighting it tooth and nail.”

“That’s what we do, Mattie. That’s what we do,” he said proudly, backing away and returning to his fan club.

“Take a breath,” Mattie said as they sat down.

“I’m not believing this,” Samantha said, stunned. “I got threatened in open court.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet. They’ll threaten you in court, out of court, in the hallways, on the phone, by e-mail, fax, or in court filings. Doesn’t matter. They’re bullies and brutes, just like their clients, and for the most part they get away with it.”

“Who is he?”

“One of their more talented assassins. A senior partner, one of six in their black lung division. About a hundred associates, dozens of paralegals, and all the support staff they need. Can you imagine Wally Landry sitting here without a lawyer?”

“No.” That visual seemed so far-fetched that it had to be illegal.

“Well, it happens all the time.”

For a split second Samantha longed for the strength and security of Scully & Pershing, a firm four times as big as Casper Slate and far wealthier. No one bullied the litigators at her old firm; indeed, they were often regarded as the bullies. In a dogfight, they could always send in another pack of wolves to protect their clients.

Trent Fuller would never consider such an altercation with lawyers from another big firm. He swaggered over because he saw two women at the table, two ill-paid legal aid lawyers representing, pro bono, a dying miner, and he felt unrestrained in throwing his weight around. The audacity was astonishing: his firm was guilty of fraud and conspiracy, and had been caught red-handed by Samantha and exposed when Donovan filed the Ryzer lawsuit. Now that the lawsuit was gone, Fuller and his firm were not at all concerned with their own wrongdoing. Of course not—they were worried only about their tarnished image.

Nor would Fuller have ventured over and caused trouble had Donovan been there. Indeed, none of the four pretty boys at the other table would risk getting punched because of a stray word or idle threat.

They were women, viewed by the boys as easily intimidated and physically vulnerable. They were fighting a losing cause and not getting paid for it; therefore, they were obviously inferior.

Samantha stewed as Mattie shuffled papers. The judge took his place and called things to order. Samantha glanced across the courtroom and again caught Fuller staring at her. He smiled as if to say, “This is my turf, and you don’t belong here.”





32


The e-mail read:





Dear Samantha: I enjoyed our brief meeting in New York and look forward to another conversation with you. Yesterday, Jan 6, Krull Mining filed a motion to dismiss our Hammer Valley lawsuit in federal court in Charleston. This was expected, as was its length and forcefulness. Obviously Krull Mining is terrified of the lawsuit and wants to get rid of it. In 35 years, I’ve never seen a motion as strident in tone. And it will be difficult to counter, absent proof yet to be developed. Can we meet at some point in the near future? Also, no sign of relief from D.C. Your friend, Jarrett London



On the one hand, she was hoping Jarrett London was a fading memory. On the other, she had been thinking about him quite a lot since her encounter with Trent Fuller. A trial lawyer with a reputation and courtroom presence would not have been subjected to such a demeaning ambush. Other than her father and Donovan, London was the only trial lawyer she’d met, and none of those three would have tolerated Fuller’s antics. Indeed, Fuller, had they been there, would have stayed on his side of the courtroom and said nothing.

But she was not eager to meet him. He wanted complicity, and she had no plans to get further involved. The semi-vague “proof yet to be developed” meant he was desperate and wanted the documents.

She wrote back:

Hello Jarrett: Nice to hear from you. I’m sure I can be available for a meeting; just let me know when. Washington has been briefed. SK



Washington had not been briefed, not completely. On the train to Washington after the Christmas holiday, Samantha had told Karen part of the story, and in doing so emphasized the “abusive” tactics being used by the FBI in harassing the plaintiffs on behalf of Krull Mining. She said nothing about the hidden documents, nor did she touch on the other dramas currently unfolding in her little part of coal country.

Karen seemed interested, to a point, but commented that the FBI was known to overreach and get itself in trouble. From her lofty position at Justice, the agents way down there on the streets were in another world. Karen had no interest in what they were doing, whether in Appalachia or New York or Chicago. Her world these days was consumed with high-level strategies involving policies to be implemented relative to the reckless behavior of certain big banks and certain sub-prime mortgage lenders, and so on and on …

The second significant e-mail of the morning came from a Dr. Draper, a pulmonary specialist in Beckley who’d been selected by the Department of Labor to examine Buddy Ryzer. His note was to the point:

Attorney Kofer: Attached is my report. Mr. Ryzer is suffering from PMF—progressive massive fibrosis, also known as complicated coal workers’ pneumoconiosis. His condition is advanced. I understand he is still working; frankly, I think he should not be, though there is nothing in my report to indicate this. I am available by e-mail for questions. LKD



She was poring over the report when the third one landed. It was from Andy Grubman, but not from his usual Scully & Pershing e-mail address.

