Ford County (13 page)

“You fired Freda,” she said, jaws clenched, eyebrows arched.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I got tired of her mouth. What do you care? You hate Freda.”

“What will happen to the office?”

“It’ll be a helluva lot quieter for one thing. I’ve fired secretaries before. It’s no big deal.”

A pause as she uncrossed her arms and began twirling a strand of hair. This meant that she was pondering serious stuff and was about to unload it.

“We have an appointment with Dr. Juanita tomorrow at five,” she announced. Done deal. Nothing to negotiate.

Dr. Juanita was one of three licensed marriage counselors in Clanton. Mack knew them professionally through his work as a divorce lawyer. He knew them personally because Lisa had dragged him to all three for counseling. He needed counseling. She, of course, did not. Dr. Juanita always sided with the women, and so her selection was no surprise.

“How are the girls?” Mack asked. He knew the answer would be ugly, but if he didn’t ask, then she would later complain to Dr. Juanita, “He didn’t even ask about the girls.”

“Humiliated. Their father comes home drunk late at night and falls in the driveway, cracks his skull, gets hauled to the hospital, where his blood alcohol is twice the legal limit. Everybody in town knows it.”

“If everybody knows it, then it’s because you’ve spread the word. Why can’t you just keep your mouth shut?”

Her face flashed red, and her eyes glowed with hatred. “You, you, you’re pathetic. You’re a miserable pathetic drunk, you know that?”

“I disagree.”

“How much are you drinking?”

“Not enough.”

“You need help, Mack, serious help.”

“And I’m supposed to get this help from Dr. Juanita?”

She suddenly bolted to her feet and stormed for the door. “I’m not going to fight in a hospital.”

“Of course not. You prefer to fight at home in front of the girls.”

She yanked open the door and said, “Five o’clock tomorrow, and you’d better be there.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“And don’t come home tonight.”

She slammed the door, and Mack heard her heels click angrily away.

The first client in Mack’s chain-saw class-action scheme was a career pulpwood cutter by the name of Odell Grove. Almost five years earlier, Mr. Grove’s nineteen-year-old son needed a quick divorce and found his way to Mack’s office. In the course of representing the kid, himself a pulpwood cutter, Mack learned of Odell’s encounter with a chain-saw that proved more dangerous than most. During routine operations, the chain snapped, the guard failed, and Odell lost his left eye. He wore a patch now, and it was the patch that helped identify this long-forgotten client when Mack entered the truck-stop café outside the small town of Karraway. It was a few minutes past eight, the morning after Mack’s discharge from the hospital, the morning after he’d slept at the office. He had sneaked by the house after the girls left for
school and picked up some clothes. To mix with the locals, he was wearing boots and a camouflage suit he put on occasionally when hunting deer. The fresh wound on his forehead was covered with a green wool ski cap pulled low, but he couldn’t hide all the bruising. He was taking painkillers and had a buzz. The pills were giving him the courage to somehow wade through this unpleasant encounter. He had no choice.

Odell with his black eye patch was eating pancakes and talking loudly three tables away, and never glanced at Mack. According to the file, they had met at the same truck stop four years and ten months earlier, when Mack first informed Odell that he had a good, solid case against the maker of the chain-saw. Their last contact had been almost two years ago, when Odell called the office with some rather pointed inquiries about the progress of his good, solid case. After that, the file became odorous.

Mack drank coffee at the counter, glanced at a newspaper, and waited for the early-morning crowd to leave for work. Eventually, Odell and his two co-workers finished breakfast and stopped at the cash register. Mack left a dollar for his coffee and followed them outside. As they headed for their pulpwood truck, Mack swallowed hard and said, “Odell.” All three stopped as Mack hustled over for a friendly hello.

“Odell, it’s me, Mack Stafford. I handled the divorce for your son Luke.”

“The lawyer?” Odell asked, confused. He took in the boots, the hunting garb, the ski cap not far above the eyes.

“Sure, from Clanton. You gotta minute?”

“What—”

“Just take a minute. A small business matter.”

Odell looked at the other two, and all three shrugged. “We’ll wait in the truck,” one of them said.

Like most men who spend their time deep in the woods knocking down trees, Odell was thick through the shoulders and chest, with massive forearms and weathered hands. And with his one good eye he was able to convey more contempt than most men could dish out with two.

“What is it?” he snarled, then spat. A toothpick was stuck in the corner of his mouth. There was a scar on his left cheek, courtesy of Tinzo. The accident had cost him one eyeball and a month’s worth of pulpwood, little more.

“I’m winding down my practice,” Mack said.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Means I’m closing up the office. I think I might be able to squeeze some money out of your case.”

“I think I’ve heard this before.”

“Here’s the deal. I can get you twenty-five thousand cash, hard cash, in two weeks, but only if you keep it extremely confidential. I mean graveyard quiet. You can’t tell a soul.”

For a man who’d never seen $5,000 in cash, the prospect was instantly appealing. Odell glanced around to make sure they were alone. He worked the toothpick as if it helped him think.

“Somethin’ don’t smell right,” he said, his eye patch twitching.

“It’s not complicated, Odell. It’s a quick settlement because the company that made the chain-saw is getting bought out by another company. Happens all the time. They’d like to forget about these old claims.”

“All nice and legal?” Odell asked, with suspicion, as if this lawyer couldn’t be trusted.

“Of course. They’ll pay the money, but only if it’s kept confidential. Plus, think of all the problems you’d face if folks knew you had that kind of cash.”

