Gray Mountain (25 page)

At nine the following morning, Samantha again met Buddy at the Conoco station in Madison. He was excited to see his lawyer for the third day in a row, and introduced her to Weasel, the guy who owned the store. “All the way from New York,” Buddy said proudly, as if his case was so important heavyweight legal talent had to be imported. When the paperwork was complete and perfect, she said good-bye and drove back to the courthouse in Beckley. The armed warriors who had so bravely guarded the front lobby on Wednesday were evidently off fishing on Thursday. There was no one to fondle and grope her. The metal detector was unplugged. Clever terrorists monitoring Beckley had only to wait until Thursdays to thwart Homeland Security and blow up the building.

The same clerk examined her forms and searched vainly for a reason to reject them, but he found nothing to nitpick. She followed him to a massive room lined with metal file cabinets filled with thousands of old cases. He punched buttons on a screen; machines hummed as shelves moved. He opened the drawer and extracted four large expandable files. “You can use one of those tables,” he said, pointing, as if he owned them. Samantha thanked him, unloaded her briefcase, made her nest, and kicked off her shoes.

M
attie, too, was shoeless late Thursday afternoon when Samantha returned to the office. Everyone else was gone and the front door was locked. They went to the conference room so they could watch the traffic on Main Street as they talked. Throughout her thirty-year career as a lawyer, and especially the last twenty-six years at the clinic, Mattie had repeatedly butted heads with the boys (always men—never women) at Casper Slate. Their brand of aggressive advocacy often went even further, into the realm of unethical conduct, perhaps even criminal behavior. About a decade earlier, she had taken the extreme measure of filing an ethics complaint
against the firm with the Virginia bar association. Two Castrate lawyers were reprimanded, nothing serious, and when it was all over it had not been worth the trouble. In retaliation, the firm targeted her whenever possible and backstabbed even more fiercely when defending one of her black lung cases. Her clients suffered, and she regretted challenging the firm head-on. She was quite aware of Dr. Foy and Dr. Aberdeen, two renowned and eminently qualified researchers who’d been purchased by the coal companies years ago. The hospitals where they worked received millions in research grants from the coal industry.

As jaded as Mattie was toward the law firm, she was still surprised at Samantha’s discovery. She read the copy of Dr. Foy’s report to the pathologist in Beckley. Oddly enough, neither Foy nor Aberdeen was mentioned in the Ryzer hearing. Foy’s medical report was not submitted; rather, the lawyers at Casper Slate used another slew of doctors, none of whom mentioned the findings of Dr. Foy. Had they been told of these findings? “Highly unlikely,” was Mattie’s prediction. “These lawyers are known for concealing evidence that’s not helpful to the coal company. It’s safe to assume that both doctors saw the lung tissue and arrived at the same conclusion: that Buddy had complicated black lung disease. So the lawyers buried it and found more experts.”

“How can you just bury evidence?” Samantha asked, a question she’d been repeating to herself for many hours.

“It’s easy for these guys. Keep in mind this happens before an administrative law judge, not a real federal judge. It’s a hearing, not a trial. In a real trial there are strict rules regarding discovery and full disclosure; not so in a black lung hearing. The rules are far more relaxed, and these guys have spent decades tweaking and manipulating the rules. In about half the cases, the miner, like Buddy, has no lawyer, so it’s really not a fair fight.”

“I get that, but tell me how the lawyers for Lonerock Coal could know for a fact that Buddy had the disease as early as 1997, then cover it up by finding the other doctors who testified, under oath, that he was not suffering from black lung.”

“Because they’re crooks.”

“And we can’t do anything about it? Sounds like fraud and conspiracy to me. Why can’t they be sued? If they did it to Buddy Ryzer, you can bet they’ve done it to a thousand others.”

“I thought you didn’t like litigation.”

“I’m coming around. This is not right, Mattie.”

Mattie smiled and enjoyed her indignation. We’ve all been there, she thought. “It would be a massive effort to take on a law firm as powerful as Casper Slate.”

“Yes, I know that, and I know nothing about litigation. But fraud is fraud, and in this case it would be easy to prove. Doesn’t proving fraud pave the way to punitive damages?”

“Perhaps, but no law firm around here will sue Casper Slate directly. It would cost a fortune, take years, and if you got a big verdict you couldn’t keep it. Remember, Samantha, they elect their Supreme Court over in West Virginia, and you know who makes the biggest campaign contributions.”