Dear Samantha: Happy New Year. I trust this finds you doing well as you hustle about trying to save the world. I miss your smiling face and hope to see you soon. I’ll be brief and get right to the point. I have decided to leave Scully & Pershing as of the end of February. I am not being forced out, or furloughed, or anything like that. We’re parting on good terms. The truth is I can’t stand working in tax law. I find it incredibly boring, and I miss my old beat. I have a friend who worked in commercial real estate at another firm for many years, and he’s getting squeezed. We have decided to open our own shop—Spane & Grubman—with offices in the financial district. We have lined up two major clients—one a Korean bank and the other a fund out of Kuwait—and both are poised to pounce on distressed buildings along the East Coast. As you know, there is no shortage of over-leveraged units that have been swept underwater by the Recession. Also, these clients think it’s the perfect time to start planning construction to begin in a couple of years when the Recession is over. They have plenty of cash and are ready to move.

Anyway, Nick Spane and I envision a firm of about twenty associates working under the two of us. Compensation will be close to that of Big Law, and we have no plans to kill ourselves or our associates. We want a nice little boutique firm where the lawyers work hard but also manage to have some fun. I promise the associates will never work more than 80 hours a week. We think 50 is a nice target. The term “quality of life” is an industry joke, but we’re serious about it. I’m tired and I’m only 41.

I’m offering you a position. Izabelle is in. Ben has found something else—I’m afraid he’s wandered off the reservation. What about it? No pressure, but I need an answer by the end of the month. Needless to say, there are a lot of lawyers out on the street these days.

Your favorite boss, Andy



She read it again, closed her door, and read it for a third time. Andy was basically a nice person from Indiana who’d spent too much time in New York. He sent a thoughtful letter that conveyed a generous and tempting offer, but he simply couldn’t help himself by reminding her that there were plenty of lawyers begging for work. She turned off her computer and her office light, and sneaked out the back door without being heard. She got into her Ford and was a mile out of town before she asked herself where she might be headed. It didn’t matter.

January 31 was twenty-four days away.

As she drove she thought about her clients. Buddy Ryzer came first. She had not committed to pushing his case until it was finished, but she had promised Mattie she would file the claim and do the initial heavy lifting. And that was almost a nuisance action compared with the mammoth lawsuit someone should refile against Lonerock Coal and Casper Slate. There was the brewing mess over the last will of Francine Crump, which, to be honest, was a beautiful reason to immediately call Andy and take the job. There were the Merryweathers, a nice, simple couple who’d sunk their savings into a small home that was now being threatened by a sleazy sub-prime lender suing for the entire balance. Samantha was seeking an injunction to stop the foreclosure. There were two divorces, still uncontested but unlikely to remain so. Of course, there was the Hammer Valley litigation that wouldn’t leave her alone. Frankly, it was another reason to leave. She was helping Mattie with three bankruptcies and two employment discrimination cases. She was still waiting on a check for Pamela Booker, so that file had not been closed. She was helping Annette with two other divorces and Phoebe Fanning’s mess—both Mom and Dad were headed to prison and no one wanted the kids.

To summarize things, Attorney Kofer, you have too many people leaning on you right now to pack up and run. The decision to return to New York was not supposed to be due now, only three months into a twelve-month furlough. You were supposed to have more time than this, time to open a few files, help a few folks, keep mildly occupied with one eye on the calendar as the months clicked by, the recession went away, and jobs sprang up all over Manhattan. That was the plan, wasn’t it? Perhaps not a return to the drudgery of Big Law, but surely to a respectable job in something like a … boutique firm?

A small shop, a few happy lawyers, fifty hours a week, an impressive salary with all the usual goodies? In 2007, her last full year at Scully, she had billed three thousand hours. The math was easy—sixty billable hours a week for fifty weeks, though she had not been able to enjoy her two weeks of paid vacation. To bill sixty hours a week, she had to clock in at least seventy-five, often more. For those lucky enough to enjoy life without staring at a clock, seventy-five hours a week usually meant, for Samantha anyway, arriving at the office at 8:00 a.m. and leaving twelve hours later, Monday through Saturday, with a few spillover hours on the Sabbath. And that was normal. Toss in the pressure of a major deadline, one of Andy’s clients in crisis, and a ninety-hour week was not unusual.

And now he was promising only fifty?

She was in Kentucky, approaching the small town of Whitesburg, an hour from Brady. The roads were clear but lined with piles of dirty snow. She saw a coffee shop and parked near it. The waitress informed her that there were hot biscuits fresh from the oven. How could one say no? At a table in the front window, she buttered the biscuit and waited for it to cool. She sipped coffee and watched the languid traffic along Main Street. She sent a text to Mattie, said she had to run some errands.

She ate a biscuit with strawberry jam and scribbled notes on a pad. She would not say no to Andy’s offer, and she wouldn’t say yes. She needed time, a few days anyway, to collect her thoughts, analyze them, gather all the information possible, and wait for some phantom voice to tell her what to do. She composed a response she would send later in the afternoon from her desk. The first draft read:

Dear Andy: Happy New Year to you. I must admit I’m shocked by your e-mail and the offer of such a promising position. Frankly, nothing has happened in the past three months to prepare me for such a quick return to the city. I thought I had at least a year to contemplate life and my future; now, though, you’ve suddenly turned things upside down. I need some time to think this through.

