Gray Mountain (26 page)

Outside the school in Colton, Samantha stayed in the car while Pamela went inside with her children. She wanted to say hello to the teachers and explain things. Samantha had sent daily e-mails to the school, and the teachers and principal had been supportive.

With the kids securely in place back where they belonged, Samantha and Pamela spent the next two hours looking into the rather sparse selection of rental housing in and around Colton. The apartment Pamela’s friend had gushed on about was only a few blocks from the school and one of four units in a run-down commercial building that had been partially converted. The place was clean enough, with a few sticks of furniture, which was important because Pamela had none. It was priced at $400 a month, which seemed reasonable given its condition. As they left, Pamela said, with no enthusiasm at all, “I guess we could live there.”

Mattie’s slush fund was good for a couple of months only, though Samantha did not divulge this. She gave the accurate impression that money was tight and that Pamela needed to find work as soon as possible. No hearing on the garnishment order had been set; in fact, Samantha had not heard a word from the defendant, Top Market Solutions. She had called the lamp factory twice to make sure Mr. Simmons was in a semi-pleasant mood and that Pamela could still get her job back as soon as the garnishment went away. Prospects for other employment in Hopper County were dim.

Samantha had never seen the inside of a mobile home, had never really thought about doing so, but two miles east of the city limits, at the end of a gravel road, she had her first experience. It was a nice trailer, furnished and clean and only $550 a month. Pamela confessed that she had grown up in a trailer, like so many of her friends, and was fond of the privacy. To Samantha, the place at first seemed incredibly cramped, but as she walked around it she had to confess she’d seen much tighter quarters in Manhattan.

There was a duplex on a hill above the town, nice views and all, but the folks next door gave all appearances of being insufferable. There was a vacant house in a shady part of town. They looked at it from the street and did not get out of the car. From there the search fizzled, and they decided to have coffee downtown, not far from the courthouse. Samantha resisted the temptation to walk over, sneak into the back row, and watch Donovan perform for the jury. A couple of locals in a booth nearby talked of nothing but the trial. One said he had gone by at 8:30 and the courtroom was already packed. In his windy opinion, it was the “biggest trial ever in Colton.”

“What’s it about?” Samantha asked pleasantly.

“You don’t know about the Tate trial?” the man asked incredulously.

“Sorry, not from around here.”

“Oh boy.” He shook his head and sort of waved her off. His pancakes arrived and he lost interest in holding court. He knew far too much to share in such a short time.

Pamela had a friend in Colton she needed to check on. Samantha left her at the café and drove back to Brady. As soon as she walked into her office, Mattie was right behind her with “Just got a text from Jeff. Donovan wouldn’t settle and the jury has the case. Let’s grab a sandwich, eat in the car, and drive over.”

“I just left there,” Samantha said. “Besides, you can’t get a seat.”

“And how do you know this?”

“I have sources.” Instead, they ate sandwiches in the conference room with Claudelle and waited nervously for the next text. When it did not arrive, they drifted back to their offices, puttering, still waiting.

At 1:00 p.m., Mrs. Francine Crump arrived on schedule for the formal signing of her free will. It seemed odd that a woman who owned land worth at least $200,000 would pinch pennies so tightly, but the truth was that she had nothing but the land (and the coal beneath it). Samantha had corresponded with the Mountain Trust, a well-established conservation group that specialized in taking title to land and preserving it. In Francine’s simple will,
she bequeathed her eighty acres to the Mountain Trust, and to the exclusion of her five adult children. As Samantha read the will to her and explained everything carefully, Francine began crying. It was one thing to get mad and “cut out the kids,” but it was quite another when she saw the words on paper. Samantha began to worry about the signing. For the will to be valid, Francine had to be “legally competent” and certain of what she was doing. Instead, for the moment anyway, she was emotional and uncertain. At eighty, and in declining health, she would not be around much longer. Her children would certainly contest the will. Since they would not be able to argue that the Mountain Trust unduly influenced their mother, they would be forced to attack the will on the grounds that she was mentally unfit when she signed it. Samantha would be smack in the middle of an ugly family brawl.

For reinforcements, she summoned both Annette and Mattie. The two veterans had seen it before and spent a few minutes with Francine, chatting about this and that until the tears stopped. Annette asked about her children and grandchildren, but this did not brighten her mood. She said she rarely saw them. They had forgotten about her. The grandkids were growing up so fast, and she was missing it all. Mattie explained that once she died, and once the family learned about the gift of the land to the Mountain Trust, there would be trouble. They would likely hire a lawyer and contest the will. Was that what she wanted?

Francine held her ground. She was bitter at her neighbors for selling out to a coal company, and she was determined to protect her land. She didn’t trust her children and knew they would grab the cash as quickly as possible. With her emotions in check, she signed the will, and the three lawyers witnessed it. They also signed affidavits attesting to their client’s mental stability. After she left, Mattie said, “We’ll see that one again.”

At 2:00 p.m., and with no word from the courtroom, Samantha informed Mattie that she needed to return to Colton to pick up the Bookers. Mattie jumped to her feet and they left in a hurry.

D
onovan was killing time in a gazebo behind the hideous courthouse. He was sitting on a bench and chatting with Lisa Tate, the boys’ mother and his plaintiff. Jeff was nearby, on the phone, smoking a cigar and looking nervous.

Donovan introduced Mattie and Samantha to Lisa, and said nice things about the way she had held up during the five-day trial. The jury was still deliberating, he said as he pointed to a second-floor window in the courthouse. “That’s their room,” he said. “They’ve had the case about three hours.”

Mattie said, “I’m so sorry about your boys, Lisa. Such a senseless tragedy.”

“Thank you,” she replied softly but had no interest in pursuing the conversation.