“Sue them in federal court.”

Mattie pondered this for a moment and finally said, “I don’t know. I’m no expert on that type of litigation. You’ll have to ask Donovan.”

There was a knock on the door but neither made a move. It was after six, almost dark, and they were simply not up to another drop-in. Someone knocked again, then went away. Samantha asked, “So how do we proceed with his claim for benefits?”

“Are you taking his case?”

“Yes. I can’t walk away from it knowing what I do now. If you’ll help me, I’ll file it and go to war.”

“Okay, the first few steps are easy. File the claim and wait for a medical exam. After you receive it, and assuming it says what we expect, you’ll wait about six months for the district director to award benefits, which are about $1,200 a month now. Lonerock will appeal the award, and the real war begins. That’s the usual routine. However, in this case we’ll ask the court to reconsider in light of new evidence and seek benefits dating back to his first claim. We’ll probably win that too, and Lonerock will no doubt appeal.”

“Can we threaten the company and its lawyers with exposure?”

Mattie smiled and seemed amused by her response. “Some people we can threaten, Samantha, because we’re lawyers and our clients are right. Others we leave alone. Our goal is to get as much money as possible for Buddy Ryzer, not to crusade against crooked lawyers.”

“It seems like a perfect case for Donovan.”

“Then ask him. By the way, he wants us to stop by for a drink. All the testimony is in and the jury should get the case by noon tomorrow. According to him, things have gone his way and he’s feeling very confident.”

“No surprise there.”

T
hey were sipping whiskey around a cluttered table upstairs in the war room, with coats off, ties undone, the looks of weary warriors, but smug ones nonetheless. Donovan introduced Samantha to his younger brother, Jeff, while Vic Canzarro fetched two more crystal tumblers from a shelf. To her recollection, Samantha had never tasted a brown liquor, straight up. There could have been a few, heavily mixed into a concoction at a frat party, but she had not been aware of it. She preferred wine and beer and martinis, but had always shied away from the brown stuff. At that moment, though, there were no options. These boys were enjoying their George Dickel straight, no ice.

It burned her lips and scalded her tongue and set fire to her esophagus, but when Donovan asked, “How is it?” she managed a smile and said, “Fine.” She smacked her lips as if she’d never tasted anything so delicious while vowing to pour it down the drain as soon as she could find a restroom.

Annette was right. Jeff was at least as cute as his older brother, had the same dark eyes and long unruly hair, though Donovan had tidied up a bit for his jury. Jeff wore a coat and tie, but also jeans and boots. He was not a lawyer, indeed according to Annette he had flunked out of college, but according to Mattie he worked closely with Donovan and did a lot of his dirty work.

Vic had spent four hours on the witness stand the day before, and he was still amused by his arguments with Strayhorn Coal’s lawyers. One story led to another. Mattie asked Jeff, “What’s your take on the jury?”

“They’re all in,” he said without hesitation. “Maybe with one exception, but we’re in good shape.”

Donovan said, “They offered half a million bucks to settle this afternoon, after the last witness. We got ’em on the run.”

Vic said, “Take the money, you idiot.”

Donovan asked, “Mattie, what would you do?”

“Well, a half a million is not much for two dead boys, but it’s a lot for Hopper County. No one on that jury has ever seen such a sum, and they’ll have a hard time handing it over to one of their own.”

“Take it or roll the dice?” Donovan asked.

“Take it.”

“Jeff?”

“Take the money.”

“Samantha?”

Samantha was breathing through her mouth, trying to extinguish the flames. She licked her lips and said, “Well, two weeks ago I couldn’t spell ‘lawsuit,’ now you want my advice on whether or not to settle one?”

“Yes, you have to vote, or we’ll cut off the booze.”

“Please do. I’m just a lowly legal aid lawyer, so I’d take the money and run.”

Donovan took a small sip, smiled, and said, “Four against one. I love it.” Only one vote counted, and it was clear the case would not be settled. Mattie asked, “What about your closing argument? Can we hear it?”

“Of course,” he said, jumping to his feet, straightening his tie, and placing his tumbler on a shelf. Along one side of the long table, he began to pace, staring at his audience like a veteran stage actor. Mattie whispered to Samantha, “He likes to practice on us when we have the time.”