I haven’t managed to save the world yet but I’m making progress. My clients are poor people who have no voice. They don’t expect me to work miracles and all efforts are greatly appreciated. I go to court occasionally—imagine that, Andy, I’ve actually seen the inside of a courtroom—and it’s far different from television. Though, as you know, I didn’t have time for television. Last Monday I won my first trial. $10,000 for my client, and it felt like a million. With some experience, I might learn to enjoy trial work.

Now, about your offer. A few specifics. Who are the other associates and where are they coming from? No assholes, Andy, okay, I’m not working with a bunch of cutthroat gunners. What’s the male/female breakdown? No all-boys club. Who is Nick Spane and what’s his story? I’m sure he’s a great lawyer but is he a nice person? Solid marriage or serial bed-hopper? If he touches me I’ll sue for harassment and he needs to know that. Send me his bio, please. Where are the offices? I’m not subjecting myself to miserable working conditions. All I ever wanted was a small office—my office!—with a nice window, a little sunlight, and my own wall to hang whatever I choose. This fifty-hour-a-week guarantee—will you put that in writing? I’m currently on that schedule and it is delightful. Who will be the clients, other than the Koreans and Kuwaitis? I’m sure they’ll be large corporations and such, or big guys with big egos; whatever, the point is I will not be yelled at by a client. (My clients here call me Miss Sam and bring me cookies.) We can talk about this. Lastly, what’s the future? There’s not one here so I won’t be staying. I’m a New Yorker, Andy, more so now than three months ago, but I would like to know the structure of the new firm and where you and Spane see it ten years from now. Fair enough?

Thanks, Andy, for thinking of me. You were always fair; not always a sweetheart but then I’m not sure that’s in your DNA.

Let’s keep talking. Samantha





The temperature was somewhere under twenty degrees, and the snow was frozen and topped with a glaze that reflected moonlight. After a warm dinner with Annette and the kids, Samantha retired to her garage apartment, where the small furnace labored to break the chill. If she were paying a stiff rent in Manhattan she would have been giving someone an earful, but not in Brady. Not where there was no rent at all and her landlord was probably low on cash. So she bundled up and read in bed for two hours as the time slowly passed. She read a chapter, then put the book down and thought about New York, and Andy, and his brand-new firm. There were so many thoughts running through her mind.

There was no doubt she would say yes, and this excited her. The job was perfect; she would return to her home, to the city she loved, and to a job that was prestigious and promising. She could avoid the horrors of Big Law while pursuing a meaningful career. The bind was in the quitting. She could not simply walk away in a month or so and dump everything on Mattie. No, there had to be a more graceful and equitable exit. She was thinking of a short deferment—an acceptance now with an arrival on the job in six months or so. That would be fair, or as fair as possible. She could sell it to both Mattie and Andy, couldn’t she?

A phone was buzzing under a pile of clothing. She finally found it and said, “Yes.” It was Jeff’s spy phone, and he responded with “Are you cold?”

She smiled and asked, “Where are you?”

“I’m about forty feet away, hiding in the dark, leaning against the back of the garage, my feet stuck in eight inches of frozen snow. Can you hear my teeth chattering?”

“I think so. What are you doing here?”

“That should be obvious. Look, Annette just turned off the lights over there, so the coast is clear. I think you should make some coffee, decaf if you have it, and open the damned door. Trust me, no one will see me. The neighbors have been asleep for two hours. Once again, all of Brady is dead.”

She opened the door, and without as much as a squeak Jeff appeared from the dark stairs and pecked her on the lips. He took off his boots and parked them next to hers. “Staying, are we?” she asked as she poured water into the coffee machine.

He rubbed his hands together and said, “I think it’s warmer outside. Have you complained to the landlord?”

“Haven’t thought about it. No rent means no complaints. Nice to see you out of jail.”

“You’re not going to believe what I’ve dug up.”

“And that’s why you’re here, to tell me all about it.”

“Among other things.”

On the night Donovan died, his Cessna was parked at the Charleston airport for about seven hours, from 3:20 to 10:31 p.m., according to air traffic control records and data from the general aviation terminal. After he landed, he rented a car and took off to meet with his legal team. While he was gone, four small planes arrived at the ramp; two bought fuel, dropped off a passenger, and left, and the other two tied down for the night. One of these was a Beech Baron, the other a King Air 210, a popular twin-engine turboprop that seats six passengers. The King Air arrived at 7:35 p.m. with two pilots and one passenger. All three got off the airplane, entered the terminal, did their paperwork, and left with a guy in a van.

Samantha listened without a word and poured the decaf.

According to Brad, an employee who worked the ramp that night, there were actually two passengers on the King Air, one of whom