“So how was your closing argument?” Samantha asked after an awkward pause.

Donovan smiled the victor’s smile and said, “Probably top three of all time. Had ’em in tears, didn’t I, Lisa?”

She nodded and said, “It was very emotional.”

Jeff finished his call and joined them. “What’s taking so long?” he asked Donovan.

“Relax. They had a nice lunch, courtesy of the county. Now they’re walking through the evidence. I’d give them another hour.”

“Then what?” Mattie asked.

“A big verdict,” he said with another smile. “A record for Hopper County.”

Jeff said, “Strayhorn offered $900,000 when the jury retired. Perry Mason here said no.” Donovan looked at his brother with a sneer, as if to say, “What do you know? Just hang on, I’ll show you.”

Samantha was struck by the sheer recklessness of Donovan’s decisions. His client was a poor woman with little education and dim prospects for a better life. Her husband was in prison for selling drugs. She and her two sons had been living in a small trailer deep in the hills when the tragedy happened. Now she was alone with nothing but a lawsuit. She could walk away right now with at least half a million dollars in cash, more than she had ever dreamed
of. Yet her lawyer had said no and rolled the dice. Blinded by the dream of striking gold, he had laughed at the chance of getting a decent sum. What if the jury marched off in the wrong direction and said no? What if the coal company managed to silently exert pressure in places never to be known?

Samantha could not imagine the horror of Lisa Tate walking out of the courtroom empty-handed, with nothing to show for the deaths of her little boys. Donovan, though, seemed unconcerned, even cocky. He certainly appeared calmer than anyone else in their little group. Her father had always said trial lawyers were a strange breed. They walked a fine line between big verdicts and catastrophic failures, and the great ones were not afraid of the risks.

Mattie and Samantha couldn’t hang around. The Bookers were waiting. They said good-bye and Donovan invited them to stop by his office later to celebrate.

Pamela Booker preferred the trailer. She had spoken to the owner and negotiated the rent down to $500 a month for six months. Mattie said the clinic could swing the first three, but after that the rent was all hers. When they picked the kids up from school, Pamela told them about their new home, and they drove straight over to see it.

T
he call came at 5:20, and the news was great. Donovan had his million-dollar verdict; three million to be exact, the amount he asked from the jury. A million for each child, a million in punitive damages. An unheard-of verdict for that part of the world. Jeff told Mattie the courtroom was still packed when the verdict was read, and the crowd applauded wildly before the judge calmed things down.

Samantha was in the conference room with Mattie and Annette, and all three reveled in the verdict. They high-fived, fist-pumped, and chatted excitedly as if their own little firm had done something great. It wasn’t Donovan’s first million-dollar verdict—he’d had one in West Virginia and one in Kentucky, both coal truck collisions—but it was his largest. They were happy, even giddy, and
no one was really sure if they were more excited over winning or relieved at not losing. It didn’t matter.

So this is what litigation is all about, Samantha thought. Maybe she was beginning to understand. This was the rush, the high, the narcotic that pushed trial lawyers to the brink. This was the thrill that Donovan sought when he refused to settle for cash on the table. This was the overdose of testosterone that inspired men like her father to dash around the world chasing cases.

Mattie declared that they would throw a party. She called Chester and snapped him into high gear. Burgers on the grill in their backyard, with champagne to start and beer to finish. Two hours later, the party materialized perfectly in the cool evening. Donovan proved to be a graceful winner, deflecting congratulations and giving his client all the credit. Lisa was there, alone. In addition to the hosts and Samantha, the crowd included Annette with Kim and Adam; Barb and her husband, Wilt; Claudelle and her husband; Vic Canzarro and his girlfriend; and Jeff.

In a toast, Mattie said, “Victories are rare in our business, so let’s savor this moment of triumph, good over evil and all that jazz, and wipe out these three bottles of champagne. Cheers!”

Samantha was sitting in a wicker patio swing chatting with Kim when Jeff asked if she needed a top-off. She did, and he took her empty glass. When he returned, he looked at the narrow empty spot beside her, and she invited him to have a seat. It was very cozy. Kim got bored and left them. The air was cool, but the champagne kept them warm.

H
er second adventure in the Cessna Skyhawk was not quite as thrilling as the first. They waited at the Noland County Airfield an hour for some weather to move on. Perhaps they should have waited longer. Donovan at one point mumbled something about postponing the trip. Jeff, also a pilot, seemed to agree, but then saw a break in the front and thought they could make it. After watching them study a weather screen at the terminal and fret over “turbulence,” Samantha was secretly hoping they would cancel. But they did not. They took off into the clouds, and for the first ten minutes she thought she might be sick. From the front, Donovan said, “Hang on,” as the small plane was tossed about. Hang on to what, exactly? She was in the rear seat, which was cramped even for her. She had been relegated to second class and was already promising herself she would never do this again. Bullets of rain pecked vigorously at the windshield.

At six thousand feet the clouds thinned considerably and the ride became smooth. Up front both pilots seemed to relax. All three on board had headsets, and Samantha, breathing normally, was fascinated by the radio. The Skyhawk was being handled by Washington air traffic control, and there were at least four other aircraft on the same frequency. Everyone was terribly excited about the weather, with pilots calling in the latest updates based on what they had encountered. Her fascination, though, soon led to boredom
as they hummed along, bouncing slightly on top of the clouds. She could see nothing below, and nothing on either side. An hour in and she almost nodded off.

Two hours and fifteen minutes after they left Brady, they landed at a small airport in Manassas, Virginia. They rented a car, found a drive-thru for carryout lunch tacos, and arrived at the Kofer Group’s new digs in Alexandria at 1:00 p.m. Marshall greeted them warmly and apologized for the emptiness of the place. It was, after all, Saturday.