He stopped, looked directly at Samantha, and began, “Ladies
and gentlemen of the jury, a pile of money will not bring back Eddie and Brandon Tate. They’ve been dead now for nineteen months, their lives crushed out of them by the men who work for Strayhorn Coal. But money is all we have to measure damages in cases like this. Cold hard cash, that’s what the law says. It’s now up to you to decide how much. So let’s start with Brandon, the younger of the two, a frail little boy, only eight years old and born two months premature. He could read by the time he was four and loved his computer, which by the way was under his bed when the six-ton boulder arrived. The computer, too, was found mangled and without power, as dead as Brandon.”

He was smooth without being showy. Sincere, without a hint of anything but sincerity. He had no notes and didn’t need them. Samantha was immediately captivated and would have given him any sum of money he asked for. He was pacing back and forth, very much onstage and fully in command of his script. At one point, though, Mattie startled them with “Objection, you can’t say that.”

Donovan laughed and said, “My apologies, Your Honor. I’ll ask the jurors to disregard what I just said, which of course is impossible and that’s why I said it in the first place.”

“Objection,” Mattie said again.

There were no wasted words, no hyperbole, no flowery quotations from the Bible or Shakespeare, no false emotions, nothing but a carefully nuanced argument in favor of his client, and against an awful company, all delivered effortlessly, spontaneously. He suggested the amount of $1 million per child, and $1 million in punitive damages. Three million total, a large sum to him, and certainly to the jurors, but a drop in the bucket for Strayhorn Coal. Last year, the company’s gross income was $14 million a week.

When he finished, that particular jury was already in his pocket. The real one would not be as easy. As Vic poured more whiskey, Donovan challenged them to pick apart his closing argument. He said he would be up all night revising it. He claimed the whiskey loosened his creative thoughts, and some of his best final summations were the result of a few hours of thoughtful sipping. Mattie argued that $3 million was too much. It might work in larger cities
but not in Hopper County, or Noland County for that matter. She reminded him that neither county had ever seen a million-dollar verdict, and he reminded her that there was a first time for everything. And, no one could create a better set of facts, facts he had just clearly and masterfully laid out before the jury.

Back and forth, back and forth. Samantha excused herself and went to the restroom. She poured the whiskey down the drain and hoped she never encountered it again. She said good night, wished Donovan all the luck in the world, and drove to the Starlight Motel, where the Booker family was enjoying an extended stay. She had cookies for the kids and two romance novels for Pamela. While Mandy and Trevor toyed with their homework, the women eased outside, where they leaned on the hood of Samantha’s Ford and talked business. Pamela was excited because a friend had found a small apartment in Colton, just $400 a month. The kids were falling behind in school, and after three nights at the motel she was ready to move on. They decided to leave early on the next morning, take the kids to school, and look at the apartment. Samantha would do the driving.

A
fter two weeks in Brady, or more accurately three weeks away from Scully & Pershing, Samantha’s sleep deprivation had been thoroughly exorcised and she was back to her old habits. At 5:00 on Friday morning, she was sipping coffee in bed and hammering out a three-page memo on the subject of Buddy Ryzer’s black lungs and Casper Slate’s fraudulent behavior in screwing him out of benefits. At 6:00, she e-mailed it to Mattie, Donovan, and her father. Marshall Kofer’s reaction was something she was eager to hear.

Another big lawsuit was the last thing on Donovan’s mind, and her intent was not to pester him on this momentous day. She was simply hoping he might find the time over the weekend to read about Mr. Ryzer and pass along his thoughts. Ten minutes later, she received his thoughts. His e-mail read: “I have battled with these slimeballs tooth and nail for the past 12 years, and I hate them with a passion. My fantasy trial is a huge courtroom showdown against Castrate, a grand exposé of all their sins. I love this case! Let’s talk later. Off to war in Colton. Should be fun!!”

She replied: “Will do. Best of luck.”

At 7:00, she drove to the Starlight Motel and gathered up the Bookers. Mandy and Trevor were dressed in their best and eager to get back to school. As Samantha drove, they ate her doughnuts and chattered nonstop. Again, the line between lawyering and social
work was getting blurred, but it didn’t matter. According to Mattie, in addition to providing legal advice, the job often included marriage counseling, carpooling, cooking, job searching, tutoring, financial advising, apartment hunting, and babysitting. She was fond of saying, “We don’t work by the hour, but by the client.”