Odell looked straight at the pulpwood truck and his two buddies sitting inside. Then he thought of his wife, and her mother, and his son in jail for drugs, and his son who was unemployed, and before long he’d thought of lots of people who’d happily help him go through the money. Mack knew what he was thinking, and added, “Cold cash, Odell. From my pocket to yours, and nobody will know anything. Not even the IRS.”

“No chance of gettin’ more?” Odell asked.

Mack frowned and kicked a rock. “Not a dime, Odell. Not a dime. It’s twenty-five thousand or nothing. And we have to move quick. I can hand you the cash in less than a month.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Meet me here Friday of next week, 8:00 a.m. I’ll need one signature, then I can get the money.”

“How much you makin’ off this?”

“It’s not important. You want the cash or not?”

“That’s not much money for an eyeball.”

“You’re right about that, but it’s all you’re gonna get. Yes or no?”

Odell spat again and moved the toothpick from one side to the other. Finally, he said, “I reckon.”

“Good. Next Friday, 8:00 a.m., here, and come alone.”

During their first meeting years earlier, Odell had mentioned
that he knew of another pulpwood cutter who’d lost a hand while using the same model Tinzo chain-saw. This second injury had inspired Mack to begin dreaming of a broader attack, a class action on behalf of dozens, maybe hundreds of maimed plaintiffs. He could almost feel the money, years earlier.

Plaintiff number two had been tracked down next door in Polk County, in a desolate hollow deep in a pine forest. His name was Jerrol Baker, aged thirty-one, a former logger who’d been unable to pursue that career with only one hand. Instead, he and a cousin had built a methamphetamine lab in their double-wide trailer, and Jerrol the chemist made much more money than Jerrol the logger. His new career, however, proved just as dangerous, and Jerrol narrowly escaped a fiery death when their lab exploded, incinerating the equipment, the inventory, the trailer, and the cousin. Jerrol was indicted, sent to prison, and from there wrote several unanswered letters to his class-action lawyer seeking updates on the good, solid case they had against Tinzo. He was paroled after a few months, and rumored to be back in the area. Mack had not spoken to him in at least two years.

And speaking to him now would be a challenge, if not an impossibility. Jerrol’s mother’s house was abandoned. A neighbor down the road was most uncooperative until Mack explained that he owed Jerrol $300 and needed to deliver a check. Since it was likely that Jerrol owed money to most of his mother’s neighbors, a few details emerged. Mack certainly didn’t appear to be a drug agent, a process server, or a parole officer. The neighbor pointed up the road and over the hill, and Mack followed his directions. He dropped more hints about delivering money as he worked his
way deeper into the pine forests of Polk County. It was almost noon when the gravel road came to a dead end. An ancient mobile home sat forlornly on cinder blocks wrapped in wild vines. Mack, a .38-caliber handgun in one pocket, slowly approached the trailer. The door opened slowly, sagging on its hinges.

Jerrol stepped onto the rickety plank porch and glared at Mack, who froze twenty feet away. Jerrol was shirtless but wearing ink, his arms and chest adorned with a colorful collection of prison tattoos. His hair was long and dirty, his thin body no doubt ravaged by meth. He’d lost his left hand thanks to Tinzo, but in his right he held a sawed-off shotgun. He nodded, but didn’t speak. His eyes were deep-set, ghostlike.

“I’m Mack Stafford, a lawyer from Clanton. I believe you’re Jerrol Baker, aren’t you?”

Mack half expected the shotgun to come up firing, but it didn’t move. Oddly enough, the client smiled, a toothless offering that was more frightening than the weapon. “’At’s me,” he grunted.

They talked for ten minutes, a surprisingly civil exchange given the setting and given their history. As soon as Jerrol realized he was about to receive $25,000 in cash, and that no one would know about it, he turned into a little boy and even invited Mack inside. Mack declined.

By the time they settled into their leather seats and faced the counselor across the desk, Dr. Juanita had been fully briefed on all issues and only pretended to be open-minded. Mack almost asked
how many times the girls had chatted, but his strategy was all about avoiding conflict.

After a few comments designed to relax the husband and wife, and to instill confidence and warmth, Dr. Juanita invited them to say something. Not surprisingly, Lisa went first. She prattled nonstop for fifteen minutes about her unhappiness, her emptiness, her frustrations, and she minced no words in describing her husband’s lack of affection and ambition, and his increasing reliance upon alcohol.

Mack’s forehead was black-and-blue, and a fairly large white bandage covered a third of it, so not only was he described as a drunk, he in fact looked like one. He bit his tongue, listened, tried to appear dismal and depressed. When it was his turn to speak, he expressed some of the same concerns but didn’t drop any bombs. Most of their problems were caused by him, and he was ready to take the blame.

When he finished, Dr. Juanita split them up. Lisa left first and went back to the lobby to flip through magazines while she reloaded. Mack was left to face the counselor alone. The first time he’d endured this torture, he’d been nervous. Now, though, he’d been through so many sessions that he really didn’t care. Nothing he said would help save their marriage, so why say much at all?

“I have a sense that you want out of this marriage,” Dr. Juanita began softly, wisely, eyeing him carefully.

“I want out because she wants out. She wants a bigger life, a bigger house, a bigger husband. I’m just too small.”

“Do you and Lisa ever share a laugh?”

“Maybe if we’re watching something funny on television. I laugh, she laughs, the girls laugh.”